Conduct Unbecoming

by Sinclair, Georgia

  God forbid she look like what she actually was; a twenty-something bibliophile with latent self-esteem issues and an almost paralyzing fear of failure who was more comfortable with her cat than most people.

  A throwback to her teens, she supposed, when she'd been awkward, uneasy in her own skin. A head taller than anyone else in her class - including the boys - all knees and elbows and long, gangly limbs.

  Back then, her hair - the bane of her young existence - had been a tangle of straw-colored curls that corkscrewed around her face, despite relentless attempts at straightening it. Her skin pale as milk except for the faint little sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Even her eyes were pale, an eerie blue-gray, flecked with green and gold. Was it any wonder she’d wandered through her childhood feeling invisible?

  And as if being invisible wasn’t bad enough, there’d been the whole... smart thing. She’d gotten a 2360 on her SAT's, a Bachelor’s in English Lit from Brown, and a MFA - Masters of Fine Arts - from Columbia. Had an ear for languages, too. Was fluent in French and German, Russian.

  In fact, while most of her classmates were rushing sororities, she was devouring Tolstoy's Anna Karenina in it's original format. All of which looked good on her resume, but hadn’t done much for her social life.

  She liked to think she’d grown into her life, the way some people grew into an awkward nose, or big ears. She was a strong, confident woman; she was a strong, confident woman; she was- Jesus, enough already. Time to shut her inner Oprah up and get on with it.

  She took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back, stood a little taller. Even managed to put an extra little shimmy in her walk as she headed towards the lone cameraman packing up his gear at the end of the hall.

  He didn't recognize her for a minute - a true testament to just how extreme the makeover was - but when the light finally dawned Augie bobbled the bottle of Yoo-hoo he was guzzling, sputtering and dripping it down his chin.

  “Geez Augie.” Harley took hold of the lanky, choking man's arm, whacked him between the shoulder blades with her palm. “Drink much?”

  “What the Hell, Harley?” Augie blinked, his face red and sticky with chocolate, eyes wide as dinner plates. “You're like… hot.”

  “Thanks.” Harley frowned, eyebrows knotted. “I think.”

  “Seriously, what's with the... girl clothes?” Augie took a cautious sip. “And what are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Saw the van outside, followed the cops up in the elevator. And I wear girl clothes,” she huffed.

  “Uh, not so much.” Augie looked her up and down, eyebrows raised.

  “Whatever.” Harley rolled her eyes, moved on. “Where is everybody?”

  “Just took off.” He leaned back against the wall. “Three alarm fire in Tinley Park. Lights and smoke, sirens. Apparently makes for better video than a police statement. I'm just wrapping things up.”

  “What's that thing you network guys always say?” She snapped her fingers twice. “If it bleeds, it leads?”

  “True enough.” Augie scooted over to make room for her against the wall. “So tell me about the...” he rolled his hand, “new look.”

  Harley smoothed the front of her skirt, looked down at the floor. Mumbled, “I was on a date.”

  “Screw the police statement, there's the real news.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “Anybody I know?”

  “Nope.”

  He gave her a come on, spill it look until she rolled her eyes. “If you must know, it was a blind date.”

  “Well I hope you were careful.” Augie waggled his eyebrows. “You know, safe sex and all that.”

  “No,” Harley hissed, whipped her head back and forth to see who might be within earshot. “God, no.”

  “Harley.” Augie fake gasped, pressed his palm to his chest. “I, for one, am shocked.”

  “That’s not- I didn't-” Harley stammered, her face going red. Huffed out a surly, “shut up, Jackass.”

  “Jackass?” He shook his head. “Real nice. Have half a mind not to tell you about the…” He let the words fade away, jerked his chin towards the sea of blue uniforms.

  “About what?” Harley turned to look. “What are they doing here?”

  “I think it’s safe to say they were here for moral support.” Augie nudged his camera case with his foot. “I, on the other hand, was waiting for the official police statement.”

  “And?” She lifted her eyebrows, waited for the rest.

  “Uh uh, no way.” He shook his head. “I’m a jackass, remember. Besides, you’re the competition.”

  “Puh-lease. I work for the Voice. Maybe you've heard of us? We’re a charming little newspaper whose primary function may or may not be the lining bird cages. You, my friend, are network TV. Do the math.”

  “You have a point,” Augie conceded. “And if memory serves, your last story was about people who look like their pets.”

  “Hey.” Harley glared. The fact that she spent half her time writing fluff pieces and the rest of it making coffee and picking up lunch was a sore spot. “I got a lot of positive feedback on that piece.”

  Augie looked her up and down, laughed. “Right.”

  “You know what? Forget it.” Harley lifted a hand, turned to leave. “I'll just watch it on the 11:00 news.”

  “Come on.” Augie made a grab for Harley’s arm. “Don’t be such a girl. Besides, I owed you for the jackass thing.”

  “Fine.” Harley tugged her arm free. “Tell me about the police statement and we’ll call it even.”

  “Deal.” They shook on it. “Okay, so basically we've got an off duty, Chicago PD baby cop gunned down sometime last night up in Xavier Heights.”

  “Baby cop?”

  “Twenty-one years old, just out of the Academy.” Augie scrubbed a hand over his face. “I saw a picture of him, Harley. Kid looks like a cross between a choirboy and a boy scout. Swear to God, big grin and dimples, the whole nine yards.”

  “Ouch.” Harley winced. “So how bad is it?”

  Augie lifted his shoulders. “Critical condition, time will tell, blah blah blah. Gotta be pretty bad to warrant this kind of vigil, though. Murray said if the gunshot wounds don't kill him, Sepsis probably will.”

  “Murray?”

  “You know Murray. He’s the Medic, lives in my building. You met him last year. At the Halloween party?” Augie slung his camera bag over his shoulder, pointed. “Over there by the pop machine.”

  Reminding him that she wasn't at his Halloween party last year seemed more trouble than it was worth, so she didn't bother. “So what do you suppose,” Harley mumbled, more to herself than Augie, “a choirboy - an off duty choir boy, no less - would be doing in Xavier Heights?”

  “That, my hot little friend, would be the million dollar question.” Augie shot his empty pop can into the recycling bin like a basketball, punched a fist up in the air in mock, silent celebration. “Okay, I'm heading out. Need a lift?”

  “Nah. Think I'll stick around awhile.”

  “Suit yourself.” Augie headed for the elevator, then glanced back over his shoulder with a wicked-looking grin. “Did I mention the kid’s name is Lorenzo Giancana?”

  Giancana? Harley frowned, rolled it around in the back of her mind. The mobster? Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack came to mind, too - and JFK? - but she was having a hard time connecting the dots. “What, is he like some kind of gangster?”

  “Not quite. He is, however, Dante Giancana's kid brother.” He got into the elevator and pushed the button, said, “Google them, I think you'll find it makes for interesting reading,” as the doors slid shut between them.

  Chapter 3

  Dante grabbed his duffel bag and climbed out of the cab, slammed the door shut behind him. Sweat trickled down his neck, his back, and he rolled his shoulders in a half-hearted attempt at pulling his shirt away from his skin. The air was so thick with humidity he felt like he was wading through it.

  People walked around him, past him. Dante ignored th
em, looked up instead, up at the seventh floor. St. Ignatius’ ICU, lit up like the 4th of July.

  Jesus, he’d been in such a hurry to get here that he hadn’t stopped to consider what it would feel like when he did. Tightness in the chest, some shortness of breath, a little lightheadedness. He was either having a panic attack or a full-blown heart attack.

  Dante shifted his bag from one shoulder to the other, shook his head. Opened the lobby door for a woman with a sleeping, rosy-cheeked toddler on her hip, and followed her into the hospital. The baby - a little girl with damp brown ringlets and pudgy legs - was plastered against the woman's side, her face buried in her mother’s hair. Her mouth, a perfect little crimson-shaped O, leaving a softball-sized patch of drool on the woman’s shoulder.

  She frowned when he followed her into one of the elevators, narrowed her eyes in his direction. Probably hadn’t given a second thought to standing next to him in the lobby. Being trapped in a tiny, enclosed elevator with him was a whole different ballgame.

  When the doors slid shut he caught a glimpse of his own reflection and winced. Jesus, no wonder she was nervous. Two days worth of stubble on a tightly clenched jaw; dark, bloodshot eyes; two inch scar on his right cheekbone; bump on the bridge of his nose from an old, poorly-healed break; clothes that had obviously been slept in. Hell, he almost scared himself.

  When the elevator doors opened on Seven he stepped out, turned left. Six years was a long time, but not much had changed. And yes, the deja-vu thing was more than a little disconcerting.

  The waiting room was full of cops, but he leaned over the chest-high partition around the nurse’s station instead of looking for a familiar face. “Hello?”

  The U-shaped desk was covered with half-empty coffee cups, stacks of paper and file folders, several computers with brightly-lit monitors and an ancient-looking fax machine. He drummed his fingers on the counter, but none of the nurses behind the desk even looked up.

  He tried again, louder, knocked on the counter this time. “Excuse me?”

  One of them - a forty-something dishwater blonde - pulled off a pair of half-moon glasses to rub at the bridge of her nose. She slid the glasses back on and said, “yes?”, all without looking up from her monitor.

  “I need to see Lorenzo Giancana. He was...” Dante paused to swallow the lump in his throat, tried again, “he's a gunshot victim.”

  “Have a seat,” she said wearily, in a voice that sounded more mechanical than human. “Doctor will be with you shortly.”

  “Can you at least tell me if he's-”

  “Doctor will be right with you.” Still no eye contact.

  “Hey.” Dante brought his palm down hard on the counter, making all three nurses jump. “That’s not good enough. I wanna talk to Lorenzo Giancana’s doctor, right now.”

  The blonde leaned back in her chair to look up at him over those half-moon lenses. “Well, the doctor's with Mr. Giancana right now, sir.” Okay, there was the missing eye contact, and look, apparently it came with a side of sarcasm. “But you are absolutely right,” she went on. “I'm sure it's more important that the two of you talk then for her to actually treat his life threatening injuries.”

  She rolled her chair back and stood up as if she didn't think he was the world's biggest ass, hooked her thumb back over her shoulder toward the patient’s rooms. “I’ll get her for you now.”

  “Wait.” Dante huffed out a breath, closed his eyes. “Just... wait a minute. I'm sorry, okay? Goddamnit, I'm sorry. It's just that he's...” Bone-tired, he scrubbed a shaky hand over his face. “He's my brother. The only family I have left.”

  She glared at him for a few seconds before her expression softened slightly. Either she felt sorry for him, or she was just too tired to maintain the bluster. “Look,” she said, sinking back into her chair. “Doctor Jessup really is with your brother right now. She’s good. Actually, she’s the best. And as soon as she's done with your brother, I'll bring her to you myself. Promise.”

  “Okay.” Dante nodded, because really, what choice did he have? “Okay, I'll wait.”

  * * * *

  Google. She could do Google. Hell, Harley thought, she was the queen of Google. She whipped her phone out and turned it on, swore under her breath. No bars, no Google. Okay, she thought, Plan B.

  Harley hitched her skirt up a little higher and tried to look casual, slowly ambled towards the pop machine. Slid a bill into the machine and made her selection, leaned down to retrieve the can. “Hi.” She grinned up at him. “You’re... Murray, right? I'm a friend of Augie's.” She opened the can, sipped. “We met at his Halloween party last year.” She slid her hand behind her back, crossed two fingers. Childish, yes, but she felt better for it.

  “Hmm, I'm not...” He frowned, pushed his glasses a little further up on his nose.

  “You don't remember me?” Harley poked out her lower lip, pouted prettily. “Really? I was a nurse.” She'd been to her share of Halloween parties, nurse seemed like a safe bet.

  “Uh, sure.” He hesitated, but only for a second, slowly nodded. “Yeah sure, I remember. So what brings you down here?”

  “Hmm?” Shit. She blinked, scrambling for a viable excuse. “Oh, my... um... neighbor. She fell down some stairs. They're doing x-rays.” She took another swallow of pop. “Are you on a call?”

  He held up his clipboard. “Finishing up some paperwork.”

  “Ohmigod.” Harley lifted her hand to her throat, opened her eyes wide. “You brought that cop in tonight, didn’t you? The gunshot victim,” she whispered. Fluttering her lashes might have been a nice touch, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.

  “Just doing my job.” His chest actually puffed up a little.

  “Crazy how dangerous this city is anymore, isn't it?” Harley frowned, shook her head. “Seriously, I wouldn't join the Chicago PD on a bet.”

  “Yeah well,” he let loose a rather surly half-laugh, “I don't think being on the Chicago PD was the issue.”

  “What do you mean?” Harley held her breath, waited for him to go on. Come into my web, little fly, she thought, just a little bit farther.

  “You know, I probably shouldn't…” Murray rolled his shoulders, scrubbed at the back of his neck.

  “Come on, you can tell me. I won’t say a word.” She drew an X in the air over her heart, gave him her best trust me smile. “Cross my heart.”

  “Let’s just say he was way off duty last night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Murray leaned in close, close enough that she could feel his breath on her ear, lowered his voice. “Far as I know, rolls of cash and bags of Heroin aren’t part of the uniform.”

  She managed a quiet, disillusioned-sounding no, but inside she was screaming yes! Doing one of those obnoxious touchdown dances, too, jumping up and down and singing a hallelujah chorus.

  This could be it. This was it, she could feel it in her bones. The story that could finally get her out of features and into some real news. All Harley had to do was sell her boss on it. To make Sylvia believe she could grab her reader's attention, keep them glued to the page.

  The fact that she had a head start certainly couldn’t hurt.

  “I wonder if they all know.” Harley frowned at the swarm of uniforms.

  “If they don't, they will soon enough.” Distracted, Murray frowned at something - someone - over Harley’s shoulder, shook his head. Mumbled, “Can you believe that guy?” under his breath.

  “What guy?”

  “Over there, tearing into that nurse.” Murray jerked his chin in the other direction.

  Harley twisted around to look, lifted her eyebrows. Oh. My. God. The brother, maybe? He had the tough, rangy build of a boxer, or a brawler. Six-two, maybe six-three, with broad shoulders and narrow hips.

  He wore a plain white T-shirt, one that had probably been slept in. That, despite it’s wrinkles, hinted at a truly spectacular chest. Jeans that fit the way Harley liked to think God intended jeans to fit, low on the hips and
just snug enough to make things interesting.

  His dark hair was shaggy, gypsy-black eyes, heavy-lidded and bloodshot. He looked exhausted and, if she wasn't mistaken, pissed. Really pissed. Between the eyes, the heavily stubbled jaw and the scar that bisected his right eyebrow he looked downright dangerous.

  When he turned around and she got a look at his ass, she nearly swallowed her tongue.

  Murray smiled when Harley finished her pop, tossed the can in the recycling bin. “So do you wanna... grab a drink or something? I’m about finished here.”

  “Hmm?” Harley blinked, then shook her head. “Oh. No, I don't think so. There’s someplace else I have to be.”

  Chapter 4

  Dante sat where he’d been told to, in an extremely uncomfortable chair as far out of the way as possible. The ICU was crawling with Chicago PD, and while he didn't recognize any of them - more importantly, they didn't recognize him - someone was bound to make the connection eventually. Inevitable or not, it wasn't something he looked forward to.

  He leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes. He didn't sleep, couldn't. Even with his back to the wall he felt exposed, vulnerable. Some sort of... muscle memory, he suspected. Something about being back in Chicago triggering responses ingrained from his time on the job. Never turn your back on the enemy, and everybody's an enemy.

  Despite his closed eyes, he managed to pick a familiar voice out of the conversation buzzing around him. He looked up, frowned. He hadn't seen Leo Rinaldi in six years, but Jesus, the man had aged at least fifteen.

  His hair was thinner, grayer, worn combed over his liver-spotted scalp in a failed attempt to hide his receding hairline. Making matters worse, the hair he'd lost appeared to have migrated to his eyebrows and - yikes - his ears. He couldn't decide which bothered him more, the gray tufts in the ears, or the single, caterpillar-like eyebrow. Looked like he'd missed a spot shaving, too, leaving a dingy-looking patch of gray on his jaw.