by Julie Beard
Over the course of a hundred years, technology allowed America to finally achieve the impossible dream: racial and ethnic tolerance. While there were still definable ethnic neighborhoods in the city, these days most people’s genealogy charts look like the ingredient list on a bottle of ketchup.
The chick in the Elizabethan costume probably couldn’t tell you if she had more African, Swedish or Irish blood in her veins. But she could tell you all about who belongs to the Elizabethan Society she visits nightly on the Internet.
The only groups that adamantly polarize around their ethnicity are the mobs and gangs, and that’s because their culture is what sets them apart and enables them to remain a unique money-making entity. Dirty money, but money nonetheless. And this is America, after all. We may have achieved racial integration, but we’ll never stop worshiping the almighty dollar.
The politics of fashion often led to comical results. After watching my fill of jiggling cellulite on the middle-aged woman’s butt, I concluded that thongs shouldn’t be sold without a license. Of course, I had no right to remark on unusual styles. Mike wore a dark yellow monk’s robe and I literally wore a suit of armor, albeit one that looked like silk.
The problem with millifine steel is that while it deflects bullets and blades, it’s hot as blazes and not entirely flexible, like a long-sleeved denim shirt left out to dry in the sun. I felt a little like the Tin Man, which was appropriate considering our mission, but I promised Henry I’d be careful of the Sgarristas, although I hoped we wouldn’t run into any downtown.
We spilled out of the train station into the river of rush-hour traffic flowing down the sidewalk and made our way past Water Tower Place. I went into hypervigilant mode. A retribution specialist never knows when she’ll run into someone she’s bagged in the past. Mike was tense, too. He hated downtown. He hurried ahead of me until we reached the TV station.
We met my brother Hank on the management level. He took one look at my outfit and frowned. “You in trouble?”
“Nah,” I said, giving him a hug. “Just wanted to make your pop happy.”
Hugging Hank was always heaven. I loved him unconditionally. He was taller than me and strong enough, but somehow he hugged like pudding. I let him go and gave him a sisterly once-over. “Look at you! Handsome as usual.”
I shoved a lock of his tousled cinnamon hair behind his ear and waited for that “Aw, shucks, leave me alone” look that made a mess of his softly freckled face. It was a game we played. While he looked like Jimmy White from Superman, he was brilliant and already a relentless journalist. I resisted the urge to gush “I’m so proud of you!” Lola had said that to me recently, and I had vowed I would never turn into my mother.
“Let’s go to my office.” Hank led us to the newsroom, which was reassuringly chaotic as producers and on-air talent prepared for the five-o’clock news. Police alerts sounded in the assignment room, where stories flashed in red on the assignment board. Interns who would sell their souls for a chance to go on camera tensely dashed around while the seasoned journalists who’d already supervised the editing of their reports joked at the water cooler about the six floaters dragged yesterday from Lake Michigan. Apparent suicides.
I never got used to reporters’ lackadaisical attitudes toward death, even though I knew it was necessary for those who had to deal with tragedy every day. Here, everyone except for the top reporters dressed like they were in a war zone—bulletproof flak jackets and boots—and with the snipers that frequented downtown, it was necessary.
Mike and I followed Hank like ducklings into his small office where he’d been researching his latest undercover segment on the effects of hydrogen emissions on the environment. He told us the hole in the ozone layer created by outmoded carbon dioxide was closing back up. But the new energy source was creating problems of its own, a new kind of pollution whose effects were still not understood. Cause and effect, Henry used to lecture us. Everything in the universe has a cause and effect. It was a lot like karma.
Henry Jr. poured two cups of coffee and handed me one.
“I won’t even bother to offer you coffee, Mike, but help yourself to the water,” he said as he sank into his chair and propped his soft-soled shoes on the desk. He grabbed a pencil and twirled it in his fingers. “What’s up, sis?”
“I told you already about Lola’s problems with the R.M.O.”
“I assume that’s why you’re wearing that sexy armor.” His brown eyes sparkled with humor and journalistic curiosity.
“You’ll have to admit, it does accent my best and hide my worst features,” I said, shrugging out of the jacket and hanging it over the back of my chair. Then seriously, I said, “The police believe the Mafiya took her. So do I. But I have reason to believe she’s being held underground.”
“Emerald City?” he said. He physically recoiled as he whispered the words. That shook me up. Hank had seen it all at the ripe age of twenty-five, as does anyone who works in the news business.
“What’s the matter?” I asked with an uneasy chuckle. “You act as if I just said she was being held by ghouls and trolls.”
“That’s not far from the truth from what I hear,” he said, shaking his head. “We had a reporter go down there one time and never return. It’s like a bog. People get swallowed up and are never seen again.”
I stared hard at him, then exchanged a look with Mike. A jolt of fear crisscrossed between us and I swallowed hard. As I held Mike’s steady gaze, I remembered one of his many platitudes that always put things in perspective. The Buddha once said, Birth and death are like sunrise and sunset. Now come. Now go. Easy come, easy go. Even I could understand that. I was, if nothing else, a fatalist.
I let go of my captive breath and looked at my brother calmly. “I’m going to go after Lola, Hank. I know the dangers. I accept them. Mike feels the same way. He’s looking for his brother. We’re in this together. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Thanks, but if it’s all the same to you, I will worry. Only in my spare time, mind you.” He twirled the pencil. “Let me ask you this. How do you know Lola’s there?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Mike shift his weight. I did so, as well. “I can’t say.” Actually, I wouldn’t say. It’s the whole vision thing, Hank. Psychic nah-nah-noo-noo. Like mother like daughter. “I can’t reveal my sources.”
He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “I can relate. Well, I know I won’t change your mind. Did you tell Mom and Dad you’re doing this?”
I bit my lower lip. “Not exactly.”
“Gotcha. Mum’s the word.”
“Thanks.”
“The least I can do is tell you what I know about that hellhole so you can go in with eyes wide open. And they will be, literally. It’s pitch-black down there.”
“But I thought it was fully lit, like the station at Chicago and State.”
“That’s just a tourist trap. The tourists come down and look around, listen to a lecture about Emerald City’s founding fathers, buy primitive art painted by moles, take a few pictures and leave. It’s the underground’s version of an interpretative center. But if you go far enough through the rail tunnels you’ll find nothing but inky fingers of abandoned railways lit by the occasional gas outlet. Now and then there’s a gas explosion. There’s one pocket of moles who survived a bad blast about ten years ago. They were badly scarred. Jon Moore, one of our researchers, tells me the burn survivors are treated like a leper colony by the other moles.”
“How does anybody know what goes on there if no one comes back?”
“Some do, but they’re mostly N.G.O. types and ministers who go there to help the homeless. The moles don’t like writers and reporters snooping around. And like most subcultures on the edge of society, the moles’s leaders want to control everything. They don’t want to be mainstreamed because that means they’ll lose power. So on behalf of their captive followers, the Emerald City council members have spurned all efforts to integrate their people back in
to normal society.”
“How do you know all this?” I still didn’t quite understand how reporters did what they did.
“Jon told me. He pulled a groundhog.” He took a long sip of coffee, clearly thinking an explanation was unnecessary.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a groundhog?”
He frowned in exaggerated dismay. “I thought you retribution specialists heard it all on the streets.”
“We don’t listen,” I deadpanned. “We do the talking.”
“So true,” Mike muttered without cracking a smile as he gave me a long-suffering glare.
Hank laughed out loud. “You’ve got her number, Mike. Okay, let me explain. A groundhog is someone who abandons Emerald City and comes back up above ground to live. Most people don’t know the difference between a free-ranger and a groundhog. Moles think of free-rangers as wayward souls who foolishly choose to live aboveground. But groundhogs are considered traitors. Jon could write a book about his experiences, let me tell you. There he is now talking to another reporter.” Hank motioned to a young man leaning against a desk in the newsroom across from his office and gestured for him to step inside.
“Hey, Jon, this is my sister, Angel, and her friend Mike. They want to wander around Emerald City. Can she call you if she needs anything?”
“Sure.”
Jon was older than Hank by about five years, I’d guess. He was five-foot-seven, thin and very pale. Ghost pale. He wore dark sunglasses, which he lowered down his nose to pierce me with pupils that had forgotten how to contract. They were like marbles, hard and permanent. My skin prickled beneath that eerie gaze. The glasses went back up and the moment passed.
Catching Jon’s look, Hank said, “Yeah, I know, she’s nuts, but you won’t talk her out of it, believe me. She wants to find somebody down there who’s been kidnapped. Go over the map in the newsroom with her, will you, and show her all the working tunnels?”
“Sure.”
Man of few words, I thought. I guess he still had a lot to learn about social graces aboveground.
Hank turned to me. “Jon lived down under, as it were, until he was eighteen. He came up for an education and has been here ever since. Some members of his extended family consider him a traitor, but his parents wanted him to have a better life. After college, he was hired here at the station as a consultant and researcher. He gives us all the background we need when stories break from down below.”
We chatted awhile, made arrangements, then Jon left. “His eyes are…penetrating,” I remarked.
“Even though he’s been a groundhog for nearly a decade, he still can’t handle the light. His eyes never really adjusted. Hence, the sunglasses.” Hank reached for a file on his desk. “By the way, I did some digging on the north side R.M.O. hierarchy. It may come in handy. I also did a run on Lola’s background. She has quite a history.”
My skin burned down to the roots of my hair. After all these years, her criminal background still embarrassed me. Especially when the subject came up with members of my foster family, who had as much integrity as Lola had scams.
Hank pursed his lips as he reviewed the information. “I think it’s very possible she did a reading for Vladimir Gorky. I’m not sure you know, Angel, just how well connected your mom is.”
“With the bad guys, you mean.”
“Yeah, well, those lines get blurrier every day, don’t they?”
“Not if you’re a decent person.”
He closed the folder. “That’s what I’ve always loved best about you, Angel. You expect a lot from others. And yourself. Too much, sometimes.”
“Let’s cut with the Freudian analysis, little bro.” I crossed my legs with some effort. My steel pants shimmered from the overhead lighting. “Why did the Mafiya take her? And if they did, why is she being held underground? The Sgarristas don’t usually associate with moles, do they?”
“No. I dunno what gives here, but I’ll keep digging.” He leaned forward and slumped a cheek in his upraised hand, looking at me as if I were an impossible puzzle. “Angel, I’ve always looked up to you.”
My face softened with a wary half smile. “Uh-oh, here comes the lecture.”
“I’ve never questioned your judgment.” He frowned and wiped his supporting hand over his face, leaning back with a loud sigh. “I don’t know how to say this without hurting you but…is she really worth it?”
My smile faded. What was Lola worth to me? My own life? She would never have risked hers for me. So what was I trying to prove by rescuing my mother? That I could go one better than her? Was I trying to rub in her face that blood ties really mattered? I wasn’t so sure myself. Maybe I was the one I was trying to convince.
“I don’t know, Hank,” I said at last. “I just know I’m going to do this. Trust me. I’ll come back alive.”
He looked at me like someone waving goodbye to a loved one for the last time. Then he laughed. “Sure, sis. I know you will. You always do.”
Chapter 13
Rick’s Café Americain
Mike and I talked at length with Jon about where we should go once we entered the black labyrinth underground. After picking his brain, we decided to head north to the old Wrigleyville station. Jon’s clan squatted there and he said his family would give us advice on where to look for Lola. He assured us most moles were friendly and just trying to get by like anybody above ground. The problem was the Rogues and the Shadowmen.
The Rogues were descendants of the mentally ill who’d sought shelter in the abandoned subway system during the healthcare crisis in the early 2000s. They were usually loners and erratic at best.
The Shadowmen were members of a vicious gang that sometimes went aboveground to fight as mercenaries for other gangs. They spent most of their hours weight lifting and ate lots of meat. I liked to think they raised rabbits in underground warrens, but more likely they hunted plentiful rats. According to Jon, the Shadowmen were monstrous, unconscionable thugs who should be avoided at all costs.
A lone Rogue I was confident I could handle, but the Shadowmen weighed heavily on my mind as we traveled home. Mike and I decided it would be best to leave in complete darkness. There was a little time to kill. I listened to my messages as I dressed for our late-night mission.
When I heard Marco’s recorded voice, I froze and felt a strange quiver inside. It had been a long time since I’d both dreaded and eagerly awaited contact from the same man. I couldn’t concentrate on his words. It was pathetic. Get a grip, Baker! I hit Replay and listened closer.
I know what you’re up to, Baker. You’ve decided to go it alone. But you need my help.
“Like hell I do,” I said to the answering disk.
I’m coming over.
“Shit.”
I’ll be there no later than eight.
I looked at the clock. It was seven forty-five. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
Don’t be stupid, Baker. We’re in this together.
I bristled at that. He didn’t know anything about me. I would succeed or fail on my own just as I had since I was seven. I quickly dressed in my black cat-burglar-style outfit, strapped my organizer on my leg and headed down to Rick’s Café. I’d wait there until Mike came for me. Marco would never think to look for me there.
The sidewalk outside the AutoMates Reality Bar at the corner of Southport and Roscoe was crowded with locals and tourists who mingled with second-beer buzzes, deep in sometimes-slurred conversation. Above them a neon sign declared that this was Rick’s Café Americain.
I strolled in through the side entrance and immediately walked into a haze of unfiltered French cigarette smoke and a soft breeze from the giant overhead fans. The place smelled like 1942 Morocco.
Obviously I’d never been there, but I’d seen the movie Casablanca a million times. I thought I could detect the scents of the north African city where so many had gone to escape Nazi-occupied Europe. I stood a moment, taking it all in—the bristly worsted wool of double-breasted suits on men seated
at the crowd of round tables. Even though they were compubots, they somehow managed to sweat in their crisp white shirts from the Mediterranean heat pumped in through the vents, giving the place a vividly accurate air.
The men chatted with small-waisted compubot women dressed in vintage World War II-era suits and dresses that carried heady whiffs of classic perfumes like Coco Chanel No. 5 and a vanilla hint of Shalimar. Automates, Inc. left no detail to chance.
There were several of these classic movie franchise bars in the Chicago area. Tiffany’s was downtown, featuring an Audrey Hepburn compubot, and a place in Cicero featured James Cagney. Of all the gin joints in town, though, I walked into this one. Because it was in my own neighborhood. The only reason I was the lucky customer who always got to go home with the star was because I’d done a retribution job for one of the AutoMates executives a couple years ago.
I said hello to the Moroccan host at the door who wore a fez. Sam played the piano and sang with his usual bright smile gleaming in the smoky spotlight. He winked when he saw me enter through the oversize doors, never missing a note. The tourists at tables scattered around the large room were enraptured by his routine. Ingrid Bergman sat at a table alone, looking so damned classy I sighed. She took one look at me and her eyes narrowed.
I know AutoMates aren’t programmed to feel on their own, but I swear she was jealous of me. Maybe I flattered myself. And maybe I took this whole reality entertainment thing too far. But it was a nice escape. I could use some of that before going to my possible death in the bowels of Chicago.
When Carl, the plump, white-haired waiter with the Austro-Hungarian accent, passed by in his bulging tuxedo, bearing a tray of martinis, I followed him to a table to catch his ear.
