by E. C. Diskin
“Hi, Dad.” Trip extended his hand.
His father didn’t take it. “You’re late.”
“Sorry, just busy at work. You know how it is.”
“New car?” He was looking past Trip into the driveway.
“Yeah,” Trip said with satisfaction. “What do you think?”
“A tad flashy, isn’t it?”
Trip laughed. It had those spinning hubcaps; not exactly Trip’s taste either, but he hadn’t had time to change them. It was a recent acquisition.
“My baby!” Trip’s mother was walking toward the men in the front hall with arms outstretched to hug her youngest child. “I’ve missed you! Oh, look at my handsome boy!” she said, cupping his face in her hands.
“Thanks, Mom. You look beautiful, as usual.” Another round of Botox was doing well to prevent her from looking anywhere near her age. Her hair remained golden blond without a hint of gray, and she had a nice tan.
“Oh, my sweet boy, how I love to hear that. Your father and I just returned from Florida. I just had to get out of this cold for a while. Now, come in, come in! Let’s eat.” She locked her arm in his and they walked toward the dining room. “Cassie fixed a lovely dinner for us.”
The table was dressed with the china and crystal and place settings for seven.
“Sit anywhere, honey. Your sister just called and the kids are sick, so they’re not going to come after all.”
Just as well. The little shits were a pain in the ass.
“So, tell me, how’s work these days?”
“Oh, it’s good, Mom. Really good.”
She dropped her fork then and put her hands to her heart. “I’m so happy you’re not a police officer anymore, Trip. That was so dangerous.”
Trip sighed. He’d heard it so many times before. “I know, Mother.”
His dad joined in. “Yes, Margaret. Everyone at this table knows how you and I feel about that little career choice.”
Trip looked at his mother, who appeared sorry she’d started this conversation.
His father continued. “We could not have wasted more money if we tried, right, Trip?” He didn’t wait for an answer and continued, addressing his wife. “The boy got kicked out of some of the best schools in the country.”
Trip had heard the insults so many times it didn’t faze him. And, of course, his father had no idea how well being a cop had served him.
“Well, Dad, you told me to stand on my ‘own goddamn feet’ and I’ve been doing that for a while now. You ready to let it go?”
His father ignored the question and turned to his wife. “Looks like he’s finally on the road to success, Margaret. The boy drove here in a cherry-red Porsche.”
“Oh my!” Trip’s mother responded, with exaggerated approval. “Didn’t you drive a Mercedes up here last month?”
“I did.” He paused to eat some salad and enjoy the moment. “Hey, Mom, I saw a new project of yours in Wilmette on the way up. Looks like a big job.”
“Oh yes, the Walters’ house on Sheridan. It’s lovely. Great bones, but so out of date. I’m having fun with that one.”
“I might have a new project for you if you’re willing to head to the city.”
“Well, of course. Where is it?”
“It’s not too far from the United Center.”
“But honey, that’s not a good area. From what I remember, the United Center is in a depressed part of the city. A good bit west of Interstate 94, right, Thomas?” She looked at her husband for help.
“It’s changing, Mom. Up and coming.”
His dad let out a chuckle and joined in. “Sounds like a risk, Trip. You know real estate. It’s all about location. And I just read that some analysts are predicting a massive slowdown. Some people think this is a bubble just waiting to burst.” He gave Trip’s mother that look. That look Trip had seen for thirty years. That “Trip is an idiot” look.
Trip dropped his fork. “Please, Dad. I know what I’m doing. I’m making a killing.”
Trip’s mother chimed back in with more support. “It’s wonderful, honey. Let’s talk next week. I’d love to see what you’re doing with your business.” Her smile never wavered, until she looked at Trip’s dad and gave him that “cool it” look.
Cassie served the dinner and Trip’s mother gave updates on his sister, the kids, his brother-in-law, his aunt, the neighbors, old friends. All the gossip for the month. When his cell phone rang as they were finishing their meal, Trip excused himself to the hall and scanned the caller ID: M.R.
Trip walked through the kitchen, stepped out into the solarium and took a seat in a lounger among Mom’s flowers as he picked up. “What’s up?” He knew Mike would be panicked.
“You never called me back. Did you get my message on Friday? That woman saw you.”
“First of all, calm down. She didn’t see me.”
“She described a white male with light hair leaving the scene.”
“Hardly cause for panic, as I found out. She can’t pick me out.”
“How do you know?”
Trip paused. He wondered if he should even tell him. Mike didn’t seem to have the stomach for all this. “I just know. Now, what else can you tell me?”
“Nothing. Listen, I don’t think I can do this.”
Trip rolled his eyes and began the pitch. “Mike, you sound stressed. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m not asking you to do anything you haven’t done before.”
“Things have changed.”
“Like what?”
“Like now there are dead bodies.”
Trip was irritated and he knew better than to talk about murders on the damn cell phone. “Mike, you sound hysterical. We have no connection to anything that has happened.”
Mike didn’t respond.
“Hey, Mike, I’ve got your back. Now I know you need the cash. It’s the last one, I swear.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’m nearly done anyway. I don’t need the stress. This little venture has served its purpose and I’m nearly set, so I won’t be able to help you in the future. Tell you what: How about I give you a five percent cut on the back end this time?”
“That would be great.”
Trip relaxed, satisfied. “How’s your investigation of the Madison brownstone coming?”
“We’ve checked out the title. The owner has a mortgage for ten thousand. The property appears worth a hundred and twenty thousand.”
“Good news. Now why don’t you make that “10” a “100” in the paperwork? Just a little typo to ward off my bidding competition.”
“Okay.”
“Good man. Now what about the owner?”
“He’s illegal.”
“Perfect. It’s a slam dunk. I’ve got big plans for that place. Let’s make it happen.”
“Sounds good.”
Trip hung up and smiled. He was born for sales.
He went back to the dining room and joined his parents for coffee.
· · ·
ABBY watched the train’s reflection in the building windows along Lake Street as she headed west through the Loop. Once the train crossed the expressway, the scenery went through a rapid change. Before long, she saw shabby and boarded-up buildings. As she got closer to her stop, there were more and more abandoned buildings, graffiti, trash-laden yards, barbed-wire fences, and burned-out cars. But Ali had been right. In the light of day, it wasn’t really scary, just kind of sad. She and several other riders stepped off the train at the Pulaski stop. The wind was whipping along the platform and she quickly pulled her scarf up around her head.
Looking around, she was struck by the difference between night and day. It did not feel like a ghost town anymore. It was loud and full of life. The kids on the street looked too tough for their age, but they didn’t look like criminals. She could hear children playing a block away, and cars poured down Lake Street with seamless energy.
It was probably a waste of time, and it was bound to make her lunch hour
entirely too long, but Ali had worked hard on that building, on creating a life here, and now his life and his friend’s life, and all his dreams, were dead. She needed to know that someone would take good care of the building for him.
She opened the door and heard the familiar bells clanging against the glass and frame. She pulled off the scarf, opened her coat, and looked over to the counter where he had sat, reading his book that night. That was just two weeks ago. Now the room was empty. It was quiet.
Just then, two men and a woman came out of the back room. They walked toward her and the man in charge introduced himself and asked her to sign in. Abby did so quietly and studied the potential bidders. A young white woman, maybe twenty-four, with long brown hair spilling out from beneath her wool hat, was taking notes and managing to look fashionable. The other bidder looked about forty-something. He had an accent like Ali’s.
The auctioneer toured everyone through the store space and up the stairs. It wasn’t even cleared out yet. Abby mentioned this, and the auctioneer, displaying some annoyance with the comment, read her name off the sign-in sheet with formality, and pointed to the listing sheet, which indicated that the value of the goods had been ascertained. They were going with the property, of course. Abby felt adequately chastised and followed along in the back. She watched the woman. She couldn’t imagine a woman her age was an investor of commercial real estate, particularly in this neighborhood.
They saw the living space. There were no personal items, but it was still filled with furniture. The furniture would go with the property. It was a nice, two-bedroom apartment. The kitchen had been updated and there were hardwood floors throughout. The auctioneer asked if anyone had any questions. Abby didn’t feel she should speak. She shouldn’t even be there. The middle-eastern man asked a few questions about the age of the building, the roof, and the plumbing. The bidding started at sixty thousand dollars. Both bidders were willing. Then sixty-five, then seventy. At seventy-five, the man dropped out and the woman was awarded the building. She turned over her earnest money, and was told to be downtown at Chicago Title on LaSalle the following Friday for the closing. These matters usually take thirty days, the man explained, but because there was no mortgage or lien holders and the title looked clear, they could fast-track the process.
Abby had no idea the value of real estate in this part of town, but she assumed the price was considerably under market value.
· · ·
MARCUS sat by the window waiting for his boss. Duvane had told him they’d meet at Erik’s Deli in Oak Park for lunch on Tuesday. It was just fifty feet from the Green Line stop on Oak Park Avenue and Marcus had spotted the red awning with no problem.
The people on the street were bundled in their long coats, hats and gloves, with just enough of their faces exposed to allow them to see and breathe. The wind whipped down the street, forcing them to move at an angle. Marcus knew cold weather, but nothing like this wind. He cupped his coffee, relished the warmth, and marveled at the change in scenery of just two train stops across the Chicago border. Kids were running around a beautiful park on the corner, making snow balls and snow angels. An enormous public library, a fresh bread shop, restaurants, coffee houses, a popcorn shop, and an antique furniture boutique filled the avenue around them. It was as if he had entered another world.
He spotted Duvane coming in the door.
Duvane pulled off his hat and brushed off the snow before removing his heavy coat. “I see you found the place.” They shook hands. Duvane’s hand was as massive as Henton’s, though his size didn’t appear related to weight training. More likely, pies.
“Yes, it was easy. But why the change?”
“We can’t meet in the city anymore. I was at that diner we went to the other day and four officers came in. We can’t have that.” Duvane patted Marcus’s back and guided him up to the counter to order sandwiches. They found a table away from the door and the cold air that followed all the entrants.
“So, how’s it going these days? You got some new leads for me?”
“Well, I’m definitely getting to know the players and I’ve found a few chatty kids who love passing on the neighborhood gossip.”
“That’s promising, but remember, I don’t want gossip. I want you to eyewitness.”
Marcus nodded. “Well, I’ve got two cops on my radar right now. Michael Reilly, he’s with the eleventh district.”
“Sounds like a white guy.”
They both laughed. “Of course.”
“What do you got?”
“I don’t know yet. You know that murder and drug bust we talked about at Reggie’s? Turns out he was the first cop at the scene. I know some of the kids that were at Reggie’s when that went down. Not sure what would have tipped him off to go there. Also, he supposedly found drugs at this Quick Mart down the street where the kids in the hood say drugs were never sold. And then a week after they go after the building, the owners were found dead. He found the bodies. I don’t know. It just feels odd. But I don’t have anything real yet.”
“Okay. Have you pulled him up on the system?”
“Clean as a whistle. He’s pretty young. Eight years on the force.”
“What else?”
“I’ve been hearing stories of this other cop that comes around every now and then. Roughing up some street kids, taking drugs and money, but no arrests.”
“Who is he?”
“Don’t know yet. I’ve pulled the pictures of the cops in that district and the neighboring districts. He’s not one of them. But one kid said he’d seen him with that prostitute a few times, the one that turned up dead at Reggie’s. Here, I got a shot of him.”
Duvane studied the photograph as Marcus continued.
“Yesterday, I met with the woman who walked into Reggie’s that night. She had called Reilly on Friday with information that she remembered seeing a white guy leaving as she got close. But she didn’t recognize this guy,” he said, tapping the photograph.
“It’s not much of a picture. Can’t really see his face.”
“I know. But I’ve seen him up close. I just couldn’t get a shot at the time. Whoever he is—I think he’s worth checking out. One kid told me he busted up a drug deal down the street a few weeks back, took a bag of heroin and five thousand, and let the kid go.”
Duvane slammed the table with satisfaction. “Now this is the shit I’m talking about. I want to know who he is.”
“Me too.”
“Well, we gotta get a better picture, for one.”
“I’m working on it.”
“I know you are. And obviously I’m grateful that you’ve already nailed four bad apples for me.”
“Well, that kind of just fell in my lap. I mean, they beat the living shit out of some punks without cause right in front of me.”
“Yeah.” Duvane smiled. “That’s why I like this little operation of ours. My little secret weapon.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m little, but the secret remains.”
Duvane finished his burger and re-salted his fries for the third time. “Nothing would surprise me anymore, Marcus. I mean we’ve got sixty-eight active street gangs in Chicago with over five hundred factions. Did I mention that?”
Marcus nodded. He’d been reading all he could on this city, the force, the scandals, the crime.
“We estimate gang membership at sixty-eight thousand. That’s five times the number of police officers in the department. It’s a war out there. And I get it. Some police abuse seems to be routine. I mean, once in a while, you’re gonna have to fuck someone up. But I’m telling you, brutality is a sport for some of these guys. There are some really racist motherfuckers running around in uniforms. I read reports of officers shouting ‘niggers, monkeys, hood rats’ over the PA systems of their cars.”
Marcus shook his head in disgust.
“It’s a small wonder that I was actually promoted to this post. Maybe someone up there knows it’s gonna take a black man to bring down these shits
.”
Marcus raised his Diet Coke to toast.
“I’m starting to think that some of our guys may be as bad as the gangbangers. Maybe worse. I mean, what’s more dangerous than a criminal with total immunity?”
Marcus sat back, pushed his empty plate away, and listened.
“I told you about that officer convicted last year of running a drug operation? Drugs found in his locker, for Christ’s sake. Balls, I’m telling you. These fuckers think they are above the law.”
“And if it’s anything like New York, I’m sure you don’t get much internal reporting. Snitches were terrorized in New York.”
“Exactly. These cops know the system, where the holes are. It’s mayhem. I’ve got to attack this from all angles. That’s why I need you on the street. The residents are not reliable witnesses. Too many criminal records, too much fear. They’re too vulnerable. But I’m cleaning house, my friend, and you’re going to help me catch some of these motherfuckers.”
Marcus smiled.
“And once we get through the districts on the west side, I’d like to move you to the south side and do it again. If you’re willing.”
Marcus could tell it was a question, but he wasn’t ready to answer yet. It was hard to think about the future. He just wanted to get through each day. But he could see why his old boss was friends with this guy. Both good men at the core, both loved saying motherfuckers and, obviously, both loved food.
Duvane wiped the ketchup from the corner of his mouth, pulled an envelope from his inside pocket, and leafed through his notes as he continued. “Now here’s another one to look into. Some woman that lives in one of the projects by Cellular Field said she was attacked by four plain-clothed white officers a few weeks ago. They were apparently wearing bullet proof vests. Said they made her tell them where she lived, brought her to her apartment, put a gun to her head, and ransacked the place, looking for drugs. She filed a report with OPS, but two weeks later they were back for more.”
“What’s OPS?”
