by Thomas Laird
I suppose I’m angrier with non-attendees, now that I’ve returned to the church.
All that talk about ghosts with Barbara has stuck inside my head. I’ve been mulling it over ever since we had breakfast together after her initial mass at St. Stanislaus.
“The only reason I’m here is to get a lay of the land for the wedding in June,” Hannah beams at me. She’s sitting next to me here in the last pew on the left side. The place filled up in a hurry today, but we arrived a half-hour early, to be safe. It’s jammed inside here.
The first-shift surveillance guys are outside in their car, of course. They’d come in, but they have to pack weapons and they don’t like bringing guns into church even though neither of today’s escorts are Catholics. One’s a Jew and one could give a shit about religion. I know them both pretty well from Homicide.
“That’s up to you, darling,” I smile at my civil-law wife.
She squeezes my hand.
*
The mass is over in fifty minutes and we’re on the way to brunch. This time it’s at Mandretti’s near the Loop. It’s an Italian restaurant, but it serves a full menu, along with Sunday-morning brunch. It’s packed, and it’s a good thing I made reservations for us.
We have a booth, and I sit next to Hannah, opposite Beth and Barbara.
I feel like I have my own family at this moment. I felt like an outsider to the girls for months, but ever since we went to Vegas and came back home, I’ve felt like a part of the three of them. Now I think I’ve really arrived with the girls as well.
I look out the window onto the Loop avenue. I see a man in a ball cap and aviator shades wearing a leather flyer’s jacket walking by. I only catch the back of his head, but I think it’s Anderson.
I’m wondering where my two plainclothesmen are, and I’m thinking maybe they figured they owed themselves a Sunday nap.
I get up without a word and I rush to the door.
“Will?” Hannah cries out after me.
But I keep on moving out the entrance, and when I’m out into the cool Sunday-morning Easter air, I see him moving down the block, perhaps one hundred yards in front of me.
I look around, but I can’t see the unmarked police car.
I take off after him. I’ve got the nine millimeter palmed in my right hand. There are a few pedestrians on the street, but most people are indoors, away from the chill. I sprint after him now, but he’s not running away from me, and it worries me.
I cock the piece in my right hand, but I let it point toward the sidewalk, my arm fully extended.
I get the gap between us down to twenty yards.
“Stop!” I yell out.
There are perhaps a dozen people on the sidewalk with us. They all halt.
“Put up your hands, Anderson!”
They all reach for it, men and women and a few kids too.
The guy in the ball cap and shades and flight jacket spins around on his heels, and I raise the gun and aim for his face. A couple of women shriek when they see the piece in my hand.
“Are you talking to me?” the guy in the leather asks.
It isn’t Anderson. Same height and weight. Same general build. Similar facial appearance. But it’s not Benjamin Anderson.
“I’m sorry,” I sputter, and then I lower the nine millimeter. “I’m sorry. All of you. I apologize.… Police officer.”
I show them my ID and badge.
“Sorry. Everybody. I’m very sorry.”
“Have a nice day, asshole,” a very pretty teenaged girl says as she passes me on the sidewalk.
38
“He is staying in a room in Evanston,” Kormelov tells Pete and Jack and me in yet another get-together in Arkady’s favorite tearoom near the Loop.
“Why are we hearing this from you instead of from the goombahs?” Jack wants to know.
Arkady Kormelov smiles.
“Because I am the good citizen.”
“Why?” Jack insists.
“There are so many cops on the street that no one can do proper business. Things are as tight as a twelve-year-old girl’s ass.”
“That’s why? Because you can’t do business?”
He looks at me now.
“Jimmy Zagnarelli was my friend and associate. I want to piss on this Anderson’s grave.”
The tea arrives with our soft drinks, and the interview is over ten minutes later.
*
The FBI and our SWAT team will surround the Evanston apartment building.
“He’s not inside,” I tell Pete and Jack.
We’re all dressed in our vests. It’s a warm May dawn, upper fifties.
“How can you be sure?” Jack asks.
“Don’t ask,” Pete warns him. “I’ve seen this precognition shit of his in action before. He doesn’t do it often, but when he says shit like this, it always seems to come true.”
The SWATs hit the ground running. We didn’t have enough time to clear all the neighbors. We didn’t want Anderson to slip off again, but I know we won’t catch him this morning.
The FBI agents wait at the entry of the three-flat apartment building. We’re about a half mile from Northwestern University. It’s a nice neighborhood, and all the college kids and university professors aren’t notorious early-risers anyway. We hoped they’d stay out of the way, and there are only a few pain-in-the-ass observers out on the sidewalks. The uniformed cops are keeping them away from us.
The SWAT team walks out, and you can see they’re severely disappointed. They enjoy doing their things, and it’s like no one showed up to play, as far as they’re concerned.
“Nothing,” Captain Pete Brannon tells us and the FBI guys. “It’s as if he knew we were coming. The place was clean.… Except for the busted-down front door on that second floor.”
Brannon walks away from us, his face sour.
“That building manager is going to be pissed at us,” Jack grins.
“The local hardware chain stores will love us again,” I remind him. I can imagine all the doors they have to replace for the CPD or the FBI.
*
We interview the manager of the three-flat. He’s not the owner, because the owner owns five of those three-flat buildings on the same block in Evanston.
He claims Anderson never contacted him or paid him. He claims it was some wiseguy that he recognized from the neighborhood. The wiseguy’s name is Sal Frangella.
*
We pick up Frangella three hours later and we drag him downtown.
“Hey. I was just the bagman.”
“For Jimmy Z,” Pete says.
“Yes. We’re associates,” he smiles.
“You were. Jimmy Z’s dead,” Pete reminds him.
“Yes. I recall hearing that.”
“You recall what accessory to murder means?” I ask him.
He drums his fingers on the table. Sal’s a young turk, maybe thirty-five. He’s about five-eight and faintly reminds me of Al Pacino.
“Look. I just fixed somebody up with a place to crash. Jimmy didn’t tell me it was this guy you got a hard-on for.”
“Currently our collective stiffy is aimed right at you, asshole,” Pete tells him.
“Take it easy. There’s nothing else I know about it.”
“You’re a lying piece of shit,” Jack grins.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“Of course. This is America,” I tell him.
“All right, all right. He never stays more than two days in one place. He’s a slick prick. But I only laid eyes on him once. That was when Jimmy was still alive. Jimmy dealt with him because Anderson has a book on our crew. He’s got that book with some lawyer. We’ve been trying to find out who it is, but Anderson is a bit too sly for us, so far. We’ll find out eventually, and then we’ll kill him and you guys’ll be what they call redundant.”
“Big word, shit-for-brains,” Jack says.
“You don’t need to disrespect me. I’m trying to be helpful.”
“Where’s he
headed?”
Sal looks at me with a feigned hang-dog look of concern for my fucking welfare. He’s close to breaking out in a big, greasy-goombah grin.
“Word is he’s headed right for you.”
*
They double the surveillance on Hannah’s house. They’ve got her and the kids surrounded, and me too.
We find the car, the Fairlane, that he bought for cash. It’s been ditched on the far southwest side. He’s either purchased a new ride or he’s stolen one, I figure. I call Car Theft/Burglary and I ask them to be on the lookout for a boost in the neighborhood where we found the Ford Fairlane. They come up with a possibility almost immediately. A Chevy Lumina has been stolen only three blocks from the location of the Ford. We put out an all points on the Lumina. It’s black and it’s slightly banged up, the Burglary dicks inform us. The plates are made and the number goes out to every squad and every swinging dick with a badge in Cook County.
There’s no sighting of the Chevy for two hours, but then the call comes through, and the three of us are speeding toward the Eisenhower Expressway.
*
It’s 1:46 p.m., and the Eisenhower is medium-clogged. In other words it’s moving, but it’s moving at about 40 mph top speed. The driver of the Lumina is headed toward the Loop, and there are several squads waiting to block him off.
When we get to the end of the Eisenhower, we don’t see the squad cars or the Chevy. We get a call that Chicago P.D. is in pursuit of the black Lumina.
We have our lights on, and we increase our speed. I’m behind the wheel because Jack doesn’t like to drive.
We hit State Street and turn left, following the uniform on the radio’s instructions. He and another cruiser are in pursuit, and they’re perhaps two miles ahead of us, racing down State Street. Maybe “racing” is the wrong word because traffic is so heavy that you can only go 30 mph on this artery in the downtown district. Any faster and you’d be in a multi-car pileup already.
We see the squads and the black vehicle pulled over on the curb a block ahead of us, right at Monroe Street. We literally have to creep up on them because traffic is at a near-standstill. The traffic coppers call it “gaper’s block.” Everyone has to have a look at the guy pulled over to the curb.
They’ve got him stretched over the hood. His face is aimed at the black surface beneath him.
“It’s just some greaser booster,” the uniform explains as we pull over and approach the Chevy Lumina.
“You mean a person of Hispanic origin,” Jack corrects him.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jack tells him, and then he pats his shoulder. “You’ll get the idea after your first suspension for harassment.”
We look the Mexican kid over. He can’t be more than seventeen. He’s got no clue why all these cops have been chasing him. Later on he might even feel like a celebrity. He was simply a city booster, and suddenly he’s got most of the city’s law enforcement chasing after him. He might even tell the tale to all his booster pals how the cops thought he was Chicago’s Most Wanted Fugitive, Benjamin Anderson. Some day he can tell his grandkids, if he’s out on parole before a heart attack, or old age kills him.
*
“He doesn’t eat where he shits,” I tell them.
“Meaning he left the scene with the paid-for car, he took a cab or a bus, and then he boosted a ride in a different neighborhood,” Pete says.
So we try the cab companies. We contact the CTA, the bus people. The bus people have no way of recognizing Anderson as a rider even if we narrow the time frame for them and even if we focus on certain routes. Their drivers usually don’t look at faces unless they feel threatened, and no one recalls picking up a fare that resembles Benjamin Anderson on the day in question. Their riders stream by the drivers, anonymous and unseen, for the most part.
We get lucky with the cab companies. City Lights cabs has a driver who recollects someone who looks like our guy. He remembers him because the rider was a very good tipper—he left him a sawbuck. The rider could fit the ex-Marine’s description, but the cab driver is not certain. He does know that he left this fare off at 82nd and Kedzie.
We drive to that location, and then we begin canvassing the few blocks in the vicinity. There are grocery stores and bars and dry cleaners. We show Benjamin’s photos to as many people in the neighborhood as we can, and finally, a coffee-and- doughnut shop counter-girl recognizes him.
“He was here,” she says. Her name is Julie. She’s nineteen, and she’s a college student at Loyola downtown who’s trying to make a few bucks for school here.
“He had coffee and a danish. He didn’t say anything. Just ate and drank and left. I remember him because he was kind of hunky,” she smiles. “I didn’t know he was some kind of creep.”
“It’s all right. You’ve been a big help.”
All she knows is he turned left and walked north when he left the doughnut shop.
The three of us walk outside. Jack bought a coffee and a doughnut. He couldn’t resist. He has a sweet tooth.
It’s cooler, now. The wind comes out of the same direction Anderson headed, the north.
“We concentrate patrols on a six-block perimeter,” I tell my partners.
“Is he here?” Pete asks me.
“Is your ESPN working again?” Jack teases me.
“I think he is. I really do,” I tell them both.
*
We check a car dealership a half-mile down the street. No one resembling our photo has come in to buy a ride, the manager says after he asks all his salesmen and after he shows them all our boy’s photo.
His presence seems to dim on me suddenly, but I have to think he’s somewhere close. It’s like hearing footsteps in a football game. You’re about to catch a touchdown pass and there’s no one near you, but you can only sense the approach of a murderous, vicious, headhunting tackler coming up right behind you. Anderson’s the tackler, and the hair on my neck is standing straight up.
We have three times the usual number of cruisers patrolling this stretch of neighborhood. If Benjamin shows a hair on his ass, we’ll spot him. At least, this has been our best opportunity to make a sighting on him in the last few months.
He’s here. I know he’s here.
He’s been excommunicated by the Outfit. He’s killed most of his own confederates and a number of innocents, too. He’s murdered an exotic dancer and Jimmy Zagnarelli. He’s wiped out several families, here and in the Middle East and in Mexico as well.
It’s time for his spree to end. It’s time to put this mutt to sleep.
*
I take a route with Jack on the same night as we got the information from the kid at the doughnut shop. Pete has to sleep off a slight case of the flu, so he’s gone to the apartment he’s renting, courtesy of the NCIS.
We circle the six blocks, heading north and then returning south. Then we head west and come back to the east. We hit the route over and over, and nothing comes up on our figurative radar.
We stop at the doughnut shop, but the good-looking college girl’s not on shift. It’s 4:22 a.m. There are only two more hours left of our shift. Pearce doesn’t want us to work too many overtime hours because he doesn’t want his people frazzled with exhaustion. When you’re fatigued, you fuck up. Pearce wants clear heads and minimal fuck-ups.
“Time to catch this bad boy,” he told us yesterday morning.
Jack orders another coffee and doughnut. I order a Diet Coke, hoping the caffeine will rouse me.
“When does this fucking nightmare end?” he asks.
We’re the only two patrons in the joint. It reminds me of the painting Nighthawks. The bar slab is white and porcelain. The walls are painted white. The floor is black and tiled and lustrous, with a fine waxing. Immaculate, like the painting. I think the original might be in the Art Institute.
“He ain’t showing tonight,” Jack laments. “You agree?”
I nod.
He isn�
�t showing. Not right now.
The hair on the back of my neck has settled. No one seems to be coming up on me.
39
It is difficult finding my way to Will Koehn, but it is not impossible. I assume they’re still looking for a vehicle to which to attach me. And I also assume they’ve noticed that I don’t wear disguises—at least, I haven’t been. So, like a baseball pitcher who only shows a fastball to the hitters, it’s time for me to go off speed, or to use my curveball. I have dyed my hair black from its lighter brown color. I have also grown a mustache and goatee, and I wear a bush hat from Desert Storm. Few vets wear those things once they leave the shit. Mostly, kids wear them, and cammies too—camouflage shorts and pants. They’re very popular with punks who’ve come only as close as a theatre screen to a real war. So I feel safe wearing the cammies and the bush hat, along with my expensive aviator’s shades.
I’ve got myself a flop on the Southeast side of the city, near the Lake. They take cash, and no one ever looks you in the eyes, so I feel confident I haven’t been spotted by our landlord in this two-flat building. He only notices the green of my dollars, and he doesn’t like conversation either.
I’m riding a bicycle because I don’t feel safe in a car anymore. Too many cops. Too many opportunities to fuck up behind a wheel. The bike will serve my purposes, and it offers good exercise.
My shoulder has healed nicely, and I’ve had no episodes with infection. Apparently her antibiotics weren’t placebos. I only feel a little discomfort in the mornings, but the pain is easing every day.
I’ve been cramped in this Southeast-side apartment for a few weeks, now. I only venture out late at nights, and sometimes around dawn. I ride the bike on the Rainbow Beach sidewalk, near 76th Street. It is fairly exhilarating in the morning air, peddling close to the beach and the water. There are few people out at this hour, and I like the opportunity for solitude. It helps me plan better than sitting around at home. I have a small TV that I purchased, and the apartment has cable, so I’m not cut off from the world. It seems that my trail has gone cold, and I haven’t heard mention of my name on the air in over a week. The bigger story is some Hollywood actor coming out of the closet. Also, some media darling has wound up in the alcoholics’ tank in California. The rest is just talk and talk and talk.
