Start Shooting (21 page)

“
Señorita
 …” Both valets examine my eyes. A car stops too fast. I jerk and the doors pop. TAC cops—body armor and blue jeans. The driver is pointing at me but looking at the valets; his hand has a pistol exiting his holster.

“Wait. No, don’t. They helped. I work here.”

“Alto!”
The passenger-side cop circles his fender, gun in both hands.
“Vengan aquí!”

“No!” My hands wave. “We all work here.”

The valets freeze.

“No, wait.” I jump between both cops and the valets. “They helped me.”

One cop sidesteps me; the other grabs my shirt and jerks me out of the way. “Easy, ma’am.” His hand pulls me toward the wall. “It’s okay. We got it.”

My hands go to his vest. His head jerks to mine. “Hands down.” He presses me away.

“No. No. We work here.”

“So do I. Calm down. Everything’s okay.”

He glares, but not angry, then cuts to his partner putting both valets on the wall. We’re in District 18, Robbie Steffen’s old district. He’s a TAC cop just like these two. “Wait. C’mon. These valets are my friends.”

“Then they got nothing to worry about.”

The other cop tells the valets, “
La migra
. Hands on the wall. Don’t fuck with me.”

I slide left toward the second cop. “Don’t do that. They’re just working, for God’s sake; they pulled the mugger off me.”

A hand grabs me back. “You speak fucking English? Stay. Right. Here.”

I struggle and he bangs me into the wall. What if Ruben called these guys. What if—

“Calm down, lady. Don’t make this something it isn’t.”

Tommy the valet boss walks toward us. The second cop yells, “No,” and Tommy stops cold. The cop tells all of us: “If you folks will just be cool, let us be the police, everything will be fine. We aren’t here to hurt anybody. For anything. No
migra
, okay?”

Me—the valets pressed into the wall—Tommy frozen on the sidewalk—we all take a breath.

“If you two gentlemen have IDs let me see ’em. Pass ’em behind you.”

Faces on the wall, the valets pass something back. The cop studies one ID, then the valets, then the other ID. “Okay, turn around.” The valets do, nervous. The cop says, “Sorry for the inconvenience.” The valets accept their IDs and turn to leave. “Wait.” The cop stops them. His partner asks me, “Wanna file a report?”

I want to get away from District 18 TAC cops. “No.”

He picks up my purse and holds it out. “Yours?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He nods to let the valets go. His partner does. “What happened?”

“I don’t know; a man grabbed me; I hit him; he hit me,” I wipe my cheek and lick at the blood, “the valets pulled him off … I guess, ah, think the guy knocked me out.”

The cop puts his finger under my chin until my eyes rise to meet his. “Sure you’re okay? Looks like a pretty good shot you took.”

I brush at my hair; sniff, and wipe at my lip.

“Need a ride? We can take you.”

“No. Thanks. My car’s over there.” I point at my still neon-red 1969 Volkswagen.

The second cop comes up the sidewalk and stops. Same as the first, blue jeans, gun belt, and fitted black body-armor vest. Batman for the city. He says, “That your car?” and points at the VW I just pointed to.

Nod.

“Nice.” He’s focused on me not my car. “Not many of those around.”

Nod.

“Live by Greektown?”

Jolt. “West of there. By Union Park.”

“But you go to Greektown.” Not a question.

His partner is inspecting my VW.

“Mind if I see your driver’s license?” The new cop nods to my purse. “And registration.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the police and I asked you.”

I dig out my license; if the gun had been in my purse I be in handcuffs already. All three of us walk to my car for the registration and insurance. The second cop writes down my name and address. I ask his partner, “What’s the problem with my car?”

“Guy we work with was shot in a double murder. Earlier today in Greektown. A witness remembered a car like yours.”

“Is your friend …”

“He’s alive. So where’d you have lunch?”

“Huh? Oh, at home.”

“Anyone with you?”

“No. I was … am rehearsing for an audition tomorrow morning.” I cross both index fingers. “
Streetcar
at the Shubert.”

The cop cocks his head; his partner quits writing.

“What?”

He says, “Our friend, the cop who was shot, is Robbie Steffen.”

Stare. Stutter. Fidget.

“Robbie Steffen. The guy who got you the audition.”

Both hands go to my temples. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Robbie’s big with the Shubert.” The cops stare, both add posture and interest. “Were you in Greektown today?”

“No.”

“Not once?”

“I said, no.”

“Did Robbie get you the audition?”

“What? No. I don’t know any Robbie Steffen.”

“Bet he knows you.”

I look at the cop, then his partner. Don’t show them my heart beginning to pound.

“Mind if we search your car?”

“For what?”

“A witness to the Greektown shooting remembered a car like yours. Do you mind if we search your car?”

“I’m attacked on a street corner and now you want to search my car?”

The cop nods and holds out his hand. “Keys?”

Hands to hips, circa Maureen O’Hara. “And you’d want to strip-search me, I suppose?”

“No, ma’am, just your car—”

“My boyfriend’s a policeman. Should I call him? Tell him your hands were all over me?”

“What’s his name?”

“So that matters? Now you’ll treat me like a human being? His name’s Bobby Vargas. He’s a TAC cop just like you, except he’s a gentleman. When it’s called for.”

The cops glance each other. “We’d still like to search your car.”

“Get a warrant. Or arrest me.” I snatch my papers back. “Tell my lawyer and the
Tribune
your ‘probable cause.’ ”

Left turn onto Division. My heart’s still doing one-sixty. Why did I say “arrest me”? What if they did a paraffin test like on TV?
So, Ms. Brennan, you fired a gun today. Your car was in Greektown. And you have no alibi
 … Why did I say Bobby Vargas? That’s a half step from Ruben Vargas.

Bobby called me
just to say hi
. I fumble for my phone to call him back. Why does the devil have to be his brother? Anyone but his brother and I could tell Bobby—

Tell him what? That you shot a Korean to death? But it’s okay because Bobby and Arleen have a date to the prom? You’re not going to the prom; go home, clean up—Can’t go home; no telling what Ruben intends to do after I threatened to go to Choa.
Cringe
. Ruben might get past the Choa threat, but the U.S. attorney was way too strong.

Will Ruben hunt for me at the L7? He might.

Left turn onto Clark Street, southbound, not north to the L7. Headlights behind me blink to brights; I swerve and they pass. Cameron Smith’s on my radio doing some Olympic hipster pitch. Can I make tonight any worse? And Ruben has the gun. If my prints are on it I’m
so
in prison—No, no, no I’m not. Tonight
can
be worse. Ruben will make sure I die in a shootout with the police. He can’t risk me talking, trying to save myself with the U.S. attorney. After I’m dead, the gun and prints will be proof I was guilty. Ruben or his cop accomplices will be the good guys. That’s what will happen. Right after Ruben and I finish with the Japanese women.

Jesus, God, the Japanese women. What are Ruben and I doing to/with Furukawa? This whole city will lynch Ruben if he burns Furukawa. But no mob’s hanging me, I’ll already be dead. The light at Kinzie turns red. Or … or … I could shoot Ruben first before he kills me. My foot hits the brake. The Koreans don’t know me … Murder? That’s Arleen’s solution?

Car next to me.

Maybe.

What about Robbie? Kill him, too? Robbie
knows
you were in the Greektown alley and he knows you were on Lawrence Avenue. Robbie knows you’re a civilian; you’ll blurt everything two seconds after you’re arrested. Deep breath. Robbie will kill you as soon as he can. And he’ll kill Ruben Vargas, too.

Jesus, this is awful. But Bobby Vargas is a cop. What if he helps me? Somehow?

The car next to me accelerates to the Clark Street Bridge. I follow across the river, change lanes and pass the Thompson Center lit up for a Saturday-night event. Then past city hall lit up because the mayor wants it lit up. Monroe Street. I make a left, then one block and park. Across from the beautifully lit Shubert Theater. The marquee tells me and the whole world:

Horns honk and loop my VW. Just scam Furukawa, Chicago’s new patron saint, and murder two crooked cops. I conjure the marquee lights and two-foot letters that will solve everything.

Except I’m not killing anybody.

And crooked cops aren’t taking my dreams away.

Goose bumps in the July heat. My name up there. An entire family inside who loves me. I want to call Bobby Vargas, promise we’re having our picnic, it’ll just be awhile, but dial Ruben’s number instead, then stare at the marquee while I wait. The marquee begins to play Coleen’s stark winter funeral; then the boardwalk in Venice Beach—Fellini’s grotesques in and out of the neon—the dark cars and sticky upholstery; then the men, the promises.

Ruben answers his phone, “About fuckin’ time,
chica
.”

The marquee goes black.

Lightning hits beyond the pier in Santa Monica. The solution to evil has a high price, but it’s clear and it’s simple:
Just pull the trigger
.

I run lights toward Wolfe City. For the date with destiny I’ve worked for since I was sweeping sidewalks at Maxwell Radio and Records. Me, Bobby Vargas, on the Chess benefit record—holy shit. Wish my parents and Arleen could see this … stand behind the mixing board and watch
me
play next to the greats. Gonna be so good, if I don’t faint or drool.

I brake for three young girls in white T-shirts, start to yell at them to get home but don’t. Barlow’s
little girl from your building
is my new tag. The discussion isn’t if I molest children; it’s what brand I prefer. I watch the girls across the intersection. How does Danny Vacco put an
Irish
girl together ninety blocks north?

He didn’t, not without help. Mexican motherfucker. But he could’ve; odds are against it, but he could’ve cornered the mother, scared the hell out of her—he’s an animal—then … then
what
? Child molestation is a monster charge to make, and ten times worse to defend. The mother and daughter know I’ll fight … and they filed the charge anyway.

So if it isn’t just Vacco, who? The
Herald
—maybe. Hahn—she’s capable all the way; I’m already half an hour late telling her I’m ready to be her rat. Could be the U.S. attorney—if the mother was jammed on something federal, the U.S. attorney or an FBI agent could drop a hint for the mother to follow, then the G rolls me, I roll on Ruben for their Coleen Brennan case
and
whoever got Lopez killed, Jo Ann Merica becomes governor. Mother and daughter walk away.

Or, maybe the kid really
was
molested and …

Be here, Bobby, not there.
Be the blues, baby; be the blues
. Deal with what you can deal with. Wolfe City won’t know about a little white Irish girl from your apartment building. Or Little Paul. Or that my own brother—my hero for half my life—gave me
the look
.

Once Ruben, Barlow, and I were alone at Barlow’s table, the new paper was explained. Ruben said the little girl at my apartment building had come forward after her mother read the
Herald
. The little girl said I made her read about Coleen and threatened to do the same thing to her if she told. Barlow’s advice was brutal but true: if I’m innocent, we break both children—the girl and Little Paul; if I’m guilty, we break both children. Officer Bobby Vargas becomes seriously Hispanic, a Mexican American civil servant of immigrant parents, a victim of stereotyped race hatred because I had the nerve to police white people, not just brown and black.

Barlow didn’t ask if I was guilty, but he didn’t want to touch me and then return to his food. Ruben gave me the blank face he uses in his interrogations.
My own brother
. And stayed in his chair at the Mambo. Made me want to hit him; broke my fucking heart is what it really did.

Don’t be there, be here. Be the blues, baby
.

I pull to the curb on Halsted. Half a block south of Wolfe City, four bangers eye me from the corner, their white wifebeaters sharp contrast against the abandoned storefronts and shot-out streetlights. Four teenage ghosts with gang promises blue on their skin, two-way radios, do-rags, and futures so short they don’t add up to yesterday.

A car door pops. Banger number five exits a parked Chevy, straightens, and—Cop Killa, the North Side import with the Twenty-Trey tats who Hahn and I braced, muscled-up from prison and out on bond for attempted murder. My hand lands on my Airweight, not my guitar. In all of the Four Corners, Cop Killa
happens
to be standing here? Staring at me, hands hidden? The street knows I’m up against it, that I’m weaker than yesterday. Is Cop Killa here to make a move? Danny Vacco gets me before I get him? A block beyond Cop Killa and his lineup, the main body of Danny Vacco’s La Raza set are out representing the colors, ruling their real estate in the war with the Latin Kings. If I’m tonight’s target, I’m already surrounded.