Start Shooting (23 page)

Swallow
. Sweat wipe.

A gust rustles unseen oak leaves, adding sound and the sweet-sour of dying flowers. I hear the echo of bagpipes, decades of grand funerals for Chicago’s Catholic policemen and firemen. The mothers and wives
are crying; the children frozen in little suits that fit. The echo won’t reach the periphery along the far wall; the far wall is reserved for the less grand: the waitresses, stockyard workers, longshoremen—the citizens of Canaryville and the Four Corners who had a mass and a
time
to help collect the funeral costs. The far wall is home to the Brennan family of Belfast. Coleen’s grave is half size, four rows away from our parents’ plots and their American dream.

My heart begins to ramp. I hide a key-chain penlight with my leg; the tiny patch of light helps my feet avoid most of the gravestones and tree roots but none of the mounting fear. At the far wall I shiver in the heat and cut the light. Coleen’s gravestone is no bigger than a greeting card and glints in a dull sliver of brief moonlight. Under an etched Celtic cross her whole beautiful life is three lines I can’t read but know by heart.

“Aye,
a stór
, ’tis your season, it is.”

I don’t glance toward my parents. The dry grass I smell covers the dirt that covers Coleen’s casket, earth that has hardened into a protective shell in the twenty-nine years since her murder, a shell the Dupree family and their lawyers and the
Chicago Herald
want to rip away like the rapists did Coleen’s school uniform. On Monday I will be served with papers, legal demands that I will have to answer if I am to defend Coleen’s right to be left alone, if our diary—which I buried with her—is to be left alone. The lawyers will argue about the greater good. They and the court will keep score on the service of this greater good—for the state, for the Dupree family—a score that will be kept with money.

My phone vibrates, the ringtone muted. I answer, hiding the screen light, and tell Ruben Vargas I’m at the knoll, not Coleen’s grave. He’s nervous and should be. Holy Sepulchre is an odd place to discuss his plan to rob Furukawa, maybe kill Japanese women, and make me a star. But if Ruben wants to kill me, a deserted cemetery is a good place … and he has to wonder why I chose it.

Ruben has promised to bring me the gun he took back at the Shubert so I can defend myself if the Japanese women try to hurt me. I hope he does, and if he does—if there’s no proof I shot the Korean in the alley—then I will kill Ruben Vargas with his gun or the gun I brought from home, a 9-millimeter Beretta bought on the street in Los Angeles during the Rodney King riots and never registered.

The dim pathway lights will illuminate Ruben’s torso as he climbs the knoll … he won’t take that route. Ruben will approach from the back, from the deep shadows where he’s always comfortable. He will have a gun in his hand; he will be worried. After I shoot him I will go to St. Mary’s, light a candle for a saint with a soft spot for girls who pull the trigger, ask her to forgive me. She’ll say, “Sorry, three strikes and you’re out.” And I’ll have to live with that.

But Bobby won’t. I won’t tell him I had no choice but to murder his brother.

My phone vibrates again. I answer, again hiding the light. Ruben says he’s almost to the knoll, wants to know if I’m on top in the oak trees. I say yes and don’t move. Our phones remain connected, and as he climbs through the dark I can hear his breathing. I ask where he is, why he isn’t on the path.

He says he’s almost to the trees. “
Niña
, where are you?”

I press the phone to my chest, cock the Beretta, and feel-crouch my way through dark.

Ruben talks, but I don’t answer and continue to climb. Higher on the knoll, Ruben silhouettes in the branch-sifted moonlight. He turns slowly, peering the dark in all directions, either a phone or a pistol in his hand.

“Ruben?”

His hand presses to his head. “What are we doing,
niña
?”

“Being careful. Making sure you mean me no harm.”

“
Niña
 …” He keeps turning, unaware he’s silhouetted. “We’re here to work this out … I gotta help you; you gotta help me.”

I reach the bottom of the knoll, the last spot I can answer him safely. Ruben continues to turn as I climb toward him. I wait until he stops, his shoulder and empty hand nearest me. I step out, level the Beretta at his chest, and tell him: “Behind you.”

He pivots, sees my shape in the shadows and the pistol pointed at him. When I don’t shoot he relaxes and holds out both hands, one empty, one with his phone. “Guess the other gun isn’t required.”

“Guess not.”

“We okay, Arleen?”

“No. We’re gonna die and it’s your fault.”

“
Niña
 … Things happen. But like I keep telling you, they can be worked out.”

“Save it. Say I agree to face your Japanese, how’s it work for me the day after? Why won’t you or Robbie kill me if they don’t?”

Ruben flexes to step forward, but stops fast when I don’t flinch. “Easy, Arleen. Easy, I’m staying right here.” Pause. “I don’t know why you think I
want
to hurt you, that it’s somehow my plan.”

My finger can’t be any tighter on the trigger. I start to tell him I know Robbie’s envelope was empty, but don’t. “Running out of patience, Ruben.”

Ruben tries soothing. “The Japanese know I have a woman partner; hell, they tried to kill her. You’re not her; you’re a civilian, not a threat. We’ll make a deal with them, use part of the money to pay the Koreans. Clean slate for everyone. Arleen goes to the Shubert—”

“I go to the
cemetery
. That’s what I
do.
”

“Will you take it easy? Arleen? Please?” Ruben’s hands slowly drop to his sides so I can still see both, one palm with his phone, the other open. “The Japs want the package and zero publicity.” Ruben pushes a hint of happy into his tone. “You’ll give them a sample. No reason whatsoever to kill the messenger.”

“A sample? Of what? We’re doing blackmail?” I jam with the Beretta. “
That’s
the plan that will save me from you and your disaster?”

Ruben steps back. “Easy, baby, shooting me isn’t what you want to do.”

“It isn’t?”

“Doesn’t fix anything.”

“It’ll fix one thing. You’re dead. That leaves Robbie. I make a deal with him; tell him I have a file you built on him that I’ll trade for exit money. He comes to get the file … and bang, he’s dead, too. Koreans don’t know me. I have no more problems.”

Ruben winces and semi-shakes his head. “Arleen’s gonna out-game Robbie? And not die? C’mon.”

“Won’t matter to you.”

“
Niña
, what about the police ballistics on the alley?”

“
The alley?
That gun is in your waistband. And since my prints aren’t on it and it didn’t shoot anyone in the alley. Who gives a damn?”

Ruben winces yet again. “My little brother might. Could ruin your honeymoon reunion, no? Maybe the
Herald
wonders why I die in your sister’s cemetery a day after I come by your work. Cops might think the same thing, being that I might’ve signed out to come see you here.”

“The
Herald
and anyone else who matters will think you were here and Hugo’s because of the
Herald
’s exposé. You screwed up, Ruben. About time you died for it like everyone else around you does.”

“
Niña
, don’t start killing innocent people. It ain’t good for the soul.” Ruben shifts his weight. “Yeah, you’re mad. Hell, so am I, but trying to kill me and Robbie—if you could get it done—is a one-way ticket. We’re
cops
for chrissake. CPD won’t ever let that go. They can’t—not good for the morale.”

Shoot this man. Now.

My finger stops before I squeeze the last millimeter. “Give me your gun.”

“Real cops don’t do that.”

“Not your CPD gun, the .38 you grabbed to frame me.”

“
Niña, niña
 … Don’t confuse me with those backstabbin’ assholes at the actors guild. I’m trying to
help
you so you can help me.”

“Give me the .38.”

Ruben blurs—I fire. Nothing. Squeeze harder. Ruben’s hand goes cop-reflex and FLASHES loud. I lurch backward, fall over an oak root, smash my head, and tumble down the knoll. Can’t see. Ruben doesn’t fire again. My heart’s hammering in my ears. The Beretta’s in my hand. I flick off the safety and, and … Still blind from the flashes. A minute passes. Is the safety off or on?

Ruben’s voice: “God
damn
, Arleen, we don’t have to kill each other.”

I make a knee, brace to run, then yell up, “Prove it,” and run left until I crash into something and fall.

Pause. Ruben says, “Just did. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”

My heels and palms crab left into more dark. “Throw me the gun.”

“Can’t do that.” The voice turns with me. “Gotta keep it to make you behave.”

I stand, run left, and a divot grabs my foot. I twist my ankle, spin and fall, roll, try to stand and can’t.

Ruben’s voice moves in the dark. “The Japs just want the package. You help us with Furukawa, then everything’s okay—provided you don’t point that gun at me again. Everybody gets paid, okay? Nobody else has to die if you just back the fuck down and play it smart.”

My ankle throbs, might be sprained. If Ruben has a flashlight—
of course he has a flashlight
—and he’s willing to risk using it—

“Arleen?” The voice turns, uncertain. “Arleen?” Flashlight beam. Twenty feet to my left, creeping down the knoll. “Arleen?”

I jump up, my ankle holds, and both hands aim the Beretta at the light. The beam clicks out. Can’t hear him. Can’t see him. The flashlight beam clicks on, brushes my feet.… I fire blind. My feet tangle; I stumble and fall.

Ruben screams, “Bitch! Crazy—”

Hands and knees. I crawl grass, stand unsteady, slip, then sprint into the pitch-black. Ten strides and—bang. Stars. Knocked down, hands and knees on the grass.

The flashlight fans grass. “Arleen?” The beam sweeps closer, then quits and the dark swallows everything. Soundless … only my heartbeats and tombstones. Both hands press me up to my knees. I two-hand the gun, aim where the light was, and—Nothing but black. Where is he? Twenty feet left, the light snaps on.

Twist, aim—The light snaps off.

Ten seconds, then: “Arleen,
niña
, you gotta quit shooting or I gotta shoot back.”

If I run, I’ll smash into something again; he’ll hear me and I’m dead. The flashlight blinks on and fans the opposite way. I crawl into the dark, adding five feet, then a tombstone, then another, then get up. Three strides and—

“Arleen?” His voice lacks confidence, not sure it has a listener. Jesus, was I out cold? How long has he been hunting, saying my name to the dark? The flashlight pops on, farther away, then off. Then on again and
farther away, then off. He’s leaving. Ruben’s leaving. My cell vibrates. I open it, cover the screen, and Ruben says, “Where are you?”

“Why?”

“
Niña
, we can be done by Monday. By then you’re a star, all this behind us.
Promesa, es sencillo
. It’s that simple.”

“You’ll kill me anyway or Furukawa will. Put me in prison. Something.”

“No,
niña—
”

“Furukawa tried to kill your partner. That’s what you said. They’ll think I’m your partner, too, just like you made sure the Koreans do. Furukawa will think I know all about their stuff.”

“Write up a paper; put it in a safety deposit box; give the key to your friend Julie. If anything happens, she gives it to the U.S. attorney; I go to prison; Furukawa’s headlines.”

What would I write? I could tell about Lawrence Avenue, but that’s Robbie. I could tell about the alley … but that’s nothing against Ruben. “Give me the gun with your prints on it.”

“What gun?”

“The one you took from me. Give me that gun with your prints on it, then we can talk.”

Silence. No flashlight. No sound. Ruben says, “Okay. Meet me at—”

“Leave it on Coleen’s grave. Then go to your car; flash your lights and honk your horn as you leave.”

Pause. “So you’re still here? We can talk now—”

“Give me the gun
—with
your prints or I’m on my way to the U.S. attorney.”

Pause. His voice adds confidence. “You
were
in the alley with Robbie and the Koreans.
Chica, chica, chica
, two men died in that alley.”

“Gun or goodbye. I don’t need your empty envelope to negotiate with the U.S. attorney.” I flip my phone shut.

The phone vibrates. I don’t answer. It vibrates again.

Three minutes pass. A flashlight pops on by the parking lot, then walks toward Coleen’s grave. If Ruben’s “Vietcong bitch” partner is here, I’m dead—she’ll be waiting at the grave when Ruben’s car leaves. No, Ruben’s partner isn’t here, not yet. If Ruben stalls, she’s on her way. If Ruben goes away quick, I have a chance.

The flashlight fans, then walks closer and closer to Coleen’s grave. The flashlight halts. My phone vibrates. I open it and Ruben says, “Leaving the gun. Call me in an hour. And
don’t
make me come looking. I’m done dancing,
chica
. We got business with the Japs.”

I hang up before he can add more threats.

The flashlight walks back the way it came. I half stand and extend one hand at the dark, then duck-walk toward Coleen, my 9-millimeter tight to my hip. Ruben’s headlights flash, the horn honks. I duck. The headlights sweep the north entry’s limestone towers, then turn out onto 111th and become red-dot taillights. Stumble, trip, bump … so completely dark. Coleen leads me in her thirteen-year-old voice: this way, that way, sweat in my eyes, and I’m here. I pat grass until my fingers touch Ruben’s gun. It may or may not be the same gun; it may or may not have Ruben’s fingerprints.
The same gun
I could prove just by seeing it in the light; fingerprints will be much harder—

Coleen whispers not to linger. And don’t listen to the hateful voice. The pier is not the answer, was never the answer; find another way.