Start Shooting (37 page)

“So it’s the nun, Sister Mary Margaret fronting the blackmail, not Arleen.”

“The nun’s crippled, Bobby. Can’t walk. Guess who brings her Fannie May candy on her birthday? Arleen Brennan.”

I scowl at my phone that’s not ringing. The door to the office opens and a white-haired woman struggles out using a walker.

Hahn introduces us. “Sister Mary Margaret—Bobby Vargas, Chicago Police Department.”

The nun smiles. “I remember you. From the neighborhood.”

“Sorry. I don’t remember …”

She smiles again. “Our habits; we all looked alike.”

I point at Hahn. “She thinks Arleen Brennan is involved in a blackmail plot with my older brother Ruben. You remember Ruben, too?”

The smile fades. “Yes. The Four Corners was quite tough then, a premonition of what it is now.”

Hahn taps her watch. “Sister, could you tell him what you told me.”

Sister Mary Margaret straightens in the walker. “In 1975, Bob Anderson helped me escape Saigon. I had been young, impetuous, and political, and at odds with my order. We reconciled, the church and I, and sadly, I agreed to suppress my political activism in exchange for inner-city missions. Over the years, Bob assisted me in various government inquiries by forgetting my name.”

“Hahn told you who we’re hunting?”

“Lý Thi Loan. In 1982, Bob helped me bring her over from Vietnam. I had schooled her in the orphanage before the Korean mafia lured her away. Very bright, beautiful—thought to be the illegitimate daughter of a French missionary. Lý was my favorite. Bob knew her from the Caravelle Hotel and the Continental Palace as a prostitute with highranking customers on both sides of the war.”

“Lý Thi Loan is White Flower Lý?”

“Yes. When White Flower arrived in the States there were issues with her documents.” Sister Mary Margaret adjusts her weight in the walker. “White Flower was … unstable, damaged badly by her life in Vietnam since I had last seen her. Bob and I falsified her remaining paperwork and I gained her admittance to the convent at St. Dom’s as a postulant. Almost immediately she had difficulty adjusting; there were arguments with students at the school. White Flower was expelled from the program and disappeared.”

Hahn says, “She threatened you and St. Dom’s.”

“White Flower was quite angry. Understandable”—the nun focuses on me—“given the conditions at the time.”

“What conditions?” I lean closer. “The Terry Rourke stuff?”

“The argument that resulted in White Flower’s final expulsion was with the Brennan sisters.”

“Brennan sisters” echoes in the dark hallway.

“White Flower was accused by the Brennans’ father—a violent, frightening man—of physically threatening his twin daughters. Rumored as a former child prostitute and being from Vietnam exacerbated White Flower’s guilt and the father’s demands. He threatened the school with an investigation into White Flower’s legitimate right to be in the United States. And, sadly again, we felt it best for all that White Flower leave the postulant program.”

“And she did?”

“Yes.”

I look at Hahn, then the nun. “What’s that got to do with Ruben, other than we were all in the same neighborhood at the same time?”

The nun stares.

“What?”

“White Flower and Ruben were both questioned in the Coleen Brennan murder.”

“So was I. So was everybody I knew.”

Nod. “White Flower and Ruben were each other’s alibi. They were together, sexually, specifically forbidden in the postulant program. White Flower had been admonished for a previous transgression with Ruben. St. Dom’s saw the alibi as validation of her expulsion and that ended our association with her. I have not seen her since.”

My phone rings—it’s Arleen. I turn away from Hahn and the nun and an iron-clad connection between my brother and White Flower Lý. I ask Arleen, “Are you okay? Sorry, Hahn grabbed the phone—”

“Like I said, it’s been a tough weekend.”

“Maybe we skip the picnic, go straight to the Bushmills.”

Arleen says, “Leave your girlfriend out. I’m ready now.”

“I’m at Cristo Rey. Was about to tell you I was with your pal, Sister Mary Margaret. Hold on a second, she wants to say hi. Then it’s you, me, and the hell with the rest of this.” I bump Hahn away, hand the phone to Sister Mary Margaret, and stand between her and Hahn.

Hahn tries to get around me. “Gimme the phone. She has to talk to me.”

The nun says, “Hi, it’s Mary.” The nun listens, her face tightening as she watches Hahn and me dancing. “No, I’ve never seen Ms. Hahn before.” Pause. “No, I haven’t discussed you other than to say—” Pause. “Child, if you’re involved—” The nun stops, listens again, nods, and hands me the phone.

I walk down the hall, phone to my ear. Arleen says, “Why are you at Cristo Rey?”

“Looking for Ruben, like I said—”

“I’ll meet you, but not your friend.”

Hahn motions for the phone, walks alongside me as I tell Arleen, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I can help. And I can stop Ruben without him getting killed. I’ll meet you wherever you want, alone, I promise. Let’s just you and me talk, okay? You and me. If it feels weird, we walk away. If not … if not, we
fly
away. Just like we always planned.”

Silence, then: “North end of the Michigan Avenue Bridge. I’m running out of reasons to believe, Bobby. Be alone, don’t break my heart.”

“Never happen.” I fold the phone shut when Hahn grabs for it.

Hahn glares. “What do we know?”

“You’re right, Ruben’s using Arleen.”

“She fronting the blackmail?”

“Don’t know, but she’s in, and she’s scared.”

“We can save her.” Hahn stares hard at me. “I’m not kidding.”

“Yeah. You’re all about saving.”

“I am. Your problem’s that I don’t have your brother and his pals at the top of my list.”

“You think you’re gonna kill Ruben, don’t you?”

“ ’Cause he hung up on me a few minutes ago?”

“You’re a bounty hunter. You hired Danny Vacco so you could shoot him. Ruben alive is the same kinda problem.”

Hahn stares. “Your brother is one dangerous career criminal in a cop suit. But I don’t care if he shot Jesus. And even if I did, there’s a whole bunch of folks in line ahead of me.”

“He’s going to prison. You aren’t killing him.”

Hahn shrugs agreement, then points back at the Cristo Rey office. “CNN was on in there. An hour ago, a woman who matches Arleen’s description paid a homeless guy to toss an ‘empty vial with a green rubber cap’ at the 10K reviewing stand. Shattered—that means it
broke
—at Dr. Ota’s feet.”

“
It broke?
How do we know it was empty?”

Hahn grits her teeth. “We don’t.”

The sidewalks on both sides of Michigan Avenue are jammed with concertgoers streaming south. Furukawa’s party in Millennium Park is expected to draw thousands. I call Ruben; his phone picks up but he doesn’t speak. “Ruben, you can’t do Furukawa—”

Thirty feet ahead, two cops scan the crowd and focus my way. I duck into the street and the stalled traffic. “I know all about it, Ruben: the Hokkaido package, White Flower Lý. I’ve been to her apartment, to Cristo Rey. She has an altar—somebody tore the place apart, probably her.” My voice breaks. “She shot Jewboy, Ruben. Killed him dead. Buff’s dying in ICU. You gotta give her to me; give yourself up. Call Barlow. I’ll help you, but you gotta stop.”

Silence.

“Ruben? These people are innocent—” Ruben’s connection quits. The two uniforms stop a group with open beers. Behind them in the middle of the intersection, two more uniforms argue with a dented red Toyota they’re forcing onto Illinois with the rest of the traffic. I make
the west curb, ease into the crowd, and use my phone to block my face. The red Toyota turns in front of me; Ruben’s number blinks in my hand … the combination hits me like a train.

I stumble into the glass of Walgreen’s storefront. I didn’t pass the polygraph because I
did
mention the Toyota—to Ruben, after dinner at the Levee Grill. From day one Ruben and Lý knew why Hahn and Lopez were in town. Ruben gave up the Toyota. My stomach heaves and I curl my face into the glass.
My brother
murdered Hahn’s girlfriend.

The horror rush won’t stop. White Flower had a male accomplice when she shot Buff and Jewboy. Was it Ruben? My fucking brother? The undeniable possibility blurs my vision. Buff brought White Flower over; she called him the day after Ruben and Buff had a fistfight … she set Buff up to die. Her and Ruben.

My knees buckle. On hands and knees, I stare at the concrete. Shoes and legs surge around me. I try to stand and two men help me up, asking if I’m okay. I nod and stagger for balance. For half a block, the revelers on Michigan Avenue carry me with them. I slide into a doorway and call Ruben again. Ruben’s phone picks up, but he doesn’t speak. Neither do I.

In our silence I want to scream, want to cry, but do neither. Revelers stream past, loud and oblivious. I wait for Ruben to pull us back from the brink, to tell me something, anything that changes the facts. He doesn’t. I flip my phone shut. The
click
is so loud it rattles my spine.

At the bridge I step out of the flow but not out of the crowd. I have a citywide out on me for murdering Danny Vacco. Add cop fears that one of their own may be a psycho child molester and standing at the north end of the Michigan Avenue bridge may get me shot. Adults and teenagers school past, some with samurai headbands, some with togas, some bare-chested, painted with Chicago and Olympic logos.

I pat the pistol under my shirt—White Flower dies for Jewboy and Buff. Ruben goes to prison … and if Hahn can’t or won’t work her magic, I probably do, too. Hard to imagine America, the universe, going this bad, this fast.

Arleen appears out of the crowd. Five foot seven wearing a ’40s dress and fragile smile. The universe improves. We’re ten feet apart. I
saw her yesterday—one time in twenty-nine years that wasn’t an old photograph—and now she’s the only good thing I know. There’s a reason we’re back in each other’s lives. I feel it like baptism.

Her eyes fan left of me, then right. She steps back. “Am I safe, Bobby?”

“Knight in shining armor, remember?”

She’s not sure. “Might take a lot of armor.” She looks spent but stunning—windblown blond hair, heroic green eyes. The girl you’ve been waiting all your life for, who could make you stupid and sappy and happy to tell your friends how it feels. I don’t want to ask, but I have to.

“Was the vial empty?”

I keep ten feet between us, stare at all the things that could go wrong, or right. Bobby’s not Ruben, not in his posture or clothes, not smiling, hoping to get laid when he’s done with dinner. He isn’t promising an audition if I … Bobby’s just looking at my eyes, waiting for a sign, trying to decide …

“The green cap was already off when he gave it to me.”

Bobby exhales and begins a smile he’s having trouble stopping.

Twenty-nine years and one yesterday later I hear me say: “I want to kiss you once before … whatever happens, happens. Okay? I know it’s stupid, but that’s what I want.”

He blinks but doesn’t move, then steps through the crowd between us, slides his hands into my hair, and kisses me on the lips. Not a movie kiss, not overwhelming passion, but a strong man who means it. My arms slow-circle the strength of his shoulders because that’s what I want them to do, then his neck as I press up from my toes. Our lips part and it’s … so strong I shiver and squeeze against him to hold on. He does the same. His chest and my breasts are a thin layer of ’40s fabric apart. I shiver again. If we were alone I’d want to be naked, or crying, or both.

SIREN.

Bobby doesn’t let go. I press harder against him and don’t let go, either. It
is
a movie kiss, the best of my career. His eyes are wet; my eyes are wet. My lips brush his cheek. Four of my fingers slide into his belt. I breathe shallow and say, “Um, hi?”

His left hand stays in my hair. “Hi.”

We stay like that, feeling each other’s hearts beat, the heat of our skin, the trembles that—He kisses me again. I don’t startle or step back or care who’s watching.

Bobby gently presses me to arm’s length, holding my shoulders, then bends his knees so our eyes are level. He says, “I know Ruben’s dirty. I know he’s going to prison. You’re not; I’ll protect you from him and his crew. Promise.”

Tears dribble my cheeks. Bobby hugs me to him. The tears don’t stop, may never stop. He brushes them away, kisses me again, and hugs tighter. His heart is strong against my chest. He tells my ear, “We’re gonna be okay. You’re not in trouble. Nobody steals your dream. Not gonna happen.”

I can smell the river at the bridge and semi-whisper, “Think I better sit down.”

I slip us around the Wrigley Building’s south half onto the Water Street promenade. A strip of shade runs underneath the sky bridge and that’s where we sit with our backs to the wall. I hold both her hands and wait. Our legs touch from hip to knee. She trembles in the heat and doesn’t speak.

“I have to find Ruben. If you can help me, I can stop him. Just help me find him before his scam gets any worse.”

Arleen removes her hands from mine, wipes her eyes, and scans Water Street. “It’s bad, Bobby.”

“Yeah, it is. But Ruben’s scam isn’t how you and I finish. We’re going to happy ever after. Got the script in my pocket.”

Arleen almost smiles. She touches my face and watches my eyes, then takes a deep breath. “The Furukawa people don’t think it’s a scam.”

“Why? What do you know?”

“Ruben made me give them a sample of something. The woman I gave it to was very careful with it. She said they’d test it and if it was real, they’d pay Ruben and Robbie what they’re asking.”

“When.”

“Tonight. By seven o’clock.”

“And you … have to front the trade?”

She nods. “Ruben got me involved on a lie. The situation went bad in a hurry, and I was trapped. If I don’t keep helping him, he turns me in …”

“For what?”

“It’s bad.”