At the City's Edge (19 page)

Dion shrugged. ‘That was Playboy’s deal. He was just supposed to pick him up, wait for a call.’

‘And what about the bangers you sent to kill his nephew the other night?’

‘I don’t know nothing about that.’ Dion had a decent poker face. If Jason hadn’t been there, he might have believed.

‘We’ve got a witness that ID’d three members of your crew, including Playboy.’ He was starting to feel the part. The lingo
may’ve been pulled from television
and books, but the attitude was familiar. In this part of the city, being a cop wasn’t that much different from being a soldier,
just as in Iraq, being a soldier had been a lot like being a cop. ‘You’re saying they acted without you?’

‘Could be. Players got minds of their own.’

‘Maybe I ought to talk to them.’ The air conditioner in the window hummed to life. ‘Let them know you’re washing your hands.
Maybe they’ll remember it differently once they know you’re going to let them face murder on their own Now why did you kill
Michael Palmer?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Dion said. ‘And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you shit.’

Jason shook his head. ‘You aren’t giving me much choice. It’s one thing to do a little business, keep it reasonable. But hijacking
civilians? Breaking into houses, chasing little kids? I can’t have it.’

‘Ain’t a crime till the victim’s white, huh?’

‘You sent men to murder an eight-year-old. You want to see how it plays on the news? They’ll bring the death penalty back
just for you.’

Gun blasts sounded in the other room.

Jason whirled, one hand reaching for his weapon. A second shot, and a third. Then, timed with the fourth, a wicked bass beat,
thick with anger.

Music. He turned back to Dion, saw the banger smirking, wet-lipped and arrogant. ‘Pretty jumpy, Po-lice. You scared?’

Jason’s tongue was a dry beast flopping in the desert
of his mouth. He eased his hand off the Beretta, his fingers reluctant to move. ‘Nah.’ He forced himself to smile. ‘I just
don’t want to have to fill out the paperwork for shooting you.’

The muscles in Dion’s neck bulged, and he stepped forward. ‘Oh, you fucked up now.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Jason’s bowels went warm and loose, but he stood his ground. ‘Like I told my lieutenant, you’re a smart
man. You know no cop is going to walk in here all alone, no backup. So you know what will happen if you make a move.’ He held
the moment like it was nitroglycerine: one wrong move and everything would blow. There was only so far he dared bluff. But
he had to get something out of this for Billy’s sake. ‘Besides, I’m here to do you a favor.’

Dion had stopped moving, looked at him suspiciously. ‘Yeah?’

‘Truth is, we know you didn’t kill Michael Palmer. We’ve got a witness says it was two white guys. But since Palmer was such
an upstanding citizen, we have to lock somebody up fast. Ideally, that would be the guys who actually did it, probably the
same ones that hired you to grab Jason. Problem is, we don’t know who they are.’ He paused, let his words sink in. ‘But we
do know who
you
are.’

Dion shook his head. ‘Po-lice.’

‘Just telling you how it is. Fact that I know you didn’t do it doesn’t mean I won’t arrest you for it.’ He paused. ‘Unless
you got a better name.’

‘Black man can’t get no break.’

Jason shrugged. ‘Has more to do with you being a gangster and a killer. But what ever you like.’

Dion turned to the window, set his hands on the air conditioner, fingers drumming idly. Stared out the dirty pane above it.
The moment stretched.

Then he turned back. ‘Playboy was hired by a white dude, name of Anthony DiRisio.’

Relief washed through Jason’s body. ‘Who is he?’

‘Wait a second. If I give him up for the shit you’re looking for, will any, you know, previous dealings he and I have had
come back to bite my ass?’

‘No way.’ Jason smiled. ‘My word, as a cop.’

‘I feel better already.’ Dion shook his head. ‘Guy’s a dealer.’

‘What, drugs?’

‘Naw,’ Dion said, and smiled. ‘He’s specialized. He sells hardware.’

‘Guns.’

‘Nigga, please. I want a gat, I pick up the phone, have boys here in half an hour with a trunk full. Anthony sells
hardware
. Military shit. MPs, AKs, those big-ass combat shotguns. Ain’t cheap, neither.’

Jason stared, his mouth hanging open.

‘Been selling for about a year now. Sells to anybody, which is the only reason you and I is talking, ’aight? That boy don’t
have
no
loyalty.’

Jason blinked. ‘So this guy, he hired you to hijack –’ almost said
me
, caught himself at the last second – ‘Jason Palmer? Why?’

‘Like I said, that was Playboy’s deal. All’s I know is
he was supposed to grab the dude and wait for a call.’

‘And what about the other night, breaking into Michael Palmer’s house?’

‘After Jason got away, DiRisio wanted Playboy to make good. He called, gave us an address.’

‘And you sent people to kill everyone there.’

Dion shrugged. ‘I didn’t say that.’

Jason smiled, a thin expression, his heart raging. Wanting to tear Dion apart, even knowing he wasn’t the real problem. ‘I
need to find DiRisio.’

‘Who you really after, cop? You trying to arrest a couple of brothers, or you want the dude who gave the order?’

Both. I want all of you rotting in the depths of the earth for a thousand years.
‘All I want is the man who gave the order.’

‘DiRisio was in here talking like a punk this morning.’ Dion shrugged. ‘Said he’s got a deal going down tonight.’

‘Where?’

‘Don’t know for sure,’ Dion said. ‘But our last couple meets were downtown. Wacker Drive.’

‘Upper or Lower?’

The man smiled. ‘
Lower
Lower Wacker. The drive under the drive, down on the bottom level where they was filming that Batman movie. There’s a spot
there by the loading docks for the Hyatt. That’s where we done it.’

Jason nodded. He didn’t know the specific spot,
but knew Wacker. A three-level artery for the city, following the river’s curve from Lake Shore Drive to the highways. The
top levels were fairly busy, but the bottom was mostly used by service vehicles and delivery trucks. Smart. Private and easy
to secure, but with plenty of exit options. It was the kind of location a trained soldier might choose. He felt twisting in
his belly, acid in his throat. What in the hell had Mikey gotten himself into?

‘Now, Po-lice.’ Dion glared at him. ‘How about you get the fuck outta my house.’

Jason nodded. He’d gotten as much as he could expect. More. Time to go, before some stupid mistake gave him away. ‘All right.’
Jason backed away, eyes on Dion. He risked a quick glance to find the doorknob, then turned back.

‘One more thing.’ He paused. ‘You said this guy sells submachine guns, military hardware. What do you need firepower like
that for?’

‘Ain’t you noticed, cop?’ Dion’s voice was soft, his gaze weary, and for the tiniest second, Jason almost felt sorry for him.
‘There’s a war goin’ on.’

‘I’m kind of busy,’ Jason said, cell phone pinned between ear and shoulder as he glanced back. An SUV pulled past him, and
he switched to the right lane.

‘Doing what?’ Washington’s voice was ice.

‘You don’t want to know.’

There was a long pause. ‘You’re right.’

‘Look, just tell Billy that I love him and that I’ll call him later.’

‘He wants to talk to you. Boy’s scared.’

‘I know, it’s just that – look, I left him there so that I could be a soldier instead of an uncle.’

‘Only one of those things is worth a damn.’ The disapproval couldn’t have been clearer if Washington had been shouting, instead
of speaking in measured syllables. ‘But if you have to be both, be an uncle first.’

‘Jesus, we been friends how many years now? You can’t just do me this favor, take care of my nephew for a little while?’

‘Play soldier all you like. But you can’t park Billy in his foxhole and expect him to keep his head down. Maybe you forgot,
but that boy lost his father.’

Guilt fed the Worm, always. ‘I didn’t forget.’

‘So act like it.’

‘All right. All right, old man, I get you.’ Jason sighed. ‘Put him on.’

The exit from Lake Shore Drive swung him onto the far north end of the Magnificent Mile. Tourist heaven, the shop windows
bright against the twilight, a slow tide of women in shorts and men with sunburned faces. He turned onto Oak before he got
lost in the crush of cars, double-parked in front of a designer boutique and flipped on his hazards. Took a breath and tried
to gather his thoughts.

Combat he could handle. An eight-year-old he was less sure about.

‘Uncle Jason?’

‘Hey, kiddo.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Nowhere, buddy.’ A breeze came through the open window, and Jason closed his eyes, smelled the lake on it. ‘I’m just out
taking care of some things.’

‘What things?’

‘Just, you know, errands.’
Errands?

A sigh came over the phone, long and theatrical.

‘What?’

‘You can tell me the truth. I’m not a little kid, you know.’

Jason started to laugh, caught himself just in time. ‘You know what?’ He bit his lip. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’

His nephew sounded properly mollified. ‘That’s okay.’

A long pause, and then Jason realized that it was his
turn to talk. Only, what was he supposed to say?
Well, earlier I pretended to be a cop to bluff my way into a drug house, and now I’m on my way to ambush a meet between gangbangers
and an arms dealer. And neither one scares me half so much as the idea of suddenly being responsible for someone else.
‘I’m downtown.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m… well, I’m trying to find out what’s going on, buddy. I need to know why those guys came into your house.’

‘Oh.’ His voice sounded faint and far away.

‘But,’ Jason spoke quickly, ‘it’s going good. I think I’m starting to figure it out.’

‘Have you found the bad guys?’

‘Some of them. Not all yet, but I will.’

‘What are you going to do then?’

He rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Are you going to kill them?’ Billy’s voice hard to read, a mix of sincerity and fear.

Jason had felt bullets chip cinderblock above his head, heard the ragged screams of wounded men, the raw prayers of desperate
mothers. But he’d never heard anything quite so horrible as that question falling from eight-year-old lips. And all the worse
because he didn’t know the answer.

Did he want revenge? Oh,
hell
yes.

Would he murder for it?

He flashed on a class room in Basic, a lecture from a soft-spoken captain with sharp features. He had been talking about what
defined a soldier, and a line
had stuck in Jason’s head even then. The difference between a thug and a soldier, the guy had said, was the moral courage
of his cause.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not.’ He paused. ‘But I’ll make sure that they can’t hurt you ever again. I promised you that, and I meant
it.’

There was a long pause, and then Billy said, ‘I believe you.’

Water spattered down the wide pipe, a constant chattering like autumn rain, like the dripping of ancient stalactites. A ragged
man with dirt-pocked skin stooped, cupping his hands to catch the dark liquid. Splashed his face, moving calm as a suburbanite
preparing to shave in the comfort of his own bathroom.

Jason slowed the Caddy, rolling down the ramp at a bare crawl. He’d never been down here before. What most people thought
of as Lower Wacker was actually the second level, a throughway that wrapped along the river and provided a shortcut to dodge
the traffic lights and gawking tourists of the surface streets. Everybody knew
that
Wacker, but he doubted many had taken the ramps down one more level, to the bowels of the city, a bleak lost place where
service trucks moved between exhaust-stained roll doors under the timeless haze of yellow sodium light.

This world belonged to people the one above tended to forget. Garbagemen, repair crews, delivery drivers. Scores of homeless
huddled under iron girders. They all had the same blanket, which baffled Jason
until he realized where the blankets came from. They were hotel linens, grown too ratty for paying customers. Tossed in the
Dumpster and repurposed by an army of the forgotten that slept shoulder to shoulder in the street beneath the Hyatt. The lowest
tier of hotel guest.

It seemed like a beautiful, terrible symbol, though he couldn’t have said of what, exactly.

Jason coasted to a stop where Stetson intersected Wacker. Felt that tingle in his fingers. He didn’t know exactly when the
meet would take place, but probably not till closer to midnight. It was eight now; he’d come early to see how it looked.

Lousy.

To the right, the street continued into darkness marked by signs indicating the city impound lot. The other direction dead-ended
in a broad cul-de-sac of dingy concrete, wide enough for a mid-size rig to turn around. The roll doors were closed, but a
faded sign marked the loading dock for the Hyatt. Crayola-orange shipping containers partly enclosed the area. A fence ran
parallel; beyond it, a thin strip of grass led to the river, inky water sheened with reflections of convention hotels on the
other side. Those glowing windows seemed a million miles distant from this misplaced netherworld, where the hum of cars and
the fall of water swallowed sound, and the dingy light stole color. No security cameras, no traffic, and the only witnesses
homeless men a block away, men who survived by not getting involved.

You could do just about anything down here.

Jason tapped a fingernail against his front teeth. There was no way to stay in his car without being spotted. The area was
simply too vacant. Which meant he’d be on foot, outnumbered, and if what Dion had told him was true, dramatically outgunned.

He felt a pull for a drink, the desire to forget it, put on a nice shirt, hit a club. Find a girl who got wet at war stories,
bury his troubles in booze and sex and the sweet forgetfulness of those moments before sleep, when everything washed away,
and he didn’t have to think about what came next, about owing anything to anybody.