Calumet City (40 page)

The man running at me is fast and young. He’s yelling but I can’t hear. Gwen bursts out of the stairway aiming my pistol. I lunge. My forehead hits the pistol, then her chest. She staggers. I head butt her and swing both fists. She falls and I go with her. My left hand rips useless into hair; I pound with my right. Someone knocks me sideways into the door of the stairwell. My left arm jolts pain to my shoulder. I gasp. The boy’s helping Gwen. I gasp for air, yell at him not to help, to get away, to—Gwen helps him, kicking away from me with her heels. She pushes to her feet and into his arms. "
John, it’s me, Gwen
. I called to warn you. That naked crazy woman, she’s trying to kill all of us, she’s—"

My son struggles Gwen farther away. I point but can’t get a word out. John 360s for a way through the flames. Sirens scream outside. Gwen wobbles, holding on to John. I see the pistol that he can’t. John points her toward a plywood-boarded window. I reach my feet. Gwen turns; the smile is soft, angelic, and she points my Smith at the back of John’s head.

A huge flame snaps and he flinches. Gwen fires. I charge an instant too late, but the bullet passes his ear and chips plaster. She pivots, fires at me, and my shoulder drives us into a flaming hole billowing smoke.

   Tongue.

Licking my face. I cough, roll,
"Owww,"
and spaz with my hands. The left hand hurts so much I grab it. The tongue licks my face again. I swat but it keeps licking. My eyes crunch open and I bat again. Smoke and fire and sirens and lights and, "Quit licking me!"

It’s a Labrador and she doesn’t quit. I see my stomach and hands—still black—and the Lab starts licking them too. A ragman pulls her back and to his chest. I think he’s one of the homeless guys I saw on the way in. He looks sooty too.

He says, "You were on fire. I put you out."

From the weeds surrounding us he shows me an empty water jug and his scorched sleeping bag. His Lab tries to lick me again. I push her away and look at the inferno two buildings north. A five-story building is pouring flames and smoke at the base, but not the upper floors. Fire trucks and hoses are everywhere.

"Your pants was burning. Woulda burnt you up."

John’s building.
John
. "Anyone. Get. Out?" I cough and grab at my savior. "Did they?"

The Lab growls; her human swats at my hands. "Leggo."

I do and scan for John. Smoke rolls out of the boarded window. The one he pointed out for Gwen. I get up to run but my rugby knee buckles. The Lab licks me again; her human points to Michigan Avenue. TV lights, squad lights—lots of heavily armed cops who aren’t fighting the fire. I look east. Same thing at the other end, but no TV. My homeless savior says, "I saved you."

I nod and keep coughing. "Did a boy run out?
Anyone?
"

Gwen went into the fire with me; no way she got to John. He could be out—he’s gotta be out. I cough and it rolls me to my knees. I spit into the weeds and hear the Lab barking at men with pistols; they’re at two hundred yards and coming our way from the east side. The men are staccato lit in the squad car’s flashing lights and intent on the building. A 10-1. Sonny or Tracy called the cavalry. I look back at John’s window, then Michigan Avenue. A reporter is doing a stand-up bathed in brilliant TV lights. To the reporter’s right and not coming our way two men are talking at the edge of the TV lights. One big, one slender. Sonny Barrett’s the big guy. I choke and smoke tears stream out of my eyes.

My son John is the other one. The Lab steps between me and the prettiest picture I have ever seen. We’re both on all fours and she’s licking the tears off my face and I don’t care.

Sonny pushes John’s shoulder and John squares up.
What? Why do that?
They stay face-to-face until John steps back. I try to stand again and fall. The Lab barks. Sonny looks our way and John turns to leave. Sonny says something. John shoots him the bird and keeps walking until a woman with a camera crew stops him.

"See that guy." I point my homeless savior at Sonny. "Bring him here, okay?"

"I saved you."

"I know. Thanks. Go get him."

"I saved you." His canvas-gloved hand is out.

"Right." I give him all the money in my pocket. "Go get him. Hurry, okay?"

   I have never seen Sonny Barrett on his knees. I’ve never seen him close to crying either. He’s got both hands on my face after pushing my hair aside and he doesn’t know what to do or say. So he’s just frozen there, a great big bear with wet eyes staring at me while I bawl like a little girl. When he touches my left arm I almost faint.

He looks it over without removing the bandanna. "We need to get that looked at."

"We need to," I sniffle, "get outta here."

"I called it in when I got your message. They already know it’s you."

That feels like a knife. "What…do they know?"

Sonny lets go of my face. "They know it’s about something. Somebody trying to kill your kid."

"You told ’em?"

He shrugs. "What am I gonna do? Half the district don’t rally without a story. There’s twenty guys out here looking for a cop in trouble." Sonny pulls a radio from his coat pocket and buttons it. "Paulie."

"Yo."

"I saw her. Patti’s out."

"No shit. You got her?"

"No.
I had
her. She ran to a 1994 Bonneville."

"How bad?"

"Didn’t look good, but a least she could run."

"10-4. She give a location on the shooters?"

Sonny looks at me for an answer. I shake my head, make "two" with my fingers, and point down at the east end. He buttons the radio. "Two of ’em. Firewood. In the basement on your end."

"10-4. Paulie out."

Sonny stares at me, then says. "You got five, maybe ten minutes to make serious decisions. Let’s get your arm looked at and decide before they dope you up." He helps me up using my waist, the second time he’s touched me there. I dry at my eyes, feeling his hands. He scoots an arm around my waist and limps me south into the shadows toward Mercy Hospital.

"I’m not going to Mercy."

Sonny tightens his arm. "Yeah you are. We’re done hiding all this bullshit."

I jerk semi-free. "We? When did you become me?"

Sonny does his Irish face. "Listen to me for once in your fucking life. Your ass is in trouble. You cannot run from it anymore. Period. And neither can your friends." He reaches for my arm and I wobble back. He glares, takes a deep breath, and says, "At least get the arm treated, then do whatever the fuck you want."

"Not at Mercy."

"Fine. We’ll go to the Mickey."

I stagger, trying to add space. "Promise not to front me?"

Sonny holds up both hands. "We’re going to the Mickey. You can ghost it from there if being an idiot makes you happy."

   The Mickey is Michael Reese Hospital. I went in alone, half naked, and that’s the last thing I remember.

Now I’m in an apartment, a man’s apartment. Actually, I sorta remember the emergency room; I was too weak and dizzy to run or I would have. This apartment’s warm and dry and has decent music…Stephen Stills and someone much less talented singing:

"When you see the Southern Cross for the first time
…
"

I blink but don’t move. The lights are restaurant dim and almost rosy. I smell corned beef and cabbage, not gasoline. I’m covered in…stadium blankets? The coffee table by my face has seen better days as have the books stacked on it. My hand’s by my face; I sniff…clean? And don’t remember how it happened.

Under the blankets I seem to be dressed in a man’s robe and lying on his sofa, no idea how that happened either, but I know I’m on it. A huge fireplace stares at me—strike that, it’s a soundless TV pretending to be a fireplace.

From a La-Z-Boy Sonny Barrett in a sweater and snap-brim cap notices I’m awake. He flusters, re-tough-guys, and says, "Doc said you lost a pint of blood, tore up the tendons. He filed a report but left me out of it."

Sonny Barrett in a sweater? I look at the bandages on my left arm and rub my face. "What time is it?"

"You mean what day is it?"

Did he say
day
?

Sonny angles his head at a window. It’s dark and I get the feeling I missed something. No telling how much dope they gave me at the hospital.
Jesus,
or what I said. I check Sonny again.

"We, ah, have coffee?"

"Yeah, sure." He dismounts the La-Z-Boy. His pants are pressed; the sales tag’s still on them. Lumbering toward his kitchen he points back to the coffee table and a folded stack of clean clothes topped by a new Cubs hat. "Your pal the Pink Panther was here. Said she isn’t filing till you call, as long as it’s by tonight."

I glance at the clothes, blink twice to make sure I’m taking all this in, that it’s real, then ask, "And today is…?"

From the kitchen I hear, "Monday night. Miami game’s on in a minute." Sonny swears at something in his kitchen, grumbles, and adds, "You slept all day; no-showed IAD. And, man, they is pissed."

The last twenty-four hours are starting to come together, as is the pain in my arm. I’m afraid to ask, but do. "My son. Is he…"

Sonny returns with a blue coffee cup that reads: "CPD Homicide: Our day begins when yours ends." He sets it on the table in front of the still-prone me and says, "The G has a warrant out, too, just like they said—"

"Is John…Is he…"

Sonny buttons the TV from "fireplace" to WGN and sits back in his chair. "Cops and media know they got three charred bodies, but that’s all they know." Sonny raises a can of Old Style from the floor to above his cardigan shoulder. "You said it was two. Moens told me one of ’em’s definitely the mayor’s wife. That’s somethin’, ain’t it?"

I see the screwdriver, the face paint, the fire…and start to shrink under the blankets.

"So far, you two ladies are the only ones who know Mary Kate sleeps with the fishes." Sonny grins, then frowns at his joke. "Strange Mary Kate ain’t been reported missing yet."

"W…what about," my eyes shut tight and I shrink a little more, "John?"

"Fine; shit, they run his interview every ten seconds."

"He’s okay?"
I grin to my limits, sit up so fast I’m dizzy, then I flash on John talking to Sonny by the TV lights, the two of them shoving. He
is
okay.

"Here it is. See? Every ten seconds." Sonny buttons the sound and my son has the fire for a backdrop. He’s smoothing hair out his face and talking to a reporter I know.

"…she was going to shoot me, can you believe that? And the other one grabbed her, then dove ’em both into the demo hole." John rubs a soot streak that smears his face. He’s handsome anyway and I feel my skin blush. "The one with the gun had makeup. Mardi Gras weird, man, very weird." John wipes his hands on his jeans and shrugs. "Two crazy ladies. Maybe they just hate loft redevelopers. Who knows?"

The reporter tilts the mike to her face. "Did you recognize them, either one?"

John grimaces. "Ma’am, I don’t know that type of woman and don’t want to."

Sonny looks at me and the happy tears filling my eyes. John’s alive, unhurt, and what he said rings so true—he doesn’t ever need to know women like me.

"Gwen, is she…?"

"DOA at County, gun grips burnt into her hand." Sonny nods at John on the TV. "They found his sister’s dog dead since this was taped yesterday. Moens said they’ll be tying the dog to that adoption agency you told me about." Sonny pauses and I feel his eyes. "Some
Richard Speck shit
over there."

The tape cuts to a studio anchor. "John Bergslund and his partners are being questioned in the three deaths at 2301 South Michigan." The tape cuts to daylight; reporters and cameras are following John and three other young men into an office building. The anchor speaks over the video, "Without presales in a strong market, arson is suspected—" and Sonny speaks over him.

"Moens’s people at the
Herald
put it together late, pretty damn good. She said the Gwen girl was in the foster home with you; crazy even then, was like six or seven when she torched her own orphanage in ’83, that’s how Moens clocked her. Moens said Gwen found Ganz’s will, got pissed, and murdered…"

I try to listen to the TV and don’t answer.

"She was Mary Kate’s kid, you believe that? This guy Ganz who…ah…messed with you was a coat-and-tie accountant at the hospital where Gwen was born. Looks like he used his admin connections to get Gwen into his foster home; been blackmailing Mary Kate for thirty years."

"Yeah." I shrink back into the sofa. "Tracy told me."

The TV video cuts back to the anchor with a PIP of last night’s fire inset over his left shoulder, then a smaller picture of me when I was Policeman of the Year. "Sources inside the Chicago Police Department say details of Officer Patricia Black’s involvement in the suspected arson are unknown. But they do confirm that Officer Black was working directly for Superintendent Jesse Smith at the time of the blaze. Superintendent Smith remains in critical condition at Mercy Hospital. CPD News Affairs spokesmen deny—"

Sonny harrumphs. "Assholes. Cut you loose the minute you’re heavy."

None of that is unexpected, nor is the anchor’s next line: "The U.S. Attorney’s office
has
issued a warrant for Officer Black’s arrest in connection with the death of Assistant State’s Attorney Richard Rhodes. Attorneys representing Officer Black say she is innocent and will turn herself in tomorrow morning at the Dirksen Federal Building." The anchor turns to change cameras. "In Evanston, the brutal murders of—"

I lean into the TV, losing the blanket. "My attorneys, huh?"

"Your pal Moens had a chic lawyer answer for you; Cindy Somebody, supposed to be a player—dressed like it at least, her number’s on the table." Sonny nods at the note by the folded clothes.

I feel threatened instead of protected, but finally have to admit that Miss All-Everything must be my friend after all. And that’s almost as strange as me naked in Sonny Barrett’s robe. But it’s true and the Tracy thought adds a hint of a smile.