Fly With Fire (24 page)

Mo threw her backpack on her
shoulder and pulled the ball cap down low. She looked toward the gate and saw
her bodyguards chatting. The line had started moving onto the plane and they’d
begin looking for her in moments. She’d call them on her way. She walked
quickly and jumped on the moving walkway and kept her stride long as she
brushed past people and waited sporadically for slowpokes to move aside. She
made her way past the security station. As she jogged down an escalator an
announcement came over the loud speaker calling for Monica Whitman to board her
flight.  She found her way to the taxi queue. It took a few minutes for
her turn and luckily she only had the small backpack so she hopped in the cab
and called out to the driver. “You go downtown?”

“Ms. Lady, you pay I go where
you want to go.” He smiled and reached for the meter. His white turban almost
touched the roof of the car. He spoke some sort of Asian language into his
radio. “It eighty dollars for downtown.” He turned slightly and took a quick
measure of the woman in a sweatshirt and ball cap.

“Fine. 1493 South Indiana.
I’ll make it worth your while. Can I roll the window down?”

Curtis was fed up with hiding
out. He was thinking he needed to make a plan. The cops had been on Rosalie’s
like flies on shit and his girlfriend Shatika had blown him off. She didn’t
want a cop killer at her door. What about the babies? What if the cops came in
with bullets flying? He knew Jamal had done some talking but had not been able
to get to him. How much did they know if anything about Bull? The mother had
taken over everything and now he’d found himself on the run. The attic of the
abandoned warehouse where he was hiding out was hot. Bull had rented the
warehouse short term for his business expansion. Guess Bull figured comfort
wasn’t an issue. Damn why hadn’t the cop come and helped him get out of town!
He curled his lip in disgust. Even the damned rats waddled like it was too hot
to move. He couldn’t wait for dark. He’d pull his hood up and get outside. He
should have saved some money instead of blowing it all on Shatika. Not that he
minded her spending lots of money for the babies.

He had to get some money. He
had to go to a part of town where they wouldn’t blow him away as soon as he
glanced at the register. He had to stay away from Rosalie’s neighborhood that
was for sure. Too many people knew him around south MLK drive, Shatika’s hood.
The stores all had bulletproof glass in high class Hyde Park. He needed to head
north where there were more people to blend into. Oh Hell, why wait for dark?
He eyed his sunglasses. He was too hungry to wait for dark. Maybe he could lift
a wallet from one of the museum goers and be on a Lake Shore Drive express bus
headed south before they ever noticed it was gone. His hair had grown out since
he’d last shaved his head. He had a few weeks growth on his face. He eyed the
sacks piled in a corner that seemed to have deteriorated and had spilled out a
whitish powder. He thought it was cement or something similar. He went over and
dipped his hand in it and gave it a sniff. It had a moldy smell to it but it
was worth trying. He rubbed some in his short curly hair and picked up a jagged
piece of glass and wiped it with an old shirt he’d found. Was he really doing
this? Why hadn’t he just gotten out of Chicago? Shatika.

He tried to get a look at
himself in the glass standing by the broken window. It was hard to tell but his
hair seemed to reflect more gray than black. He wiped his hands off onto his
beard. He donned his sunglasses and stealthily made his way down to the back of
the warehouse where he’d propped the plywood over the window he’d kicked out.
He’d managed to get in and out a few times unseen. Several days before there
had been a close call when some potential buyers had shown up. Fortunately the
broken elevator and the missing steps had kept them from taking their tour to
the top floor.

A scraggly looking cat
grabbed a rat and bit down gazing dangerously at Curtis. “Hisss, cat. I don’t
want your stinking rat.” The alley stank of trash. He turned up Cottage Grove
and fingering the last change in his pocket stopped at the corner to wait for a
bus.

He sat down next to a lady
who smelled like his grandmother. Cheap perfume over cleaning product. She held
a paper grocery bag on her lap that was filled to almost overflowing. You had
to load up when you had to travel miles on a bus to get groceries. Supermarkets
were few and far between on the southeast side. Bet she’d be cookin’ up a good
Sunday dinner when she got home. He imagined himself at his grandma’s table
when he was a kid and big Sunday dinners around her kitchen table were taken
for granted. His stomach growled as he thought of her pork roast with candied
sweet potatoes. All he ever wanted to do was provide the kind of home she had
provided for him. Like Russell’s dad had provided for Russell. When grandma
died his mother put the proceeds from the sale of her house into a crack pipe.
Then she was peddling it on MLK and he spent his time trying to find a place to
stay warm.

He discovered a talent for
survival. Agile fingers filled his stomach. Soon he was running drugs. Home
delivery from your local drug store. He was a small timer and the money was
small time. Sometimes Russell let him in the basement at night in the
wintertime. Straight arrow Russell. Thought he just pushed weed. Then the take
got bigger when he got collared by Ray, a cop dissatisfied with the life a
cop’s salary provided. Ray had ideas. Curtis fit right into those ideas. Pretty
soon the money was rolling in. Ray simply didn’t show up in court and their
partnership had begun. Ray had somehow gotten Curtis’ arrest record to go away.
The cop sure had them all fooled. Even his partner. Hell, a whole neighborhood
idealized him. But when he met Rosalie Ray got desperate. More drugs, bigger
money, giving Bull Shaughnessy a bigger bite of the action. Ray had known Bull
had serious gambling debts. And Ray wanted to keep Rosalie in style. Shoulda
known they’d each start thinking about who was getting the biggest slice of the
pie.

Meanwhile Russell, the pride
of rigid old Al Simpson, “Chicago’s most decorated cop” had joined the army
sighting patriotism and an interest in engineering. Russell had gotten the bait
and switch from the army. He wound up in a firefight in Faluja and had half his
face burned off. It was his sense of gratitude to Russell that led Curtis to
give him that first shot. Just to comfort him. He never thought of Russell as
someone who would get strung out. Old Al slapped Russ in rehab a few times
before he got too careless with his dosage and was found in Jackson Park
against a tree. They found him sitting there with his head leaned back as if he
were listening to the waves break against the concrete barrier. Lucky for
Curtis, Russell’s father had no suspicions about him. He had barely even seen
him before. Curtis operated mostly outside of Simpson’s precinct. The big cop
was retiring and going for the big money in Greendale. Takin’ Russell the hell
out of the city. He was a little too late.

A lot of people were glad to
see Simpson go. Especially after Russ’s last picnic in the park. Curtis knew
one thing for certain: he’d be a dead man if Al Simpson ever knew he’d hooked
Russ up with the smack that killed him. He felt a stab of guilt which he shook
off. Russ wouldn’t wait for him that day and had given himself the shot. It
wasn’t his fault and he told Russ’ bitch what to say.

Curtis hopped off the bus and
meandered around in the fading evening light looking for a mark. The crowds
were thinning since the History Museum had closed. Maybe he could panhandle
some change. Stores in nicer neighborhoods were a bit more lax than in his
neighborhood. South Loop had been gentrified years ago by moneyed singles
making loads in finance and real estate. From the looks of things, hard times
had hardly touched the area. Younger men and women jogged by in designer
workout clothes. Riders on titanium bikes weaved in and out of traffic. Young
mothers pushed their kids in designer strollers. He thought maybe he’d jump the
gate and get onto el platform. He could grab a bag from a north bounder and
jump on a southbound just in time for the doors to close. But the timing was
too difficult. He didn’t want to wait around for two trains to stop at once.
 He put his hand on the twenty two in the band of his sweatpants. Piece of
shit might not even fire. Not that it would come to that. It would sure scare
the hell out of someone. He needed to get some money and get the hell out of
town. He could find a place to knock off and disappear into the dark. He
hesitated for just a moment when he saw the gas station on the corner of
Prairie and Roosevelt.

Cherisse sipped her wine and
looked at the disappearing sliver of lake. “They tell you about that before you
bought the condo?”

“No, and the building
association is considering a lawsuit. No builders are allowed to block the lake
view for other buildings with existing views but some builders are friendlier
with the mayor’s office than others. They already tried to stop it but up it
goes. Unfortunately a few of the tenants think I can just go arrest someone.”

Cherisse leaned on the steel
rail with a giggle. She smelled a whiff of reefer. “Guess you get that
sometimes. People think I ought to be able to get them autographs of big stars that
come to town. Go figure.” She watched him turn the steaks and admired his
muscular arms. “So you like bein’ a cop?”

“Loved it once, now I’m not
so sure. Just a phase probably.” She was beautiful in a pin up girl kind of way
and clearly ready for a night of playing not so hard to get. He glanced at the
fishnet top that exposed everything except what little her black bra covered.
She leaned on the rail and eyed him over her shoulder with a sultry pose while
pushing her exquisite ass out until the short tight skirt pulled up to the tops
of her thighs. She raised a stilettoed foot and posed it toe out. Her edges of
her fishnet stockings were held by garters. She looked like lunch down on
Racine. Cheap and yummy and be sure to bring your Tums. He liked a good, cheap
lunch every now and again, but he was steadily losing his appetite. The steaks
may have well been plastic for all the appeal they had. His wine, a good brand
for Jewel, had no taste. Even bitter would have been better than the flatness
he felt on his tongue.

Worst of all he had a feeling
dessert wouldn’t be going down well at all. Not when Mo flashed into his mind
nine out of every ten seconds. So he’d feed and take her out. Maybe if he
danced he’d loosen up and get in the mood. This was supposed to be taking his
mind off of that woman who flew like a bird as much as any human was able. For
all Cherisse’s blatant sexuality, all he could do was make comparisons with Mo.
Nothing against the actress. In his mind any woman would pale in comparison with
Monica Whitman. Maybe he could just feed Cherisse and beg out of clubbing or
whatever she had in mind. Struggling actress might just be happy with a meal.

“So Vikram said I would be
great for the role but they got some beanpole who the director said had character.
I can do character.” She turned and raised a perfectly styled eyebrow. Her
cherry red lips pouted. “Where did you go?”

“So you liked this Vikram but
he pulled the rug out from under you.” The steaks were on the platter.
“Hungry?”

“Thought you’d zoned out for
a minute.” She looked at him from beneath lowered lids. The sparkles on her
fake lashes caught the light. “Hungry? I’m ravenous. That’s a word from the
play!”

The more anxious Zack got to
take the actress out on the town for a while then drop her off at home the more
certain he became that she had an evening in on her mind. She rubbed her
stilettoed foot against his leg and made verbal compliments on the cuisine
along the lines of “Mmmm, nothing like a hot piece of meat.” Zack toyed with
his food and wondered how to get out of this without hurting the girl’s
feelings.  Another not so subtle hint and he would start not to care.

What would Mo think if she
walked in on this? And why could he not turn off the part of his brain that had
become the Monica Whitman Theater of impossible possibilities. Somehow he had
to break the loop playing and replaying in his mind. Mo doing this, would Mo do
that? Mo in her leotard, in her costumes, in her bathrobe, in her sweats. Mo
windblown in a White Sox cap putting her hand on his saying, “Hash it out with
a friend.” Mo’s dark eyes like pools of passion and compassion. The souls of
all women seemed to peer out of those eyes. Her eyes seemed to hold the history
of their misery and triumph through the ages like a mournful dirge one moment
and a joyful song the next. Her eyes were a direct contradiction to the control
she held over her body. Her long, slim, strong body. Surprisingly soft.
Surprisingly curved. Her lovely breasts not large but full and firm. Their wonderful
peaks a man would climb Everest for. He toyed with his salad feeling lost.

“Not too hungry tonight,
Detective Burnham? Maybe he was hungrier for something else. She liked going out
but she didn’t mind an evening in. Yet he seemed distracted. Distracted from
her was not something she was used to. She’d get his attention.

“I guess lunch is still with
me. Not as hungry as I thought. You know, Cherisse…” Zack pushed his plate and
started to stand but she was up and had her hands on his shoulders pushing him
back down. Her teeth were on his ear as her hands slid down his chest. He felt
an involuntary throb as he imagined Mo climbing onto his lap. If only they
hadn’t parted on such bad terms. He should have talked to her. When he got rid
of Cherisse he was going to call her. Enough was enough. Unwrapping Cherisse
was like wrestling a determined python. She took it to mean he was ready to
take the party into the bedroom. She let him rise but raised a knee up to his
hip as she put her hands around his neck. She raised her lips to his and pulled
down. He let her kiss him as his mind wandered to the terrace. The sun had gone
down and the shadows of evening had been cast over Chicago.