Start Shooting (26 page)

“White Flower Lý smuggles herself and the package to Bangkok, then hops a plane with the ticket the GI provided. No one from her past sees or hears from her again until the blackmail attempt nine days ago against Furukawa’s CEO, Dr. Ota.”

“And who do I know who knows White Flower Lý?”

Hahn stares. “Robbie Steffen.” She keeps staring, waiting for me to see another face.

“No. No way …” I close my eyes.

“He knew her in Saigon and he knew the nun.”

“No, not Buff. Not with the plague—”

“Sergeant Anderson’s been interviewed several times over the years but says he never saw White Flower Lý get off the plane and never knew the nun’s real name.”

My eyes stay shut. “And you don’t believe him.”

“Be a cop. How many innocent lives should we bet?”

Prime DUI time. Any traffic stop and I go to jail for felony gun possession, one of them a murder weapon. Jail is Rubenland. Rubenland is not survivable and has no place in Arleen the Innocent’s new plan.

Arleen the Innocent has a new beginning—she did not successfully “pull the trigger” at the cemetery. The twin sister to an angel has that bit of pixie dust, her sister’s guidance, Ruben’s gun, and a way to check the fingerprints. With just a little luck and one major bluff, I will tightrope my way through the nightmare voices of my past and Rubenland of the present. Less than ten hours till
Streetcar
. I win the role, somehow I stay on the good-guy express and everything works out.

My phone vibrates. I lay the L.A. 9-millimeter on my lap and palm the phone. Bobby’s text message reads, “Call me, text me, something. Okay? I want to talk, see you. Something.”

Both hands tingle. Bobby Vargas, my boyfriend. I’m “thirty-nine” and my hands tingle.

I pull onto Waveland Avenue east of Wrigley Field and parallel park into a street space. Bobby’s your boyfriend? Bobby is Ruben’s
brother
, Arleen; his
family
. Except … except it felt so strong at the L7, so right now, and I saw it in his eyes, too. It was there, for real.

Grown-ups now, Arleen, not thirteen-year-olds.
Twenty-nine years ago
Bobby was your boyfriend.

I grab my purse with the
Streetcar
script and Ruben’s .38, dropping my phone in just as it vibrates again.

Ruben says, “Talked to the Japs.”

I leap out of the car, the 9-millimeter stiff-armed over my roof, then behind me, then east and west on Waveland.
Don’t make me
 … I do another three-sixty, finger tight on the trigger.
Please don’t make me …

Muffled: “
Niña
, you there?”

Ruben. But inside my car, in my purse—must’ve hit the button. I lower the 9-millimeter, thank pixie dust, dig the phone out, and tell Ruben part of the new plan. “I’ll meet the Furukawa women
after
my audition, do your goddamn felony. If I don’t make it back my written sworn statement about you and Robbie scamming Furukawa and killing Koreans goes to the U.S. attorney. Same with your .38.”

“Got all that done since Holy Sepulchre? Lotta work in sixty minutes.”

“Think of me as a bomb in your pocket. Yes or no?” Silence, then: “See you at the Shubert. Maybe I bring little brother for luck.”

I fold the phone and tuck the 9-millimeter in my jeans. Intermittent drunk voices echo in the dark. Wrigleyville is a good neighborhood, but on a postgame night with all the drunks … men do bad things to girls when they’re drunk or in bunches or … Men just do bad things.

Waveland Avenue is dark, even darker at the L tracks viaduct as I pass under. At Murphy’s Bleachers, I press down on the 9-millimeter in my waistband and start running. I sprint Sheffield a block to Addison, veer west down Wrigley’s first-base side through more aftermath of the postgame party that ended hours ago. Approaching Clark Street I’m starting to pant. Two squad cars share the corner.

My feet stop so fast I almost fall over. I make myself two
AM
innocent with two guns, turn south, breathing hard, and walk toward the L7. The L7 is mid-block and across the street. Eight drunk rugby girls are out front singing arm in arm. Past them is the alley. One of the girls whistles at me and waves. I diagonal across the street past her, waving “no thanks,” and duck into the alley, hoping the girl doesn’t follow. Light spills into the alley from the open fire-exit door. Julie leans big against the bricks, beer in one hand, cell phone to her ear. She knows I’m in trouble from my five-second phone call after Holy Sepulchre, knows I want to hide here (part of the new plan), but not why.

I duck in past her. Julie follows, closing the door behind us. Sweat stings my eyes. I lean into the hallway/greenroom wall where Bobby Vargas stood smiling at me—nine hours ago, right after I shot the Korean. A lifetime ago. Both knees ache and I slide to sitting. My watch snags at my knee. Nine hours till my audition.

Julie listens to her phone, but shrugs at me, asking if I’m okay.

I mouth “Fine,” and point upstairs to the Butch and Sundance suite.

Julie points at her phone and mouths “Tracy.”

“Tell her to come over.”

Julie’s eyes widen.

“Tell her, okay? But it has to be now.”

Julie tells her phone, “Right here with me. Wants to talk to you but it has to be tonight.” Julie listens, then flips her phone shut. “Pink Panther’s en route. Think I’ll sell tickets if that’s okay.”

Downstairs, the L7 has finished last call after an eight-hour rugby-girl party. Upstairs, Julie’s resting on an elbow on the Butch and Sundance bed, waiting for my explanation, her part in the plan. Twelve inches from her, I quit rubbing awake into my face. “Do we have a wee screwdriver?”

Big blond grin. “Tracy’s not that bad.”

Frown. “I have to fix something.”

“It’s two in the morning, movie star.”

Movie star sits up, opens her purse, inserts a pen into the barrel of Ruben’s .38, and lifts out the gun. Julie stares; I lay the .38 on her bed. “Have to remove these grips.”

Julie’s seen a gun before but can’t be happy there’s one on her bedspread being handled by an actress like we’re
CSI
Chicago. She says, “And why would we remove the grips?”

“The less you know, the better.”

“As in ‘like we’ve never met’?”

“Be best. But after I get
Streetcar
later this morning we’ll be Broadway babies …”

Julie nods at Ruben’s gun. “So … that’s a prop.”

“Can I have the screwdriver? I don’t want your ex to see the gun.”

Julie doesn’t move.

“I want Tracy to match the fingerprints.” Exhausted-actress smile. “And you don’t want to know the rest.”

Julie reinspects my throbbing forehead and cheek. “Arleen, you didn’t …”

“No. I didn’t.” Frown. My eyes roll to cover the lie. “Had I shot somebody,
my
prints would be on the gun. Right? And I wouldn’t require Tracy’s help to ID them.”

Because Julie’s a saint, she blows past the sarcasm. “So somebody else shot somebody?”

I continue the lie. “No. Someone shot at me, lost the gun, and I want to know who it was. But I don’t want to tell the police, don’t want the Shubert to get scared of me and cast the big-shot actress from L.A.”

Julie’s eyebrows arch. “The other actress did it? Oh my God, a Tonya Harding moment.” Julie grins all the way across her pretty face. “Hollywood’s gonna be so much fun.”

I lay back and close my eyes, wish I could pass out. “The screwdriver. Please?”

Julie rolls out of bed, heading to the door. “Somebody should have a drink.”

“And a screwdriver. And a plastic baggie. And Blanche DuBois clothes for tomorrow.”

Tracy Moens ponytails her trademark flaming red hair out of a face that doesn’t have, or require, makeup at two thirty in the morning. Easy to hate her just for that. I have better reasons. She stares at me from the chair in the Butch and Sundance suite, well-muscled legs yoga-ed underneath her. Julie sips at an Anchor Steam. Tracy forgot to button her blouse and does that while she glances at the pistol grips on the bed corner between us. “Could give them to a friend. She could take them in if the ghetto isn’t busy. But I’d have to have a reason.”

“A favor. To Julie and me.” I nod at Julie.

“What do I tell my friend and CPD?”

“You’re the Pink Panther. I’m sure the options are limitless.”

Tracy purses lips that will never require collagen. “What’s up with you and Bobby Vargas? Are you crazy kids an item?”

“Coincidence.” I’m asking favors from someone I’d like to watch melt in a fire. “First time I’ve seen him in almost thirty years. Just saying hello.”

Julie waves her Anchor Steam at me. “I’d say y’all were packing for the Love Boat. Too bad it had to be the day Ms. Moens accuses Bobby in the
Herald.
”

Moens says, “I
mentioned
him, didn’t accuse him. Yet.”

I drill straight into Miss Bottom-feeder. “Meaning what?”

She blinks, or maybe bats, the green eyes. “We go to court with his lawyer tomorrow. James Barlow. Know him?”

James Barlow is dangerous money, old First Ward kind of money. He brings clients to Hugo’s for lunch, tips well, and always sits in the back corner. Bobby Vargas is a cop/weekend guitar player; they don’t have big dangerous money, or shouldn’t.

Tracy hugs her knees. “Love to know who’s paying. Barlow’s not known for pro bono.”

“I’d stay and referee,” says Julie, “but I have to count money downstairs. Been a long day for this saloonkeeper.”

I point at my watch. “Seven o’clock, okay? Not a minute later.”

Julie kisses me on the cheek. “Just like a hotel.” Then she kisses Tracy. “Be nice, both of you have reputations to protect, sort of.”

Julie closes the door behind her. Tracy says, “Where’s the gun?”

“Sorry. Grips are all I have.”

“Whose prints are we matching?”

“Don’t know.”

“But you know
why
 …”

I feed her the lie I practiced. “I need a favor. Do it and I won’t block the exhumation of my sister
—you’re
the neighborhood
monster
for soliciting exhumation, but I’ll get out of the way.”

“I’m a reporter.” Pause. “Julie said someone shot at you.”

“Julie’s drunk after a big day and a bigger night.”

“Someone
didn’t
shoot at you?”

Hard frown. “Match the prints, give the grips back to me,
then
I’ll talk to you.”

Tracy fingers at the pistol grips encased in the baggie Julie provided. “Robbie Steffen?” She looks up. “He comes in Hugo’s, doesn’t he?”

Nod.

“Isn’t his father, Toddy Pete, one of the backers for
Streetcar
? Where I dropped you this afternoon?”

She probably called the director, her friend Anne Johns. “You know he is.”

“Small world. All of us, six degrees of separation. The Vargas brothers, the Steffens, you and I …”

“What’d you tell the director?”

“Anne Johns? Nothing. And I wouldn’t say anything, not if it hurt your chances. I’d be happy to do the opposite, if you thought it would help.”

I glance her toward the pistol grips on the bed. “I have to sleep, my audition’s at eleven.”

Tracy picks up my script, not the pistol grips, and muses. “A long journey to here, finally.” The room goes silent and stays silent. Tracy fingers the script. “The Shubert might prefer a lead actress without serious … problems.”

Belfast creeps into my voice. “That they might.”

“So what do we do?”

“We cut the crap and you decide.”

“Had I known about you and
Streetcar
, I would’ve waited a week to break the story.” Shrug. “But I didn’t know, I had the new information about the Twenty-Treys and …” She looks up from my script for a reaction.

I know all about the Twenty-Trey Gangsters, about the Irish cop Terry Rourke who killed a nine-year-old Mexican kid and the street war it started. I was there. And that’s right where Moens goes.

“Terry Rourke was related to your mother, wasn’t he?”

No one outside our family has ever said that before. People whispered—not because they knew—just because people whisper. “Terry Rourke was my ma’s brother. They didn’t speak.”

“Because of the …”

“Because Officer Terry Rourke raped my ma the week she and the family came over from Belfast. My ma was eleven; he was twenty something, already a cop, had helped bring them over.”

“And your father knew.”

“No.” Long exhale. “That one you have wrong. Had my da known he wouldn’t have married my ma. Had he found out after they were married, Da would’ve killed Terry Rourke long before the Twenty-Treys did.”

“But the police in the Four Corners knew. And didn’t prosecute.”

“You’re Irish; our families bury things like that. Had Ma told after she was married, she’d have been raising two daughters without a husband. Da kills Terry, then Da’s either shot dead by Terry’s fellow policemen or put in Joliet and executed.”

“Could your mother have … She knew the Twenty-Treys from the neighborhood. Knew they were gunning for Terry. She knew her brother’s address. She could’ve …”