Target Lancer (27 page)

The Pontiac crossed LaSalle where Urban Renewal was busy creating the future by displacing the present. Just to the north, Carl Sandburg Village (named for the Bohemian newsman poet) housed white-collar Loop workers. Like the moon, its towers were seen by the people around here, but they could not hope to live there.

We tailed the green Pontiac past Wells and under the Ravenswood El. Just north were the blocky towers of Cabrini Green, a modern high-rise slum replacing the Sicilian tenements of Little Hell.

Beyond Halsted, the green buggy crossed the ancient, stone-towered steel-lift bridge that led onto Goose Island, three blocks of industrial wilderness—warehouses, manufacturing lofts, scrap-metal junkyards. As we rolled by in slow pursuit of the Cubans, large chunks of iron whooshed into the air, with a rattle like the Devil trying for seven or eleven—a missed tank of compressed gas, not entirely emptied, had made its way into a crusher.

Neither Eben nor I registered any surprise at this explosion.

From Goose Island we were led below the new four-lane expressway, Mayor Daley’s extension of the national highway system linking Chicago to Wisconsin and Indiana, and O’Hare to the Loop, a concrete ribbon across the North and Northwest Sides that had made fortunes for insider speculators in right-of-way property. Would have been nice if one of my wealthy clients had clued me in. Hadn’t I helped save or end enough fat-cat marriages to rate that?

Soon we were in an older neighborhood, once Polish, Russian, and Jewish, now turning Puerto Rican; well-kept older storefronts with apartments above mingled with small narrow two- and three-flat buildings. Things seemed more run-down on side streets. West Town (as the area was called) was dominated by looming factories and the steeples of its many churches, mostly Catholic.

Now we entered a wide square where Ashland—a major four-lane street—bisected Division, and where another angled street, Milwaukee Avenue, also crossed. What you probably noticed first was the three-story building to the north whose huge sign announced
DAILY ZGODA
.

Taking that in, Eben asked, “A Polish newspaper?”

“For more Poles than Chicago,” I said, “I suggest Warsaw.”

A small central park featured junkies wandering, and was an old woman taking a crap in the grass? Yes, she was. And those old guys passing her on the sidewalk, hauling grocery bags, either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

The Pontiac turned north on Milwaukee, where block after block of stores awaited, of all types and all nations, signs in Polish, signs in Russian, signs in Spanish, even a few in English. Cuba’s flag was painted on some store windows and Puerto Rico’s on others. The spire of the Morris B. Sachs flatiron building, five blocks north, dominated this fiefdom of two- and three-story buildings with their storefronts below and apartments above.

“They’re pulling over,” Eben said.

“I see it.”

The Bonneville pulled into a place near where a side street cut across, no light, no stop sign. I went on through the intersection—having to pick my way through the light traffic—and pulled into a place half a block up.

Eben, turning to watch, said, “They’re getting out. Cutting over to that side street.”

I shut off the engine. “I’ll see where they’re going.”

Eben nodded, content to stay put. Not many Negroes around this part of town. Not any, right now, except him.

As I rounded the corner, the Cubans were entering a storefront in the middle of the block. Pedestrians were mostly older people and moms with little kids, apparel ranging from Sears to rummage store, Poles outnumbering Puerto Ricans two to one. A few winos, a few junkies. No Cubans to speak of—they were the area’s ownership class.

I walked down to where Gonzales and Rodriguez had disappeared and found an old kitchenette with
GOOD FOOD
written in big bold red cursive on the window. Through the glass, between two flags painted there (Cuba and Puerto Rico), I could see our two subjects heading toward the back. They slipped into a booth, sharing the same side.

Cozy.

I walked quickly back to the car and leaned in like a carhop, telling Eben, “Drive around and find a place opposite ‘Good Food’ restaurant. Middle of the block. They’re in there. Keep a close watch.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to have a Coke. Haven’t you heard? It’s the pause that refreshes.”

I headed back for the luncheonette.

Good Food’s food smelled good, in a carnival kind of way. The old restaurant was just a clutter of Formica tables with kitchen chairs on linoleum, rows of wooden booths along the left and right walls. Across the rear was a counter behind which was a diner-style window onto the kitchen. This time of afternoon was slow, but about a dozen customers were seated, mostly Puerto Ricans.

Running the place was a skinny man and a plump woman, handsome Cubans in their late thirties, neatly dressed in white shirt and slacks, or in the woman’s case dress. Husband and wife, most likely, with hubby at the register and the better half behind the diner counter. Behind her, dark faces scurried in the kitchen.

Over the serving window was a big wide plastic menu board, courtesy of Coke—listing sandwiches geared toward both Poles and Latinos: Polish sausage, fritas, plus typical diner fare. On the walls were Orange Crush, Green River, and 7-UP signs, but behind the register hung a huge “Old Cuba” calendar with a
magnífico
color photo of the Hotel Nacional in Havana, once owned by that great native Cuban, Meyer Lansky.

Exiles owned all the stores around here, thanks to SBA loans—seemed Uncle Sam wanted to show the Cuban DP’s just how much better America was than Castroville. As Spanish speakers, they could serve the Puerto Rican customers well. But resentment was brewing, since the PR’s—like the Negroes—somehow couldn’t seem to wrangle those kind of loans.

At the counter, I ordered a Coke, glad to be in street clothes and unshaven, just another working stiff. The zippered Windbreaker was blousy enough to conceal the holstered nine-millimeter under my arm, and I was hardly the only white guy in the joint. For example, there was a joe in a work shirt and matching pants eating a Polish sausage sandwich just down from me. And down from him, a husky guy in a checkered shirt and black pants having chicken soup.

And two white guys just over to my left, sitting on the same side of a booth …

… across from the pair of Cubans we’d tailed here.

Not just any white guys, either—these were (as Sergeant Shoppa of the Chicago PD had dubbed them) Smith and Jones, the ex-soldier Southern boys with butch haircuts who rounded out the set of four Justice Department surveillance photos. Collect them all.

The blond guy, in a plaid shirt unbuttoned over a T-shirt, reminded me of Vallee, but with a narrower, fox-like face; he was chewing a toothpick and frowning, not irritated, just trying to think. His black-haired associate, in a well-worn gray U.S. Army sweatshirt, was listening, chewing gum, as the Cubans spoke to them in Spanish.

That impressed me. These two white-trash ex-GIs had picked up a second language, and here I was barely functional in English. I gulped some Coke from the room-temperature bottle I’d been served, while the two Cubans—the older, fright-wig character doing most of the talking—continued with what might have been a briefing.

The confab hadn’t gone on long before the two white guys gave knowing nods to their booth mates, slid out, and headed back around the counter.

Had I been made?

Casually as possible, I unzipped the Windbreaker.

But they weren’t getting behind that counter to better deal with yours truly—they did not seem to have noticed me. No, they were going out, through the kitchen, letting no grass grow. An alley was back there, and I was about to lose them.

Moments later, the two Cubans exited their booth quickly, tossing a couple of bucks on the tabletop for their own soft drinks. As they hurried out onto the street, I kept my back to them, perched on my counter stool.

Not wanting to be too damn obvious, I finished my Coke, tossed a quarter on the counter, and went outside. Looking diagonally across to Milwaukee Avenue, I could see the two Cubans getting into their Pontiac. They had hustled.

I jaywalked over to the Chrysler, where Eben sat in the passenger seat. That was good surveillance technique: stay in the driver’s seat and other cars’ll pull up and wait, thinking you’re vacating your parking space.

Getting behind the wheel, I said, “The two white guys were in there.”

“All
right,
” Eben said, and then he was pointing. “Subjects are heading north on Milwaukee again.”

The Pontiac indeed was on the move. But not moving fast—interesting, considering the Cubans had all but run out of the restaurant.

Then I put it together.

“They’re gonna pull into the alley behind the restaurant,” I said, waiting for an opening in traffic.

“Why?”

“The Caucasian Twins are back in that alley. My hunch is, it’s a weapons delivery.”

“Damn, I bet you’re right!” Eben sat forward. “The rifles the landlady saw in that flat are in their
trunk
now! I better call this in.…”

The Negro agent got on the radio, and by the time I had taken the left on Milwaukee, he was saying into the hand mike, “Tell Chief Martineau we have located all four subjects, repeat, all four subjects. More information as things develop. Ten-four.”

Just like Broderick Crawford on
Highway Patrol
.

Turning through the intersection, I saw no sign of the Pontiac.

“They’ve already pulled in,” I said.

I was driving faster than I should when I swung into the alley—narrowly missing the iron pillar supporting the Elevated tracks above—and had to slam on the brakes not to bump headlights with the Pontiac parked back there.

Gonzales was again at the wheel and he reared back as our vehicles almost kissed snouts. The Bonneville trunk was up, with just the top of a bushy-haired head visible over it; then the trunk slammed shut, and revealed Rodriguez, gaping in annoyed surprise.

That lowered trunk also provided us a better view down the alley, as another car—a light-blue Ford Falcon (couldn’t catch the damn plate)—was waving its ass and taillights at us from down at the other end of the alley, making a right turn and then out of sight.

The white boys.

From behind the wheel, I offered Gonzales a goofy grin, and shrugged in a way that proclaimed myself the dumb ass at fault here. The alarm left the Cuban’s expression and he nodded, reluctantly polite. Why call attention?

That was when the damn police radio squawked: “
This is Chief Martineau. What is your location, Agent Boldt?
”

Eben lurched forward to turn down the volume, but far too late.

The message had been heard by the two Cubans—it had frozen them, in fact. But they’d thaw soon enough.

Fuck it.

I leaned out my window.
“Secret Service! Exit the vehicle with your hands up!”

That sounded like something a real G-man would say, right? Who wouldn’t wilt under that kind of verbal assault?

Well, the Cubans didn’t. The bushy-haired guy yanked open the Pontiac’s rear left door and threw himself inside the car, slamming that door just as Gonzales threw the vehicle into reverse, hitting the gas and backing up, fast.

I hit the gas, too, rocketing down the alley after them—they could never outrun us in reverse, though I could hardly blame them for trying.

But we would never know the outcome of such a chase, because as they neared the alley exit, another car backed in, pausing, apparently to turn around, and we were on top of the Pontiac again, headlights getting reacquainted. I threw it in Park, leapt from my side of the vehicle as Eben did the same from his, both of us with guns in hand.

Gonzales gave up immediately, getting out to stand with his hands up and his chin down, even assuming the position against a brick wall, making it easier on Eben cuffing the guy’s hands behind him.

But Rodriguez wasn’t so cooperative. While Eben was making his collar, the big bushy-haired bastard scrambled out of the backseat on the other side and came charging at me, like an offensive tackle rushing the line, and despite my having the Browning in hand, he practically ran me down, shoving me aside and against a brick alley wall, jarring me, overwhelming my ancient ass.

Still, I recovered quickly and picked up pursuit.

He dashed out of the alley and across the street, several cars slamming on brakes and swerving to miss him, getting himself sworn at in various languages, and I was right behind him, taking advantage of the path he’d cleared. Where the alley picked back up, he went down it. For a big man, both broad-shouldered and bulky, he was fast, or at least adrenaline was making him so.

We ran down the alley, footsteps echoing, the Elevated tracks visible above, a train rumbling by, its shadow racing across the buildings at left whose backs provided a collective wall. As the chase continued, the El started its roller-coaster dip into the subway, enclosed now by a short cement barrier topped by a wire-mesh fence on either side of the double tracks.

Huffing and puffing like a Big Bad Wolf with no house to blow down, I somehow managed to cut the distance between us. Rodriguez was younger, but also fatter, and his sprint was losing steam into distance running. The tracks were right next to us now, behind their fence, as the El continued its descent.

The nine-mil was still in my right fist—I could have shot the bastard, and maybe I should have and spared myself the aches and pains that the aftermath of all this running would bring, not to mention the burning gut-ache that was already starting. A leg shot might have brought him down, though you can kill a guy with a leg shot—there’s an important artery hiding inside.

But Rodriguez didn’t seem to be armed, and if this was all just some kind of royal FUBAR, and these subjects turned out not to be a paramilitary hit squad, then I’d be shooting down an unarmed Cuban exile, which would make me popular with nobody, myself included.