Where Do I Go? (47 page)

Harry leaned back in the chair. Good question. He had a lot to lose. But he shook his head. “I . . . I got a kid—or at least I had a kid—who I lost to the streets. I joined the SOS to make a difference . . . but what do I find? The SOS is at the rotten core of the whole problem. That's why!”

Cindy watched Harry Bentley push open the glass door of the office building and stride across the parking lot, his tread heavy, head forward. Uh, oh. Didn't look like it went too well. What would Harry do, now that he had made his play?

“Hey, Partner. How'd it go?”

“Eh. Okay, I guess. Let's roll.”

“Nah, nah, nah. You don't get by me with that.” She put the cruiser in gear and turned to back out of the parking spot. “Come on. Spill it. What'd they say? They gonna open an investigation?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Yeah, but what? Didn't they believe you? What happened?”

“They probably believed me, but I'm not so sure how eager they are to bust it open. They're more worried about the bad press it'll give the whole department.”

“But they're gonna do it? Right?”

“They gotta do it since I made a formal report. But . . .”

“But what? Come on, man, don't make me pull thread by thread. What happened?”

Cindy watched Harry out of the corner of her eye as she turned into traffic along 35th Street. He leaned back against the headrest. “They want me off the force.”

“
What?
”

“Ah, it kinda makes sense. They say if the time comes I have to testify, I'll be seen as a more independent witness . . . nothing to gain or lose.”

“So, how's that gonna happen?”

“Take early retirement. I got twenty years in, so they can put out the word that I was ‘encouraged' to retire because of . . . of . . .” He turned and stared out the side window.

“Because of what?”

“Because of the problems I was havin'.”

“You mean the drinking? But you're on top of that now! You've been in AA for over a year. Everybody knows that.”

“Yeah, I know. They're just saying it'd be a good cover. No one would suspect me of being the whistle-blower until the hearing. But believe me, Cindy . . .” He shook his head. “I don't wanna go out with a cloud hanging over my head either way—for still having a problem or for being a whistle-blower.”

“But Harry, it's not a bad plan. It might keep you alive, you know. And besides, you'd have your pension. You're not
that
old. You could start over, new career, whole new life. It'd be like a second chance. Man, I'd go for it! And you know I'd come around and check on you from time to time.” She grinned.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Cindy looked over at him. It
was
a good plan, but she knew the downside. Even if Fagan and his gang got sent up river, Harry had broken the blue code of silence. Once it got out that he was the whistle-blower, there wouldn't be a precinct in the whole city where he could go in and get a cup of coffee.

Eight months, and Harry still had to think twice before automatically strapping on his Glock when he got out of bed each morning. But he was beginning to adjust to his new job as doorman for Richmond Towers. Occasionally he could read on the job and now that he had landed the day shift, he could relax and get other stuff done in the evenings. “Copacetic” is what his old grandmama would have called it—with just enough “characters” around to stave off boredom.

Like now. He watched through the rain-streaked floor-to-ceiling windows as a hunched figure dragged something toward the door. A second figure emerged out of the mist, limping along behind. Harry stepped quickly around his chest-high desk to con-front them both just as they came inside the revolving door.

“Hey! Get that rickety cart outta here,” he barked at the home-less derelict hauling all her worldly possessions. “You can't come in here. Residents only!”

But the person behind the frizzle-haired woman looked slightly familiar—late-thirties, attractive, in spite of the dripping ringlets hanging down around her face. She grimaced and waggled her fingers toward him in a tentative wave. “Uh, she's with me, Mr. Bentley . . . I'm Mrs. Fairbanks.”

Fairbanks?
Henry looked more closely. “Fairbanks? Penthouse?” He nodded toward the old woman, frowning as deeply as ever. “Whatchu doin' with this old bag lady?” Then he noticed a bloody rag around the younger woman's bare foot. “Are you all right, ma'am? What happened to your foot?”

“It's all right, Mr. Bentley. I, uh, we just need to get up to the, uh, apartment and get into some dry clothes.” She smiled and flipped up her ID card with a
ta da
flourish, then swiped it through the scanner that opened the glass security door leading to the elevators.

Harry walked back around his crescent-shaped desk and settled onto his high-backed stool. Some of these rich people were a piece of work. He could keep the riffraff out of any place, but making nice to the residents at the same time could get complicated. Like the kid on twenty-two who kept bringing in his punk friends, smelling of dope and banging their skateboards against the walls. Harry raked his knuckles over the wiry gray horseshoe beard that ran along his jaw line and wished the management would create clearer guidelines.

The house phone rang and he picked up the black receiver. “Richmond Towers. Can I help you?”

“Is this Harold Josiah Bentley?”

He hesitated. “Who's askin'?”

“My name's Leslie Stuart and I'm calling from the Department of Children and Family Services. I need you to verify whether I'm speaking to Harold Josiah Bentley.”

“I'm Bentley. But did you say
DCFS
? I don't have any kids.” He pulled the receiver away from his ear and frowned at it, the grooves in his forehead growing deeper. “How'd you get this number, anyway?”

The woman was quiet for a moment. “Do you have a son named Rodney?”

Rodney!
Harry stiffened. It had been years. What had Rodney done now? Hearing someone coming through the revolving door, Harry swung around on his stool and lowered his voice. “Look, can't talk now. Got people here. Besides, this phone's supposed to be for internal use only. No personal calls.” He slammed down the receiver and stood up with a placid smile on his face.

“Oh, Mr. Bentley, I'm so glad you're here,” said a white-haired woman. She was probably the same age as Harry, but he thought of her as much older. “I forgot my cash. Could you run out and pay the cabby for me? I'll take care of you later.”

Knowing he hadn't been “cared for” since the last time, Harry still smiled broadly and said, “Happy to, Mrs. Worthington. How much does he need?”

“Oh, I think it was fifteen-something. But be sure to give him a dollar tip. You know, Mr. Bentley, I want to thank you so much. That kid who works here on the weekends when you're gone would never be so nice.”

Harry went out and tossed a twenty through the window of the cab and came back in before his shiny dome could catch too many raindrops. The phone was already ringing again. He reached over his counter and picked it up more slowly this time. “
Richmond
Towers
. . .” He emphasized the name. “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Bentley, I do need to speak to you today. If this phone's not good, do you have another number where I could reach you?”

“Yes, but I'm on duty right now. Can't this wait? Couldn't you call me some other time . . . like on Saturday? I'm off Saturday.”

“I'd rather not work on Saturday if I don't have to, Mr. Bentley. Look, we need to talk ASAP, so can't we just do it now?”

Harry blew through pursed lips and gave her his cell number. Within a minute his
Law and Order
ring tone sounded.

“Now, Mr. Bentley, if you would just confirm your birth date for me, we can—”

“Wait a minute. Before I confirm
anything
, what's this about?”

There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. “It's about your son, Rodney. With him not making bail, he's likely to be in Cook County for—”

“What'd he do?”

“Well . . . for now he's pled innocent, so his case will take at least six months. In fact, it could be a couple years before he's sentenced. And who knows what after that. So we've gotta place your grandson in foster—”

“
Grandson
? What grandson?”

“Rodney's nine-year-old, DaShawn . . . You do know about DaShawn, don't you?”

Harry's shoulders slumped. Rodney had a kid? “Uh, I kinda lost touch with Rodney some time ago.”

“Listen, Mr. Bentley, I do need you to confirm your date of birth before we continue. Confidentiality, you understand. Wouldn't want to be discussing these matters with the wrong person. So when were you born?”

Harry Bentley swiveled around on his stool so that his back was to the revolving door. He sighed again. Dealing with Rodney always meant drama. “February 23, 1948. When did he have a baby?”

“February 23, 1948? Okaaay”—she dragged out the word as though she were writing down the date—“and you
are
Harold Josiah Bentley, right?”

“Yes, yes, and I was born on the south side and served as one of Chicago's finest for twenty years. You wanna do a background check on me?” He cringed as soon as he'd said it. He didn't need anyone plowing through his past, turning up the supposed reason he'd been encouraged to retire from the force.

“A background check won't be necessary at this time, Mr. Bentley, but if you could come on down to DCFS tomorrow, we'd like to talk about the possibility of you taking the boy.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What about the mama? Why don't she take the kid—hold on. I got a call on the other line.” He laid down the cell and spun around to pick up the house phone even though his cell continued to emit the tinny scratch of Ms. Stuart's voice as it lay there on the desk.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Bentley?”

“Yes.” At least
this
call was an internal one.

“Uh, it's, uh, Mrs. Fairbanks. Top floor. Do you know the whereabouts of a homeless shelter for women in the area?”

Harry chuckled to himself. The “pet” she'd brought home wasn't working out so well. “Yeah, I think there's one just a couple blocks from the Sheridan El stop.”

“Is that nearby?”

Harry began to give directions when Mrs. Fairbanks cut in again. “I'm lost. Could you just call a cab for my, uh, friend? We'll be down in a few.”

Harry hung up and glanced at his cell. He was tempted to close and forget it, but he picked it up. “You still there?”

“Sure am—”

“Hang on. There's somethin' else I gotta do.”

He laid it back down and called the cab.

Finally, he picked the cell up. “Okay, Ms. Stuart, now . . . Oh, yeah. Why isn't that boy with his mother?”

“She's in rehab. Crack. So, can you come down?”

Harry rested his elbows on the counter, head in hands. “Ms. Stuart, I'm not off until Saturday—”

“Then Saturday'll have to do.
I'll
come in on
my
day off. You be here—100 West Randolph—at 10 a.m. and give the security my name, Leslie Stuart.”

She hung up before Harry could object. He slapped the desk. He'd left himself wide open for that one, mentioning he'd be off Saturday. Maybe he shouldn't show up . . . but he knew he would.

In a few moments, Mrs. Fairbanks came down with the bag lady in tow and handed him a ten to put the old woman in the waiting cab.

What? Harry Bentley has a grandson? What will that do for Harry's chances with eestelle Williams? What if Fagan discovers Harry was the whistle-blower on the rogue cops?and what about those “Yada Yada brothers” Harry meets when he goes to church with estelle at souledout community? Will they become as tight as the sisters?

» To order the novel
Harry Bentley's Second Chance,
ask your favorite bookstore to order it for you (IsBN # 9780-9820544-0-6) or go directly to
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