At the City's Edge (13 page)

A long moment stretched. Then Kent bent forward on the couch, his expression earnest and curious. ‘Jesus, Washington. Why
didn’t you tell us that?’ Now it would come. The lecture, and the disappointment. There was no point in explaining. It didn’t
matter how many books he read or boys he helped. He’d learned the same hard lesson as every other felon – once people knew
that much, they didn’t want to learn anything else.

Then he heard Cicero in his head again, talking about how it was ability that raised men to glory, not paltry circumstances
like education or whether they’d been to prison. Better to try.

He sat up, put his hands on his knees. ‘I didn’t tell you because that wasn’t me.’

The alderman started. ‘Wait a minute, you just –’

Washington waved his hands. ‘I’m talking about who I
am
. The man I am, not the stupid boy thirty years ago. That boy, he was damaged. He was confused and he was dangerous and he
was high most of the time.’ He sighed. ‘That boy died in prison.

‘Before I went in, banging was my life. That was my whole purpose. Didn’t know anything else. No bigger world. In the ghetto,
life is counted in dog years.’

The alderman straightened. ‘Dr. Matthews –’

‘You know damn well I’m no doctor,’ Washington interjected. ‘I let the boys call me that because it’s a title they understand
for a man with some education,
even self-education, and it’s a title they don’t know many black men that have. But it doesn’t mean the same thing when you
say it.’

‘
Mr.
Matthews, then. It’s not that we don’t sympathize with your upbringing. I grew up on the South Side, too.’

‘Sure.’ Washington snorted. ‘Bronzeville, right?’

Owens gave him a cool glare. ‘Still not Lincoln Park. I had my share of troubles. But just because you came from an underprivileged
neighborhood –’

‘See, right there, that’s part of the problem. You aren’t even using the right language. An “underprivileged neighborhood”
you can ignore. A
ghetto
you have to do something about. This here, this is the ghet-to.’ Washington turned from the alderman to look at Adam Kent.
The man held his gaze, though it was hard to read anything in his eyes. But at least he hadn’t walked away. ‘When you came
to me, you said that you had pulled yourself up from nothing. That you wanted to make it easier for others to do the same.
You said you needed someone who knew the way the street really worked.’ He shrugged. ‘What did you expect?’

Kent nodded barely. ‘I suppose that’s fair.’ He folded his hands on his knees. ‘Still, you have to understand. This is half
a million dollars we’re talking about.’

‘I
do
understand.’ Washington fought the urge to use his preacher voice. ‘That money can buy food, education, and support for the
boys in this neighborhood. It
can give these kids something. Teach them that the world is bigger than Crenwood. I had to go to prison to learn that.’

Kent chewed on his lip. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘What? Prison?’

‘Why you went.’

A roar, and a hot punch against his hand. Blood spatter like a red mist.

‘I killed a boy.’ He felt stiff, his eyes far away. ‘I didn’t mean to, but I did. Wasn’t even an enemy of mine. Just somebody’s
little brother, got in the way.’

‘It was an accident?’

‘I was in a gang, I carried a gun.’ Washington shrugged, his shoulders heavy. ‘Accident isn’t the right word.’

‘What happened?’

The boy with the cauliflower ear spinning, slow, a last pirouette. Falling. A pause while the whole world drew a breath.

‘It… doesn’t matter.’

‘It might.’

Washington sighed, shook his head to clear visions of that long ago day. ‘You know what happened? I picked up the gun. Ten
years old, I swore myself to the Blackstone Ranger Nation, and I picked up the gun. Once you do that, life is just a clock
ticking away. And before I put the gun down, I killed a boy and cost myself twelve years.’ The room felt claustrophobic, and
he fought the urge to stand. ‘The specifics don’t matter. What I did, it’s done. It was real. I can’t take it back. There’s
only two things I can do. I can promise
never to pick up the gun again, not for anything. And I can help other boys put it down. Which is what I’ve done for fourteen
years. It’s why I came back.’ He stopped to gather his thoughts, realized he’d said all he had to say. ‘So it’s up to you,
Mr. Kent, and you, Alderman Owens. You’re both good men. You make the decision.’

For a long moment, the two of them stared. Washington sat straight, kept his eyes level, fought to the urge to beg, to say
again how much good the money could do, how his boys were counting on it, knowing that anything he said now would be a waste.

Then the alderman looked at Kent, and raised an eyebrows. Kent shrugged. ‘Well, I guess if you’re running a long con, it’s
the longest one in history.’ He smiled, then laughed. ‘Maybe I’m crazy, but I’m still going to give you the money.’

Washington only realized his mouth was hanging open when he tried to speak. ‘Thank you.’

‘Two conditions.’ Kent counted them on his fingers. ‘First, I get veto power on expenditures over, say, a grand. Second, I
want to be on the board of directors.’

‘The veto’s no problem. But we don’t have a board of directors.’

Kent opened his briefcase and removed a ledger. Scribbled with a silver pen. ‘You do now.’ He tore off the check and handed
it to Washington with a smile. ‘I made my money because I educated myself on every aspect of the business, and then went and
fought for what I wanted. And I don’t see why this should be any different. Because you’re right. This isn’t an underprivileged
neighborhood, is it?’

Washington stared at the check. A five, followed by five zeroes. Jesus wept. Five zeroes. Half a
million
dollars. More money than he’d make in fifteen years at the library. Something bloomed in Washington’s chest. ‘No, sir.’ All
these years, all the evil he’d seen, and people still could manage to surprise him with the good. ‘It’s not.’

They chatted for a few more minutes, details for the party on Friday night, logistics. The check lay on the table right beside
the sheet with his prison record. After a few minutes, Kent looked at his watch, and Washington walked them to the door.

‘Mr. Matthews,’ the alderman said, ‘so you know, this wasn’t personal. I wasn’t looking for that information, and it, well,
it took me by surprise when I found it.’ Owens hesitated. ‘I’m very glad of what you’re doing. No hard feelings, I hope?’

Washington supposed maybe he should be angry with the man, but couldn’t find it in himself. ‘No hard feelings.’ Some debts
weren’t paid in money, and some were never truly paid at all. The boy with the cauliflower ear would walk with him for the
rest of his life. And when he died, he expected to find the boy waiting.

Couldn’t blame him, either.

He stood at the door and watched the men walk to a Lincoln Towncar, handmade Italian dress shoes crunching broken glass on
the sidewalk. After they
pulled away, he walked back to his den, dropped in his tired chair. Feeling worn but good. The war he fought had no end,
and he knew he was on the losing side. He’d known that going in, but it was never easy to fight when victory was impossible.

But at least every now and then he won a battle.

‘White guys?’ Cruz leaned forward, stopped twirling her pen.

‘Yeah,’ Palmer said. He looked ragged, dark pits blooming under restless eyes. ‘That’s what Billy said.’

‘He’s sure?’

Palmer shrugged. ‘He’s eight, not color blind.’

White guys. Another piece that didn’t fit. Something was wrong here, and it had her stomach knotted. First, Michael Palmer’s
assertion of a conspiracy and his promise to deliver evidence, only to end up murdered less than a week later. Then the warning
from Donlan. And after that, she’d arrived at work to hear about the attack at Michael Palmer’s house the previous night,
the 911 call, and report of gunfire.

Hence her stomach. ‘Where’s Billy now?’

‘In the breakroom. I wanted to spare him as much of,’ Palmer waved his hands in a gesture that took in the whole station,
‘
this
as I could. It’s been a rough couple of days.’

‘Yeah, I bet.’ Cruz leaned back. ‘These white guys. Any idea who they are?’

He shook his head. ‘Not a clue. I only saw the gangbangers. The one I’d been calling Soul Patch, that you say is named Playboy.’
He nodded to the stack of
photos on her desk, shots of known Gangster Disciples members and associates. Playboy glowered a
Fuck You
from the top of the pile. ‘What’s with these guys’ names?’

‘Monikers. Like nicknames. Usually they pick ones that make them sound tough. We had a guy in here last year called himself
Anthrax.’ She cocked her head. ‘I thought you Army guys had them, too.’

‘Only in Vietnam movies.’

‘You recognize anybody else?’

‘No. I didn’t get a good look at the other two last night, and the short one, the wrestler, he’s not here.’

The hit on Playboy was something, at least. Playboy, real name Louis Freeman, was a good lead – Gangster Disciples number
two, a couple of priors for assault and weapons charges, suspicion of involvement in a stack of shootings. She’d spoken to
him before, and he was smarter than a lot of his boys, which meant he might have had the initiative to pull something like
this.

Only problem was, he wasn’t white.

When the pieces didn’t fit, you had two choices. Look for a new one that did, or push hard on the ones you had. ‘You still
have no idea what they want with you?’

‘Like I told you. They were after Billy.’

‘Uh-huh.’ She squinted. Paused. ‘It’s just that I don’t understand how all this fits together. I mean, your brother being
killed by gangbangers, that would make sense. But if it was white guys, then why were
the bangers after you? And why would they come after his
kid
?’ Her gun was weighing down the side of her slacks, and she shifted. Clicked the pen. ‘See what I’m getting at?’

Palmer kept his hands in his lap, a wary expression on his face. ‘Not really, no.’

‘There has to be something else, some connection.’ Click-click. ‘I understand protecting your brother’s memory, but if Michael
was into something shady, I need to know about it.’

‘No way.’ He shook his head. ‘Not my brother.’

She switched tacks. ‘Jackie says hi.’

‘Who?’

‘Jackie.’ Click-click. ‘Your girlfriend from the other night? She confirms you were with her all night and yesterday morning.
But when I mentioned to her that you’d left the Army, she seemed surprised to hear it.’

He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Yeah.’

‘Mind if I ask the circumstances of your departure?’

‘Actually, yeah, I do.’

She cocked her head. ‘Was that some sort of a sore point between you and your brother? Did he disapprove?’ Following it out
of habit, digging.

‘Why are you going after me, lady?’ He stared at her. ‘You
know
I didn’t do it. Are you trying to prove something to yourself?’

She started to snap at him. Then wondered if he was right. ‘I’m just being thorough.’

‘What you’re doing is hassling me, when you should be out arresting Soul Patch. I mean Playboy. Whatever his fucking name
is.’

Cruz leaned back. ‘I’m looking into every angle.’

‘Including him?’

‘Yes.’ She gave him a steady gaze, waited for him to ease up. When he did, she reminded herself to do the same. Yes, something
strange was going on, and no, she didn’t have any idea what it was. But she didn’t believe he was involved. ‘I’ve spoken to
some of my informants already. And I’ll visit the bangers this afternoon, both Gangster Disciples and some of the other sets.’

‘You can do that?’ He seemed surprised.

‘Talk to bangers? Of course. I’m police.’

‘But, I mean – they tell you things?’

‘They rarely give up their crew. But it’s a small world. And they’re cagey, but not rocket scientists.’ She leaned forward.
‘Now, what did these white guys look like?’

He took a deep breath, then rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while he told her. She scribbled notes. Not much to
go on – one thin and plain-looking with dark hair going gray, the other a scary-looking Italian, muscular and balding.

‘Should Billy talk to a sketch artist or something?

Cruz smiled. ‘That’s cop show stuff. People don’t really see each other – how big was the nose, how high was the forehead.
Sketches end up looking like a composite of everybody in the room. And that’s when it’s an adult doing it. With a kid…’

He pursed his lips. ‘So how are you going to track these guys down?’

‘From a description? No names, no license plate, no fingerprints?’ She laughed. ‘I’m not.’

‘But –’

‘The point of this is that if we can get suspects, Billy will be able to identify them. He can put them at the scene where
your brother died. But
finding
them? Nine million people in the Chicago area, a lot of them white.’

‘That the best you can do?’

She hit him with the stare again.

‘I’m sorry. I’m just –’ He slumped back, brushed bangs from his eyes. ‘I don’t understand this.’ There was a weird, appealing
combination of strength and vulnerability in his pose, part soldier, part schoolboy, and she found herself wondering what
it would be like to have a drink with him. Maybe one of those sexy River North lounges, both of them on a second martini.
It was an odd thought, out of left field, and it annoyed her, so she pushed it aside and spun it into concern. ‘I’m sorry
about your brother. He seemed like a good man.’

He nodded, then a darker expression came across his face. ‘Do I have to…’ He stopped. ‘Do you need me to –’

‘No.’ She spoke softly. ‘We’ve identified him from dental records. You can see him if you want to. But I wouldn’t recommend
it.’

‘Should I be planning something? You know, for his… body?’

‘He’s with the medical examiner now,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘They’re trying to see what we can learn about
how he died. In a couple of days, they’ll release him to the funeral home of your choosing. You should start thinking about
what kind of service to have.’