At the City's Edge (2 page)

‘I thought,’ Jason said, ‘you didn’t like the Escalade.’

The man smiled, his tooth gleaming. ‘I was just playing.’

‘No DVD?’ He struggled to stay cool, to show that he wasn’t panicking, that they didn’t need to jump him.

‘Oh, I got the DVD. You can watch it in back.’

A shiver ran through Jason’s belly. This couldn’t be happening, not really. ‘Listen man, you’ve got the wrong guy.’

‘I feel you. Hop in, we’ll discuss.’ He gestured, and the wrestler stepped forward to open the back, standing like a limo
driver on the other side of the car door.

Jason could feel the blood vibrate through his palms, pound in his neck. In the truck he’d be trapped. That action-movie stuff
about people rolling out of moving cars and walking it off, that was crap. Bail out of a car going faster than twenty miles
per, you weren’t walking anything off. Plus, here, in a public parking lot, he had some hope. A single bullet might be dismissed,
but a firefight would attract attention. He hesitated.

‘I said get in.’ Sun made Soul Patch’s eyes glow yellow.

‘Okay.’ Jason held his hands up. ‘Easy. I’ll come.’ Electricity burnished his skeleton as he started for the car.

Then, for the first time, Soul Patch made a mistake. He stood still.

It was as much of a window as Jason could hope for. Continuing his forward motion, he stepped into Soul Patch like they were
dancing, right hand closing on the guy’s wrist to lock the gun in place. But instead of grappling for the weapon, he spun,
planting his back against the man’s chest, the gun arm now in front of both of them. The wrestler startled awake with a snort.
Soul Patch gave a surprised yelp, struggled to free his hand. Jason continued his spin, remembering this fucker talking about
Michael, threatening his brother. He yanked, and as he felt the man come off balance, he kept turning, transforming the fall
into a throw that hurled the gangbanger against the half-closed car door. It flew open and slammed into the wrestler, the
frame catching him square in the face with a meaty thump. The double impact knocked the wind out of Soul Patch, and the gun
clattered from his hand.

The moment it did, Jason shoved away. Two
awkward steps and he had his balance. His heart screamed to run, but his head was cool. They were enemy combatants. He didn’t
want to leave them armed. The grip of the pistol was warm and slightly sweaty as he snatched it from the concrete.

Then he took off in a sprint, knowing that he hadn’t incapacitated either man. His legs pumped clean and strong. He crossed
the open asphalt to the next row, then planted his left foot and lunged behind a car. A window exploded with a sharp crack.
All the old energy came back. He jerked to the side again and broke from the row, then poured it on in a straightaway to the
boundary of the lot. Leapt for the concrete abutment, planted one foot, and sprang off the second-story parking deck.

In the endless instant he floated through the air, Jason Palmer realized he was smiling.

Then he hit the soft earth of the park. He kept the fall going, tucking one shoulder and rolling it off the way he’d seen
Jump School candidates do it. He was back on his feet and moving in a fraction of a second, knowing he was clear but running
anyway, loving the rush, the gun part of his hand. A copse of carefully arranged trees lay twenty yards away, and he angled
for them. The wind on his face cooled the sweat, and as he dodged branches he could smell the fetid dampness of the earth,
a good clean scent like sex. After another thirty yards, he risked a glance back.

Soul Patch stood at the edge of the parking lot, his face twisted into a furious snarl. The wrestler
leaned beside him, chest heaving, a pistol in one hand, the other clutching his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers.

Jason couldn’t resist. Smiling, he stood at attention and threw them a salute. The pure hate on Soul Patch’s face was the
most beautiful thing he’d seen in days.

With a laugh, Jason tucked the pistol into his pants, dropped his shirt to cover it, and set off at a gentle jog. Just another
guy working out on a beautiful day. When he reached the edge of the grass, he crossed the street and cut into the neighborhood.

He knew a bar two blocks away, thought about heading there to call the cops, decided against it. If he’d had his cell on him,
maybe; those two stood out in white-bread Lincoln Park. But by the time he reached a payphone, they’d be rolling down Lake
Shore Drive.

Anyway, there was Michael to think about. Jason turned right, digging for the keys to the Caddy. Forget the police. He had
to check on his brother, just to be sure. No way this had anything to do with Michael – you could take the boy out of the
choir, but never the reverse – but no harm in being certain. They’d probably share a laugh about the absurdity of the thing,
a gangbanger tying to hijack him. But Jason doubted he’d ever know what it had really been about.

He was wrong.

It was funny how something inanimate could become the focus of your whole damn day.

Michael Palmer stared at the phone resting on the end of the bar. Standard-issue pub telephone: scuffed black plastic, cord
a snarled mess, a chunk broken out of the handset where it had hit the floor two years ago.
Funny thing is, I don’t know if I want it to ring or not.

‘Dad?’

‘Huh?’

‘What’s a,’ Billy hesitated, then took the plunge, ‘tay-vurn?’

‘Tav-ern.’

‘What’s a tavern?’

‘I’ll give you a hint. You’re sitting in one.’

Billy glanced down. ‘A stool?’

‘Not
on
one.
In
one.’

His son looked at him, looked around, then smiled like a burst of sunlight. ‘A bar?’

‘Bingo.’

Billy gave a little nod like he’d known all along, he’d just been asking to test his father, then returned to the newspaper
spread out on the counter. Eight-year-old fingers choked all the way down the base of the pencil as he scratched the letters.
As he hunched over to
read the next clue, his lips mouthed the words. His mother had been the same way. Michael used to find Lisa in bed with a
novel, lips moving as though reciting a spell. How many nights had he stood in the doorway and watched her, just watched,
entranced by the rise and fall of her breath, the curve of her shoulder, the smiles and frowns she gave her secret world?

He shook his head to clear the memory, counted how long since the last time he’d thought of her. Pretty good – not since lunch
yesterday. Peanut butter and bananas cooked up like a grilled cheese, crunchy outside, gooey in. Lisa had always called it
‘De Elvis Especial,’ saying it in a bad Latin accent, and that was how Billy asked for it now, though Michael doubted he remembered
much of his mother but auburn hair and love.

Michael, he remembered everything.

He glanced at the phone, then moved to the sink, started dunking dirty pint glasses: soapy water, clean water, stack to dry.
A nice, easy rhythm, solid and steady.

‘Dad?’

‘Hmm?’

‘What’s another word for “lucky”?’

Michael thumbed something sticking to a glass. ‘What can you think of?’

‘Ummmm…’ Billy’s eyes unfocused. ‘Happy?’

‘Well, somebody lucky would probably be happy. But do they mean the same thing?’

His son chewed his lip. ‘Guess not.’ He twiddled
the pencil with his fingers, went back to staring. After a moment, he sighed. ‘Can I have a clue?’

‘How many letters?’

Billy hesitated, then ran his finger along the crossword. ‘Seven, eight, nine.’

‘Got any of ’em?’

‘It starts with an “F”.’

‘Nine letters and an “F”.’ Michael straightened. His feet ached like carpet tacks had been driven into the heels. Occupational
hazard. Picking up a rag, he dried his hands. ‘Okay, if I’m rich, what do I have?’

‘Lots of money?’

‘Yeah, but what’s another word for that?’

‘Ummm… a “fortune”?’

He nodded. ‘And what’s a word like “fortune” that means –’

RING.

It wasn’t loud. Not any louder than usual, anyway. It just seemed that way.

RING.

The back of his neck tingled. Outside, a truck rumbled past, weight shaking the front windows. The towel was old and threadbare,
worn soft on bar and glass, and every nerve of his fingers registered it.

RING.

He saw motion out of the corner of his eye. For a moment he stood rooted while his brain processed. Billy. Moving to answer
the phone, a chore he delighted in.

That tore it.

Two quick strides brought Michael to the corner of the bar. He reached out and snatched the handset just before Billy reached
it. ‘Mike’s Place.’

‘Mr. Palmer.’ The voice was soft and precise.

Billy stared with his mouth open like he’d had his ice cream taken. Michael turned, phone cord wrapping around his side as
he spun to face the mirrored wall of bottles, bourbon and scotch and whiskey bathed in the reflected glow of afternoon. ‘Yes.’

‘You know who this is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you okay?’

He smoothed one palm against the leg of his pants. ‘Just a little nervous.’

‘Has something happened?’

‘No. I just…’ Michael squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. ‘It’s sinking in, you know? What
we’re doing. The consequences.’

‘If you’re careful, there won’t be any consequences.’

‘Yeah, well, easy for you to say. You’re staying out of sight.’

A long pause. ‘Are you having second thoughts?’

The liquor was arranged in stepped rows, three of them. Sunlight threw spectrums against the mirror. The expensive bottles
had dust on them. Why had he even bought the Balvenie? Who in Crenwood wanted seventeen-year-old single malt? His customers
were Beam-and-a-Bud guys, payday drinkers, not connoisseurs.

‘Mr. Palmer?’

But then, shouldn’t there be something to aspire to?

‘I’m here.’

‘Listen, I know this is hard. I understand why you’re nervous. But so long as you do just as we discussed, you’ll be fine.
You haven’t told anyone, have you?’

‘No,’ he lied.

‘No one?’

‘I said no.’

‘I don’t mean to tell you what to do. It’s just the people we’re dealing with… anyone you tell you put at terrible risk.’

‘I understand.’

‘Good.’ There was a pause, and the rustle of papers. ‘The usual place?’

Michael looked over at Billy, who leaned halfway across the bar, stretching for the soda tap. His stool was canted backwards
on two legs. ‘I’ve got my son.’

‘Just half an hour.’

‘It has to be right now?’

‘Michael…’ A dignified sigh. ‘There comes a time when you have to decide whether you’re in or out.’

He closed his eyes. ‘I’ll be there.’ The bell gave a little ding as he hung up the receiver.

Billy had hooked a knee onto the bar and was leaning forward at a precarious angle.

‘Hey.’

His son froze, tilted his head to look up.

‘How many of those have you had?’

‘One?’

Michael raised an eyebrow.

‘Three.’ Billy leaned back onto his stool and dropped his chin in one hand, then gave a theatrical sigh.

Michael laughed. ‘I guess one more won’t kill you. Ginger ale, though, not Coke, and that’s it, okay? Plus you brush your
teeth when we get home.’

He set the drink on the bar, then opened the corner cabinet. His wallet was brown leather, mottled with stains, the seams
a mess of loose threads. Lisa had given it to him at their last Christmas together. Almost three years now. He slid it in
his back pocket, grabbed his phone and keys. Straightened.

The tremor started in his belly and worked out through his whole body. He heard the words again.
The people we’re dealing with… anyone you tell you put at terrible risk.

He looked at Billy leaning into the crossword with the intensity of a scholar studying an ancient manuscript. His son took
a sip of the ginger ale as he puzzled out a clue, lips moving. Michael fought an urge to sweep him off the stool and clutch
him tight in his arms, tight and warm and safe.

This is crazy.

It wasn’t too late. He hadn’t done anything that couldn’t be undone. Hell, not even undone – it hadn’t gone that far. All
he had to do was not take another step. Blow off this meeting, and when the phone rang again, say that he had changed his
mind.

‘Dad?’

‘Hmm?’

‘What’s a four-letter word for “obligation”?’

Michael laughed. Sometimes that was all you could do.

The machines do not beep, not like medical shows on TV. Mostly, they hum with soft fans. There is a faint suction sound from
the one helping his mother breathe.

Jason sits on the monkey bars and watches the sun set the city on fire and thinks about that suction sound. The sky is crimson
and gold; the metal is cold through his jeans.

She has been in Cook County for weeks, and every day he and Michael have gone to visit. They sit on opposite sides of her
bed
–
her body
–
slumped in comfortless chairs. Sometimes they talk, but not for long. She is tired, and drifts away in the middle of senseless
sentences. The pills. But without them, the lines of her jaw draw tight and her eyes glisten with moisture.

Jason sits on the monkey bars and thinks of driving Michael’s car late at night on the Kennedy, pedal to the floor, the old
Chevy rattling like it wants to come apart, the rush of daring it to. He thinks about Terry O’Loughlin, Sweet T, about her
long brown hair and lean thighs, and the smell of the back of her neck and the sound she makes when he kisses the spot between
her breasts. He thinks about screaming guitars and Pequod’s pizza with hot peppers and the high that shivers up his thighs
when he runs for an hour. He thinks about swimming deep into the lake, the water colder with every stroke until he’s sure
his chest will shatter in the frigid blackness.

None of it drowns out the suction sound. None of it helps
him forget that he and Michael should have left thirty minutes ago if they wanted to make visiting hours.