Chicago Stories: West of Western (11 page)

They nodded.

“But surely now after 9/11, insurgents have lost their glamour?”

They were quiet, watching her. “Think Yasser Arafat.” Said Richard. “Old but still nasty.”

“So you think they're still around, or at least some of the old guys are still around? They must be in their seventies, or older, now.”

Richard looked up.

“You'd have to ask the feds about that and they wouldn't tell you. Back when the FALN was bombing courthouses and shooting up the House, they got money from naïve liberals and probably from Cuba, but later they started robbing armored cars and banks. They're blowhards, really, don't work, or start real businesses or have a legal income. Then—and now—their main source of income is money from drug gangs like the Latin Kings. Our local penny-ante gang—the Lobos—never made enough money to be a significant contributor. Still, there is some connection, mostly through family members in both organizations, and a lot of sympathy in the Puerto Rican community here. If the Lobos think you're somehow tied to the feds, it would explain why you're being threatened.”

“A number of those old revolutionaries have morphed into ordinary criminals, drug runners and killers, and may be developing El Qaeda ties,” said Andre.

“Nice,” she said. “So the kid shot last night might not just be some gang thing? Maybe something to do with a terrorist cell here?” Hard to imagine, but it might explain the professional shooting, too neat for sloppy gang bangers who preferred to spray their targets with automatic fire. She wondered if Mason had known about the FALN. And why that organization would want a minor gangbanger killed.

“Who knows?” Andre shrugged.

“Umm. Great. I wonder if I do belong here. Since I moved in—and that's only a couple of days ago—I've been scared.” It was a lot to think about. “And disgusted. And cold, miserable, and depressed. And really, really pissed.”

“Say you're not leaving,” said Andre. “Richard and I have been all those things, too, and we're still here.” He leaned forward and put a hand on her knee. “You can belong here, you just need to find your place. We are your friends. Stay here with us, little one, and I shall cook for the resistance.” He wiggled his eyebrows. They all laughed.

Seraphy forced herself to stand.

“On that note, I have to go before I fall asleep. If I'm staying, I have things to do tomorrow and this was a long, long day. Too much to think about. It's ended well, though, thanks to you two.”

“We'll walk you home,” said Andre. “There might be creepy-crawlies out there waiting for you. Wait while I get dressed to go out.”

Seraphy and Richard waited at the foot of the stairs.

“Wait for it. Andre's in a good mood tonight.” Richard grinned. “And he has a new outfit he's been dying to try out.”

Seraphy had never thought of Captain Hook as a six foot four, three hundred fifty pound Haitian, but Andre was magnificent. His saber gleamed in the light from the street as he and Richard marched Seraphy home.

Chapter 8

Replete with good
food and good company, Seraphy lingered in her shabby industrial-tiled bathroom, replaying the evening in her head. Definitely one of the best evenings of her life. Totally unexpected, without a dull moment, and promising friendship for the future, all especially welcome after the black events of the last three days. Now she could admit to herself she had been starting to wonder if she made a mistake moving west of Western. No more.

It had been a long day. Some of her neighbors—Katya and Jaime—were pleasant enough, and Richard and Andre were a gift. They made up a little for the others, for Sister Ann and the Lobos. Was it her imagination or were the good guys brighter over here, the nasties nastier? Whoever shot the guy on her doorstep, she didn't believe it was a gangbanger. This killer was too neat and had his emotions under control. The police seemed sure it was gang related, they'd never catch him.

Seraphy sighed and turned off the shower. By the time she dried off, brushed her teeth and climbed into bed, she knew she would have to go after the killer. She'd been a hunter for years and had the skills, but looking without backup in an unfamiliar neighborhood wasn't going to be easy. Why couldn't he get himself shot on somebody else's doorstep?

By midnight it was clear sleep wasn't going to happen any time soon. Richard's espressos had the blood singing in her veins and her eyes stubbornly open. As the hours crept by, scars began to tighten and muscles spasm in her leg, her arm itched and pulled. A dozen small aches chewed at her body.

Exercise would stretch out the cramps and burn off the caffeine, but running down dark streets lined with houses, where dark passages might hide who knows what had limited appeal. However, Humboldt Park was nearby, half a mile wide and even longer north to south, plenty of open space and room to run. So it was the middle of the night and the park had a bad reputation? With no crowds and enough open space to feel safe, she would take her knife and could take care of herself. A flash memory, Andre in his pirate persona, made her laugh, too bad she didn't have a Wonder Woman outfit or a long velvet cape. Sweats would have to do. After Iraq and Afghanistan, this would literally be a walk in the park. She hunted up jeans and a heavy turtleneck shirt, strapped on her knife, grabbed her pea jacket, pulled on boots and a navy watch cap and headed out.

Crossing the intersection of Diversey and California into the southeast corner of the park, a visitor passed through an invisible boundary. The city fell behind. Pale golden globe lights lined the park perimeter, street noise receded into the distance, wet leaves and forest fragrances replaced exhaust fumes. Aware of the park's reputation for violence and alert to sudden movement, Seraphy listened for footsteps and voices in the dark as she ran down an angling path through skeletal trees toward a pavilion gleaming white in the moonlight.

Turf wars were fought here, bodies strung in trees or tossed into the lagoon or dumped unceremoniously into the man-high reeds of the river landscape. Homeless encampments scraped away by the park police sprouted anew each night under viaducts and in bushes around the lagoon. Not tonight, though. This night, standing alone under the pavilion's center arch, she looked out over the lagoon, listened and heard nothing, searched the dark and saw no one.

Running, she was a dark shadow in the moonlight as she circled the lagoon, passing the children's playground where climbing structures and slides lurked in the shadows, running along an asphalt path half-buried in leaves. Damp-smelling blackness under the viaduct gave way to moonlight along a reed-lined river. Her blood warmed as she ran, dissolving the aches and stiffness from her body and caffeine from her brain. A mile down the path, at the south end of the river near Division Street, a wooden boardwalk branched right. She ran on echoing boards until the boardwalk ended in head-high reeds that blocked sights and sounds of the city. She could have been anywhere. Drawn here, she waited, not knowing why or for whom.

Seraphy smelled his cigarette even before she felt the boards vibrating under his weight and heard his footsteps. She turned, facing back along the boardwalk, and twisted her wrist to check the sheath strapped there.

“Yes?” As he neared, she held up a hand, palm out. “Stop there.”

“Not to fear, Missus. It is just Mischa.” His steps reverberated on the planks. A big man, tall and massive. Thick hair white blonde in the moonlight, a silver walrus mustache shadowed his face. She tensed as he neared, and seeing that, he stopped five feet away.

Around them the night lay dark and silent, even the wind gone from the reeds. Suddenly sirens blared, two fire trucks raced west along Division and the two turned to watch.

“Is nice night, no? Good for walk,” he said when quiet returned, holding his hands away from his body as though to show her he held no weapon. His cigarette glowed red, perfuming the night.

“Don't come any closer, please,” Seraphy said, alert to any sudden movement. “What do you want?”

“From you, Miss, information. I curious about man walking here in dark and I follow, then come to see. But I know you—you are not man. You are woman fix that old Rockwell shop. Why you want to live in factory? Not good place. Bad people there.”

“You know who I am, Mischa, so tell me, who are you?” Hell of a time to make chit-chat. “Should I know you?”

“I your neighbor, Miss, on Cortez.” He stepped aside to toss the cigarette in a glowing arc into the reeds. “Big house, three apartments,” he gestured. “I live in back.”

“Don't call me Miss. My name's Seraphy.” She was trying to visualize the building. Ah. Toast-colored brick, bays on the three-flat in front. She remembered seeing the back yard from her windows. Postage-stamp yard and coach house the size of a double garage. Two pit bulls loose in the yard.

“I know the building. Are the dogs yours?”

“Igor and Elena, yes.” He nodded. “Good dogs, mean. You should get dog. Good to keep safe.” His accent was probably Ukrainian, she thought, but it could be Polish.

“I don't think I could take care of a dog right now. I still haven't really got my place together.” She wondered if Mischa was one of the hundreds of illegal Ukrainians who came on tourist visas or student visas and disappeared into the city's old ethnic communities. They brought skills in construction and the desire to work and she'd never heard anyone complain about them. Except, of course, for the rumored Russian Mafia among them.

“You wouldn't happen to be a carpenter, would you?”

“Ya, carpenter, mason. Have contracting business. Very good, very cheap. No permits. I give you number.” He unzipped his parka and rummaged in an inner pocket. “No good, no pen. I put under door tomorrow. You want work, you call.”

“Sounds good.” Not in your lifetime, friend. She was sure that was the edge of a shoulder holster she'd seen under that parka. “I'm done for now on my place, out of money, but I'm thinking about finishing out part of the downstairs next summer. It's a strange neighborhood—have you been there long?”

“Few years. Good neighborhood, close to church, store, good brick and stone house. Good to fix. But bad people, lot of bad people. Animals.” Mischa tensed and loathing colored his voice. “Lobos, they called. Boys evil, dead inside, like to hurt things. I watch. Squirrels, cats, dogs. You know, I see on your door.”

“Do you know who painted that?”

“Lobos. Bad, no soul, belong to devil.”

“I can believe that, but I don't know what I did to piss them off like that.”

“You white, you clean, you smart girl with money to buy building.” Mischa shrugged. “They stupid and ugly and evil, thieves, drug addicts, killers. Not human, like cockroach.” His teeth flashed white in the dark. “Like cockroach, I smash.” He stomped to illustrate and the boardwalk shook. Suddenly he looked up, cocking his head as if listening to something she hadn't heard. “I go. You go now, not good be here tonight. I watch, you get home okay.” He waved toward the street and turned to go.

Giving the big man time to get on ahead, Seraphy stood quiet in the dark, listening as his footsteps retreated into the darkness and then stopped, waiting for her to follow. A gust of wind brought exhaust fumes from a convoy of trucks on Division and made her cough, as if the air itself conspired to make her leave the park. She shrugged off her questions and turned for home.

Chapter 9

Thursday started bad
and went downhill from there. She woke with a splitting headache and chugged down three Advils, which didn't do much, but she'd missed too much work to call in sick again. Stopping at Starbuck's on her way to the office, she dropped her cappuccino, sloshing froth and dark coffee down the front of her white shirt. As she pulled up in front of her loft to run up and change her shirt, a flicker of movement near the ground drew her eye. In front of the yellow brick two-flat next door an old woman lay sprawled in the slush on the sidewalk.

There was something familiar about the reclining figure, the layers of sweaters and rumpled coat, the foul odor . . . hell.

“Are you all right?” Seraphy bent over the woman, who mumbled something unintelligible.

“Of course I'm not all right,” Sister Ann snarled, wiping her dripping nose on her mitten. She struggled to sit up. “You think I was lying out here in this shit just to get a tan?” Seraphy's headache returned in a flash. What had she done to deserve this?

“Sister Ann, give me your hand, I'm trying to help you,” she said, cursing under her breath. “What happened?”

“Idiot! What the hell do you think happened? I slipped and broke my fucking ankle and now I'm freezing to death while you fucking blather on. Gimme your hand, pull me up.”

Tempted to leave the disagreeable old bat where she lay and damning the upbringing that wouldn't let her walk away, Seraphy held her breath and pulled. Sister Ann came up part way and stuck, panting. Phew. The old bat left all her cleanliness with the convent's godliness when she parted ways with her order. Holding her as gently as she could, she tried not to disturb her clothes and release any more eau de dirty old woman than necessary. Ugh. Not into fasting, either, she must weigh two hundred pounds. Shifting her stance for better balance, Seraphy pulled Sister Ann up and held her tight as they staggered toward the stairs.

“Sister Ann, isn't it?” Old parochial school manners surfaced automatically in the presence of nuns. Even nasty, foul-mouthed ex-nuns. “We've met. I'm Seraphy Pelligrini, your neighbor. Let me help you home.”

“I know who you are, Chickie. I'm all right now. Go on, get outta here.” Sister Ann shook herself free as they reached the stairs, snot spraying from her dripping nose. “Leave me the fuck alone! I don't need you, I can take care of myself.” She swayed as she spoke, breathing hard from her efforts and holding tight to the iron stair railing. Obviously hurting, she was not about to admit weakness and angry to have it seen.

“Tough.” Seraphy's coat would need cleaning after this. Or burning. “You may not need my help, but you're damned well getting it,” she said. “I don't want you falling on the steps after I've taken the trouble to get you this far.” She put her arm around Sister Ann's waist. Leaning heavily on her rescuer and grumbling, the old woman hopped up the stairs.