The Good Boy (31 page)

Heading south, he feels like he’s riding the crest of the storm: the front is rolling in strong, Loop-bound. He steps on the gas some more. Rima doesn’t seem to mind.

“I love that place,” she says, presumably referring to the little restaurant on the left called Bite; she’s had something to say about nearly every place that serves food since they left Austin.

“You hungry?” Pete is, but so what.

“We should eat.”

“After this stop.”

“Too much caffeine makes you shake.”

So she noticed: his hands are shaking. He’s been propped up on coffee for a good twelve hours, and it’s starting to show. Still: “I’m fine.”

“I’m not. I’m starving.”

He gets the feeling she’s saying so for his benefit, because she’s worried about him, but if lunch will shut her up, at least while she’s chewing, “I know a place.” It’s a few blocks off the track, but it’s pretty fast and plenty greasy; it’ll do the job.

He pulls around the back of Jackson Fish and Chicken, parks in the gravel lot and tells Rima to wait. Now that she knows this off-the-clock, off-the-books ride along is illegal, she’s resigned herself to the passenger seat, the vest shoved between her boots.

“What do you want?” he asks, zipping his civ’s coat to hide his duty belt.

“Something healthy.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Inside, there’s only one guy waiting at the bulletproof window that separates the cooks from the customers. He’s in plainclothes, too, though he hasn’t bothered to turn down his radio; after a single transmission, Pete gets that he’s a dick from right here in Thirteen. It’s no surprise: a lot of cops used to come by on the regular when it was Felony Franks, a hot dog joint where all the workers were ex-cons. Some came for a cheap grease fix, others to see how the workers’ second chances were going. Now that it’s Jackson’s, they no longer sell hot dogs or employ felons, but the cops still come by out of habit.

Today there’s only one cook in the kitchen; he’s juggling fryer baskets to the beat of some shitty eighties’ dance song—looks like he’s
havin’ big fun
. He’s wearing rubber gloves but handles the uncooked chicken same as the white bread, same as the mayonnaise. The guy’s semiformal adherence to the health code doesn’t bother Pete. What germ could survive the deep fryer?

Pete’s checking out the menu taped to the inside of the window and he’s going back and forth between the chicken sandwich and the fingers when two guys come in the door looking like they could use job applications.

The first, in a puffy coat that doubles his size, gets in front of Pete and puts his hands against the window to peer in while he mumbles something about Jeff being at work today. The second, who’s carrying a duffel bag, gets in line real close behind Pete—neither of them concerned with personal space.

“Oh I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the one smearing the glass says to Pete, finally noticing there are other customers. His lower lip hangs open and swollen, like his coat. “Lemme get in line.”

“No problem,” Pete says. Different neighborhood, different normal.

The cook shows up at the register with the other cop’s order. “Catfish sampler and onion rings,” he says through the squawk box, and rings up the total. The cop pays and takes his food from the turnstile and gives Pete an uneasy look, like he’s already got heartburn, as he pushes out the door ass-first.

“What can I get for you?” the cook asks Pete.

“Two crispy chicken sandwiches and a side of fries, please. And two Cokes. One Diet.”

“Sorry, we only have cola.”

“Cola, then. One diet.”

“Right up.”

Pete nods and moves away from the glass, giving the two other customers the space he’s accustomed to.

While he waits, he thinks about Kitty; he wonders if she knows Frank’s has been shuttered. Apparently, the alderman made a stink. He said the establishment made light of incarceration. Said local youth were getting the wrong message. Kitty would argue: what was wrong about giving formerly incarcerated men the chance to work? And what kid ever committed a crime because of a Misdemeanor Weiner or a manacled cartoon hot dog?

Of course, nobody would listen to Kitty about second chances. Not after what Juan Moreno did with his. And the truth is, a second chance is still a chance, and most people would rather find a way to get by than go through the painful metamorphosis of going straight.

One case in that point happens to be standing next to Pete right now: the second of the two geniuses has his duffel bag unzipped to display all brands of men’s body wash, deodorant and shampoo. Dude is fencing soap, right here in the open, right in front of a cop.

“I got one for one-fifty and two for three,” he says to his pal in the puffy coat.

“That’s the same price! That ain’t no deal.” He’s considering a stick of Right Guard.

“It’s a deal from what you gonna get you go to Walgreens.”

“Two crispy chickens, side of fries ready,” says the cook, his smile part of the job.

Pete pays for the food and leaves his change in the till for the cook, because it must be fucking hard to stay clean.

When he gets back to the car, Pete hands Rima the cola marked
DEIT
and settles in to unwrap lunch.

“What’d you get me?” she asks.

He unties the white plastic bag and feels around the bottom, comes up with a couple of ketchup packets, and tosses them to her.

“What’s this?”

“The only healthy stuff you can get in that joint.”

Rima reaches over, opens the first Styrofoam container, takes one of the foil-wrapped sandwiches and tries a bite. “Thisisawful,” she says before she swallows.

Pete takes a bite of the other one; she’s right. “Fuel,” he says, the white bread sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“For a garbage truck,” she says, taking another bite.

Pete takes a slurp of his cola; it’s flat, corn syrup. When he opens the box with the fries the whole car immediately reeks of peanut oil, an odor that’ll probably stick around longer than Butchie’s dead rodent. “Fry?” he offers; the one he takes is as thick as a finger and wet, like the oil wasn’t up to temperature. It tastes exactly how he imagines cholesterol would. He washes it down with another sip of diabetes.

Rain needles the windshield; Pete balances the cola between his legs and starts the car.

“So I was thinking,” Ri says as he pulls around to exit the lot, “if this kid Carter is the one who got bit, he must know about Joel.”

“I hope so.” He’d also hoped she was going to quit speculating, once she had food.

“I mean, Joel could even be with him.”

“He could.”

“But that’s why we’re going, right? To see what Carter knows about Joel?”

“I just want to talk to him. Same as Desmond Jenkins.”

“But if Carter got bit, you must think he knows something.”

“I don’t know what he knows. That’s why I want to talk to him.” Pete takes a bite of his sandwich, chews on it awhile. He turns up Western, going back over the same ground, same maddening thing Ri’s doing.

She considers a french fry, says, “I guess I don’t see why you think Carter would know about Joel unless he was the one who took him.”

Pete feels his phone buzz so he steers with his forearm, licks grease from his free fingers and reaches into his shirt pocket.

“And I don’t know why Carter would take him. I mean, okay, he’s a Hustler—”

It’s Ann Marie Byers calling. Another line of questioning.

“… But how would he know Joel? I mean sure, they know you, but really—”

Pete should answer the call; he can’t hide from Ann Marie much longer. And he can’t answer Rima.

“… Am I missing something?”

He dumps the rest of his sandwich, cradles the phone, says, “Ann Marie.”

“Who’s Ann Marie?” Ri asks.

“Finally,” Ann Marie says, “the elusive Mr. Murphy.”

He stops mid-turn onto Lake Street when a kid ignores the
DON’T WALK
and skips around traffic to the Westhaven Park Apartments. “I thought I was supposed to call you.”

“Still on defense, I see. Listen. I have some news.” Said like it’s bad.

“I’m driving. Should I pull over, or find the next set of train tracks and park?”

“It’s not a sentence. It’s news. Listen. I just came from the mayor’s office. The superintendent was there. I can assure you they are taking Mr. White’s case very seriously. But the upshot is that the city is in a terrible fiscal situation, and they are not willing to risk another big judgment after a costly trial.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’re going to settle.”

“They think I’m guilty.”

“They don’t care. After the Abbate trial, they can’t afford the risk.”

“What the hell does that case have to do with mine? He was off-duty and overserved and caught on camera beating the shit out of some bartender. I
knew
I was on camera. I was stopping a car that fit the description of a suspect—”

“It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. Or what he did. The point is the precedent. In Abbate’s case the jury cited a police code of silence. The city tried to pay the plaintiff nearly a million dollars to erase that verdict so that the jury’s finding couldn’t be used as a precedent. They certainly can’t try that twice. They won’t go to trial.”

“There’s no code of silence here. I didn’t ask for anybody to keep quiet and besides, I don’t have any pals in the department. Obviously.”

“They are worried about your personal history. With White.”

“I told you I knew he was a shitbag. A gangbanger, a drug dealer, a criminal—but I didn’t know he was in the fucking car.”

“They are also worried about Mr. Cardinale. He has won his clients tens of thousands of dollars in judgments for cases of wrongful arrest. He is very good at what he does.”

“Aren’t
you
very good at what you do?”

“I am, Mr. Murphy. But this case isn’t going to be about me. It is going to be about how you are perceived. And if we go to trial—”

“What do you mean
if
?”

“Settling is in no way an admission of guilt.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Listen,” Ann Marie says. “I truly wish there were such thing as a jury of your peers. But I’m afraid there’s always going to be at least one in twelve who’s heard enough or had enough with the Chicago PD to find in favor of Mr. White.”

Pete pulls the squad over in front of the gate at Hermitage Manor Co-op, still under the El tracks and partially protected from the rain. Rima quit the food and balanced the boxes on the center console and she sits quietly, twirling her hat ties like hair, looking out at the rain. It’s coming down hard now.

Pete looks out his window, wonders if Joel and Butch are out there, caught up in it. Or if they’ve got shelter. If someone has given them shelter.

“Mr. Murphy,” Ann Marie says, “might we meet, and talk about the best way to proceed?”

“What’s to talk about? You’re the one who’s supposed to stand up for me and you’re telling me I’m all alone here, and I should throw up my hands and say okay, okay—my fault. You haven’t even talked to me about the actual incident yet and you’re telling me I can’t win
because
I’m the police—”

“There’s nothing to win, Mr. Murphy. You will spend time, and money, and no matter how the jury rules, there’s nothing to win. Wouldn’t it be better, just to end it?”

A train passes above them, spilling rainwater over the track and onto the squad.

“I can think of a lot of things that would be better than being represented by someone who’s taking a cue from the mayor.”

“We should—”

“Sure we should.” Pete hangs up and tosses the phone on the dashboard, where it rattles and slides from his side over to Rima’s when he turns into the Co-op’s parking lot.

He switches the wipers on high and crawls along the bank of walk-up apartments, looking for Carter’s address. When he finds it, he pulls back under the El tracks and parks facing Carter’s porch, where concrete steps lead up to a rickety screen, a beat-up wood door. The apartment lights are on, blinds pulled over a high and tiny black-framed window, like a prison cell’s.

The co-op’s buildings are in decent shape—pristine, actually—compared to the Henry Horners, the high-rise public housing that used to stand here. That was six, maybe seven years ago, when gangs were free to roam, when predators and prey lived side by side.

The city tore down the homes, forcing gangs west and south; they called it gentrification. The police called it throwing open the zoo doors. Lots more places to look for the animals now, they said.

Pete is about to get out of the squad when Rima says, “It’s all connected.”

“What’s all connected?”

“You. The case. Joel and Butch.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“You know exactly what I’m saying and I don’t even have to say it. It’s why we’re here: Carter is a Hustler. You think the Hustlers are out to get you, and you think one of them took Joel.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Yes you do. Because if you thought Joel ran away—he’d be in so much trouble—you wouldn’t be keeping this quiet. You’d have every cop from here to Rockford looking for him.”

“Sarah is working with the police.”

“Oh, yeah, a lot of good that’s going to do. She might as well have them sit on their hands and try to find their fingers.”

“That’s exactly why I’m out here. Official investigations waste time.”

“Bullshit. You’re out here because you think this is personal.”

“Of course it’s personal. He’s my son.”

“I’m talking about the guys who took him. The Hustlers. They’re making it personal.”

“I never said anybody took Joel.”

“You said White is after you.”

“I said White is suing me. He’s after my money.”

“What if he’s using Joel? Intimidating you. Threatening you?”

“He wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“Elgin Poole was.”

“Elgin Poole is in jail.”

“I’m just saying: they don’t think like we do. They have a different set of rules. Actually,
you
’re the one who said that.”

“Why are you attacking me?”