The Old Neighborhood (3 page)

In the mid-'80s, Kellas was released from prison and regained the reins from an up-and-comer nicknamed Wacker. Word was that Wacker headed the murder-for-hire division of the gang. The TJOs enjoyed a short reign in the North Side heroin distribution ranks through newly acquired friends Kellas made during his stay in Joliet Correctional Institution. Then, a nobody buyer approaches him wanting to purchase two kilos of heroin for $40,000 dollars. Now, the TJOs were top dogs at this point for a long stretch of real estate—from Uptown to Howard Street—so it wasn't out of their reach and reputation, but sensing that there were no Mob ties or muscle involved, Kellas and Wacker get greedy. They set up a deal in the Carson's Ribs parking lot at 2:30 p.m. on a Friday—the same time school lets out at Senn High School, which is across Clark and down a block.

They decided to bring a newly acquired MAC 10 UZI with an extended clip in place of the two keys of H and figured they'd negotiate from there. Afterwards, they'd head over to pick up their girlfriends at Senn and see how the young bucks were holding down the courtyard, 40 stacks the richer.

They show up rolling in a souped-up, dark-green Mustang convertible with racing slicks. The guy is there just like they talked about. They all exit on the side of the Carson's. They ask to see the green, and he asks to see the brown. They show the MAC 10, and the guy starts stuttering. Then, Wacker sprays the side of the guy's Cutlass with a short burst from the MAC 10. A briefcase is handed over. They jump in the Mustang, and off Kellas and Wacker roll, already counting the money. Suddenly, a U-Haul truck flies out of nowhere and T-bones their Mustang. Thirteen DEA agents pour out with their guns drawn and firing. Wacker crawls out of the mangled muscle car and empties out what's left in the extended clip. One of the DEA agents shoots him in the head. The bullet strikes his skull at an angle above his left eye, scorches through the flesh between his scalp and skull, ricochets off his hard Irish bone, and exits the back of his head. He passes out but survives, scarred for life. A giant wave of kids vacating the school walk past, astonished at the sight. The co-leader of the TJOs lies there presumably dead with a bullet hole in his head. A mob forms. The Chicago Police also arrive. There are more arrests, but finally it simmers down. Both of them go away for assault on federal agents and conspiracy to distribute heroin, which, when it's all settled, leaves Kellas with a thirty-year sentence. Since it's Wacker's first felony offense, he gets ten years. Now, we're getting into the mid-'80s and the rise of Mickey Reid, Fat Buck, and my big bro, Pistol Pat.

CHAPTER 2

DA

I USED TO WALK MY NEIGHBORHOOD
a lot as a little kid. We called it Edgewater back then, but nowadays most people call it Andersonville. At first, I walked with my grandfather. His nickname was Da, which was my mom's first word. Some babies say, “Dada,” but Ma just said, “Da,” and it stuck. We never called him anything else. All us kids walked with him over the years, running his weekend errands, getting ice cream and then early lunch at McDonald's until we aged-out. It was our own little familial tradition, precious in its simplicity. Da was a sharp, good-looking old man who dressed well in collared shirts and slicked back his thick, black hair in immaculate columns. He worked the streetlight truck for the city and was the precinct captain in the neighborhood. He was a milkman before operating the streetlight truck, and to this day, I can't come in contact with either without thinking of him. After Da got sick and couldn't walk anymore, I started to walk the neighborhood collecting envelopes for Lil Pat.

It was an easy job: walk down Clark, step into a shop, and say “Collection” to the person at the register. They'd hand over an envelope, and I'd walk to the next one. I'd finish it in about an hour. Lil Pat would cruise the neighborhood around then and check in on me once in a while. He'd slowly ease past with a grin, and I'd give a nod if everything was fine and all the envelopes had been handed over. If not, I'd shake my head and he'd stop to chat. He'd keep track and go back and talk with the shop manager himself. I'd finish right by Hollywood. He'd pull up, I'd jump in and hand over the envelopes, and he'd give me twenty bucks. It was like a second allowance, and it kept me stocked up on comic books, baseball cards, and candy. I loved it. A few months after I'd started collecting, I began to figure out what was happening.

My walk shadowed the walk we did with Da. We'd walk south down Ashland to Foster and turn left past the funeral home where Da's wake would be held and I'd crack jokes in a side room with my cousin J, then cry uncontrollably as the priest said the final words.

Then, we'd turn north down Clark. Da's Cocker Spaniel, Sheba, led the way, cutting through the busy mass of old ladies with the little bells jingling on her collar. It was busy as ever on Clark. I passed the crazy Middle Eastern shops with neon-green statues of Buddha glowing in the windows, as well as other strange knick knacks and herbs and candles. I stepped into the ice cream shop where I used to order a Green River Float every time with Da, and my sisters would tease me and try to trick me into ordering something else. The old man in the white smock behind the counter looked down at me, sad, and handed me the envelope. He must have missed Da, too. Da wasn't the same since he got cancer—he was sad and cried a lot. Even then, I kept hope that he could beat the cancer and that he'd be back making his walk like nothing ever happened in no time flat.

I walked to Almo's Shoes, where Almo himself would blow up a balloon for any kid who entered the store, whether his parents were buying or browsing. I didn't get balloons anymore, just the envelopes and the same sad face.

“How is your grandfather?” Almo asked as he placed his hand on my shoulder.

“He's OK,” I said. “He's doing real good.” I thought that if I said it enough it could turn true. It wasn't true though; he got sicker every day.

I knew the people on the walk worried about Da because he was a good man. They couldn't have really known half of it though—I didn't even know then. When Lil Pat was young, Dad used to beat him a lot. Dad was just an angry, confused teenager. When it was bad, and Dad wouldn't stop beating him, and they thought he might put my brother in the hospital again, Da would throw himself on top of Lil Pat and take the beating for him. He was a non-violent man. When people were hurt, it made him sad. All of that just oozed out of everything he did with us kids, and it made it easy to love him a whole lot.

I closed my eyes as I walked, and I could hear Sheba's bells ringing faintly. Then, I could feel Da walking beside me in his patient gait. I remembered how we used to hold hands sometimes, and I reached out beside me. I walked square into something heavy and opened my eyes to see an old lady with a curly wig frowning at me. She swore in Swedish and brushed past.

“Sorry,” I said, and kept going. I liked to collect the envelopes from the shops that Da never stopped in because I knew they wouldn't ask about him and it was easier. Sometimes, I even had to run around the corner into the alley and cry by a dumpster until I got mad. When I got mad on the walks, I'd start to steal stuff, and I wouldn't feel bad about it, and then I wouldn't be sad anymore.

I finished my walk and stood at the corner of Hollywood and Clark next to the Edgewater Dollar Store, waiting. Two old ladies hobbled by in faded housedresses and smiled at me in the sunlight. I stood proud and dutiful, clutching my bundle of envelopes bound with a green rubber band. The low morning sun cut Clark in half; the east was cast in cool shade, and the west smoldered in a deep, golden haze. The density of the morning bustle was the same on either side, though one was a mysterious calm, and the other vibrant and naked.

A tan Lincoln Continental swayed up Clark, knifing through the light. It eked to a halt across the street, and Lil Pat waved me over from the driver's seat. His wrist sparkled. He chuckled as I crossed. His eyes were hazy-pink and tired.

“How ya doin', kiddo?” he asked.

“Alright,” I answered.

“Did dem sand niggers pay up?” A voice crackled from the shadowed cab.

There were four in the car. Mickey Reid sat shotgun. He was the scariest human being I'd ever laid eyes on. He had a large head, a muscular brow, and his scowl was sunken so deep into his face that it never left.

Lil Pat sighed, turned, and snapped, “Give me a minute with the kid, OK? What de fuck?”

I stepped up to Lil Pat's door, and he reached out his big, meaty arm and hugged me to his chest. My belly pressed against the sun-baked sheet metal. His body was warm against my head like he had a fever. Funny how sometimes it's the ones capable of the most horrific deeds who are also capable of the most compassion and the deepest love. Maybe it's that they've seen the dark face of man and what we are capable of that makes them give love this way—to shelter and protect us.

“I love ya, Joey,” Lil Pat whispered, then kissed the side of my crew cut.

I giggled and tried to squirm away, but I knew Lil Pat wouldn't let go 'til I said it back.

“I love ya,” I squealed, and he finally released.

“Look what I got for you,” he said, pulling a silver chain out of a cup holder in the center console. It had a flat, gold crucifix attached to it with immaculate little etchings traced along it. He reached out and slid it over my big round head. It just barely cleared my ears. I reached up and took the cross in my fingers and rubbed the etchings. Lil Pat reached in through the neck of his shirt and pulled out a matching one.

“Now we both got the same one, kid. How about dat?”

“Thanks, Pat!” Just the thought that I could have something he had made my heart swell with pride.

Fat Buck and another guy snored in the back seat. The car stank of warm beer, piss, and cigarette ash.

“Where's the envelopes?” Mickey interrupted, staring straight ahead as a big green vein bubbled up on his forehead.

I knew something was wrong when they gave me the envelope at my last stop—the corner store.

The thin, old man stood stoically at the register. A bright red dot on his forehead glistened like a bloody thumb print—the ink had smeared and dribbled down his black eyebrow before it dried on his wrinkled, deep-brown skin. He sneered at me then tossed the envelope on the counter. I grinned, stretched the rubber band, and slid the envelope in beside the other twenty or so.

“Go now! Get out!” The old man shouted as he came around the counter with the broom. I snagged a sucker off a display tray and ran out the door.

I reached the envelopes into the cab, and Mickey snatched them and thumbed through. He plucked the one out and tore it open.

“Thirteen bucks? Motherfuckers!” he yelled.

Mickey's whole head flared red. These large mounds near his jaw, temple, and above his ear pulsed. It seemed that at any moment each mound would separate, like tectonic plates, and his broiling wrath would finally erupt from him, roar forth and dis-integrate everything it touched.

“Who de fuck gave you de envelope?” Mickey roared. “Was it that cunt or the old man?” Mickey snatched a big air vent in the dashboard and pulled it right off. He reached his hand into the opening and came out with a nickel-plated 9mm semi-automatic. He slid the barrel back until it clicked and shot forward with a sharp, metallic crack. “WHO THE FUCK WAS IT?!”

Lil Pat twisted in his seat, snagged Mickey by his collar, and slammed his head against the far window. Mickey's eyes bulged, but he made no move—the gun laid limp in his stubby hands.

“I told you not to talk to the kid like dat,” Lil Pat said.

The two snarled at each other, eyes locked in some darkened collusion. “And put dat fuckin' piece away.” Lil Pat released him. “Neighborhood's hot enough as it is wit' out you try'n to be John Wayne every five minutes.” Mickey returned the pistol into the stash and fastened the vent.

Lil Pat turned back to me. “Joey, it's OK… Go home. I'll see you at the house later.” The warmth in his voice returned.

I turned toward home, then looked back over my shoulder.

“Go on, it's alright,” Lil Pat urged as the Lincoln pulled away.

I started for home, then darted into a parking garage across from the corner store. I ducked behind a green Nova and peered out into the intersection. A few seconds later, the Lincoln appeared northbound on Clark, stopping in front of the corner store. The back door opened, and Fat Buck got out wiping sleep from his eyes with his thick wrists. He looked up and down Clark and nodded back. The other three got out. The young one in back got in the driver seat while Lil Pat and Mickey walked toward the store.

“Hey… Look who it is, my favorite old shitbag!” Mickey spread his arms out, palms open, like he was going to give someone big a hug. He disappeared into the doorway, and Lil Pat stepped in behind him. Then, Lil Pat hoisted his knee up to his chest and booted over a large stack of pop cases just inside the door. They avalanched in a thunderous clang. There were more crashes and a large bang. Mickey raged in demonic tongues—only sparsely decipherable phrases leapt from the doorway. “THEMONEY MOTHERFUCKER! SANDNIGGER, FUCKWITHME, FUCKWITH ME!” It scared the hell out of me.

Lil Pat emerged from the doorway stuffing bills in his front pocket. He looked back and shouted for Mickey. A cheap champagne bottle smashed through the large front window. It arced slowly in profile with a wake of glass shards sprinkling after it like confetti. Then, it popped on the sidewalk and sent white fizz splurging out over the curb. The window crinkled and fell in chunks.

“I got us some champagne, brotha!” Mickey yelled as he walked out clutching a big dark-green bottle. Lil Pat laughed crazily, but he must have felt my eyes on him, because he looked back at me. His wide grin evaporated, and his mouth hung open in an O. The cross sat dead center in his solar plexus, and the etching threw flecks of the morning light in sharp glints. The old man moaned in defeated agony inside.