Authors: Charlie Newton
Between me and the doors is a twelve-foot chain-link fence topped with concertina wire, then seventy feet of oil-stained gravel stacked with dead cars, scrap iron piles, rusted 55-gallon drums, and close to thirty motorcycles. The bikes aren’t shiny like the concertina wire, but they’re well tended. A half-open freight door to their right has a ten-foot Nazi flag painted on it. The flag’s the cleanest thing here.
I’ve seen the movies where the girl in the hot pants visits the biker clubhouse. I’m twenty feet through the open fence gate when I see the first rottweiler.
Dusty black—and huge. And already moving at me. I draw; the chain tightens at his neck—thank you, God—taut to a point somewhere beyond the freight door. He must weigh 130, as much as me. That fast and there’s another two, same size and snarling. At that same instant I realize there’s no closable gate in the fence I passed through, just the framed opening. If I run, it’s just me and the three dogs if some mental patient lets them loose.
Danny D definitely didn’t mention shooting a dog; a length of chain rattles out and I stumble back. The nearest rot feels the additional lead and roars teeth and saliva at my face. I brace to fire; the chain snaps tight, suspending his huge head three feet from mine. The two other rots lunge—I wheel, start to squeeze—their leads jerk them chest-up and clawing the air between us. Three mouths try to rip me apart.
A mammoth upper body steps in behind the charge. SHOTGUN. It’s butted hip-high on dirty jeans, a finger tight on the trigger. TWELVE-GAUGE PUMP. He’s naked to the waist, save for the tattoos and Appalachian beard, and yells over the dogs and their saliva,
"Wouldn’t move, bitch," then nods to my feet. "Forward or back and you won’t be doin’ no man no damn good."
I’m only thinking about dog teeth and shotguns; and won’t survive either if—
The rots quit barking. Heavy bass booms the air. The guy glances into the building, then back at me, and yells, "Drop the pistol." His hands might be shaking and not because he’s afraid.
"Police. CPD." Unless his shotgun is on full choke or has deer slugs, I still have a chance at fifty feet.
"Drop the piece or wear the beast."
Two men step out behind him, both smaller and wearing Gypsy Vikings colors, one pushing 200 pounds. He has a fourth rottweiler, this one on a leather lead wrapped to his forearm; his partner has a pistol out and cocked. The rots go death still on his command. I show my left hand, then lift the star out of my shirt. The men fan apart; the one with the rot on the leather lead steps at me and says, "We ain’t fuckin’ old women today."
I check his partner with the pistol, then back to the mountain man with the shotgun, then back to him. "Charlie Moth. Just want to talk."
"Never heard of him." His denim colors cover parts of swastikas on both pecs. His rottweiler is twenty feet away, straining to get closer.
I hope Sonny can see the Viking on the left with the pistol. "Danny D wants me to talk to Charlie Moth. I just came from Stateville."
"In your fucking dreams, cunt."
I cock my Smith. "That dog won’t save you, hoss."
Above the colors, his head is shaved and his ears are pinned flat. We’re close enough now that the dog might save him and he knows it. "Danny D don’t send cop bitches here."
"I’m his sister."
"Charlie Moth ain’t got no sister." He tightens up on the 100-pound rot by crooking his arm. "You gonna die, bitch, right where you fucking stand." He probably figures an HBT shooter is aiming at his heart, half a squeeze from good-bye. "We got us shooters too."
And I’m sure he does. And I’m sure they’re awake by now, crystal-meth paranoid and preparing for Ruby Ridge II. "I’m
Danny D’s
sister, asshole. And just want to talk to Charlie Moth, that’s it. Whatever else you’re doin’ is whatever you’re doin’."
"Gimme the gun."
Headshake. "You know it doesn’t work like that."
He stares. "Danny D’s sister?"
I nod. "Calumet City." Then reach for, and card-flip the photograph of Danny D’s cell wall. The rot lunges for it. The third Viking points his pistol at my head. The one talking to me gathers up his rot closer still, steps toward me, and picks up the picture. He doesn’t look at it long enough to read the clippings behind Danny’s shoulder or the signature on the back. He does see the lightning bolts and the two tears in blue ink. He says,
"There’s a trip wire six inches from your shoe. Don’t move much or half a you’s in Indiana."
Every part of me wants to look. But there’s four dogs and two guns, so I watch them instead. My host turns and walks back inside. His associates don’t, they still have the guns and the dogs and zealot eyes. I think "zealot" because pointing a firearm at a police officer will usually end badly and they don’t care.
The land mine at my feet is affecting my balance. How do the dogs miss it if they’re turned loose? I glance for the trip wire; eyes down like a rookie, searching the gravel and debris.
Commotion
. I look up, Vikings stream out, lots more, maybe twenty. Another bearded Appalachian steps through—this one fully dressed. He has a Schlitz tallboy in his hand and a machine pistol, possibly an M11, in his belt. If it’s full-auto, it’s a federal felony. He’s close to 6-6, maybe 350. I’m sure my .38 will only slow him.
He stops at thirty feet. "Who the fuck are you?"
"I just told your girlfriend. I’m Danny D’s sister, just came from Joliet to—"
"You’re that fuckin’ bitch cop Patti Black, ain’t you?" He unchains the closest rottweiler, grabs it ten links above the collar, and comes at me. "I seen you on TV, all hero’d up."
I don’t want to kill the dog…I
do
want to believe that this bearded monster knows about the trip wire. Thankfully, this guy’s eyes aren’t cue balls like the first three; his are droopy but on fire like they bled all night. He lets his dog strain toward me and the trip wire.
I start to step back but stop in time. "Ah, maybe we ought to—"
"
Maybe
we get married, you and me, I ass fuck you to death."
This bad idea isn’t improving with time. If I had another lead, somewhere else to go, I would. But I don’t, so I say, "Fine" and aim at his balls. "You feel like fucking after six of these, I’m all for it."
He starts for the M11.
"Don’t. I’m past believing this’ll work out."
He stops, then uses the other hand to drink the beer. "I’m Charlie Moth."
I don’t know why I’m surprised. "We gonna talk, Charlie?"
"’At’s all I’m doing." Charlie might really be from Appalachia. "If we was fightin’, she’d already be over." He tosses the beer can in the general direction of my feet.
I wide-eye it to the ground. It and I don’t explode. Deep breath. "Well…Danny D said your chemist, Pancake, knew stuff I need to know. He told me to tell you to arrange a meeting, today, now."
"Did he? Danny D told you to
tell
me? So you did; now haul your skinny ass back to Joliet and tell Danny to fuck himself." No part of Charlie Moth looks scared or interested in helping me.
"Sure. Okay. Want to be clear, though. On what you said. My brother will wanna know that he’s doing double life for you guys and you’re pimping him." I glance at the guy with the shotgun; he doesn’t look like he’s all that comfortable with pimping Danny D. "He’ll wanna know that."
Charlie Moth says, "Who’s gonna tell him?"
"Just about everybody, Charlie, after you and his sister die in this shoot-out."
Actually, dying right now, today, wouldn’t be bad, solve a lot of my problems. And Charlie seems to notice. His associates too, and they don’t look like guys who want to end up in Joliet over this and have to explain it to my brother.
"Cut the bitch some room, Charlie. She may be Danny’s sister.
Shit
, he may’ve sent her."
Charlie Moth doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder. "You wanna take a Chicago cop to a dope lab, go ahead. I don’t know about any; won’t be doing two dimes for conspiracy whether Danny fucking del Pasco thinks it’s a good idea or not."
I say, "Don’t take me. I’ll meet Pancake. Pick a corner; we’ll do it there."
Charlie looks like I’ve given him an out, then looks at his dog, then looks at me. "Western and Ninety-fifth. Four o’clock." He drapes one hand on the M11 and points with the other. "This shit goes bad, bitch, your family’ll be dead before the trial. Believe that."
All the men and all the dogs walk back inside without looking at me again. It’s as if my future and theirs no longer intersect, like my star didn’t matter ten minutes ago and doesn’t matter now. I exhale big and mount another glance for the trip wire. And there it is, two feet from the Schlitz can, silvery and tight, and just where they said it was.
Whoever said that crystal meth could make
anything
worse was not lying.
Not counting the Penn Central tracks, 103rd and Beverly is a five-way corner. It’s busy and loud at 8:00 a.m. Sonny Barrett is sitting behind the wheel of his Ford; I’m listening from the sidewalk, arms folded to his passenger window but eyeing the traffic. He’s only an hour into his day and Sonny’s already full-up on mystery. He wants an explanation. Several in fact: Calumet City, the mayor, the mayor’s wife, and dead Assistant State’s Attorney Richard Rhodes.
"Cut the bullshit. Tell me."
"Can’t."
Sonny palms his salt-and-pepper stubble and curves the mirror down so he can see his reflection. "Nope. It’s me."
"Sonny, look—"
"At what, ghosts?" He slaps the passenger headrest near my hands. "I’m callin’ bullshit here. You’re up to your ass in somethin’ that’s gonna eat you, me, and everybody else we know.
You owe us, Patti.
These guys got families. And you know IAD and the G’s gonna fuck ’em up. You know that."
He’s right, but I can’t. I know what I did years ago, but I don’t know where or why or how it fits now.
"Talk to me, damn it, I ain’t got the fucking day."
"Sonny—" My throat chokes off the words. "Sonny, this has zip to do with you guys, okay? Or the superintendent. No matter what you hear, it doesn’t." A tear runs down my cheek and I look away too late. "If I go down for this, it’ll be alone. I promise. Nobody goes with me."
Hard-ass Sonny Barrett exits his Ford to a
hooooooorn
and a panel truck’s near miss, then loops his front bumper to stand close enough to touch me but doesn’t. I concentrate on his thick shoulder, not his eyes. Mine are watery. This is not my game face; I’m having trouble finding it since becoming the new me.
Sonny has good teeth he bought in a fistfight and shows them. "We friends, right?"
I reset my semi-charred Cubs cap. "Yup."
"Then it’s simple. You talk, I listen. Then we do what we gotta. How fucking hard is that?"
I’d like nothing better than to hand this to someone who would face it for me. But all I can say is, "Sorry."
Sonny closes one eye, then cocks his head into street sergeant. Like all sergeants, he’s not a fan of opposition to simple solutions: Face it, defeat it, go home, repeat same tomorrow. Either I give him a better answer or—
"Sonny, this isn’t a trip you or Eric or Cisco can take." My feet want to step back; lies need distance. "No telling what the FBI knows."
"Knows about what?"
I shrug with a wince that adds nothing but
poor-little-me
. "Or what they’ll pull."
Sonny grabs my shoulder and keeps a handful of my jacket. "Like what?"
I don’t like being grabbed and he knows it. Today, that isn’t stopping him. This is phase 2 of his frustration index. Phase 3 is both hands and your back hitting a wall. I doubt he’ll do that to me, but then he’s never done phase 2 before.
"Knows about what? Answer me."
"Calumet City." There, I said it.
"So?"
"The G was at Cal City PD before they braced me at Stateville."
"So?" His other hand brushes my waist.
There’s no way to answer. Sonny watches me breathe harder, sees that I’m fighting but just can’t get there. Just can’t. He exhales in my face, lets go of my shoulder, and pushes away. His teeth grind. He stares until it’s obvious I’m not answering, snarls, and pivots toward the street like he intends to talk to the passing cars…then throws up his hands and turns back.
His eyes are narrow now, the way they get before he fights, and he starts to nod, building to something. Three, two, one, then:
"The G says you and Chief Jesse are makin’ babies…" He swallows after he says it, like his throat hurts. "
Like it’s some of their fucking business
." Sonny looks away again, then back. "The G thinks both of you were/are hooked up with Danny D, into bad shit that goes way back."
Sonny stops talking so I can confess.
I don’t.
He reddens the rest of the way while he waits. The cords show white in his neck and he growls, "They wanted all of us—me, Eric Jackson, Cisco—to bust you for the story. Trap you into talking. They got you doing felonies with the superintendent, felonies that somehow murdered the ASA—the G sent suits to Cisco’s fucking hospital, you believe that?" Sonny shakes his head hard enough to sprain his neck. "They say they got you and Chief Jesse put together with the mayor and his fucking wife—
her motherfucking building
—and Richard Rhodes and who-knows-what-else. And since we worked with you for seventeen years, there’s no way we don’t know, no way we didn’t cover it up."
Sonny’s face is twisted into emotions I haven’t seen in it before. It’s awful to see people you care about suffering for your sins. It’s worse to let them. Worse for them, worse for you too—except
you
deserve it, usually in the biggest possible way.
"Gotta go, Sonny. Have to."
His hands ball as he leans at me, a huge man stripped to powerless. "For chrissake, Patti—"
I put three feet between us, hoping space calms him. "Sorry. Nine o’clock. Me and the superintendent, then IAD, then the FBI."
Sonny glares, then exhales in a rare surrender. He spits sideways, frowns me up and down, and turns away to tell the passing traffic, "At least pretty up for the trip to Metro."