Chicago Stories: West of Western (15 page)

“Call 911,” he begged, “I'm hurt bad.”

“Like fucking hell,” she said. “You're not dying. You asked for it. I warned you. You got it.” Thinking of Andre, she raised her voice so the unseen watchers in the apartments across and down along the alley could hear and she called to the hiding sidekicks, “Go home to your mamas, little boys. I don't want to see your ugly faces around here again or you'll really get hurt. You don't know what I can do. Fuck off.” She pointed to Cholo. “And take your trash with you.”

One step back through the doorway and she posed, holding her knife up before her until the door came down and locked. Architecture may be a good career, but acting sure had its moments. Making a home for herself was turning out to be more difficult than she'd anticipated, but defending her new home only increased her determination to stay. Sealing Cholo's knife in a plastic baggie and checking to make sure her security camera had recorded the attack, she ran upstairs. Too bad she had to change, she thought, grinning to herself, Richard would appreciate her outfit, but she didn't think it quite appropriate for the CAPS meeting.

Chapter 13

The large white
van that had drawn her to the window rolled to a stop under the streetlight in front of Sister Ann's. Seraphy watched a gray-robed monk climb down from the front seat. Dressed and ready to leave to pick up Richard, she hesitated and saw the monk carry boxes into the building. When the street emptied, she slipped out to check out the van's blue logo. St. Luke's House, the hospice Sister Ann had mentioned. She was trying to remember where she'd seen the logo before when the monk spoke over her left shoulder.

“May I help you?”

She jumped, slid on the loose leaves, and flailed to a stop on the ground against the front tire, clearly illumined by the streetlight overhead. Shit. Nice move, Pelligrini. Graceful. Her skin flushed red all the way down to her fingernails. Damn. When had he come back? How long had he been watching her make a fool of herself?

“Mmm,” she muttered. “Ah. I was just wondering, umm, if you were the helper Sister Ann was expecting.” Caught snooping and too embarrassed to look up, she stayed where she fell, head down and staring at his feet, large feet in trendy Air Jordans.

“Are you a friend of Sister Ann's?” he asked. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a pale hand reach down to help her up.

Good question. “Umm. Uh, I don't really know about that, but I've been uneasy about her and her, um, guest.” He was surprisingly strong and lifted her to her feet with one smooth motion. When she finally brought herself to glance up at him, the monk was watching her with friendly eyes, their deep brown a surprising contrast to his pale skin and white hair. Laughing eyes. He was laughing inside, pressing his lips together to keep the laughter in, and his whole face alight with humor. Seraphy squirmed.

“You must be Seraphy,” he smiled. “I'm Brother Edwin. Sister Ann told me about you and how good you've been to Maria. And to her.” Somehow she doubted it had gone quite like that. Her cheeks felt hot and she glanced away.

“Not really,” she said, and scuffled the leaves with her toe. She felt like a teenager caught sneaking her father's cigarettes. “Well, I did drive Sister Ann to the emergency room and I did stay with Maria. That hardly makes me Mother Teresa.” She didn't even like Sister Ann.

“Come, let's sit on the steps and we can talk.” The monk turned back toward the porch.

Seraphy followed, knowing she had only a few minutes to spare but unable to break away. As her cheeks cooled, a chill crept in around her collar. The concrete step was cold and hard.

“Charity to one you dislike is the truest charity,” Brother Edwin said when they were settled. “I've known Sister Ann for years. She's not the easiest person.”

Seraphy couldn't think of anything to say. The monk brushed a cluster of leaves off the steps, giving her space to recover. “Her past is, ah, interesting, and I'm sure she can be a difficult neighbor. But in her deepest soul she's a loving woman capable of amazing sacrifice.”

Could he see through her like he saw through Sister Ann? Seraphy squirmed and looked at her feet. “I think I've seen some of that.”

“Yes.”

She tried to think of something more to say and failed. Brother Edwin sat silent, waiting for her. She thought he probably did that a lot. “Can I ask you . . . .” her voice trailed off.

“Yes?”

“Who
are
you?” She glanced at the monk's calm profile. “You must know that what Sister Ann's doing is illegal. Maria's underage. She could be considered a runaway minor and Sister Ann a kidnapper. Isn't your order worried about being involved? You could be charged as well.”

Brother Edwin laughed, a deep laugh that added laugh lines around his eyes and shook his shoulders. “Seraphy, our order was founded six hundred years ago to bury the dead from the plague,” he said, amusement coloring his voice, “and we still do that, as well as provide care for the dying. AIDS is only our current plague. Life and death, and we like a challenge. We have always done what we must if we're needed and our path is clear.”

Bury the plague dead? Seraphy's mouth fell open. Images of wooden carts stacked with bodies, corpses rotting in medieval streets, the remembered reek of Maria's room. Six hundred years of that? She shuddered.

“I guess.”

“I'll be here for a few days, until Sister Ann's better able to get around.” Brother Luke turned to face her and she could see the mischief that lurked behind those coffee-colored eyes. “I noticed you looking at my feet.” He smiled and stretched out a sneaker-clad foot. “Our shoes were a gift from Dennis Rodman. Cool, aren't they? And useful. Dennis is a great friend to our order.”

“Oh.” Dennis Rodman? The bad boy of the Bulls, a great friend? Dennis who wore the wedding gown down Michigan Avenue and hung out at Excalibur? That Dennis?

“Now I must return to my charges. Go with God, Seraphy Pelligrini.”

The
cafeteria was like all such cafeterias, blindingly clean and white, a tribute to the plastics industry and fluorescent lighting. Three 13
th
district cops and a CAPS facilitator faced the motley crowd of twenty or so residents of Beat 1311 across a long cafeteria table. Sergeant Ettinger, fifty-something, beefy, with a graying brush cut, reeled off what sounded like a standard welcoming speech while two bored uniforms lounged against the wall behind him.

Seraphy, wedged between Richard and an immensely fat woman in the back of the third row, checked out the gathering, or as much as she could see of it. It was a serious crowd, no meet-and-greet cheeriness here, false or otherwise. A grungy twenty-something pair she'd seen before, coming out of a decrepit two-flat half-way down the block on Cortez. Next to them sat the grim middle-aged Ukrainian couple who lived next to Richard and Andre. The guy with the goatee was from Cortez, too; she'd seen him parading his pit bull. No Mischa.

“Okay, folks,” the sergeant said rapidly, looking over a sheaf of papers as he talked. “I called this meeting because things have escalated in our neighborhood and I wanted to be sure you all know what's going on and how you can help.” He glanced around the room.

“What about the guy shot on Rockwell? And a couple of shots came through my porch window last night.” Seraphy looked for the speaker, leaning forward to see around the fat lady. Forty-something, white, angry eyes almost buried in fat, heavy shoulders made bigger by his worn Carhartt jacket.

“You all know about the body on Rockwell, the guy shot early Tuesday morning and left there,” Ettinger said. “We've identified the deceased—a Duque named Tito Diaz, from the 2400 block of Haddon. Any of you know him?”

Furtive glances flew, but nobody volunteered. A paramedic slipped in the door and leaned against the wall. She took a second look. Mr. tall, dark and handsome. Nice.

“No? He was wearing Duques colors and had the sword and crown tattoo on his shoulder. Some of you must have seen him around, maybe on one of the corners acting lookout.”

“Sergeant, this beat's in Lobos territory,” said the guy in the Carhartt jacket. “Duques don't come across Rockwell. Besides, with their hoods up, assholes all look alike.”

“Right, I get it: none of you knew the vic.” Ettinger looked skeptical. “Tito was shot near the doorway of a building on the west side of Rockwell—that's Lobos territory—in the middle of the night. Anybody?”

Blank looks, shaken heads.

“Anybody know anything about Tito?”

“Before or after?” That was the little guy with the goatee.

“Either.”

Nothing. Seraphy wondered if she had moved into the Land of See No Evil.

“Oh, great, so the guy was trespassing, and now we got us a gang war? One of the Lobos shot him?” The big guy had his hands braced on his knees. “Lobos and Duques? You know that for sure?”

“We know zip for sure,” the sergeant said.“Autopsy isn't in yet. We're working on some leads.” His audience moved uneasily, they'd heard that one before. They wanted to hear promises of protection, assurances that the killers were known and the police would soon arrest them.

“So,” said a gray-haired man in the front row, “Duques are out for revenge.”

“I didn't say that,” said the sergeant. “As far as we can tell, the kid wasn't a big deal with them. There's a rumor the gang wasn't happy with him, but we don't know yet what that was about.”

“You think the Duques was taking out their garbage?”

“Maybe. Nothing's certain for now. We got the bullet, but no match to anything we have. Small caliber street gun. So far we have no suspects.”

“Look, I don't want to be a hard-ass, but what do we care if these punks wipe each other out? Urban renewal, I call it.” It was the big guy again.

“Understood.” Ettinger nodded. “I know how you feel. But remember, these guys are
really
bad shots. Lousy shots with serious weapons. So if they start a war and come down your street firing at some yahoo, they can't hit him with one shot, so they put the piece on automatic and spray off a round. Your wife better not be coming home from some school meeting that night, or your kids.” The sergeant waited while they thought that over.

“What you want us to do?” asked the sturdy elderly lady in the front row, one of three who had come in together and whose flowered babushka partly covered her gray hair. Surprised at the lack of fear in the room, Seraphy looked at the faces of her neighbors. Anger and determination, disgust, worry, sure, but not the fear she expected. Tough bunch, these urban folks.

“Stay off the streets after dark. Try to go out at rush hour, or in the morning. The gangs don't usually attack when there's witnesses, and the more witnesses the better. They aren't after you. Keep your outside lights on, all night. If you have to go out, get in the car as fast as possible, get your lights on as fast as possible so they know you're there and that you're not a gangbanger. Turn up your radio, make lots of noise. If you see anyone move, honk and flash your lights—they'll probably run, they don't like the noise and light.” He waited while they thought about this and several nodded.

“That's defensive. Now one more thing. Call me if you see or hear anything, no matter how unimportant it may be, ok? A strange car parked on your street, strange guys hanging around, and especially strange cars in the alleys. Anything about Tito.” The uniforms started handing out business cards. “This is my direct number, not the switchboard. You call, I'll answer and have somebody there in under three minutes. Now, anything else we should know about?”

For the next half hour Seraphy listened to neighbors report gang members stationed at corners, drug activity around a decrepit garage in the Mozart alley at Cortez, and several complaints about the so-called grocery/liquor store at Haddon and Mozart, where a convenient pay phone in the entry attracted drug dealers like flypaper. Nobody mentioned the druggie car on her corner.

Sergeant Ettinger glanced at the clock and brought the meeting to a close at eight-thirty, his backups gathering maps and papers from the cafeteria table. She was surprised and a little disappointed there was no lingering, no friendly chit-chat. The murders had everyone on edge and the crowd left quickly, their faces grim and determined. Richard waved at her to hurry. The uniformed paramedic followed them out to their car.

“Seraphy, this is George Rodriguez, your neighbor. His mom has the beauty shop on the corner of Augusta and George lives upstairs. Okay, now we go for a latte,” said Richard as they climbed into his car. “We've got some time before the meeting.”

“What meeting?”

“Let me tell her. You attempt to drive,” George said from the back seat, into which he had somehow managed to insert his six-foot frame. “Seraphy, did you see that guy in the second row? The quiet one that owns the bodega on Western?”

“You mean the guy with the earring?”

“He's a Duque. Thinks we don't know that, comes to all the meetings so the gang knows what we're planning. Or so they think.” His head snapped back against the seat as the car lurched into traffic. He crossed himself. “Richard, have mercy.”

Seraphy straightened up and rubbed her head where it had been thrown against the window. “You weren't kidding about the driving. Nice going, Richard. We should have brought my car.”

“Yeah, well. I'm working on it.”

“Louis Miguel usually shows up for the Duques, and we think Dolores—she wasn't there tonight—reports to the Lobos,” said George. “So—we have another meeting tonight, just us good guys. You'll like this one. First we stop for coffee, gives time for Ettinger to get there.”

Forty minutes and three lattes later, the three parked in a deserted factory lot behind an anonymous industrial building several blocks north on Milwaukee. A guard let them in the side door. This late, the building was deserted and their footsteps, even Seraphy's feathery Nike-shod footsteps, echoed up the long halls

“Up,” said George as he yanked at the gates of an old-fashioned elevator.

“I take it we don't want to be seen?” Seraphy asked.