Chicago Stories: West of Western (19 page)

Seraphy stood and walked away a little, trying to sort out her conflicting reactions to his story. A gang leader. Mario wasn't her idea of a gang leader. And nobody just ‘took over.’ There was a lot he wasn't saying. But then she had no experience by which to judge.

“Okay, I believe that.” She came back and sat down. “What about Tito? Wasn't he a Duque? You're the leader and you just let Tito screw your sister?” Mario winced.

“I. Didn't. Know,” he said, spacing the words carefully. “When I came back three years ago, Tito was already in the gang, and even if I had wanted to get rid of him, I couldn't. I never saw Maria or my mother, I told you there was a restraining order. When he started messing with Maria, nobody was going to tell me. I tried to see Maria, several times. She wouldn't talk to me. I couldn't risk giving the cops a reason to pick me up.” Mario was up again, pacing back and forth on the path. “Later, I started hearing things. She was eleven then. That she . . . .” The skin on his face stretched across clenched muscles. She could hear his teeth grind. “By the time she was twelve they called her a ho. Even my guys, even the Duques, even to my face, but nobody told me about Tito.”

“Twelve. My God.”

“What could I do? I tried. Finally I got her to talk to me, a little. She was still living with our mother and Aconto. I thought—but now I think Aconto was using her, too. He'll die for that.” Mario stopped for a moment, looked away again, then shook his head and continued, “I tried to get her to leave and live with me. She spat at me and said I was evil, a spawn of the devil, so on and so on. I knew where that came from.”

“She said that about
you
? And she was sleeping around and living with her stepfather? The abuser?”

Mario looked out at the river, shrugged. Neither spoke for a time.

“So now you know,” he said. “How is she?”

“She's dying. How do you think she is?”

His head was down. “I don't know,” he mumbled and looked up at her. “You said she was pregnant.”

“She is. The baby's dying, too.”

“And Tito gave her AIDS.”

“That's what Maria says.”

Mario closed his eyes for a moment. He looked like he was going to vomit again. “Fucking bastard.”

“Dead fucking bastard,” she said.

“I'm sorry about that. I was looking for him that night, too. I wanted to kill him myself.” He was looking out over the river again, grinding his teeth.

“So who shot Tito? The Duques? “ He shook his head. “What can you tell me about Mischa? He's carrying and he hates gangs.”

Mario sighed and turned back to her. “I doubt it was Mischa. He was out, I ran into him that night, but Mischa doesn't concern himself with anybody but his precious Ukrainians and Tito was no threat to them. Besides, Mischa carries a Glock, not one of those peashooters. What else can I tell you? Help me,” he pleaded, “Anything, anything I can do. Money, anything. Can I see her?”

“I doubt if Sister Ann would let you anywhere near her.”

“Sister Ann hates me. Well, maybe not so much me, and maybe not so much the Duques as the Lobos, but all of us.”

“But she's on crutches right now. She has Brother Edwin helping her—but you already know that. He's, uh, unusual, and might help you. Contact him through St. Luke's hospice and tell him your story.” Without noticing, she'd lost much of her anger toward Mario. Handing him off to Brother Edwin sounded like a plan.

Mario's cell phone rang and he checked caller ID. He stood, his eyes shadowed, and his formal manners returned. He bowed. “Thanks for listening, Miss Pelligrini. I'll try Brother Edwin.”

“I hope he can help.” She watched Mario turn and disappear back along the path.

Shell-shocked by a story that belonged to grand opera, Seraphy sat, her eyes held by the river, until the cold seeped into her bones and drove her to her feet. Running the loop around the river landscape to warm up and run off the despair Mario left behind, she slowed to a walk for the last six blocks home. Too much new information. All that Mario had told her, her own experiences with Maria, Sister Ann and Brother Edwin, Tito, everything she'd heard about the gangs west of Western. CAPS meetings, gunshots in the night, a dead body. Mario's elderly sentinels. Richard and Andre, George and Diego and the artists and actors in the church. Mischa and Katya and illegal immigrants. Too many new faces, too much too fast, no time to find her feet.

No wonder she was confused. Could she even be sure of her instincts anymore? Was Mario friend or con artist? El Duque, so he knew his way around a gun, and admitted he had wanted to kill Tito. And what about Mischa, whose teeth glinted in a smile while his hands twisted when he spoke of gangs? Or as the cops believed, did it all come down to Cholo and the Lobos?

Chapter 16

Bronko arrived at
the break of dawn. Seraphy ignored the door bell as long as she could, dragging her duvet over her head and praying that whoever it was would go away. When the annoying buzz didn't stop and she was awake enough to remember that Mischa had promised to send Bronko early that morning, she dragged herself to the intercom to say she'd be down in a minute.

Which she was. Clothed, sort of, and awake, sort of.

Bronko, a slightly smaller and darker version of Mischa, smoked while he waited. When she fanned the cigarette smoke away from her face, he threw the cigarette stub down and stepped on it. He glanced up and saw her expression, picked up the butt and stowed it in his pocket.

A flurry of charades later, she realized the Ukrainian was trying to tell her the red pigment smeared over the image on the garage door was blood, not paint, and that he needed water to clean it off. She opened the garage door halfway so he could duck in and out, showed him the workshop sink, and ran upstairs to shower and dress.

When she came down again, Bronko had the door cleaned off and dry and was applying a primer whose sharp smell cancelled out the usual alley odors. Seraphy watched as he obliterated all traces of the naked figure. When the last bit of blood-smeared body was gone under rusty brown primer, she felt the tension go from her shoulders, realized a chill breeze had eaten through her sweatshirt while she watched, and turned to take her freezing body inside.

“All gone. Is good?” Bronko asked without looking away from the door.

“Is very good.”

Bronko nodded.“Today, make ready. Tonight, dry. Tomorrow I fin-ish.”

Back inside, refusing to think about Maria, Tito, Mario or any of the other problems that had landed on her lap since she moved in, Seraphy prowled around her kitchen. In three days her mother was coming for lunch, a lunch she had to prepare. In the hour before she had to leave for work, Seraphy flipped through cookbooks she had bought for occasions like this and never opened, but the things that looked doable weren't good enough, and the others too complicated. She had splurged on a gas stove, new Emeril pans, a Cuisinart food processor, and a Kitchen Aid mixer, but lacked any idea how to use them. The only skill she had was with her Italian espresso machine.

Grocery stores were no good. Eleanor could spot a frozen entrée a mile away. Same with delis. Late November was the wrong time for farmer's markets. Her refrigerator was nearly empty, no inspiration there. She slammed the door for the fourth time. Her mother would happily eat canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, she knew that, but that wasn't good enough. Nothing she could think of was good enough.

Maybe she could make one of those Italian things her mom loved, a toss-together pasta primavera or something. On second thought, probably not. She suspected they weren't as easy as they looked on cooking shows. Wasn't there something simple but delicious, something even a tyro like her could manage? Something, something—a rich, seductive aroma, salty ham and silky beans, surfaced in her memory. Oh, yes. Simple and perfect. Maybe Andre was home and would advise her.

“Hello, my angelic one, how lovely of you to call.” Her panic melted as the velvety syllables flowed from his mouth through the phone to her ears and on into her brain.

“Andre, I need help.”

“Do I hear distress in your voice? But we are friends. You know you have but to ask.”

“My mother's coming for lunch Saturday. I need to make something great and I'm hopeless. I thought maybe you could tell me how to make something really special.”

“Serious indeed,” Andre purred. “But never fear, Andre is here! Something special for your mother? Not too difficult? Let me think.”

Seraphy waited while Andre hummed and mumbled to himself. He must be in the kitchen, she heard small clinks and the hiss of running water in the background. She'd owe him for life.

“Brilliant! Now, get your grocery list and I will tell you what to purchase,” he said after a brief pause. “Get everything at Whole Foods, please,” and he dictated a short list of vegetables, lemons, cream, eggs and seasonings.

“That's all?”

“Simple things are best. Bring it all over early Saturday morning. Best make it about seven and we'll put together something you can take home to pop in your oven, guaranteed to delight your mother.”

“Are you sure you have time? I'm sorry, I don't want to be a bad neighbor. I'm just desperate.”

“There will be time. However, Richard might require your first-born child. I'll have to ask.” Andre laughed, a roar that shook the phone in her hand. “Relax, we're friends, Seraphy, and this is what friends do.”

Bronko
had finished packing up when Seraphy came downstairs to leave for work. The bloody image was gone, buried under a dull brownish-red primer. As she looked over Bronko's work, she felt her entire body grow lighter, and realized she hadn't let herself feel its weight until it was gone. Bronko already had his gear packed in his truck. He nodded when she made door opening motions, then pointed at the sticky paint. “Can use door now, but no touch. Must dry. Tomorrow I fin-ish,” he said.

Markowicz
and Terreno were waiting at her front door when she returned from Whole Foods. Each grabbed a bag to help carry the groceries up.

“So to what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, once they reached her kitchen and she started stashing her supplies.

“Last night Cholo Pedilla and his buddies Juan Montero and Hector Garcia were shot in the vacant lot on Haddon. You know anything about that?” Markowicz asked, moving to stand too close. Terreno stepped to her other side, trapping her in the open door of the refrigerator.

“Cholo—that the guy you told me got knifed the other day?” Seraphy stopped stuffing vegetables in the refrigerator any which way and turned to look at her questioner. “Shot dead? And his friends? You said three?”

“The ones you caught painting your door. The one you cut.” Markowicz was curt, all his easy surface turned hard. Both cops stared back, stone-faced.

“Who told you that? I don't know Cholo Pedilla, or his friends.” Better leave the video on her computer, she thought, maybe they wouldn't think to ask. She finished stowing the groceries, pushed the detectives out of the way, and slammed the refrigerator door. When she turned, her nose was inches from Markowicz's chest.

“So why are you here? Why aren't you out looking for the killer?” she said to his tie.

“We know about the knifing,” Terreno said from behind her shoulder “We don't care about that. What we want to know is what you know about who shot Cholo and his pals. And why.” He stepped closer, pinning Seraphy against the refrigerator.

“I told you, I don't know anything. I didn't even know anybody had been shot last night until you just told me.” Suddenly she remembered bullets bouncing off her windows. “What time last night? Maybe it was the same person tried to shoot up my windows. Woke me up, so I'm hazy about how many shots, but the windows were sprayed. The bullets bounced off and I went back to sleep. You'll find the remains around the building if you bother to look.”

“What time was that?” Markowicz was too close. She slipped out from between the two, walked over to the table and turned. “How the hell would I know? I told you, I was asleep. Felt like the middle of the night.”

“Ever think about reporting it?” Markowicz said, following her. “Oh, right. You were asleep. You and everybody else.”

“It was the fucking middle of the night! What do you think I was doing?” Seraphy pushed the detective out of her way and sat down at the table. Images of the three in her alley flashed in her memory. “All three, shot dead?”

“They were on their knees when they were shot in the back of the head. A block north of here, in the vacant lot on the corner of Haddon and Rockwell,” said Terreno. “Somebody lined ‘em up and shot them in the head, one shot each. An execution. Small caliber, looked to be a .22, probably a street gun, just like Tito. Efficient, not to say professional. Maybe somebody like, say, ex-military.” He looked around for a chair.

“Bullshit. It's nothing to do with me. Whoever tried to shoot my windows up had something way more powerful. Semi-automatics, probably.”

“Hard to believe there were two separate unrelated shootings a block apart last night. Not to mention, you got a history with these guys.”

“I don't give a shit what you believe. You say Cholo and the others were executed? Like Tito? And you thought of me?” Seraphy glared at the cops. “I don't know whether to be mad or take that as a compliment.” Take a moment, Pelligrini, she told herself. Cool it. Markowicz and Terreno were watching her without speaking. Better tell them everything. She sighed and pointed to a chair for Markowicz.

“Sit down and I'll tell you about the garage door.”

“We knew it was you cut Cholo.” Markowicz looked smug and slightly less hostile.

“Yeah, well, I had cause. Cholo and the other two were doing a little touch-up on my door. I caught the bastards with the paint cans in their sweaty little hands, some things were said,
they
came at
me
. Cholo and his buddies pulled a knives and I defended myself. That's it. I've got Cholo's knife and a videotape to prove it. Wait.” She flipped the computer on and ran downstairs for Cholo's knife while it booted up.