Chicago Stories: West of Western (20 page)

“Here,” she said when she got the video on screen. “As you can see, Cholo attacked me. Here's his knife.” She threw the bagged knife on the table. “Fingerprints and all. I picked the knife up where Cholo dropped it, and that's his blood. I told them to fuck off.”

The cops watched the video once, then went through it again.

“Give me your email address and I'll send you a copy,” Seraphy said when they finished. “You can watch the whole thing on your computer back at the station as many times as you want. Cholo came at me with the knife and his buddies as backup. Oh, and I'll send the clip of the drive-by last night. There's not much to see.”

Marko hesitated but Terreno said, “You were damned lucky they weren't carrying, Pelligrini. Before we started using gun violations to pick them up, they would have been.”

“Well, they weren't.” Seraphy shrugged. “Not guns, anyway. So what happened last night?”

“There's not much to tell. Each of the three was killed with one bullet in the back of the head, small caliber, same as Tito. Looked like they were on their knees when they were shot, no sign of any attempt to defend themselves. Ground's hard, no tracks, nothing like that. Probably about two o'clock. I don't suppose you got any alibi?”

“No company, if that's what you mean. Yeah, sounds right, the shots that woke me up could have been the same guys. It felt like the middle of the night—wait a minute. A twenty-two, you said? I couldn't have heard that from here. Whoever shot at my windows had something a lot bigger—more like a MAC-10.”

“Yeah, right,” Terreno was tapping his notebook against the edge of the table. “Probably Chico and the boys.”

“You think I'd kill three people, even three shits like that, over a little paint? For Christ's sake, I've been here less than a week. Like they have no other enemies?”

“They had enemies. The Duques,” Terreno said. “If it was the Duques, payback for Tito, we got real problems. Gang war, collateral damage.”

“You mind if we look around?” Markowicz had been quiet up till now. Seraphy had been expecting them to ask ever since they showed up. “SOP, sorry.”

“Like that?” Seraphy sighed. “Go ahead, have fun, just put everything back the way you find it.” She jumped up, kicking her chair back against the wall, and went to sort out the things she'd tossed in the refrigerator.

After dropping a carton of eggs and knocking over the milk, she decided maybe she should do that later. She had to get Mario out of her head before she said something that might make the detectives more suspicious than they already were. If they knew she'd been talking to the Duques leader—she had to distract herself until they left. Reaching to hang a stainless steel pan on the overhead rack, she missed the hook and the pan fell on her coffee cup on the counter below. Shit. It might be safer if she looked through some cookbooks. Hard to break cookbooks.

With nothing for the detectives to find, she wasn't exactly worried, but the search was violation enough. Hearing strangers—they felt like that now—going through her bedroom, her stuff, was hard. It was a relief when they moved downstairs to the workshop. Staring out the window and listening them moving around soon became tedious, and she welcomed the murders taking over her thoughts while she waited for them to finish. Which of her new neighbors had cause to wipe out these particular punks?

Who didn't want to kill Tito? Mischa knew about Cholo and Juan and Hector harassing her. She was pretty sure that she'd seen him watching from the shadows that night. She'd seen his temper in the park when he mimed wringing the necks of those he called evil. Maybe the gang had a taste for blondes. But Mischa wouldn't have needed a gun, and somehow even if he had, she couldn't see him with a twenty-two. Like Mario had said, Mischa was more a Glock type, or maybe an AK47.

The cops thought El Duque had reason, if he believed the Lobos had killed one of his gang. She knew Mario loathed Tito and wanted to kill him himself, but she couldn't see him executing three men for killing Tito, nor risking inciting a gang war. He was too smart for that. Unless, of course, he saw Tito's death as a pride thing, with Tito's murder a provocation, but somehow that didn't fit with the Mario she met in the park.

Then there were all those possibles she didn't know—fathers and brothers and boyfriends of girls Tito raped, for example, maybe even Maria's father. Or fellow druggies Tito might have infected through shared needles? Or were all the shootings just gang stuff, as the cops seemed to believe? Shit. This was useless. How the hell could she think rationally about possible killers when she didn't even know her neighbors’ names? There were probably others with reasons to kill one or all of them. Given what she knew so far, the surprising thing was that they lived as long as they did.

Seraphy paid bills and fumed. With nothing in the workshop downstairs except tools, blueprints, and plywood to search, she had hardly finished writing checks for the week's bills when Markowicz came back up to where she sat at the kitchen table.

“Nice place you got down there,” he said. “Sorry about this.” He handed her her Glock. “We found this downstairs. You got a permit?”

“Yeah, got it when I moved back here. Not that I thought I'd need the gun, but she was with me all through Iraq and Afghanistan and I didn't want to give her up.” Seraphy found the permit in her billfold and handed it to Markowicz.

“Okay. You might want to get a carry permit after that drive-by last night.” She stared at the detective. “I'm just sayin’. Sorry about the search and all.”

“You're just doing your job. Speaking of which, when I put the cameras up over the doors, I also put one on the roof. It's not noticeable from the ground and set to film vehicles in the alley. I'll send you the records.” She refused to look at the detectives.

“Pelligrini, we're sorry.”

“Look, Detective Markowicz, I understand why you needed to search. You searched. Now just leave, okay?” After the detectives had gone, Seraphy sat at the table with her Glock, thinking. She could take a hint, no more runs in the park unarmed. She'd stop at Wood Street and apply for a carry permit on her way to work tomorrow.

Chapter 17

Nearly six o'clock,
dusk was gathering, the alley lights clicked on. Six buildings west of Rockwell, a narrow two-story coach house fronted the alley, hidden from Augusta by a tall three-flat on the front of the lot. The large panel truck in front of the coach house cast black shadows across the alley, half-hiding a man climbing out of the cab. Seraphy, glancing from her bedroom window, hurriedly dropped dirty sheets in her laundry basket and switched off the lights.

Mischa opened the back doors of the truck and helped a young woman with a baby out, then lifted two little kids down, followed by an older woman. A middle-aged man slid out of the high front seat of the cab and limped to join the others. The little group waited while Mischa unloaded three huge suitcases, all battered, one held together with duct tape. Mischa carried two to the door, while the man struggled with the last.

It's like an old noir film, she thought, with the alley light robbing everything of color and the atmosphere of, what? desperation? Something from postwar Europe in the late forties, starring Marlene Dietrich. The women reminded her of Katya, Sasha's mother. For a moment she was puzzled by this because both these women were older and heavier and had dark hair, then Seraphy realized the similarity lay in the deer-at-the-edge-of-the-forest way they moved and their dowdy clothing. Even the two children, a boy and girl of about seven or eight, looked worn.

Mischa unlocked the back door and ushered the family into the house. Seraphy turned back to the bed, thinking about the scene as she gathered up the rest of the linen. Newly arrived, from the look of them. Illegal, probably, they had that hunted look. Maybe Ukrainian? Definitely Eastern European—the pallor, the babushkas, an indefinable foreignness to their clothing. And the kids, those clothes had never seen the insides of any Penny's or Target. An old coach house invisible from the street, a perfect hideaway. Apparently rumors of Mischa's underground railway were true.

Vittorio Pelligrini, Seraphy's father, had come to the U.S. when he was fifteen, alone, looking for a better life than post-war Italy had to offer. She wondered if he had looked so tired and worn when he got off the boat in New York. “Good luck, folks,” she whispered.

Mischa came out of the house and drove off.

Mischa Dankovich. Seraphy was thinking about Mischa as she threw the sheets in the washer and nearly dumped the whole bottle of detergent after them. Who would know about Mischa?

Mason picked up on the first ring.

“You again, Pelligrini? Windows not enough? Now what? Want a coupla mortars to go with?”

“The windows are great, sir. Somebody loosed a few rounds at them a couple of nights ago, must have been pretty surprised when the bullets bounced off.”

“Glad to hear it. So you called just to hear my sexy voice?” He laughed, initiating a coughing bout.

“That, too,” she said when he'd stopped. “But I need a name. There's a Ukrainian entrepreneur in the neighborhood and I'm wondering about the extent of his operations. Mischa Dankovich. Any retired Darkpooler in Chicago who might be good for that kind of thing?”

“Give me a minute.” Between coughs she heard his keyboard click. “Yeah, here's the guy. Perfect for you. Albert Finklestein, ask for Fin, call, don't try to go there, Fin doesn't like company. 878-8899, say I sent you, hang up. He'll get back to you after he checks you out. Or not.”

“Why the mystery?”

“Fin's a bit sensitive about his appearance. Convoy got hit, like yours. Burns and shrapnel, worse than you, didn't hurt his brains any. Got home to Chicago and figured out a job he can do without seeing anybody. Fin's kind of shy and retiring, but he's the best at what he does.” Seraphy heard a phone ring in the background. “Can't chat now, gotta go.”

Dialing the number Mason gave her, she was answered by a Stephen Hawking sound-alike demanding her full name and referring party. She complied and hung up as directed, smiling a little at the theatricality. Fin returned the call half an hour later. At least, a different computerized voice that claimed to be Fin called.

“This. Is. Fin. Your. Reference. Checks. Out. You. Have. Been. Entered. As. A. Client. My. Fees. Start. At. Five. Hundred. Dollars. Per. Hour. Or. Part. Thereof. Describe. Your. Need.”

If Mason hadn't supplied the number, she'd think somebody had been watching too many late-night movies.

“The subject is Mischa Dankovich, D-A-N-K-O-V-I-C-H, Ukrainian immigrant living on the 2600 block of Cortez Street west of Western. Maybe illegal, definitely running an underground railway for Ukie immigrants. I don't know when he arrived here. I need everything you can find on him.”

“For. What. Purpose?”

“A Lobos gang member was shot on my doorstep and I need to know if Mischa was involved.”

“Expect. Answer. In. One. Hour. American. Express. Number. Please.”

When
an hour had passed and Fin had not called, Seraphy decided she deserved a treat and had time to make a run to The Bakery, which kept late hours on Wednesdays. Chicago Avenue was quiet, and there was even a handy a spot to park in front of the store. She joined other late shoppers in line at the door, welcomed by rich aromas of cinnamon and baking bread. Her mouth watered. No wonder the place was crowded all the time if its offerings tasted as good as they smelled.

The small deli section opened into a large room filled with people and sweet with cinnamon, almond paste and baking bread. She took her place among the Ukrainian Villagers, the working women with shopping baskets, men stopping on their way home, solid, sturdy people. Seraphy picked out distinct languages—Polish, she thought, or Russian, and another one, similar, Ukrainian? No English. No one met her eyes, but she could sense discreet glances cast her way, and suspected some, if not all, of the talk was about her, the stranger. And somehow they all knew, a stranger who couldn't understand their language.

“Yes?” The young ice-blond woman behind the counter spoke English, poised to flick a chosen loaf onto the counter. How did the clerk know? Did Seraphy have ‘English only’ stenciled on her forehead?

“That one, and that one down there,” she pointed and felt like an idiot for not knowing the everyday names for bread and rolls.

So that's what it was like not to speak the language. She hadn't felt like this when she was in the Middle East, but those were foreign countries. They were supposed to be foreign. This was Chicago. She wasn't used to finding herself an outsider in her own home city. She didn't like it much, she thought, with sudden insight into how the new arrivals must feel. No wonder the family in the alley had looked so tired. A long way from home, struggling to be understood. Everything different, an uncertain future, and nobody knew their name.

“Seven sixty-two,” the counter girl said, holding out her hand. Seraphy took her change, scooped up her bag and slipped out through the crowd as fast as possible. Her Jeep was nudging out into traffic when a sudden idea caused her to reverse into the parking spot.

It was easier the second time. At the counter the girl looked at her with eyebrows raised.

“I forgot something. I need another one of those,” she said, pointing to a poppy-seed filled bread, “and one of those.”A large white loaf with a crusty top. This time on a mission, she didn't notice being the foreigner.

Fifteen minutes later she knocked on the door of the coach house and waited, knocked again, waited. A curtain twitched in an upstairs window, footsteps approached the door. Chains rattled, two locks snapped open, the door opened a scant inch.

“Hello,” she said clearly, speaking slowly and trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. “I live down there.” She pointed to her garage door. The door opened another four inches, slowly, the man filling the doorway, blocking everything behind him.

“English?” she asked, and he nodded cautiously. “I came to welcome you to our neighborhood.” She held up the bakery bag. “For you and your family. A present. Welcome.” She could smell the bread, and apparently the man could, too. He hesitated, then nodded once.