Chicago Stories: West of Western (21 page)

“Stefan,” he said, pointing to himself.

“Seraphy.” She offered him the bag.

“Ah. T’ank you.” Stefan took the bag, opened it and sniffed, and smiled. “T’ank you.”

Seraphy smiled back. “Welcome to Chicago, Stefan.”

Chapter 18

Seraphy was watching
Gibbs in
NCIS
and thinking about illegal immigrants and specifically about Stefan and his family, when the phone rang. About time, she thought, Fin promised to call in an hour and that was yesterday. She muted the TV but kept an eye on Gibbs as she answered.

“Pelligrini.”

“Seraphy Pelligrini? This is Nika Vasilevich.” Seraphy sat up. “Diego Moratinos gave me your number. We're his neighbors in the artists’ compound on Thomas. He said you've just moved into that place on Rockwell and I should give you a call. You're the architect, right?”

“I'm an architect, yes—I work at Jerrod & Etwin—but I'm not sure I'm actually moved in yet.” Diego didn't lose any time getting his psy-ops into action. She wondered how Nika was going to work gang-intimidating gossip into the conversation.

“Great. My husband, Peter, and I have the old parish house on Thomas and we're planning to finish our attic. We need an architect for plans and permits and so on, basically to keep us from screwing everything up. Do you do side jobs?”

“I haven't, but I'd certainly consider it.” Seraphy gripped the phone until her fingers ached. Her first independent design job. A side job that might pay for kitchen cabinets. “I can use the extra money. I'm supporting a building.”

“I know how that goes,” Nika laughed. “Do we need a contract? Peter's a lawyer.”

“Are you sure you want to hire someone sight unseen?” Seraphy stalled, remembering office gossip at work, something about a furious client suing. Did she want a lawyer for a client? “Why don't you come and see what I've done here? I'd be happy to have you look at my work before you decide to hire me. And we need to talk about my fees.” Maybe they'd change their minds when they saw her place, and she could decide if she could work with them as well. Right, who was she kidding? She could hardly afford to be choosey.

“Really? We'd love to. To be honest, we've all been dying to see the inside of your place—Peter and I used to walk past almost every day when the contractors were there, trying to get a glimpse through the windows. No problem about fees.”

“I'll give you the grand tour. How about Saturday afternoon, about four? We can pretend we're civilized and have tea.”

“It's a date. Peter's gone weekdays and I teach art history at Loyola Monday-Wednesday-Friday, so Saturday's good. About four would be great.”

“Nika, before you go, do you know anything about these shootings?” Seraphy decided to cue Nika with an opening for gang-angst-producing remarks. “I have to admit I'm wondering what I've gotten myself into. Four shootings in a week? I've met a few people, but I'm having trouble getting any sense of a cohesive community. Can you tell me a little about the neighborhood?” She slid back on the couch and tucked her feet up.

“Four murders in a week is a record, even for us,” Nika sighed. “And I'm not sure you could even call this a community, more like a collection of human debris at the bottom of a sieve. Hold on while I get my coffee and I'll tell you what I know. I'm afraid it's not much.”

Seraphy heard her put the phone down, a door opened and shut, then Nika picked up the phone again.

“I'm back,” she said. “I don't know much about the murders, just what everybody says, that it was the Duques and the Lobos at it again, and that it was the same gun used for all the killings. Everybody's afraid there'll be a full-out gang war. There's a lot of rumors, I even heard you might have been the shooter, because Tito was killed at your place and because of your garage door.”

“Wasn't me, sorry. I thought about it when I saw the garage door, but I promised Mom I wouldn't shoot anybody this year. Besides, I wouldn't know who to shoot.”

She heard Nika laugh, just a quick yelp, and her voice took on that gossipy tone that means good stuff to come. “Better not, Seraphy. Peter's cousin works down at Eleventh and State—you know, police headquarters, and he says there's a federal task force working in our neighborhood—DEA, ATF and FBI together. Drugs, guns and God-knows-what. I suppose that should make us feel safer. You'd think we'd all know who they are if they're strangers, but nobody's said anything. Supposedly, they've got informants in both gangs.”

“So the shootings are definitely gang stuff?” Nice going, Nika. Moles in the gangs? That should raise the eavesdroppers’ blood pressure a few points. “You think the killings might be connected to the feds infiltrating the gangs? Shooting traitors?”

“Who knows? The trouble with the feds is they take forever to actually do anything, just infiltrate and collect evidence until they have enough to guarantee convictions. That's about the time the cows come home, I think. If they don't die of old age first. The FBI had Silver Shovel in process for years.”

“So we just have to muddle along while the Feebs dawdle?” Seraphy said. They wanted the gangs to sweat. Well, Chico would, but she suspected Mario was more sophisticated and might smell a rat.

“At least, once they take you, they take you. When they do pick guys up we never see them again,” said Nika.

“Wow. That sounds a little scary.”

“Only if you're their target. About your neighborhood question, I've been thinking about it while I rambled on. There are a lot of little powers and principalities here, different ethnic groups, degrees of legality, newcomers and old residents and so on. Sometimes it's hard at first to know where you fit in, but you know, things just seem to work out.”

“Sometimes I feel like the junior high girl with the wrong hair.”

“See? You fit in already,” Nika laughed. “Most of us were that girl, or guy, with the wrong hair. I suppose some folks end up here because they don't have anywhere else to go, like old Mr. Sanker across the street, and there's a strong Puerto Rican community. I suspect artists are attracted because here west of Western we're not one of those tight homogenous communities—like Skokie, for example, where everybody looks and acts alike. Or maybe it's just cheap to buy here, or we're too lazy to care. Indolence, indifference, or tolerance, take your pick.”

“Works for me. Indolent, indifferent, and tolerant? I can do that. In fact, maybe I should start practicing a little indolence now. Thanks, Nika. Until Saturday, then.”

“Saturday, we'll be there. As the Brits say, keep your pecker up.”

Later that night, Seraphy lay awake, thinking what it would mean to live in a neighborhood with no one standard of acceptable behavior. Confusing, maybe. But also . . . spacious?

Richard
woke her at dawn. “Rise and shine, Sweet Cheeks! Check out the alley.”

She dropped the phone and fumbled her way out of bed, stumbling to the window. Outside, the sun wasn't yet up and blue-white security lights lit the alley. Patrol cars blocked the intersections at both ends. Three blue and white patrol cars and three gray City of Chicago sedans were lined up behind the six-flat where she'd witnessed the drug deal. A red fire department sedan joined them. Several men and one woman with clipboards conferred in the alley, then headed for the six-flat. Uniformed officers watched them go. Damn, she couldn't see past the next-door garage.

“Richard, I can't see over the garage roof. What's going on?” She sifted her cell phone from hand to hand as she pulled on a sweater and jeans.

“What we have here is a bona fide raid. Get your ass up to your roof before you miss the show. Great view from up here.”

When she reached the roof, nothing exciting seemed to be happening. The clipboard group had assembled in the building's back yard, waiting for a signal to proceed. Richard waved from the roof kitty-corner to hers, and went back to watching the action through a tiny pair of opera glasses. Good idea. She ran down to the boxes in the closet and ripped them open to get her old binoculars. Glancing out the window at bare limbs tossing in the breeze, she snared a jacket on her way back to the roof.

The sun was barely up now and the alley lights snapped off as she reached the roof. Uniformed police had climbed up on the porches and were knocking on doors. Her cell rang as she watched a door crack open, cops thread papers through the crack, then push their way inside.

“Did you see that?” said Richard, his phone glued to his ear. “I think those are warrants—but I'm not sure. They don't really need ‘em if that's the special task force. Yeah, look, here they come.”

Half-dressed people were filing out onto the porches, mostly men but three women and several young children. Patrolmen on the stairs directed them downstairs, where they milled around as more cops watched. When all were down, the residents were herded into a group at the edge of the yard. One of the men looked up and pointed her out to his companion.

“What's going on?” she asked Richard.

“I think—yeah, it's Mayor Daley's special task force. Fire, health, immigration and building department inspectors, no cops except as escorts. Inspectors can go into any building without warrants if they have reason to think there's a threat to the well-being of others. Somebody must have made a complaint or something. Did you see the guy pointing to us? I hope they don't think it was us. There they go.”

Richard sounded like he was lecturing, and she realized that might just be the case. He wasn't only speaking for her—she remembered the gangs were probably listening in—maybe they'd learn something.

“It's not just the guys with clipboards, there are cops.”

“Yeah, to protect the task force, among other things.”

The clipboard-bearers didn't look very intimidating, more like desk jockeys, and what action there was was in slow motion.

“It doesn't look very exciting.”

“CBM time, City Bureaucrat Motion,” said Richard. Inspectors wandered in and out of the apartments for another half hour, then activity tapered off. The sun was up, but a steady breeze made it cold on the roof and Seraphy was considering running down for a heavier coat, when the last inspector came down to join his cohorts in the yard. The tenants began filing back into their apartments.

“Pretty boring, actually,” Richard said as the last patrol car left. “I was hoping for a fight, or they'd at least haul somebody off in chains. We might as well go inside. I'm freezing.”

“Me, too,” she said as she closed the roof hatch behind her and ran downstairs to the loft. “What happens next?”

“You come over for breakfast and we stuff our faces and toast our tootsies in front of the fireplace. A post-mortem with suitable refreshments.”

“I can do that, on my way, keep talking.”

“The inspectors go back to their offices and write up reports, violations work their way through the bureaucracy downtown and the building owner ends up with a shitload of notices—rats, roaches, health violations, electrical violations, fire department regs, and pretty much everything the building department can think of.”

“That's not very scary.” Seraphy pulled the front door closed behind her.

“You're not the owner. The owner soon finds out it's very, very costly to own a building with drug dealers in residence, and he could be tried as an accessory if an inspector ‘accidentally’ discovers drugs on the premises. Said owner can either evict the problem tenants, and in this case I think that's all the tenants, or he can sell the building and let the new owners evict them.”

“But what if he just pays the fines and corrects the violations? They've got an established business going there.”

Richard was waiting for her at the side gate. “The task force comes back again. This is Chicago, they can always find something. Besides, having inspectors and their cop escorts hanging around's bad for business.” He turned off his phone as soon as she was close enough to hear, stashing it in his pocket, and grinned. “That'll give the bastards listening in something to think about.”

“Works for me.” They exchanged grins.

“I didn't want to say it on the phone, but I suspect that bunch is affiliated with the FALN. I wonder why the task force raided now,” Richard said. “They must have had some reason to think they'd find drugs there.”

Seraphy remembered the alley videos she'd dropped off at Wood Street. “You think?”

“Shhh. Andre's still asleep,” Richard said at the top of the steps. “and I'm starving.”

“Me, too.” She followed him into the kitchen.

“Omelet or French toast?” Richard asked from the depths of the refrigerator. “I can do brilliant things with feta and spinach and Andre's left some pomegranate preserves.”

“Both? I'll do the coffee.”

Bronko
was waiting at her front door when she returned home, his cigarette nearly smoked through. He looked at her lightning-struck hair and the inside-out sweater she'd thrown on when Richard called.

“I paint. One hour done.”

She nodded and ran upstairs to change. She had to get ready for Andre's cooking lesson at seven.

Struggling
up the stairs into Andre's kitchen ten minutes late, she found Andre aproned and ready and Richard already back in bed.

“Take a deep breath, little one, sit and get your strength up. You shouldn't spoil Richard when he makes like he's a rooster, popping up at dawn. How retro. You look like hell. You need sustenance.” He pointed to a pyramid of cinnamon rolls, two plates and two cups of latte waiting on the kitchen counter.

“Did Richard tell you about the raid?” Seraphy luxuriated in anticipation of cinnamon rolls, coffee and Andre's smile as she got comfortable at the counter. Her second breakfast today, she'd have to get new jeans if she kept this up.

“He told me, but today we have no time for such trifles,” Andre said, brushing said trifles from his awareness. “Today we cook.” She bit into her roll and shivered. Cinnamon, sugar, butter. Heaven. She'd be a blimp by Christmas.

“Can I bring a blanket and move in?”

Andre clapped his hands. “Eat quickly, we have much to do and I have a rehearsal this afternoon.”