Chicago Stories: West of Western (26 page)

“The cops were on the way.”

“Not soon enough,” she snapped. “What if they kicked Sister Ann in the head again and she died while I stood there like a bimbo? What the fucking hell would you say then? You didn't even come out of the house.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Richard was her friend. Whoa.

“Sorry,” she said, too late. She could hear him breathing into the phone.

“And just what the fuck would you expect me to say when they sliced and diced you?” Richard hissed. “Maybe I'd be sad for Sister Ann, but we care about you, asshole.”

“Oh.” She had to think about that. Richard mumbled something.“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘fucking bitch,’ but not to you, it's this fucking rice. It's trying to fucking burn again. Look, I'm going to have to hang the fucking phone up and concentrate on this crap. Let me call you back, okay?”

“Richard?”
she grabbed the phone on the first ring, “Can you talk now?”

“It's George Rodriguez, sorry to disappoint. Richard who?”

“George, how are you? I was talking to Richard and he had to hang up, some risotto crisis next door.” She needed a friendly voice about now. Maybe she'd keep George talking. She switched off Anderson Cooper so she could concentrate.

“No problem. You sound upset. I'll call another time.”

“No! I mean, no, he'll call me whenever he gets around to it. He just wanted to know about all the fuss this afternoon.”

“If you're sure. Well, of course. You wouldn't want to come between a man and his risotto, would you?”

“Never, much too uncomfortable. Nasty gooey stuff anyway. I'm glad you called. I've been thinking about this Sister Ann thing and feeling mad and a little vulnerable.” Good thing he didn‘t know how vulnerable. “How do you-all stand living with this crap?”

“It's like living with poison ivy,” George didn't sound bothered by the afternoon's adventures. “I grew up here. I don't notice the gangs much anymore. It'd be different if I had kids, I guess.”

“Hard for me not to notice, since they painted a dead naked woman bleeding all over my garage door and all. Not to mention all the bullets from the drive-bys I have to pick up in the morning. Dead folks on my doorstep. And then, of course, Chico tried to beat my neighbor to death this afternoon.”

“Yeah, I can see how that could be a downer if you're not used to it. Uh, listen, you want to do breakfast tomorrow? Uncle Oscar's? I'd come over now, but I'm still on duty.”

“What time? Uncle Oscar's?”

“It's a date. Anywhere you want. I'll pick you up after I get off, about a quarter after seven,” he said and hung up.

A date? Seraphy didn't want a date date, just some company. She hadn't had a date in ten years. Spur of the moment sex with buddies in the Middle East didn't count. Shit. She'd reached out for company without thinking, now look what happened. Hell, don't panic, she told herself, you can always just say no. Seraphy put the phone down and frowned at her freezing fingers.

Anderson Cooper had just signed off when she remembered tomorrow was garbage day and ran down to roll the container out to the alley. Something rattled when she opened the door and she thought she heard footsteps, but her video camera showed no one near. When she checked again after leaving the toter on its pad, nothing moved but the curtains in the windows across the way.

Chapter 23

Seraphy rolled over
and pushed herself upright. Gray light and a cold breeze from an open window, her pillow wet and cold, gummy mascara residue. Damn it to hell, she'd been crying in her sleep. Old memories resurfaced, like picking at a sore. She stumbled to the bathroom, showered away the remains of the night and swallowed two yellow Chlortrimeton capsules and three aspirins to complete the job. Considering getting dressed for work, she remembered. George. Date. Breakfast. Oh shit, no. Not today.

Too late. George. Breakfast. Now. She had to get dressed, wanting nothing more than to crawl back under the covers. Move. Now. Back to the bedroom, navy corduroy pants, green silk turtleneck, a quick swipe with a brush, a little lipstick. She swatted at her hair with a brush. Herringbone blazer and a last critical look at her image in the bathroom mirror, trying to convince herself George was a nice man, and a hunk, she'd be glad she went. Puffiness around her eyes had subsided, along with the headache and a good part of her brain. Still a little pale, maybe. Give the nice man a chance. Blue bags under her eyes bring out the color of your eyes. Forget the hair. Okay, a little mascara. Good to go.

“Hope
you're hungry,” said George when she opened the door, “‘cause I could eat a horse.” His usual natty blue paramedic uniform looked like he'd worn it a week and he reeked of smoke.

“Uncle Oscar's serves horse?”

“No, smartass.” He looked her up and down. “Nice. Good colors. Wild hair.”

“Thanks.” Seraphy ran her hands through her hair and shrugged. Maybe she had dried it a little too long. She returned his look. Look who's talking.

“You, on the other hand, look like you've been run over by a bus. And smell like the fifth of July.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that, nasty night last night,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “You know that convalescent home near the hospital? Three o'clock we got called. Blazing like a son of a bitch. Got a lot of the old folks out, smoke inhalation mostly, some burns. Not all of them made it.” He looked away. “I don't want to talk about it, okay?”

That explained the shadows around his eyes, the lines she'd not noticed before. George looked ten years older than he had a couple days ago.

“Maybe we should do this some other time? You look like you could use some sleep, and I have to be at work by nine.” Besides, the Chlortrimeton and aspirin had clicked in and now all she wanted to do was crawl in a den and hibernate.

“What I really need's a friendly face across a mountain of nice unhealthy fat, maybe eggs and sausage and pancakes with butter,” he said, “Lots of butter, and syrup. And whipped cream. Soul food.”

“Lead me to it.”

At Uncle Oscar's, a waitress whose name tag said ‘Call me Betty’ waved them toward an empty corner table and had coffee waiting and her notepad ready by the time they were settled. George slumped in his chair with his back against the wall and without asking, held up two fingers, pointing to the menu to order both meals, then appeared to drift off to sleep before Seraphy could read through the listings.

Rejuvenating aromas of bacon, toast and cinnamon hovered over the tables, chairs scraped, knives and forks clattered, friends joked and gossiped. Warm in the diner, Seraphy slipped out of her blazer and fell back in her chair. She, too, was half-asleep when Betty plopped heaping platters down in front of them.

“Musta been some night. You two look like you need another pot of coffee. Cups okay or you need a funnel?”

Seraphy matched George bite for bite and cup for cup, then sighed as the busboy cleared the table.

“I don't believe I saw you eat all that,” George said when Betty was gone and they were sitting over a last cup of coffee.

“I'm like a snake.” Seraphy patted her stomach. “Now I won't have to eat the rest of the day.” Warm and fed but still slightly sleepy, she contemplated the cup before her. “Just what I needed. Thanks, George.”

“
De nada
. I like a woman with a healthy appetite.” George propped his head on his hand and gazed across the little table. A faint prickle ran down her back. Time to change the subject before things went where she didn't want to go.

“What happened with Sister Ann at the ER? That boot print looked like it was coming up even before you left, any jury would love it. Did they get pictures?” Seraphy cupped her cappuccino in both hands, sipped at the foam.

“Yeah,” he said, frowning a little and looking across the diner. “I think you got to her when you accused her of being selfish. She didn't even try to bite the nice doctor.”

“You should be grateful you don't have to live next door to her.”

“Absolutely. But I'll tell you, I'm starting to worry a bit about the damned Lobos,” he said, arranging condiment packets by color and size. “I hear Chico's wanting to take a higher profile, baiting the Duques again.”

“I thought you didn't pay any attention to the gangs.”

“This is different. Something's wrong, I can feel it.”

“Wrong? You mean more wrong than four dead bodies in less than two weeks?”

“That's not what I meant.”

“It's hard for me to know what's normal here, but when I went out yesterday everything felt edgy, reminded me of a war zone. You know, people walking too fast, animals and kids kept under cover. I kept feeling I was being watched. Like that?”

“Like that.” He shrugged. “Mom says her customers are keeping their kids in—keeping them close, even bringing them to the shop while they get perms. The kids are antsy, the moms, too. It's driving her nuts. They're all waiting for the shooting to start.”

“Yeah. Yesterday morning I met Jaime—you know, from the bodega—over at the lagoon feeding the critters. He said the same thing, more or less, he's depressed as hell. He thinks there's going to be a war, told me to get off the street.”

“Yeah. I just hope the assholes don't start burning things down again. You probably should stay out of the park, at least until all this blows over.” He brushed crumbs away and dumped the sweetener packets in the cleared space, keeping his eyes on the table.

“Jaime said something about the Lobos burning buildings to clear lots on Rockwell,” she said and leaned back in her chair. “Did they really do that? Serial arson?”

“Well, everybody knows they did, although nobody ever got put away for it. They needed some open space to meet, or to fight, and Chico always liked fires. Usually Lobos just burn a car in front of somebody's house as a warning, maybe burn down their garage.”

“That's really smart. Everybody's got insurance.”

“Not here, most folks here can't afford insurance. Fires are exciting, make the firebug feel powerful. That and guns, the bigger the better. It's all about power.”

“Can't the cops do something?”

“Like what?” George glanced up, raising his eyebrows.

“Like find out who killed Tito and Cholo, Hector and Juan. Like catch the firebugs. Confiscate the guns.” Duh.

“Uh, well . . .” George finished sorting sweetener packets into alternating colors, and began arranging knives and forks to form a fence around them. “It might not have been one of the Lobos who shot Tito,” he said finally. “
Everybody
hated that little piece of crap. Could have been, um, maybe somebody decided to clean up the neighborhood. I don't think anybody cares he's dead. A dozen guys wanted Tito dead for all kinds of reasons. Including El Duque.”

“Like who?”

George's hand jerked, knocking forks and knives across the small table. “Lots of people—forget I said that.”

“Said what, George?”

“Nothing. I've got a big mouth this morning.”

“What nothing?”

“Just something from a long time ago, after the fires along Rockwell. Some local guys thought the gangs needed a lesson. You ever notice Chico favors his left knee?”

“Nobody thought of talking to the cops? An arson rap would have put him away.”

“You don't understand. We don't call cops.”

“We? You including yourself there? With bunch of half-cocked vigilantes?” She stared at his uniform.

“It was a long time ago. I was still in school.”

“Right. At least what? Five years ago? Ten? Tell me more about these ‘guys.’”

George shook his head, frowning. “Excuse me while I pry my foot out of my mouth. That has nothing to do with what's happening now. I don't know what made me think—or rather, I do. Tito. Tito deserved to die, and nobody seemed to be doing anything to stop him. But,” he shook his head again and looked up, “Cholo and Juan and Hector, that's different. Not that they were so popular. Dumb as rocks, they just did whatever Chico told them to do. IQs less than their waist measurements. Stooges.”

“What were you going to say about El Duque before?” Seraphy wasn't so sure Cholo wasn't vicious. George hadn't been there in the alley when he pulled the knife.

“Mario's no friend of mine, but I can't see him ordering a hit on anybody,” George said, happy to abandon the vigilante question. “He's smarter than that. I could see him strangling Tito because of his sister, or maybe because Tito was a danger to the Duques. That almost makes sense. But not going after three Lobos and starting a war.”

“Marko says it was the same gun that killed all of them,” said Seraphy. “Who'd kill all four? And execution style, what's that all about? What does Terreno say?”

George shrugged. “Not much to me.”

Seraphy stretched and yawned. “Is Chico vicious enough to kill his own men?”

“Maybe, if he thought he could lay the blame on the Duques.”

“And a vigilante?” she suggested. George shook his head and she continued, grinning, “Jaime said there's a rumor I did it, and Chico called me a
bruja
.”

“I like that,” George laughed. “Right. A witch, huh? You're probably planning to bring in your own coven and take over the neighborhood. I'm soo scared.” He began to put the sweetener packets back in their container.

“George, what do you know about Mischa? The night I met him in the park, he said some things about taking care of the gangs himself.”

“Mischa Dankovich?” George straightened up fast and leaned over the table. “What the hell were you doing in the park at night with Dankovich?”

Whoa.

“None of your business.” Seraphy sat up and glared, her eyes narrowing to slits.

“You don't know what you're dealing with there. Stay away from that man.” His eyes still on the table, George didn't realize he was in trouble.

“Excuse me?” She sat up even straighter. After four brothers and ten years surrounded by testosterone-laden men, she had no patience with this kind of crap.“‘Stay away from that man?’ What makes you think you can tell me what to do? Or who to do it with? What—”

“Hey, cool it,” he interrupted her, hands up, palms out. “I'm not—well, I guess I was. Sorry about that.” Pausing to take a deep breath, he said, “I wasn't thinking. It's just a reflex. Sisters, you know, three of them. I don't mean to presume. I'm just used to watching over girls.”