Chicago Stories: West of Western (30 page)

“You're kidding!” Eleanor's hand jerked, spilling half a glass of Chianti over the remains of the pizza. She ignored the spill, Tony threw napkins over the evidence. “Seriously? Do you know how much he gets for a painting? You did say yes, I hope?”

“I had no idea who he was or I wouldn't have suggested it. And his work is . . . I can't think how to describe it.”

“I remember.”

“I don't understand. He doesn't seem to have much money, that's why I offered to trade. I thought I was being nice. And I really do like his work.”

“She really likes his work,” said Max, his voice dry. “Think of that.”

Seraphy felt like an idiot. How could she face Dom again?

“She really likes his work,” Max repeated, and collapsed chortling. “She'd be willing to trade.” Seraphy shrank back into the cushions, wishing she could disappear. Even her mother was laughing.“I don't believe it,” Max gasped when he could talk.

“Max, be nice. Believe it,” said Eleanor. “And stop picking on Fee. All that business with the mayor was before she came back, and since then Dom's kept a very low profile.”

“Dom's a very private man,” said Andre, leaning to speak in Seraphy's ear. “Richard and I've known him for years, ever since he moved to our neighborhood, and we have become good friends. Even so, we have never managed to acquire one of his paintings.”

“But you've seen his work?” Seraphy asked.

Andre nodded. “At his studio, yes.”

“Andre,” said Richard, “Maybe you could offer—”

“He's notorious, Fee,” Max cut him off. “A brilliant painter, but I know for a fact two galleries on Michigan Avenue dropped him because he refused to let them sell his work to people of whom he didn't approve. And he can be very, um, very direct.”

“I can understand that.”

“We're talking tens of thousands of dollars, Fee. If Dom would sell his work to whomever wanted to buy, he'd be rolling. Dom's not about money.” Eleanor looked at her daughter, her eyes thoughtful. “He must like you.”

Seraphy kept her eyes on the pizza crumbs she was lining up on her plate. “Money's not that important to me, either.”

“Well, some of us can't afford such purity,” Max said, his words light, his look steely gray and dead serious. “Do you intend coming back to work anytime soon, Seraphy, or can't you fit Jerrod & Etwin into your busy schedule? You do remember work? What one does to keep the wolf from the door?”

“Eight o'clock Monday, as usual. I'm doing Nika and Dom's drawings on my own time.”

So Max didn't like her taking on side jobs. Maybe she should plead overwork and get out of facing Dom again, ever. Maybe send him a note explaining that she hadn't realized that taking a painting of his for such a small job would be unfair, along with a list of architects who'd be thrilled to work with him.

A landscape bloomed in her memory, drowning her in lush green and cobalt blue and gold. Dom's Humboldt Park Lagoon: the remembered image sent a tingle down her spine. Give that up? Like hell she would. Embarrassment was an insignificant price for a piece of Eden.

“Of course you will.” Max was looking at her and nodding.

“Will?” What were they talking about before she was distracted? “Will what?”

“Will be at work Monday morning.”

Andre moved restlessly and cleared his throat, rather like a lion summoning his pride. “Tony, just for tonight, would you let me join your group in one of those troubadour pieces?”

Things
went longer than intended and everyone was sated with music and pizza, beer and conversation when at last the party broke up just before three am.

The evening's spell shattered when two fire trucks roared past Seraphy's Jeep at Division, followed by three police cars.

“Busy for a weeknight,” said Richard from the back seat. “Our local firebugs must have been out again.”

“I smell smoke.” Andre had rolled down his window. “Not wood smoke this time, something else.” The stench grew as they turned onto Rockwell. A sharp smell, burning hydrocarbons? Plastic, metal?

“Oh, shit.” As they neared their corner, Richard leaned forward, peering between the two in the front seat.“It's a message for you, I think, Seraphy. At least, it's in front of your place.” They pulled up next to the wreckage. Seraphy got out to investigate, Andre and Richard close behind, leaving the Jeep in the middle of the street. Andre took a breath and coughed.

“I'm going home, Richard. Smoke, bad for my throat,” he said, and broke into a lumbering run. Richard pulled out a handkerchief and covered his nose.

A charred metal skeleton in shades of gray and black, the remains of a car, slumped in front of Seraphy's building, reminding her how George said fire could serve both as witness to anger and destruction past and a threat for tomorrow. Wisps of smoke lingered in the air around the wreck, making their eyes water.

“So is this supposed threaten me? It's not like it's even my car. I don't get it.”

“How sad. Such destruction,” said Richard, his voice bleak. He pulled his collar up around his face. “Another failure of the imagination.”

“A what?” Seraphy glanced around the empty street, the night scene rendered in shades of charcoal, the air bitter on her tongue.

“Someone recently called this kind of wanton destruction a failure of the imagination,” he said, rocking on his feet as he searched the street for signs of company. “By those who can think of nothing more dramatic, more frightening than burning something down, so that's what they do. Their most precious possession is often a car, so it's usually a car. Your car, or any car, your garage. Or Nika's garage.”

That's . . .” Seraphy was glad she didn't have a free-standing garage and that her building was brick.

“Simplistic? I thought so too, when I first heard it. But look around and you'll know it's true.” He gestured at the graffiti-covered buildings, the burned-out car. “Suburban kids wouldn't do this; they have other ways to mess up. They flunk trig or write scatological essays in English or hack into the school's records, or somebody else's records, or have wild parties when their parents are out of town and post videos on YouTube. These kids don't have those resources, or that kind of imagination. They live in smaller worlds. All they know is to destroy.”

Destruction, she thought. That's what they know. Broken windows, defaced garage doors, dead gang members, garages, it was all about destruction. She lived in a different world, a world of makers: Nika, Dom, Tony and his friends, even Max, sustaining themselves through imagination.

“I'm
sorry to wake you so early,” said her mother's voice when Seraphy scrambled her way across the bed to her cell phone way too early the next morning, “but I have to pick up my visas downtown at nine and I wanted to say goodbye. I wasn't sure you'd be home later.”

“Mom? Hello?” Seraphy fumbled her watch from the pocket of last-night's jeans, but it had stopped sometime during the night. “Mom? Give me a minute.” Visas. Right, visas. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. What visas? She picked up the phone. “What visas? You didn't say anything about visas last night. What do you mean, good-bye?”

“I'm going to visit your great-aunt Sophia outside Florence, and I'm leaving this afternoon. I thought while I was there, I'd travel around a bit. You know, Prague and so on. And Turkey, for the Early Christian basilicas. So I'm getting visas. Sorry to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

“I'm awake now. This came up when?”

“Sorry, I forgot. Your aunt Maria called me at dawn this morning. Well, it was actually afternoon for her. Anyway, she called to tell me that Sophia's fading, no surprise at ninety-seven, but still. And she wants to see me, something about some things she wants to go to your brothers from the family. Maria said to come now, as soon as possible. Who knows how long Sophia has?”

“Uh-huh. Great-aunt Sophia.” Seraphy yawned. “But she lives in Italy.” Sophia had been enjoying the brink of death for as long as Seraphy could remember. Someday she'd actually die and everyone would be shocked. “And you just finished your book and deserve a holiday. I get it.” Seraphy yawned again, pushed herself up and looked at the clock next to her bed. Eight-thirty.

“That, too. I thought maybe I'd rent a little place in the country, do some research for my next book to make the whole trip deductible, and be nearby so I can visit Sophia.”

“And hide out where your agent can't reach you for a while?”

Eleanor laughed. “Well, you know how unreliable phones can be out in the sticks.”

“I wish I could join you.”

“Maybe later, for Thanksgiving or Christmas? I'll call Tony and the others. We could have a house party at Christmas?”

“I wish, but I suspect Max'll have me slaving like a dog for a while.”

“Good point, Fee. Maybe I can talk to him. Or maybe we should invite him, as well. Listen, I meant to remind you last night to call Bennie and I forgot. I talked to her a couple of days ago to warn her you'd be calling and mentioned you were living next door to Sister Ann. Bennie wouldn't say much on the phone, but did say there were things you should know. So call her, okay?”

“Yes, Mom. I love you. Have a great trip. Call me when you get there, okay?”

Call Aunt Bennie? Seraphy had planned to forget. Now Bennie was expecting the call. Shit.

The
usual three Lobos on the corner had company this morning. Five hooded figures slouched against the car. Seraphy stopped at the door to watch the group try to keep warm in their stupid hoodies, jiving and shuffling, boom box blaring, oversized jeans flapping in the late November wind. Boredom showed in every gesture, every dull face. Walking illustrations of Richard's failure of the imagination.

Suddenly a hood came up and the others followed, focusing on the two Duques across the street. The Duques, strangers to her, pranced and strutted like peacocks, heads up, black and red colors flashing, dissing the Lobos with every step. Intrigued, she forgot her coffee as she watched the Duques mime contempt as neatly as any Actor's Workshop graduate. It's west of Western improv, she thought, Diego and Rex should be here for this.

The Lobos watched and fumed. Outclassed in the contempt show, they seemed at a loss for the right moves with which to respond. Finally the smallest one took off west on Cortez. Reporting back to Chico for instructions, no doubt.

Markowicz's unmarked but recognizable-to-all car crept down Rockwell, cutting through the staring contest like a hot knife through butter, stopping in front of Seraphy's building. The four remaining Lobos squeezed under the hood of their car and watched the Duques stroll away east on Cortez.

“Welcome, Detectives,” she said when they reached the doorway. “You broke up an interesting show. I thought we'd have a cockfight any minute.”

“A guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do,” said Terreno as they followed her up the stairs.

“That car Chico torched out front last night,” Marko, at the top of the stairs, pointed towards the street. “You know anything about that?”

“Nope. We thought it might be Chico. I was at my brother's last night and it was after three when I got home. It was all over by then. We passed the fire trucks on Western and patrol cars on Division, but nothing was happening here. I could smell the fire was all.”

Seraphy started the espresso machine burbling and joined the detectives at the table.

“When's the city going to get it out of here? Or do the cops want it?”

Terreno paged through his notebook, gave up and tossed it on the table. “Arson'll pick it up this morning, they've been working over here all week. Shit. I don't like this. Six garage fires in a week, now this.”

“You're sure it's the same guys?”

“Yes and no. Maybe the FALN’s behind the garage fires, or not them, exactly,” said Terreno. “Or not only. Think of it like one of those Greek pastries with all the layers of filo and nuts and honey all rolled up together. Take the Puerto Ricans here: there's the old political FALN guys, the big drug traffickers like the Latin Kings, who support the FALN, these little local gangs, and individual criminals, all interleaved with decent families who are just trying to raise their kids and pay their bills. If you cut through the roll, you'll see all the layers. A lot of times a single family has uncles and cousins who belong to different groups and they all protect each other.

“Then there's the legal Mexicans like George's family, and Ukies and Poles, the illegal Mexicans and Ukies and Poles, you artist types, old folks who've lived here for fifty years, and so on. Nobody's just one thing and nothing's ever clear.”

“These gangs,” Seraphy pointed out the window, “these guys out here are local, Lobos and Duques, right? You both want cappuccino?” Both detectives nodded and she poured espresso through the white foam and watched it float to the top of the mugs.

“You got some sugar for that? Thanks,” Marko said, stirring. “Yeah. It looks like this fire crap is just local gangs. Actually, we think it's just Chico and the Lobos. He's outta control, trying to start something. I dunno what exactly, he's getting pushed along by the FALN guys, we know the FALN gave the Lobos the MAC-10’s. Thing is, what set everybody off this time was Tito getting shot on Lobos territory. I figure Chico's real pissed about that because he doesn't know who did it. So he thinks real hard with both his brain cells and decides the Duques done it themselves and dumped Tito over here to lay the blame on his innocent Lobos.”

“Excuse me, innocent Lobos? Are there such animals?”

Terreno was up, standing at the window with his coffee. “Then there's three Lobos shot, and now Chico's looking for revenge. Lots of theories, take your pick. I don't know, something doesn't feel right.”

“It's like somebody's pushing things along,” agreed Marko. “And there's all this other stuff that happened since you moved over here.”

“Mario Morales doesn't want the Duques to go to war.” Seraphy spooned her foam up and licked the spoon.

“Say what?”

“Who told you that?” The detectives glared at her with attack dog faces.

“Mario told me. He was trying to find a way to see his sister, who's staying with Sister Ann.” She had their attention now.