Chicago Stories: West of Western (32 page)

“Don't,” she said and swallowed against the ache, seeking anger to distract her from the grief. “Don't lecture me, Mario, please. I don't want to cry any more, not here on the street.” She blinked fast, her tears turning to ice as they ran down her cheeks, and bit the corners of her mouth until stopped by the taste of blood.

“It's all right. There's nobody to see. Besides, it's a sick joke at St. Mark's, so many of us have sat here and cried.” His voice was heavy with shared pain. “Huh. This bench is cursed.”

“I'm beginning to think I'm the curse. All this killing started since I came here.”

“Not really,” he said, “it's been going on all my life, maybe before that. Sometimes it stops, but—” he shrugged, “gangs kill each other. It's what they do. What we do.” She heard the edge of anger and despair layered with sadness in his voice.

“As if we didn't have anything else to do,” he said. “It's stupid. Just fucking stupid. I thought I could change it all if I came back, change it even just a little. Get us away from the drugs, if nothing else.” He looked at her with dark, too-old eyes and she saw steel beneath the sadness. “Get this right, Seraphy, we Duques are a gang—grand theft auto, burglary, a little protection, all that, and our guns aren't just decoration. That's not going to change any time soon. You must know the kind of things I did to become El Duque. I did, me. I'd been away, gone to college, worked in an office in the Loop. I knew what's out there if we'd just stop being stupid I even thought—” He shrugged. “But I failed. Look where we are.”

“‘A failure of the imagination,’” she said.

“What?”

“It's something Richard said. That gangs do stupid things because they lack the imagination to come up with anything better.” She pushed thoughts of Joe away, glad to think of something, anything else. “Not you, Mario. I was looking for you. What's going on? Can't you stop the Duques? Markowicz says the Lobos think you had their guys executed and Chico's crazy for revenge.”

“That's not true. I didn't, and I just wish I knew who killed Tito and the Lobos.” Mario rose and circled the bench, his face working, his head deep in concerns he could not share with her. Finally he came back to the bench and sat down. When she glanced over at him, his eyes burned with anger.“I was looking for Tito myself and it was just damned luck I didn't find the sick bastard before someone else did. If I'd found him, he wouldn't have been so pretty when I got done.” His teeth flashed in the afternoon sunlight. “I've been trying to find out who got there first, and you know what? Nobody knows anything. You know how strange that is?”

“Nobody around here ever knows anything.” Her voice sounded cynical, discouraged, even to her.

“No, that's not right. They don't tell you white people. Or cops. But me, I hear everything.
Everything.
I knew when your garage was painted, who torched your friend's garage, where the burning car came from. Believe me, nobody knows anything about the shootings. If I knew, and it wasn't Chico or his guys, maybe I could stop this thing. Maybe. But the way it is, the Duques will have to fight.”

“If we could find out who killed the Lobos and it wasn't a Duque, would Chico call his guys off?”

“I doubt it,” he shrugged. “but they might not follow him then. Chico's not like me. He's a sociopath—did you ever see a dog that's got rabies? He hates me, wants to take over our territory, and he's been looking for a war for a while. Any excuse will do. Shit, Chico would have shot Tito himself if he caught him on the wrong side of the street, but not like that, so neat, not one shot behind the ear with a little pea-shooter. Chico likes a splash, likes to spray bullets around, smash windows, lots of blood.”

“Somebody tried to shoot up my windows a couple of times. Sounded like machine pistols.”

Mario nodded. “MAC-10s. Chico and his guys. One way or another, he's going to start a war. He doesn't care why, just wants to kill us Duques. Or anybody. He's been getting money, and guns, from the fucking FALN to keep everybody riled up. They're afraid of people like you. They figure if the neighborhood's got a bad rep, you people will be afraid to move in.” Mario's knee jerked spasmodically, his foot tapping the pavement.

Right, she thought. “You people.” Us and Them. As bad as the Balkans.

“The FALN?”

“Yeah, bunch of old has-beens—or never-weres—stirring up trouble because that's all they're good for.”

There it was again, the tie-in between the FALN and the attacks on her building, but she couldn't see a direct connection to the killings. Killing four gang bangers execution-style didn't fit with the property crimes, or with an organization that had always been more show than competence. The FALN would have called a news conference over the bodies. Broken windows, her vandalized garage door, the burned-out car, Nika's garage fire, even bullets shot at bullet-proof windows, were more their kind of petty harassment. The killings were professional. Something was bothering her about that, something she almost recognized. She watched leaves flow and eddy across the concrete squares of the plaza, her hands and feet gradually growing colder in the waning light. Maybe she'd remember if she didn't try.

“Okay. Changing the subject here,” she said. “I saw you in your monk outfit with Brother Edwin.”

“You like the look? Maybe I'll start a new thing. The El Duque Order. Get the Duques some of those robes.” Mario managed a small smile that disappeared as fast as it came. “Brother Edwin let me see Maria when Sister Ann was out. Jesus. I thought I was ready, but had no idea what it meant to have AIDS like that.” He stopped and looked at Seraphy, his eyes narrowed and blazing, his lips white. “That smell. I saw how skinny she was, her arms like sticks. And pregnant. I felt so helpless. I threw up, right there. If I had Tito at that moment, I would have ripped his head off with my bare hands.”

She could feel heat radiate from his body, fueled by his anger. He looked away, fighting to gain control of his emotions. “I felt that way, too,” she said.

He turned to her again.“Edwin told me you stayed that day and took care of Maria. I don't know if I could have done that.”

“There wasn't anyone else. I had no choice.”

“Still. I sat there watching her sleep, and I was planning to kill Tito, and her father, too, as soon as she died. Then I remembered Tito was already dead, and I felt cheated.” The words were almost whispered, soft, deadly clear. Then he sighed and shrugged. “Someone else did that, killed Tito. The other one, her father—Brother Edwin talked to me, a lot, while we sat with Maria. He said it would be better if the police get him.” Mario smiled, a predator's smile. “I'll make sure that happens. It's not so good in County for those who mess with little girls. He might not even make it to his trial.”

“Maria has good care, now, with Brother Edwin there.”

“Yes,” he said and his face lightened a little.“St. Luke's has a special tea Brother Edwin makes for her and she sleeps a lot. He keeps her clean, she feels no pain, and she sleeps. That's all there is now.” Mario paused. “She'll die soon. The baby's dead already.”

“I'm sorry.”

“She'll be unconscious at the end and Brother Edwin said she should die in a hospital so there won't be any trouble for Sister Ann. He'll call me. I'm going with her.” Mario hid his head in his hands.

Seraphy held him as he wept.

Chapter 28

When the tears
finally stopped, Seraphy was exhausted but at peace. Mario would remain in the plaza, but she needed to go, embarrassed at having revealed so much of herself.

“I've got to pick up some groceries if I intend to eat,” she said as she stood.

“I understand,” Mario smiled. “Be careful. My men won't harm you, but I can't say the same for the Lobos.”

After picking up a half-gallon of milk, butter, eggs, and garlicky sausage at a Ukrainian deli on Western, Seraphy headed home, avoiding Mario by cutting through the alley between Cortez and Augusta. Approaching Rockwell, she spied Mischa further down the alley, climbing out of a large panel truck stopped behind a garage a few yards past hers. When he saw her he waved, stopped to shout something unintelligible to three men waiting to unload the truck, then came to intercept her at the corner.

“Good morning,” he called as he neared. Something was wrong. As Mischa approached, his face contorted as if in pain. Fumbling inside his jacket, he pulled out a bloody hand and zipped it up again.

“Hi, Mischa, good morning to you, too.” Seraphy changed her heavy grocery bag from one hand to the other. “What's wrong with your hand?”

“Nothing. Little cut.” He paused, frowning, as if trying to make up his mind about something. “You go home now? Is not good be out.” He shook his hand, then wiped the blood off on his jeans. Seraphy watched the front of his jacket, which looked as if he was harboring a nest of snakes. What the hell did he have in there?

Ignoring his animated jacket, she stepped to one side of the big man so she could see past him into the truck. Lumber, appliance crates, lighting fixtures, plumbing fixtures, it looked like a miniature Home Depot. Electrical outlets, coils of wire. Boxes of ceramic tile, power tools. Mischa moved to block her view.

“Yeah, I saw the Lobos and Duques,” she said, taking another side-step. Mischa moved with her step for step, keeping her view blocked.

“Is stupid,” he said, his esses hissed, his voice heavy with contempt. “They kill each other, I say good. But they not shoot good, kill you, me, kids. Go inside. I walk with you.” He shifted his weight uneasily and touched the front of his jacket, which was moving again.

“Mischa, what the hell do you have in there?”

Snickers from the men at the truck were silenced with a glare. When she glanced at the men, she made out a shoulder holster under one man's jacket, then recognized Stefan in the garage stacking lumber. He looked up and waved. When he bent to move a pile of two by sixes she saw the pistol tucked in the back of his jeans. Mischa had armed his posse, and she was living by the OK Corral.

“You want nice kitty?”

“What?”

Unable to block her with his body, Mischa opted for diversion, reached into his jacket and pulled out a black, fuzzy ball of hissing, spitting fury. A tiny kitten wrapped itself around his fist, dug in razor-sharp claws and bit down. Blood ran down the Mischa's arm. He winced and held the kitten out to her.

“This nice kitty?” She fought hard not to laugh.

“Nice kitty, save from gang.” He gestured, kitten and all, towards the corner of Andre's garage.

She looked and her stomach turned over. Three mangled blobs of multicolored fluff lay on the wet asphalt, strangely flat and red with blood. “Shit.”

“Evil!” He snarled a few words in Ukrainian, hunted for English equivalents, and gave up. ”Evil,” he repeated, “Boys dead in heart, torture, kill baby kitty. Is not right.”

“Fucking bastards,” she said, aware the big man was using the kitten to distract her from the armed men unloading the truck behind him, but unable to ignore the tiny creature. “I hope you taught them a few things.”

Mischa started to demonstrate, remembered the kitten in his fist and calmed. Smiled his tiger's smile. “They no hurt kitties again,” he said. “You take kitty?”

“I don't think I'm ready for that yet.”

“No take, go to pound.”

No! Seraphy forgot her groceries, reaching for the kitten without thinking, unzipping her jacket with her other hand. She couldn't take a chance the ball of fluff might be euthanized.

“Okay.”

Mischa smiled. Sucker! He pried the kitten's claws out of his hand and released it into hers. She felt warm fur, then sharp pain pricks as the kitten dug in. When she shook the creature loose into her jacket, her hand sported a line of red puncture marks.

“Wait,” he said when she started to turn away. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a second kitten. This one hung limp in his fist. At least one leg broken, she thought, and its stripy orange fur bloody. Still, the tiny creature snarled and spit as she gently tucked it into her jacket with its companion and zipped up.

“Needs doctor.”

“I'll take them as soon as I get my car. You're a good man, Mischa.”

Mischa shook his head and turned to yell at his men, who'd stopped unloading to watch him unload the kittens on Seraphy. Smart man, she thought. He knew she wouldn't have time now to think about anything but the kittens. He was right. Who cared what Mischa's men were doing in that bloody garage? Still, as she picked up her groceries and half-ran around the corner to her front door, she wondered about the gun oil she had smelled on the kittens’ fur and the shoulder holster glimpsed under Mischa's half-open jacket. Later, she promised herself.

“Four
hundred sixty-three dollars?”

Seraphy stared at the kittens, now transformed into fluffy, adorable balls of fur, asleep in a cardboard carrying case on the veterinarian's desk.

“You two are going to have to find a job,” she told them. The little gold kitten now sported a cherry red cast on her hind leg.

“Your little guys had been living rough,” Dr. Timmons said. “Our technician had to give them a bath. They both had fleas, ear mites and at least one variety of worms. I gave them Revolution to take care of all that. The fee covers the exams, blood tests, x-rays, setting her leg, her meds and their first shots. When you check out, your meds and kitten formula will be at the front desk. They're only about four weeks old, too young to be weaned, and starving, so you'll have to feed them every hour or so at first.”

“Fleas? Worms?” Seraphy squirmed in her seat, sensing critters partying in her jacket. Dr. Timmons grinned.

“Ah. You carried them in your jacket, didn't you? Um-hmm, you might want to drop the jacket at a dry cleaners and stick your clothes in the washer, hot as you can get it, when you get home. And take a shower. A long, hot shower, lots of shampoo and soap. I'm afraid these cute little critters probably shared their fleas with you.”

Seraphy was sure of that. She'd been squirming in her chair in the waiting room for the last hour. Now she felt a sharp nip, jumped and reached to scratch her back where fleas seemed to be congregating.