Chicago Stories: West of Western (8 page)

Awaiting Your Reply with Bated Breath,

Richard Kirkland & Andre Beaupre

898-6621
2710 Cortez

Hmm. 2710, must be the boarded-over storefront with the hidden Japanese garden. Cool. A quirky note, maybe a little ‘walk into my parlor-ish?’ But intriguing. What would he be like, Richard or Andre, the man who made such a garden here in the middle of a run-down neighborhood? Maybe they'd know something about the man shot here last night. Worth a look, certainly. She could take care of herself, and maybe they'd offer a tour of the garden.

“This is Andre.” His voice was a rich, sensual baritone, so round and full the cell phone vibrated in her hand. All her neurons stood to attention.

“Um, hello.” She pulled herself together. “This is Seraphy Pelligrini, your new neighbor. I just got your note and would be delighted to come to dinner. Thank you for inviting me. You'll be first neighbors I've met. And your voice is amazing.”

“You think?” he said, and she heard his smile. “You must like baritones. A woman of superior judgment. Cool,” he drawled the vowels, making the phone quiver in her hand and a thrill run down her spine. “So you are coming to dinner?”

“Yes, of course,” she managed, her left hand automatically smoothing her hair. “It's nice of you to ask. Um, when would you like me to come?”

“About seven, don't dress up?” He made it a question.

“Perfect. Can I bring anything?” Like gold and frankincense and myrrh, maybe.

“No, my dear. Let us wine and dine you. It's your welcome dinner. Come to the side entrance, we'll have the light on for you.”

“Right. I'm looking forward to meeting you.”

“Seven, then, we'll watch for you at the side gate. As we say here,
hasta luego
.”

It was a moment before the spell of his voice faded, her cerebral cortex wrested control from the more primitive parts of her brain, and she remembered. Damn. The letter had been signed Richard and Andre, and he'd said ‘us.’ So not single. Probably.

Working
on her house had left no time for anything else, but now she was playing hooky from work, she decided to explore the neighborhood, maybe meet a neighbor or two. Terreno had mentioned street names, but she forgot, so now she turned to the internet for a map of the city and found a street map with known gang territories marked. There she was, on the Lobos side of Rockwell, just like he'd said. Smack between the Lobos and the Duques. Terrific.

Several websites gave potted histories of the city. Once this had been a working class neighborhood, mostly German immigrants, and at the turn of the century, featured small brick houses and two-flats, with shops on every corner and several bars. Now only one small grocery remained, on the corner of Thomas and Rockwell. Three of the storefronts, the bar and one of the churches had been colonized by artists. A neighborhood in flux, illegal and legal immigrants, welfare clients, working people, students, Puerto Rican gangs, artists and a scattering of Yuppies. Yadda, yadda. Different, anyway, from anything she'd known before. Soon she had enough reading, she needed boots on the ground, and headed out into late afternoon sun and November air that smelled of damp leaves and rain.

“Hey, Lady,” the man called from the top step of the two-flat next door. “C’mere a second.” He gestured to her to join him. When she reached his porch, she saw his clothes were caked with days of food debris and only dirt and duct tape held his shoes together. A puff of wind brought her olfactory reminders of cigarettes, sweat, greasy food, Night Train, and urine. Um. Maybe she wouldn't join him on the porch.

“Are you my neighbor? I'm Seraphy Pelligrini, just moved in yesterday,” she said as she sat down on the bottom step so she wouldn't have to go closer, forcing herself not to glance over at the spot where last night's body had lain.

“Seffy Purgrini, that right?” He nodded. “Everbody calls me Manny.” Manny kept his head turned slightly away, watching her from the corners of his eyes. “We was watchin’ you move, you know, me and my friends. And all that fixin’ up you done. Looks real nice.” Like the old woman last night, he wore layers of clothing that framed his face and fraying cuffs dangled from his coat sleeves.

“Thanks, Manny. I thought I'd come out, maybe get to know the neighborhood a little, meet some neighbors.”

“Me and Jose and Eddie sleep upstairs,” he volunteered, nodding wisely. “Some other fellas sometimes. Sister Ann lets us stay there if we don't drink or nothing.” Rocking back and forth on his toes, he smiled, baring his four of his remaining teeth, and still not looking directly at her, tucked his hands into his armpits for warmth.

“That's nice. Is Sister Ann a nun?” asked Seraphy, trying to think of a subtle way to ask Manny about the dead man. Manny's odor seemed almost familiar, a cousin to the stench of the bag lady from the alley. Could she be
Sister
Ann? No way. Twelve years of parochial school made Seraphy something of an expert on nuns, and she'd never known a dirty nun. Maybe this was some kind of half-way house.

“Was once, I think, but not no more.” Manny shifted on the step and leaned toward her. “Say, you got any work over there? I sweep real good. Couple bucks, I could sweep out front.”

“Not right now. I'm a little short on money right now. Did you know the guy who was shot last night?” She remembered the shadowy figures who'd watched from the porch.

Manny nodded but didn't answer. There was a short silence while he rocked and Seraphy stared at her toes and wondered how to get away without offending him. It was colder out than she'd thought. Or maybe it was sitting in the shade on the concrete step. Her butt was freezing.

“You smoke?” he asked, risking a quick sideways glance at her.

“Sorry, no. I don't even let anybody smoke in my house.”

“Yeah,” Manny said, his voice disappointed. He didn't seem to want to talk about the shooting. Maybe another time. He sighed and started rocking again. “Sister Ann's like that, too. Nuthin’ good in the house.”

Seraphy couldn't think of anything to say to that and stared silently at the old ladies across the street until Manny volunteered, “She's real good to us anyhow. Sometimes in the winter even makes us dinner. And sometimes folks give us money for food.” He squinted at her, hoping she'd take the hint.

“That's nice.” Seraphy, fiddling with her shoelace, decided it was definitely time to move.

“You got a dollar you could give me?”

“No,” she got up, rubbing her butt. “You know what? It's cold out here and my butt's freezing from the concrete. I've got to get moving, Manny. Nice to meet you.”

“Remember, you got work, just come get me. Jose and Eddie, too.”

“Right. Bye now.”

The
banged-up white Camaro was still parked in front of the vacant lot on the corner next to Sister Ann's, the hood propped open, four teen-agers in green and black Lobos colors leaning on the fenders, pretending to stare down at the engine. Another point for Ellie, even Tony had these guys figured, she thought as she neared. These guys weren't working on the engine—you didn't have to be a mechanic to see the tools scattered around weren't automotive tools. She wondered if the Drug-o-Mat had been in the same spot all last summer. Did anyone even pretend to believe the charade? Did anybody even care? McDruggies, Tony called them. the local low-level drug market, or one of them. Maybe one or more of these creeps had painted her garage door, but she couldn't see this bunch of losers managing that neat level of execution. No way. Whatever else these four were up to, they were obviously lookouts. Seraphy strolled past, her awareness of their hostility bringing her up on her toes.

Two of the four ignored her, keeping their eyes on the engine, as if that rendered them invisible to passers-by, but the tallest, almost her height, straightened and turned to confront her with angry eyes. Markowicz and Terreno said the Lobos leader was named Chico. Was this Chico? On his right, a fat teenager with bad skin and a lazy eye sniggered and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Ch-ch-ch-ch. Hey, Chica.” Tall guy leered. She knew that sound, the sound the gangs used to call their girlfriends for sex, and could feel his eyes move down her body. Her skin crawled and she fought the impulse to stop long enough to knock his teeth down his throat, settling for baring her teeth as she passed. Cockroaches. They reminded her of cockroaches.

Four pairs of eyes followed her to the corner, where she turned west on Cortez, into the sun, and were forgotten when she saw the long street of hundred-year-old buildings. Packed close together on narrow lots, post-Chicago-Fire brick and stone construction, built at different times and in different styles, calling to her with different voices. A small asphalt-sided cottage with a bright blue iron fence and matching painted sidewalk lured her to come for a closer look. In the center of a neatly-swept dirt yard, an upended, half-buried bathtub made a grotto for a pretty blue-robed Virgin. Plastic flowers with embedded twinkle lights formed a border, a halo around the top, and a mound at the Virgin's feet. Charmed by the grotto's innocence and attention to detail, Seraphy promised herself to come back at night when the lights would be lit.

A few houses farther on “ch-ch-ch-ch” followed her again, this time emanating from a dark passage on her left, and yanked her out of her reverie. When she turned to look, she caught a glimpse of a dark shadow disappearing back into the passage. Just then a flock of small boys blew past her, laden with yellow St. Mark's backpacks, and she smiled and said hi and the kids answered, polite parochial-school ‘hellos.’ Showing them her camera, she asked if she could take their pictures and they posed, grinning. Lining up a last shot of the kids, she caught her stalkers in the viewfinder. The tallest Lobo from the corner, and his fat buddy, lurking in the gangway across the street. She thanked the kids and picked up her pace.

“Ch-ch-ch-ch.” Okay, now she was not amused. Automatically wiggling her left hand to check her knife, she remembered she hadn't worn it since being wounded. Maybe it was time to rethink that. She didn't want to fight, and she didn't even know these guys, so why were they stalking her? Still, best be prepared. She had wanted to meet the neighbors. Maybe these were the neighbors, maybe they killed the guy on her doorstep. Yeah, next time she'd wear the knife, just in case.

Still looking at the buildings, but with one eye out for her stalkers, considering whether to be alarmed, she nearly walked into a pale blonde woman struggling to get a large stroller through a side gate. Seraphy stopped to hold the gate. The flowered babushka and conservative coat were vaguely Eastern European, maybe Ukrainian or Polish? The woman glanced at her, then tucked her chin into her coat collar and hunched her shoulders, wary of a stranger.

“T’ank you,” she whispered, maneuvering the stroller out of the narrow passage without looking at Seraphy.

“You're welcome. I'm new here, just moved in down the block. My name's Seraphy.” She smiled and tried her best to look harmless.

“No English,” the woman shook her head. “No speak.” She stepped back, a big motherly woman with flushed cheeks, sunlight glinting from stray pale gold locks that escaped her babushka.

Seraphy was sure she knew a little English. Embarrassed? Shy? Or maybe afraid?

“Okay,” she said, smiling. Everybody knew what ‘okay’ meant. She pointed at herself. “Seraphy.”

“Katya,” the woman said and pointed at the baby, “Sasha.”

Hearing his name, Sasha stuck his white-blond head out of a heap of knitted blankets. Maybe a year old? Sasha stared with curious blue eyes and tolerated Seraphy's admiring coos, but like his mother, refused to smile. Seraphy held up her camera and Katya's eyes grew large with horror.

“No, no,” she said, her hands in front of her face as she backed away.

“Okay, okay.” Seraphy dropped the camera in her pocket. Sensitive to pictures. Sure now Katya was illegal, she felt a pang of sympathy. Were there really ICE agents combing these residential streets on the lookout for illegal Ukrainians? Surely not, but that hardly made it any easier for people like Katya, those not used to being on the wrong side of the law.

“Bye-bye, Sasha,” she said. “Good-bye, Katya.” Katya's bulging purse hung from the side of the stroller. “Be careful, there's gang guys over there.” Katya glanced at the lounging Lobos and shrugged, then turned toward the Ukrainian shops on Western. Odd, she's afraid of me, but not the gang, thought Seraphy as she watched the woman leave. That's curious.

At the end of the block Lafayette Public School loomed like a Dickens orphanage, half a block of soot-stained red brick, three stories high, a cross between a prison and a warehouse. She couldn't imagine a child entering willingly. Teacher parking had eaten the playground and two hooded gang-bangers had commandeered the tiny neighborhood tot park that held the only play equipment available for young children. Lounging on the swings, they smoked and oozed menace.

“Ch-ch-ch-ch.”

“Assholes.” A lot of these watchers out today. Surely there was no need to patrol an elementary school, or were the Lobos recruiting little kids? Grabbing lunch money? Or waiting for her? She glared as she passed by into the cold shadow of the school, angry they'd ruined her architectural musings and wondering if they'd be content to follow her or had other plans.

“Ch-ch-ch-ch.” They were coming too close. Without her knife and in no mood for a confrontation, she swallowed her pride and sprinted the rest of the block to California Avenue, where a small commercial district promised safety. When she glanced back, her stalkers had disappeared.

Gas station, car wash, three used furniture stores, a small grocery, hardware store, a storefront church, a hardscrabble commercial street. Store windows obscured by faded posters and dirt, taco chip bags and Fanta cans in the gutters. A pair of Latino grandmothers passed her and she followed them into a bodega. When the door whooshed shut behind her, steamy air ripe with old vegetables and a hint of rotten meat made her gasp, killing any desire to explore further.