Authors: Ardella Garland
“How did the Gangster Bandits and the Rockies get started?”
“Well, the Gangster Bandits are just an old gang with a new name. We break ’em down, they regroup, and come back under a new name.”
“And the Rockies?”
“The Rockies are different,” Detective Eckart explained. “They started in the South which is unusual; it’s often the other way around. But a couple of Rockies living in Arkansas came to Chicago about ten years ago and started up a branch here. Now each side has their turf—Bandits have the streets east of Fellows Park on Vincennes. The Rockies have the streets west of the park.”
“The park itself is divided up the same way, right?”
“Yes, east side is Bandits and west side is Rockies. But now they’re spilling over from block to block, which is extremely chaotic. The area leaders—they call them governors or lieutenants—are responsible for territory. Both sides have weak leadership. That’s the problem. That’s what triggered the double homicide in Fellows Park. A stupid turf war.”
“There are two suspects charged in that murder, correct?”
“Right,” Detective Eckart answered. “Both suspects are being held on half a million dollars bond. A third suspect remains at large.”
“Are gang-related homicides on the rise?”
“Yes. Last year there were 930 murders in Chicago and 34 percent of those homicides were gang related.”
Detective Doug Eckart stopped walking and looked at his watch. “Five minutes are up.”
“You’re fast.”
A playful smirk crossed his face. “No, you’re slow.”
I couldn’t resist a purr. “Ah … not really, Detective.”
He looked at me and a smile crept into his eyes. “Maybe not.”
Zeke had stopped shooting and was changing tapes. “Just another minute, Detective. I need a couple of cutaway shots, okay guys?”
We both nodded as Zeke began walking around, getting video of us standing together. We looked at each other so Zeke could get a reverse angle shot and Detective Eckart’s eyes gave off a silky threaded gaze. Our silence was flirtatious. Then for a more animated shot, but really to break that awkward silence, I asked a question.
“This gang war is about to blow up, don’t you think?”
Detective Eckart’s bushy eyebrows humped together like a big
M
as he glanced down at my hand. I killed the mike I held. Then he answered.
“Hell, yeah. If we don’t calm this thing down these young men will start killing each other like crazy. I hate to see these young brothers dying for nothing. It gets tougher and tougher to make a difference, but we’re not going to give up trying.”
In those last few words, I saw a change in Detective Eckart. His voice softened as he spoke and there was more emotion coming from him. “This case in particular gives me a nasty feeling in my gut.” A sadness flashed briefly in his eyes.
“What’s that, Detective?”
“The rest of this summer is going to go out with a lot of bloodshed.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Yeah.” He sighed, pulling out a handkerchief to dab at the sweat trickling down his ear before showing me his good-cop smile and walking away. “See ya around.”
After he left, Detective Eckart’s aura lingered. He was an impressive man, smart, seemingly not too jaded by his job, and I hoped that he would be able to help me with this case. Plus he had a presence about him that made me want to get to know him better.
After the interview I wrote my story. Later, I was live at the top of the ten o’clock news. After that, Zeke and I began to wrap up. Hanging around in the old neighborhood, seeing again how it has changed for the worse, stirred up some feelings I needed to share. And there was only one person I wanted to share those feelings with.
S
weet-sweet-sweet home, Chah-caaah-go!”
I was pretty close to my sister’s place over on Pershing Road, so when we packed up our gear after the ten o’clock show I asked Zeke to drop me off over there. I wanted to talk to my twin—we could talk and argue about anything in the universe. I could hear Peaches singing as I approached the entrance of her joint, the Blues Box.
“Sweet-sweet-sweet home, Chah-caaah-go!”
My twin can
swang
the blues. Peaches has a torch for a throat. Imagine Gladys Knight’s gritty kind of a voice with Patti LaBelle’s power. Peaches and I are fraternal twins, not identical. From the git-go we looked alike until about, oh, age six, when I went up and Peaches went out. Some people say she’s fat but I say she’s sexy-solid with big hips, legs, and boobs. Peaches has a big attitude, too. We are certainly twins in that respect.
When Peaches wanted to buy the place on Pershing Road she showed it to Mama and me first. One: she wanted our two cents. Two: she wanted our ten grand.
I remember that overcast day very well, even though it was three years ago. The Chicago wind had its teeth out biting and tearing through our coats as Mama, Peaches, and I stood in front of the shuttered tavern that would one day be the Blues Box.
The neighborhood reminded me of a dapper old lady who can’t quite keep up appearances anymore. You know, rusty yet showing signs of the regalness that once was. The block was lined with beautifully constructed buildings, but all were boarded up. I mean six of the ten businesses on the block were closed; the other four included a Laundromat, a liquor store, a cleaners, and a grocery store. But it was an easy-to-get-to kind of a place off Lake Shore Drive and it was reasonably close to Hyde Park, the upscale integrated community on the South Side where the University of Chicago is located.
“It’s got a lot of potential,” Peaches reasoned.
“Which means it ain’t nothing now,” Mama observed.
Mama can be battle-ax blunt when she wants. Mama feels she’s earned the right to be, especially when it comes to show business because of all the drama she went through trying to make it big in her younger days. She failed miserably.
“Sweeet-sweeet home, Chah-caaah-go!”
I looked up at my sister through the glass window as I reached the doorway. Dog, it’s amazing what Windex, a rag, paint, and a brush can do. Peaches spent pennies on rehabbing the building and the old girl cleaned up nicely. That turned out to be a good thing, too, because the rest of the money she borrowed went toward setting up the bar, kitchen, and eventually to keeping the place open. Business, sad to say, was not booming.
I stepped inside the Blues Box and, as usual, the first person I laid eyes on was Milton, an old played-out musician who collects the cover charge. Milton had his Dobbs hat broke down over his left eye. He was sitting on a lopsided stool with his long legs stretched across the side of the doorway. With a chewed-up cigar dangling from his lips, Milton was so busy gawking at Peaches that he didn’t even see me standing there.
Milton is a down-home harmonica man with sixty years in the blues business, beginning when he first stepped onto a Memphis stage at age ten. They say in his day he could make a woman faint just by playing a love song on his harmonica. Milton still calls the harmonica his best leg.
“Sang-sang,” he hummed out, popping his fingers. Peaches had to bawl out Milton to stop him from letting in free every woman he thought was pretty. Pretty to an old dude like Milton is practically any woman under seventy who walked without a cane. Finally he looked up at me. Milton winked and gave me his trademark greeting: “Go’ne in and let the good times roll!”
The place was fairly crowded for a weeknight and I know that was part of the reason Peaches was singing so well. The more money she made the better she sounded. Good! Maybe she could start paying me back some of the mercy money I had loaned her to start up this joint. Mercy money is what I call the cash in my emergency account; it’s there to ease the pain of a personal or family crisis.
I walked inside the club and was met next by lanky, elegant Rita, the club hostess. She’s a real south-side belle, twirling gold wrist bangles and sipping Tanqueray with a twist. She made a big to-do out of seating me at the reserved house table next to the stage. Peaches saw me and started to show off. I hate to admit it but I like it when she shows off for me at the club.
My twin’s voice got more volume to it, her shake got sexier, and her band started really booming. When she finished up, Peaches’s rinse cycle was set on sweat. She grabbed a glass of cranberry juice and lifted it to acknowledge the applause as she came over and sat down at my table.
“Hey, Peaches!”
“Sister-twin!” she said, and we kissed and hugged. “’Bout time you brought your skinny butt in here to see me.”
“I’m sorry, Peaches, but I’ve been so busy.”
“So what, you still could have called!”
“Why didn’t you call me then?”
Peaches laughed and winked sarcastically. “I’ve got to save my voice, don’tcha know. I’m the talented one and you the smart one, remember?”
Obviously she and Mama had gotten into it today at some point and put me in the middle of it. Mama had a bad habit of throwing up my success in Peaches’s face. But I didn’t come here for conflict. I’d had a hard day, so I let that little snap pass. “Just shut up and buy me a drink on the house.”
“Holy moly, Georgia!” Peaches laughed and began teasing. “You know I love you but—no freebies here. You’re gonna have to work for that drink. Let’s have some fun!”
“Girl, I don’t feel like playing around!”
“Sister-twin, I know you don’t court the stage—found that out when you broke up the act! But c’mon! Shake a tail feather!”
Then Peaches bolted from the table. Oh God! I tried to snatch her out of that skintight dress but I missed. Peaches grabbed one of the mikes and announced, “Ladies and gents, we’ve got a special something for you tonight.”
I waved frantically,
no!
Peaches saw me and sucked her teeth, in the mike no less, before saying, “My sister is here tonight. Many of you know her from Channel 8; she’s the hottest … smartest … best-looking television reporter in town… . Georgia Barnett!” Peaches then did a bump, a grind, and a double point over at me.
I waved, feeling good that Peaches wanted to do some boisterous bragging on me. But every time she did, she’d come right behind all that good and embarrass me. I knew it was coming, that’s why I tried to stop her. But stopping Peaches was like trying to stop a runaway train with your big toe.
“We’re twins. Fraternal. Georgia is the oldest!”
“By a minute!” I shouted.
The crowd laughed.
“I want her to come up here and play the piano for you!”
The crowd was cheering me on and I was so embarrassed, but what could I do? I walked over to the piano, sat down, and played—“Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
Everyone laughed at me and I started laughing myself. Then Peaches started to scat … up two octaves above the key I was playing in. She was working it! Peaches is bad! I dropped in a few notes of harmony myself because I’ve got a good, can-do choir voice but nothing that can compare to my sister’s serious solo voice with its range, depth, and feeling. I took the high end of the temporary duet when the band joined in—then I faded out to let my sister roll. Peaches was born to sing, and I love hearing her blow any chance I get.
We were both soggy with sweat when we finally took our seats again. “Georgia,” Peaches slurred from fatigue, “we cut up but some good that time! Huh? Whatcha say, whatcha say?”
We did sound good but we both knew that our performing days together were long gone. Every now and then, though, we liked to sing a few songs together.
“Hey, Peaches,” I said toweling my forehead off with a roughedged napkin. “I was back in the old neighborhood today.”
“Yeah? Who done shot who now?”
“You know?
That’s how I felt when the story broke. Englewood wasn’t like that when we were kids. The neighborhood just blew up! It is a mess over there now. The candy store is gone. There’s a vacant lot where the barbershop used to be. I feel displaced and out of touch every time I visit now.”
“Georgia,” Peaches said, waving her hand for the bartender, who promptly brought over a glass of honey and a spoon. “It’s crazy. People started moving out. Jobs got scarce. Crime started rising. But face it; life is about change whether we can get with it or not. Don’t spaz about it though. Just do your thing, report the news.”
“Yeah, Peaches, you’re right. Say, I know you keep your ear to the ground. Any of our old school buddies still hanging out in the old hood?”
“Why?” Peaches grunted as she swallowed down a big spoon of honey. “I’m not trying to get anybody in trouble.”
“Am I the law? I just want to have an ear inside the community. Maybe somebody can give me an extra tip or two on this gang thing happening over there.”
“Well, there are still a couple of people, just not on the old block. Ms. Liza—she’s in that old-folks’ home the city just built on Parnell Street. A.J.’s mama is still there but she’s sick, mostly housebound.”
“Hmmmmm. What about A.J.?”
“Get that ‘suckey’ out your voice, sister-twin. A.J. is a crack fiend now.”
“What?
I hate that. A.J. was smart. And he was always protecting everybody, looking out for the little ones and the weak ones. And he was so fine, too. Like a knight in shining black armor!”