Authors: Thom August
The Near North Side
Thursday, January 9,This Year
8:00
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M.
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Drive over to the place we keep, up the Near North Side. Close to everything. Get anywhere in thirty minutes. Down the Loop
in ten. What’s the word? Convenient.
Park it down in the alley. Lock it up nice and tight. Slip on the latex gloves.
No excuse for carelessness.
Pull down the fire stairs. Quietly. Climb up the fire stairs. Quietly.
When we rent the place? This safe house? One of our guys puts a key-lock in the rear window. Easy in, easy out. Across the
alley from a warehouse. Nobody sees nothing.
At the landing. Third floor. Find the key. In the lock. Slide open the window. Step over the transom. Close the window. Lock
it up. Pull the shades. Flip the switch.
8:11
A
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M.
:
Have a look around. Have a
good
look around.
Traps are in place. All clear.
Another job. A simple one. Got a location. Got a target. Got a description. Got a time frame, couple hours away.
Plan is, get there and back in the van, the one parked two blocks away. There is a set of panels inside, with magnets—Cook
County General Hospital, Little Sisters of the Poor, Leukemia Hospice Service, Joe the Cleaner. Little joke, that one. Pick
one out. Slap it up. No one is gonna give it a ticket. Park near the place. Walk on over. Do the job. Drive away. Easy.
Got a plan. No reason to be careless. No excuse.
Review the objectives:
Do not get caught
Do not get seen
Leave nothing behind
Hit the target
Do it at the right time
Avoid civilians
Walk to the trunk in the closet. Who to be? North Loop, late at night, from the outside, in the snow. Narrows it down some.
Here is one. Workingman? Watch cap, plaid coat, lunch bag. But what’s he doing up on Lincoln? At night? In the snow? No.
Next? Officer, some kind? Police, Fire, Parks, you name it. Got them all.
Always the same pluses, the same minuses, this one. And besides. Been saving these.
Here is one. Could be the bag lady. Not too conspicuous, common enough. Dirty, messy. People do not want to look at her. Invisible.
Have not used this one in a while. Could work.
Open the wall safe. Pick a weapon. Close range, line of sight, one shot. Has to go through a pane of glass. And glass, not
that other stuff, what is it? Plexiglas. No rifle, no shotgun, no scope, no silencer. Just a simple pistol. Revolver or automatic?
Automatic ejects the shells. Do not want to be trying to find empty cartridges in the snow.
That pane of glass. Need something with a little oomph. One shot only.
Here is a big-ass Colt forty-five. Long barrel, big loads. Could stop a horse. Glass? What glass? Maybe too much. Go right
through the target. Go right through three people, the other side of the target. Also got three nine-millimeters, a three-fifty-seven.
Too much. All too much.
Here we go. A thirty-two-caliber Police Special. Mr. Smith & Mr. Wesson. Good stopping power. But with the four-inch barrel,
not the two. Makes it accurate enough, this range. It is a revolver. Shells stay inside. OK. This is the one.
9:10
A
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M.
:
Pull back a small flap in the curtains. Look outside.
Check all perimeters. No reason not to. Snow starting to pile up. Be less people on the street. Less cars. Bad visibility.
Van has snow tires. Long as there is no rush? An advantage.
Strip down to shorts, T-shirt, socks. Reach inside the trunk. First is the bodysuit. Latex. Fastens in back with Velcro. Next
the long underwear—dark enough to cover the hair, my arms and legs. Next the panty hose—the warmth feels good.
Next the dress. Extra touch, really. No one would see it under the coat. But if spotted, extra security. Fits OK. Looser than
it used to be.
9:15
A
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M.
:
Early yet. Sit and wait. Do not want to leave too early, drive around. Get in. Get out. Instructions are very particular:
10:05, no earlier, no later.
Call comes in yesterday, usual channels. Not my friend, not the Guy Himself. Someone lower down. A messenger. Know the voice,
from before. Big-ass guy. Tiny little voice. Says: Here it is, here is the details. Terminate. 10:05. A little picky, you
ask me. But no one asks me.
Do not know why. Do not ask why. Not the one who decides. Just the one who acts.
Take the time to fieldstrip the thirty-two, oil it, test-fire it. Good action, no problems. Load the rounds—five shells. One
is enough. But. You never know.
9:20
A
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M.
:
Put on the wig, flatten it out. Tape it on. Tie the scarf on top of it. Just to be sure.
Choose a purse, midsize. Plenty big enough for the thirty-two. Get a pair of gloves, black wool with no fingers. Put them
on, over the latex gloves. Fit is OK.
If the gloves do not fit, it can all go to shit. Ha-ha.
Boots, for the snow. Tie the laces behind the tongue-flap to make them look untied. Laces tucked in. To avoid tripping. Check
them. Look loose, but they are on good.
9:25
A
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M.
:
Time to leave. Into the bathroom. Pull all this stuff aside. Take a piss. Flush. Flush again. Straighten up. Then the coat.
Then the topcoat, for camouflage. This will stay in the van. No one will see the outfit underneath on the way out of here.
Sounds like nothing. Some meaningless detail. Wrong. Part of a method. A plan. This is how you keep doing this. One job and
another and another. You want to kill lots and lots of people? Not get caught? Use the method. Follow the plan.
One last check. Pain. Scale of one to ten? Four. Dull ache, not too bad. About average. Same place, one inch below the ribs,
a shade to the right. Some back pain, too. Try to stretch it out. Like it’s got anything to do with being stretched out. Right.
Grab the bottle of water in the coat pocket. Take a long pull.
Slide the water bottle back into the coat. Bump into the pill bottle. Pull it out. Hold it up. Four pills. Two blue. Two white
with the dark red stripe. Just in case. Tuck it away.
Grab the front door keys, the van keys off the hook. Open the door, step out. Stand, wait, listen. No one is around. Lock
up, walk down the stairs.
Out the door. Walk two blocks to the lot. Snow is piling up. Couple a inches now. Open up the van, turn the engine on. Get
the brush. Clean the windows. Pull two panels out of the back: Little Sisters of the Poor. Pop the panels into place. Get
behind the wheel.
9:30
A
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M.
:
Put the van in gear. Head out on the street. Over to Halsted, left and south. Not much traffic. Not in the snow.
9:35
A
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M.
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Taking my time. Going slow in the snow.
9:50
A
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M.
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The place is a nightclub. Up on Lincoln. The 1812 Club. Nothing to do with what’s-his-name, Beethoven, or that war. Address
is 1812 North Lincoln. Old days, used to be just Murphy’s Pub. Added music, couple years ago. Changed the name. Big window
in the front, three paces from the entrance. Bandstand in the window, band facing inside. Coming up on it now. There it is
on the left. Check it once on foot.
Turn left. Find a space. No Parking? No problem. What Chicago cop is going to ticket the Little Sisters of the Poor? Turn
the flashers on, leave the engine running. Check the extra key. On a rubber band. Around the left wrist. Step outside. Lock
the door. Put the purse with the gun on that arm.
No one around. No workmen, no cops, no streetwalkers, no homeless.
9:57
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M.
:
Directions are very clear. Five people in the band. Trumpet and sax up front. Bass, drums, piano in back. Shoot the black
one in the back line, not the black one up front. Black, white? Just a way to mark them. They are not going to be wearing
name tags.
10:00
A
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M.
:
Coming up on the window. Move to get a good line of sight. Shit. Three blacks, not two. One in front, the trumpet player.
Not the target. Drums and piano in the back, both black. Something is not right. Stop. Kneel down, tying the boots. Tying
the boots with no laces.
Instructions say the black in the back. They are finishing a song. Hear the sound of clapping. They point to the drummer,
little guy, turns right and bows, turns left and bows.
Drummer is not a guy. It is a girl. And she is not black, exactly. More like Japanese, Chinese. Got the short hair, got some
muscular arms. But tits, definitely, smooth face, no stubble. The eyes, those folds, what do you call that? Fooled me there.
Standing up again, slowly. No sudden moves. Face turned out toward the street, walking ahead. Then around the corner. Pause.
Lean up against the building.
10:04
A
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M.
:
Stick with the piano player. They told me, the only black in the back. He is sitting there, hunched over. Not moving. Piece
of cake. Grab the gun. Check the safety. Flick it off. Gun behind the purse. Purse against the chest. Walk around the corner.
Close to the building now. Dark and snowing. Wind is blowing.
Hear the music now. Something slow and sweet. Jazz. Nice.
Stop. Look around. No cars. No people. Just the snow and the wind.
And me and the gun.
Stop. Two deep breaths. Discipline.
10:05
A
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M.
:
Take two steps into the light, a quarter turn to the left. Aim at the head.
Fire.
Glass explodes, people scream. He is done.
Keep moving. Just a bag lady stumbling along. A gun by her side.
Around the corner, to the left. Open the van. Toss the purse on the seat. Slide inside. Flip the safety on. Tuck the gun between
the thighs. The van is still running. Left foot on the brake. Put it into drive. Flip the flashers off. Turn the directional
on. Check the traffic.
Drive due west. Nice and easy. North, then west again. Away from Lincoln. West over to Halsted, north up to Belmont, then
one block past. Look around. No cars.
Pull over by a Dumpster. Open the window. Hear the howling of the wind. The sound of sirens far away.
Take the gun out. Make sure the safety is on. Empty the bullets into a hand. Empty the hand into a pocket. Hold onto the one
empty cartridge. Close the cylinder. Wipe it all down with a rag. Wrap the gun in the rag. Wrap the rag in a McDonald’s bag.
Toss it all in the Dumpster. Drive.
Drive three blocks away. Stop at the light. Roll down the window. Flick the empty cartridge down a storm grate. Gone. Clean.
Easy.
10:20
A
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M.
:
Head to the lot. Park the van. Get out. Put the panels in the back. Lock up.
Clean up. Get dressed. Lock up. And down the fire escape and into the car and through the snow to home.
One more done.
Inside the 1812 Club
Thursday, January 9
What struck me was that it happened so quickly. They were playing along in an easy, mellow shuffle and then came the crash
of the shot and the shattering of the glass. I didn’t actually hear a “bang”; the sound of the breaking glass erased anything
that may have come before it, like a low-grade retrograde amnesia. Everyone dove to the floor. Me, I was already on the floor,
so I froze. I know, I know, it’s not very heroic, but that’s what I did. I looked around; no one seemed to be shot. It’s funny,
but I immediately interpreted it as a gunshot, without question. People were bleeding a little—cuts from the glass—but everyone
was up and moving around. My pulse slowed, my breathing deepened. I was almost feeling—what, relief?—when I saw the guy slumped
over the piano keys. I was squatting at the left side of the bandstand as you look at it, looking at him from about ninety
degrees, toward what had been his left profile, eighteen fucking inches away, and as soon as I saw him I knew he was dead.
Half his head was splattered all over the piano, an exit wound right out of Zapruder, but backward, his mahogany forehead
puckered out in red and gray, a great big brain-kiss pointing straight at me as he leaned to his right, dead eyes looking
but not seeing.
The dude was dead. No doubt.
I guess you’d have to say that I was in shock. All the adrenaline left me too alert to function, able only to sense. And sense
I did: my eyes saw every speck of stubble on his chin; my ears could hear conversations from every corner of the room; my
nose could smell past my own sudden sweat to the metallic tang of his blood, pooling on the floor near my feet.
I had been kneeling not three feet to his right, adjusting the soundboard, when it happened. I watched the reel of the tape
recorder spin slowly around, one turn after another, clockwise to the right. I had an impulse to turn it off, but I couldn’t
seem to act on it.
Time jerks you around when something like this happens, because I looked at the couples moseying toward the door, and I looked
at the door, and the cops were right there. I mean, right fucking
there.
I didn’t even hear the sirens—so much for my suddenly acute sensory focus. There were blue flashing lights behind me and a
dozen of Chicago’s Finest wedging into the room, half in uniforms and half in plain clothes.
A tall, gaunt cop in a rumpled gray suit, an old black topcoat, and bristly steel-gray hair stepped forward. His face was
all loose; it looked as if someone else had been wearing it. His eyes were deep and active. He spoke up, in a deep and raspy
voice.
“All right, no one leaves until your statement is taken. Everybody take a seat right where you were when it happened. We’ll
need names and addresses, so get your licenses out. Everybody stay calm. It looks like it’s all over but the paperwork.”
A hush fell over the room. All that adrenaline flushed out of my system, and I felt a sudden sleepiness. I wasn’t sad or anything.
I didn’t know the guy at all. I mean, he wasn’t part of the band; he just sat in those last two tunes. I didn’t even know
his name—“Roger Something,” I think Paul said before he sat down on the bench. Played pretty well, too, with a nice little
solo on a medium-tempo version of “I Got Rhythm.” It was quite lyrical, actually; unassuming, melodic, not too showy, except
he didn’t have much of a left hand.
I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but he had been sitting in for
me,
so it was hard not to judge.
I looked around; people were having trouble breathing or their eyes were wet or they were looking pale or flushed. Most folks
just looked stunned, with vacant looks in their eyes, thousand-yard stares. Even the professionally impatient hadn’t had time
to get restless.
The band was scattered all around, except for Paul, who was standing right in the front of where the window had been, holding
his horn to his chest like he does when he’s playing but not actually playing at that moment. It looked like he was still
listening to the song’s changes in his head, getting himself ready to solo when his turn came up. One of the cops tried to
get everyone to sit where they were when it happened, but no one but Paul was going to go in front of that open window anytime
soon. Everything was covered in fragments of glass. The wind was blowing and the snow was starting to frost the backs of the
chairs. The cops finally herded the rest of the band toward the stage and sat them in front of it, on the floor, sitting with
their backs up against the risers with their elbows on their knees. Paul kept standing until a cop tugged on his sleeve. I
turned off the Uher, then flopped down where I was.
Jeff was holding his tenor sax, his fingers unconsciously playing some riff. Sidney, legs lot used like an enormous Buddha,
his string bass standing next to him, was staring at something very close to him and very far from the rest of us. Paul, once
he settled, seemed to be taking a nap, or at least resting his eyes. Akiko, her drumsticks clutched in her left hand, her
head down, was showing nothing but short dark hair for anyone to see, but her eyes were darting everywhere.
Then there was me. When Roger Something started his first song, I had moved to the bar and had been hitting on the blonde
sitting next to me. As the second song started, I had Groucho-walked to the soundboard to turn up the volume on the piano.
Maybe he was shy, and maybe the system had been tuned to me and I just play too goddamn loud. But I could hardly hear the
guy. I had knelt down and had my hand on dial number three when it happened. Now, I kept turning my head to stare at the piano,
a good one, a Baldwin, then seeing the blood dripping from the keyboard to the floor, a splat at a time, and quickly looking
somewhere else, anywhere else.
The ambulance took longer than the cops, and it seemed as if you could hear it coming from miles away, the siren wailing through
the storm, its pitch getting higher as it neared, a classic acoustical Doppler effect. Three EMTs—two women and a man—came
out of the van with their green scrubs on, no coats or hats in the snow, with those silly booties on their feet, pulling on
their latex gloves, hauling a stretcher, rushing like mad, shouting. They took one look at the piano player and everything
slowed right the fuck down. One of the women reached in to find a pulse. Just a formality; it didn’t take long. You could
see her shake her head: No. Gone.
“Has anyone else been shot?” she asked, looking around the room. About ten people had blood trickling down their faces, and
about half of them tentatively raised their hands maybe halfway, the way you used to do when you were in third grade. They
were cut up a little from the flying glass, and some of them were wearing what had previously been parts of Roger Something’s
prefrontal cortex, but they hadn’t really been shot, and most of them knew it.
But blood is blood, so the medics set about going around checking each one, picking slivers of glass out of them, wiping them
down, patching them up.
I sat back, and tried to breathe.
Who knows? I mean, who the fuck knows, you know?