Sleep Tight (13 page)

 

Don didn’t show up for work. Tommy wasn’t particularly surprised at first. They’d spent the night before drowning in beer. He figured Don would stumble in soon, so he clocked in, changed into his overalls and boots, and waited. At 6:30, Don was a half-hour late. He had never been this late since Tommy had started work at Streets and Sans. At 7:00, Tommy called him. Nobody answered.

They’d started the night before pounding Old Styles, sure, but it hadn’t been any different than any of the other countless nights they’d spent at the bar with no name, except Don kept showing off the torn rubber glove, the marks on the leather gloves underneath, and finally, his unscathed hand. Everybody had wanted to hear the whole story as they came in, so Don and Tommy hadn’t paid for one beer.

Around ten, Don had heard about some house party one of his nephews was throwing, so they drove down to Blue Island and found the place full of community college students. Don had tried to impress the girls, but somehow, tales of catching rats hadn’t done much for them. Don’s nephew heard the stories, and started bitching about a goddamn raccoon that had torn a hole in the roof and moved into the space above the attic. Full of a beer and fueled by the eyes of the coeds, Tommy had volunteered to climb up under the roof and catch the critter. He promised not hurt the poor animal, something he later regretted.

He’d found the raccoon, no problem, but the damn thing hissed at him and snapped at his grasping hands, slicing the shit out of his fingers and palm. Finally, a hour later, bleeding from both hands, Tommy gave up and crawled out from under the eaves. Don laughed, and told his nephew quietly that they’d leave some poisoned bait later in the week and the problem would be solved. Tommy wrapped his hands in paper towels soaked in hydrogen peroxide and waited for the girls to come and talk to him. It never happened. Don and Tommy didn’t leave because there was still beer left in the keg, and hung out in the empty backyard, sitting in the cracked swing set for the rest of the night, until the beer was gone. The last Tommy had seen of Don was the man giving a drunken wave as he pulled into early morning traffic.

The supervisor couldn’t have cared less if Don was late or not. He was caught up in a Sox game. Around 8:00, Tommy took the van and went for a ride. He’d been to Don’s place just once, and wasn’t sure he could recognize it.

The AM news stations were full of speculation about the motives behind a series of brutal attacks downtown that morning. Tommy, like most people who lived in a large city, shrugged off these tales of horror and tragedy, acknowledging that they lived in an insane, violent world, but if you dwelled on it too long, hopelessness might overtake you. It was better to pause a moment in silent reflection for the victims, then move on.

Don lived in a garden apartment off of Milwaukee near Roscoe; the “garden” part was bullshit for “basement.” Don had an old little mutt, Rambo, that ran around like a berserk puppy for a while when he came home, then would find a spot and sleep for the next ten hours.

Tommy found the building, or at least what he thought might be the building, and double-parked, yellow flashers going. It was a brick three-flat that looked like a million others in the city. Don didn’t answer his doorbell. Tommy leaned on the buzzer. Nothing. He went down the street and around to the alley and counted buildings as he walked. The night that Tommy had been there, Don had shown him how he didn’t bother with the key to the garage; all he had to do was lift the loose door and pull the dead bolt free.

Tommy let himself into the garage and slipped through the inky blackness. He opened the inner door, crossed the backyard in two paces, and went down the cement steps to knock on Don’s door. By now, Tommy didn’t expect an answer. He heard Rambo’s yips and paws on the other side. He tried the door.

It opened. Rambo was there, happy, as usual, to see somebody, anybody.

“Don? Don? You in here?” Tommy called. He took hold of the door and knocked again, louder. Rambo jumped at his legs and he picked up the dog. “Don?”

Still nothing. Tommy stepped into the kitchen, shut the door behind him, and scratched Rambo’s ears. The layout was a shotgun shack, a straight shot down the hallway, with rooms and bathrooms on either side. The kitchen sat at the back end, the living room in the front.

“Don?” Down the dark hall, light seeped out of the crack around the bathroom door. Tommy found the light switch for the hall and flicked it on. He turned Rambo loose, and the dog went trotting down into the shadows of the living room. He opened the bathroom door and found it empty. Don’s bedroom was also empty.

Tommy’s shadow stretched across Rambo as the dog turned in slow circles on the couch before settling into another nap. Don’s ancient thirteen-inch television flickered in the corner, sending dancing patterns of colors across the scuffed wooden floor.

Tommy crossed the darkness of the living room and was just about to twist the switch on the lamp when he stepped on something and realized it was Don’s hand.

 

 

There was no music tonight. Sam and Ed weren’t in the mood. They cruised up and down the one-way streets through the Loop, windows down, Sam driving and glaring at the tourists. By now, most of the secretaries in their gym shoes and the computer programmers in their wrinkled button-up short-sleeve shirts and all the rest of the suits had either gone home or hit the bars. Traffic was sparse.

“Brother, we don’t find her, I don’t see how we’re gonna wriggle off this time,” Ed said.

“You don’t think Arturo’ll bat for us?”

Ed shook his head. “Not this time. We fucked up. Should’ve taken her to lockup.”

“No,” Sam said flatly. “And let those fucks track her down inside? If they took a chance sweating her inside the goddamn sheriff’s office in City Hall, no telling what would happen in County.”

“Well, we shouldn’t have turned her loose.”

“Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Story of my fucking life,” Sam said, spitting his nicotine gum out of the window.

“You got any ideas on how to fix this, I’m open to suggestions.”

“Find her. Take her in. Make Arturo give her protective witness status.”

“Arturo ain’t gonna get within ten miles of this. You know that.” Ed looked out the passenger window. “Maybe she should turn a rat loose in his office. Might get his attention then.”

 

The paramedics, Scott and Vince, weren’t in a big hurry. They pulled up behind the Streets and Sans truck and took their time getting their bags ready, before sauntering up the sidewalk and ringing the buzzer. 911 had told them that the patient wasn’t conscious, but was breathing steadily. That meant that there was no point in rushing. Some Polack kid was waiting impatiently in the foyer. He practically dragged them into the crappy little basement apartment.

All the lights were on. The patient, Don, another fucking Polack, was lying between the coffee table and the couch. He looked like he was just sleeping off a bad drunk.

Vince snapped on some purple surgical gloves and checked Don’s vital signs. Scott sighed heavily and cornered Tommy. “You guys live here together?”

“What? Uh, no. No.” Tommy caught the paramedic’s leer.

“It’s not like that. We work together.”

“Okay, fine. Sure. Whatever. Your name?”

“Tommy Krazinsky.”

Vince spoke up. “What kind of drugs were you guys taking tonight?”

“What?” Tommy asked. “Drugs? No, no. Don never did any drugs.”

“Look, I’m trying to find out what’s wrong with your friend. It might mean the difference between life and death here. Now, what was your friend on?”

“I don’t know what to tell you. As far as I know, he never took anything stronger than beer and aspirin.”

There was a knock, and a Chicago cop stood in the front doorway. The cop was white, pushing forty. His mustache was in better shape than his body. “Who called it in?”

“I did.” Tommy stepped forward.

The cop pulled out his notebook. “Name?” he asked, clicking his pen like he was cocking his handgun. Tommy gave his name and a statement. Scott poked around Don’s apartment, looking for drugs, but came up empty. He held his hands up to the cop.

The cop walked over and got a better look at Don. Writing in his notebook, the cop said aloud, “Possible heart attack. Older white male. Drug angle looks less likely.”

Vince finally decided that he didn’t know what the hell was wrong with the patient, so they went back to the ambulance and brought back a collapsible gurney.

The kid, Tommy, asked if he could ride with them to the hospital.

Scott and Vince looked to the cop.

The cop asked the paramedics, “Where you taking him?”

Scott said, “Northwestern is closest.”

The cop nodded, said to Tommy, “He’ll be at Northwestern. You can drive your own vehicle slowly and safely there, and ask for him in the emergency room.” He headed to his car, tilting his head, speaking in a bored tone into the mike on his shoulder.

The paramedics loaded Don into the ambulance. Vince slammed the door shut and got in on the passenger side. Scott hit the lights and sirens and headed for Milwaukee Avenue.

 

 

The supervisor’s voice came out of the phone, abrupt and out of breath. “Tommy? That you?”

“Yeah,” he said as he clenched the phone against his shoulder, trying to buckle the seat belt with one hand and steer with the other. He picked up speed, following the ambulance.

“You know that Lee is looking for you guys? Is Don with you?”

“No. He’s in the ambulance. He’s sick.”

“Sick? Sick how?”

“I don’t know. He’s unconscious.”

There was a pause while the supervisor talked with somebody else. He came back on. “You say he’s in an ambulance?”

“Yeah. They’re taking him to the hospital right now.”

“Which ambulance is this? What’s the company?”

“I can’t tell. A red and green one.” Tommy weaved around vehicles that had pulled over for the ambulance, and were just starting to pull back into their lane again.

“Is there a number or a name on the side?”

“I don’t know. They’re taking him to Northwestern. Call there.”

“Is there a number or a name on the side?”

Tommy hit S
P
EAKERPHONE
and threw the phone on the dash. “I. Don’t. Know,” he yelled while scooting through an intersection against the light, trying to keep up with the ambulance. Other drivers hit their horns. To them, he was just another asshole trying to steal the road in the ambulance’s wake.

Tommy followed as it turned left onto Division and crossed over the North Branch of the Chicago River. His phone was quiet for a minute. He heard the supervisor’s voice, talking to someone else. “You got it? Okay. Fine. Better this way. Absolutely.” Tommy hit his horn at drivers impatient to pull back into traffic, ignoring their rearview mirrors and his flashing yellow lights.

Tommy’s phone flashed C
ALL
E
NDED
.

The ambulance’s brakes flickered uncertainly, and turned south on LaSalle. It seemed to Tommy they went slower, even though this was a four-lane street. The ambulance was far more cautious when it came to crossing streets. Tommy found it was easy to catch up. When they passed Chicago Ave, Tommy was confused. The ambulance continued going south on LaSalle, leaving Northwestern farther and farther behind.

He relaxed when he realized they were taking Don to Cook County General. Maybe they’d radioed ahead. Maybe they’d been told that Cook County General had better equipment for Don, with a team of specialists, ready and waiting for Don. Hell, maybe Cook County General dealt with this kind of thing everyday.

Maybe it was all going to be okay.

 

 

Sam pulled over to the curb and waved a homeless guy over.

The guy, a man in his thirties with wild hair, waved off imaginary insects. “Wasn’t doing nothin’, officer.”

“What makes you think I’m an officer? Might be I’m just a tourist, trying to find my hotel.”

“Whatever you says, officer.”

Sam unwrapped more gum. “You seen Qween around?”

“Queen?” The man cocked his head, listening to phantom radio transmissions. “Of England?”

“Don’t fuck with us, pal,” Ed said, surprising Sam. Ed was usually happy playing the good cop. “I don’t have much patience tonight. Got half a mind to come out and beat the living shit out of you for resisting arrest.”

“Tell you what,” Sam said, thinking it might be his turn to play good cop. “I got ten bucks if your memory improves.”

The homeless man cocked his head the other direction, as if receiving conflicting transmissions. “Well, now. Maybe I know, maybe I don’t. Let’s see the money.”

Sam pulled out his wallet, found a ten-dollar bill. “You know who I’m talking about, right?”

The man looked offended. “Shit. Ever’body knows Qween.” He took the ten. “Ain’t seen her in two days.”

“Know where she stays?”

The man shook his head. “Used to have a spot on Lower Wacker. Up and took everything somewheres else. Don’t know where.”

“You know why?”

“Have to ask her.”

“You’re not exactly earning your money here,” Sam said.

The man shrugged. “Whatchu want? I don’t know.”

Ed leaned over, fixed the man with his dead eyes. “What’s the story with the rats?”

The man didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. “The rats? They sick, man. Ever’body knows that. You stay away from ’em. Ever’body knows that.”