Sleep Tight (17 page)

 

Ed drove. South on Canal. Left onto West Monroe, heading east, to the lake. The morning sun hung in the sky in the upper right corner of the windshield. After showers, breakfast, two pots of coffee, and surviving his girlfriend’s wrath, Ed explained that they were not to go within ten blocks of the hospital. Seemed that the word from above had come down on Arturo, with the weight of none other than the federal government, and this time, there was no way he would stick up for the two detectives.

“I guess we better find Qween,” Sam said.

“How?” Ed asked.

“We go looking for folks that look like they live under a rock. See if they know her.”

“That’s a hell of a plan.”

“It’s been a hell of a couple of days,” Sam said, readjusting his bulletproof vest, tightening the Velcro straps.

“Which way?” Ed looked north and south along State, then west along Madison.

“Let’s hit the river. Should be plenty of folks along there that know her.”

They parked on the sidewalk along Upper Wacker. Nobody would mess with the Crown Vic.

At the stairs down to the River Walk, Sam sank onto the top step to catch his breath. He pulled out his flask and Ed sat down heavily next to him. They passed the flask back and forth for a while, not saying anything. When it was empty, they got up and descended the rest of the stairs. They headed east along the river, moving almost as slowly as the water as it sluggishly flowed away from the lake.

Most of the usual haunts, the man-made caves and hollows, were vacant. They could see the remnants of the inhabitants, such as empty bottles, food wrappers, old blankets, stacks of old newspapers. But everything was empty until they passed under the Wabash Bridge.

Sam saw the man’s shoes first. He whistled at Ed, who was down near the water, peering over the edge. The shoes, a warped and cracked pair of black wingtips, ended in surprisingly clean white socks. Black wool suit pants disappeared in the darkness of the narrow culvert. Sam tapped the shoes. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Fuck you.” A rasping voice from inside the shadows. “Ain’t hurting nobody. Leave me alone.”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I need to ask you a question.”

“Got nothin’ to say.”

Ed was short on patience. “Listen, pal, I know there’s all kinds of bad shit going on around here, but we need some help and we don’t have much time. You want to stick your head out of your hole and help us, or am I gonna have to drag you out on your ass and throw you in the goddamn river?”

The wingtips didn’t move, but the voice said, “Whatchu want?”

“We’re looking for Qween,” Sam said. “And before you jump to conclusions, she’s helping us. She’s not in trouble. Tell you what, I got ten bucks here if you help us out.”

“What I gotta do?”

“Nothing. Just tell her, if you see her, that we need to talk. That’s all.”

The wingtips were still for a moment, then withdrew into the shadow as the man shifted position in the narrow space. Pretty soon, he stuck his head out. He was old, and it was impossible to tell his race. His oddly expressive features, like a clown in a silent movie, looked exotic one moment, and the next, like the perfectly ordinary lined and pitted face of a homeless man. The grime on his face didn’t help.

It was clear he had been homeless for a long, long time. He didn’t strike the detectives as the kind of bum who would sit with his back against a building, shaking a cardboard coffee cup for spare change. He would never beg out in public. Too proud. An unlit, half-smoked cigarette was clamped between the first two knuckles of his fore and middle fingers.

“The fuck you want with Qween?”

Sam said, “We need to talk to her. That’s all.”

“Qween ain’t gonna want to talk to no cops.”

“You tell her that Detectives Jones and Johnson are looking for her. We’ll try and stick near the river, by Adams Street, Union Station.” Sam pulled out a bill. Snapped it in front of the guy to get his attention. “You tell her if you see her, got it?”

“I ain’t stupid, white boy.”

“Never said you were. Making sure you’re honest.”

The old guy cracked up at that. “Shit. Nobody alive is honest.”

Ed asked, “You heard about the rats?”

“Ever’body heard ’bout the rats.”

Ed leaned closer. “What’s wrong with ’em?”

“Damned if I know. Why’nchu watch the news? They got all the answers.”

Ed caught sight of somebody on the Dearborn Bridge aiming a long lens in their direction. “Time to go. Some asshole’s taking pictures.”

“You just remember,” Sam told the old man, “you see Qween, then you tell her we need to talk. We’ll hang near Union Station as much as we can.”

“Fine, fine. I’m finna go up thataway m’self sometime.” He held his hand out.

Sam slapped a folded twenty into the old man’s palm.

 

 

Dr. Reischtal stepped into Tommy’s room and stood over the patient for a while, silent. He kneeled at the side of the bed. Put his elbows on the mattress. The gloved hands came together and interlaced over Tommy’s waist.

“Oh, Lord. Hear me. Hear me, oh Lord.” Dr. Reischtal didn’t say anything else for a while.

Eventually, Tommy wondered if Dr. Reischtal was waiting for an answer.

“Oh, Lord. You are the one, true god. Let me smite him, oh Lord. Let me smite him.”

It got so quiet Tommy could hear the fluorescent lights’ faint buzz behind the plastic. He decided that if Dr. Reischtal so much as picked up a syringe, Tommy was going to yell as loudly as possible. Beyond that, he couldn’t move.

The silence stretched out several minutes, until finally, Dr. Reischtal took a deep breath. His voice was low and ragged. “I understand now. If that is your will, then so be it. He will lead us to the vector. Thy will be done. Until further reconsideration is necessary. Amen.” He stood, and watched Tommy.

Again, he refused to say anything. Tommy would be damned if he showed any weakness to this asshole. It became almost a game, to see who would break the quiet first.

Dr. Reischtal seemed not to notice. Thoughts bubbled up and he merely said, “It will be interesting to observe your condition in the coming hours.”

Tommy ignored the ominous aspects of this remark, and tried to push his luck. “You think you could turn me loose? I gotta take a leak fucking awful.”

At first, Dr. Reischtal refused to answer. He walked to the door and knocked. It opened almost immediately. “Mr. Krazinsky is in need of a Foley catheter,” Dr. Reischtal told the tech. “See that it is done and soon. I would hate to think that he is in any discomfort.” He stopped and looked back at Tommy. “One more thing. Upon further review of his case, Mr. Krazinsky will not need any further sedatives. I want him . . . alert.”

 

 

“God is not in the details,” Mr. Ullman was fond of telling his subordinates. “I am. And if you want to remain employed with this hotel, you will do well to remember me.” This was true. Employees had found themselves in the unemployment line with a suddenness that made their heads spin for something as seemingly simple as an unshaven chin, an unequal portions of risotto, or missing a single pubic hair on the black tiles under the toilet.

In the six months since the grand opening, it had become clear that the name of the building had irrevocably become The Fin, and although the owners had initially balked at the simplistic nickname, they had since come to recognize the value of such a branding. In the first few months, they had quietly co-opted the name, trademarked it, and now they embraced it.

The incident involving the homeless and the resulting bedbug infestation had nearly ended Mr. Ullman’s own career. After an unpleasant discussion with the CEO and board of directors, he had been allowed to keep his position, but he been placed on probation. Grateful for his second chance, he redoubled his efforts in making the Serenity the cleanest hotel in Chicago, if not the nation. He was merciless. His eyes would zero in on details such as a scuff mark on the inside of an elevator, a stray thread on a pillowcase, or a smudged fingerprint on a vase of flowers in the lobby. Every single employee in the building knew his name and feared his wrath.

In addition to the unprecedented levels of sanitation, he also went to war on the insect population. An army of contractors went through the skyscraper, injecting a silicone sealant in every gap, every crack. Entire floors were repainted to hide these efforts. Each room was then sealed off in a rotating basis and blasted with highly pressurized steam. Professional-grade insecticide was now standard issue along with the rest of the cleaning products. The union didn’t like it much, but after one short meeting with the general manager, the hotel now included new heavy-duty rubber gloves and a surgical mask for the staff.

With Mr. Ullman in charge, the bugs didn’t stand a chance.

 

 

Back in the car, Ed turned left onto Wacker immediately after crossing the bridge. They cruised along the emergency side of the hospital, noting the shadows of soldiers within the doors. He circled the block, slowed down, timing it so he’d hit a yellow stoplight, then red. That way, they could take a full thirty seconds to watch the hospital.

But they saw nothing.

They kept circling, weaving around a five-to-seven-block radius several times before they saw any movement. A bus had pulled up in the empty emergency lane, discharging a group of tired, confused-looking people, all struggling to haul medical equipment and small luggage bags inside.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that a bunch of doctors or scientists or folks like that just got off that bus,” Ed said.

“Good thing you know better,” Sam said.

Ed drove down Monroe a few blocks, then circled around to Adams, and parked in the shadow of the Willis Tower. “I’m getting sick of driving in circles.”

Sam nodded, watching the late morning commuters shuffle to work.

“We’re not gonna see anything from the outside. Not anything that they don’t want anybody to see.”

Sam nodded again. “You wanna go inside?”

“Not especially.”

“Me neither. Not yet, anyway.”

“Any ideas?”

Sam sat for a moment and didn’t answer. He shrugged. “Make some calls. Check email. Listen to the radio. Go for a ride.” They said together, “
What the hell, I ain’t paying for gas.
”

Ed plotted a course west out of downtown to Lake Shore Drive and turned south when he hit the lake. They passed the Field Museum and Soldier Field.

Sam yawned. It surprised him. He turned his radio off. “I think I’m gonna try to sleep,” he said.

Ed nodded, turned down his own radio, and found a talk-radio AM station on the car’s stereo, the frenzied hosts doing whatever they could to make everything sound like the world was about to crash into chaos and death. He turned the volume low, so it could serve as soothing white noise for Sam. Ed knew the truth.

Sam had never talked about his insomnia, but he’d never tried to hide it either. He adjusted his seat back, getting just enough of a incline to rest his skull against the doorframe, just out of sight of the side window. He held his notebook in his lap, and sunglasses so he could close his eyes and no one could tell he was asleep.

Ed drove while Sam slept. Since his partner was out, he tried to look at the world with both of their eyes. Problem was, Sam was more paranoid than a meth addict on a seven-day bender; but he still had this preternatural sense of who was dangerous and who wasn’t.

Ed never could find that fine line; almost always he was either too disbelieving or too trusting. He drove slowly, letting the motions of the car help Sam get some sleep. They passed hulking shells of empty project homes. This was August, and nature ran rampant through unkempt concrete. Trees, bushes, grass all exploded with life, as if the warm, thick air acted as a kind of steroid.

He kept the AC on for Sam, but rolled down the driver’s window. When he was thinking and driving through the city, he preferred to breathe the same air as everybody else on the streets. He wanted to hear everything, to feel the heat.

Nothing was happening, at least as far as this new threat was concerned, though. Oh, there was the usual shit, of course. Gangbangers swaggering down their blocks, itching for any excuse to prove their manhood. Certifiably brain-dead patients behind the wheels of vehicles. Public intoxication. Crack passing hands in the open sunlight. Zombies, almost always women, stumbling along, clear victims of domestic abuse, all bruised up. Some with blood still in their hair. If Ed felt like it, he could park the damn car on one corner and arrest five people inside of fifteen minutes.

But there was nothing concrete he could put his finger on, nothing that he could stop and wake Sam for, nothing that he could point to with clear conviction and say yes, there, right there is irrefutable evidence of the problem. So he kept driving. Up and down avenues along the South Side. Through areas that resembled nothing more than bombed-out wasteland where people eked out a living, once step ahead of homelessness and starvation.

The unwelcome cousins of paranoia and frustration started creeping into his thoughts and he decided that a possible solution was simply to become more paranoid, like Sam. So he found a quiet street lined with limp, lifeless trees and ravaged three-flats, pulled over, and fished in his sport coat for a blunt. He fired it up, took three deep hits. He stubbed the end out and stashed the blunt back in an inside pocket.

He drove to the end of the block, exhaling through his nose. Already, the air felt denser, the sounds were crisper, and the situation seemed more definable in his head. He turned off the radio, driving aimlessly, and tried to lay it out.