Start Shooting (9 page)

I look left. A squad car is alongside my window, the cop staring at me. I jolt back, then struggle the window all the way down.

He says, “Nice car.”

Actress smile. Heart hammering.

“Are you all right, miss?”

“Ah, yeah.” I point at the motel. “Checking in, got a call and—Sorry.”

He nods. “You’re stopped in the middle of the road.”

“Shit. Sorry.” I drive into the parking lot I thought I was in, stop, kill the lights and engine, pop the door, and—
BLOOD on your blouse
. Cop still watching me.

Can’t sit here.

Can’t drive away. Mirror check. The cops know something’s wrong.

Deep breath; do something;
move
.

Purse to chest, I slide out into the rain with my shoulder to the police car, shut the door, and walk fast toward the motel office. Please, please, please, give me this one.

Meeting here at the Levee Grill,
now
, my brother is taunting the lion, telling the FBI: Suck my dick.

Out front, sixteen summer tables are topped with red-checked tablecloths and Chianti-bottle candles. A box planter spilling bougainvillea separates customer from passing pedestrian, ward heeler and political fixer from civilian.

Ruben rises from the table nearest the front door and introduces me to his attorney, James W. Barlow, mid-fifties, no necktie, 2016 Olympics pin, starched cuffs; a man known for his appetites, not his philanthropy. Mr. Barlow and I shake hands; he eyes my gun, jeans, and vest, then motions me to sit. The long patio is mostly men in expensive suits with happy hour or regular tee times glowing in their faces. Twenty-five years ago Chicago’s power structure imploded right here. The feds tape-recorded and convicted a slew of judges, policemen, deputy sheriffs,
Outfit bosses, union bosses, and forty-eight members of the Illinois State Bar. Operation Greylord remains the FBI’s single biggest case against the Chicago Machine. Half these men probably don’t know that; the half that do are the ones who worry me.

I scoot my chair toward the wall, but still have to sit with half my back to LaSalle Street. Mr. Barlow’s nails are manicured; the TAG Heuer watch is the only non-knockoff I’ve ever seen and probably cost as much as my car. But then, any watch that runs probably costs more than my Civic. This morning’s
Herald
is open on our red-checked tablecloth.

Mr. Barlow swishes a highball above “MONSTER.” “Whatever you have to hide, Bobby, I should know.”

Ruben sips Scotch.

“Have we met, Mr. Barlow?”

Barlow levels his eyes, accustomed to making demands that border on insult. A courtroom lawyer unconcerned with real-world reprisals.

“And we’re not engaged?”

“No.”

“So, ah, why would I answer a question like that … at a time like this?”

Ruben winks at me, then rolls his eyes at Barlow. “Told you.”

“Two reasons, Officer Vargas—money and jail.”

Cute. I ask Ruben how well he knows Mr. Barlow.

“Well enough I take him to the cockfights.”

I nod small, but don’t answer.

Ruben quits smiling and adds diction. “When Mr. Barlow isn’t assisting slandered and libeled police officers from the Hispanic community, he walks and golfs with the city’s movers and shakers. His firm is
the
firm for a fight with the
Herald
and he’ll take our case as a personal favor.”

“Favor to who?”

Ruben looks down his nose at his little brother, reminding me who was the man of the house after Dad died. Who kept the wolf from the door and who made sure Mom and I always had what we needed while Ruben often went without. “A favor to
me
.”

“My brother’s a mover and shaker? Not a homicide detective making ninety a year?”

On Ruben’s left, a man exits a limo with a bodyguard-assistant and strides toward us in a $3,000 suit. This is the man who just delivered a billion-dollar Olympic sponsorship from Chicago’s newest skyscraper, Furukawa Industries. He has a perfect haircut, wire-rim glasses, a light tan, and a 2016 Olympics pin in his lapel. Toddy Pete Steffen could be the mayor of Dublin or the CEO of General Motors. He is, for sure, a cop’s worst nightmare before facing IAD on Monday morning.

Mr. Steffen stops, his hand light on my shoulder, and smiles at lawyer Barlow. “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. Why do I pay, if you never work?”

Mr. Barlow raises his glass and adds an Irish accent. “And here’s to ya, Peter.”

When Mr. Steffen ran the First Ward he was referred to as the Prince of Darkness, and still is. Cops can go to prison because they shook hands with him once or stood next to him at a parade. Mr. Steffen grins. “My office tomorrow? We’ve an Olympic rebid to win.”

“Ten
AM
, bells on and biscuits in the bag.”

“Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen.” Mr. Steffen nods to Ruben and me. “And any extra effort to quell our gang problem in the 12th District would be greatly appreciated.” He squeezes my shoulder, then turns toward two well-dressed Japanese men as the maître d’ says, “Dr. Ota is inside, Mr. Steffen.”

Ruben seems surprised at the reference to Dr. Ota, the Furukawa CEO headlining today’s paper, and turns to look. “T.P.’s looking fresh as ever.”

Mr. Barlow adds, “Toddy Pete joins the immortals if the Olympics rethink Chicago.” Mr. Barlow cuts to me and taps the newspaper. “If we beat the
Herald
and the paper doesn’t go Chapter 7, we will be well paid. If we don’t beat them, Officer Vargas, the
Herald
will put you and your brother in prison. Ten years minimum, maybe life.”

“No offense, but tell me something I don’t know.”

“Late this afternoon, counsel for the Duprees filed to exhume Coleen Brennan’s body.”

My eyes close. Barlow waits, then surrounds the images with: “The federal lawsuit filed by Anton Dupree’s family names the city, your brother, and three fellow officers for wrongful death. It’s possible the
Herald
will join the Dupree motion for exhumation, or already has, as a silent partner. What that means to you is that although you are not
yet named with your brother in the Duprees’ wrongful-death suit, you will be added if the
Herald
’s evidence against you is only
moderately
compelling.”

I open my eyes, disgusted. “The Dupree lawsuit is civil. What’s their plan, take my shirt?”

“The Dupree lawsuit is civil, but the accusations the
Herald
says they will make are
criminal
. First-degree murder, rape, suppression of evidence. I assume you’ve been contacted by IAD?”

Nod.

“I’d be willing to bet the
Herald
is already sharing whatever criminal evidence they have with the Duprees, who already have civil depositions scheduled for Monday. And a civil trial date shortly after that.”

“And?”

Barlow cants his head an inch. “Do you want to face the U.S. attorney under oath? Because federal
criminal
court is where the civil suit leads if the
Herald
gets the public behind the case. U.S. Attorney Jo Ann Merica already hates the Chicago Police Department and wants to be governor—she’ll file a criminal case against you and Ruben, crucify the
corrupt
Chicago Police Department, force a deserved restitution to the family of a retarded black man wrongfully executed, then convict the
real
monsters who ‘raped a thirteen-year-old Irish girl to death.’ ” Pause. “Forget governor, Jo Ann rights so many wrongs she could run for president.”

Ruben sips his Scotch, nodding, no smile. I ask if Mr. Barlow is representing him.

Ruben says, “Not yet. City’s paying for my civil fling with the Duprees.”

I nod down LaSalle Street at city hall. “Will the city stay with you after the
Herald
says you and I are John Gacy?”

Ruben sets his glass by the Chianti-bottle candle and removes his toothpick. “Now you have it,
buey
. Before today’s paper, Ruben Vargas was either hero
cop/patrón del barrio;
or a cop who knew too many of the bad people; or a racist cop—all depended on whose story they were selling that day. No six o’clock news there. But in here”—Ruben taps the
Herald
—“they make the brothers Vargas into
monstruos
who have to die … then,
esé
, you and I
día del muerto.
”

Mr. Barlow adds, “One way or another.”

A cute waitress stops next to my shoulder, hesitates because it’s obvious I’m some kind of cop and on duty, then asks if I want a drink anyway. I tell her no thanks. Mr. Barlow spins his finger for another round. She leaves and I tell him: “I knew Coleen when we were kids. I liked her, a lot. I don’t hurt people I like.” I cut to my older brother in his expensive sport coat and concerned expression, then back. “But I have no problem hurting people I don’t like. So I’ll do my job until the department or the city decides to submarine me. If and when that happens, maybe we’ll talk.”

Barlow stares. “Suit yourself. I can’t make you want to survive.”

“Take care of my older brother. He thinks being a Mexican legend makes him immune.”

“No. Ruben knows better, that’s why we’re here. He knows this will get ugly. They won’t play fair and neither can you.”

Instead of standing like I should, I sit back. “What do you have in mind, counselor?”

“The investigator from Texas working with Moens is an ex-cop with nasty Mexico history that he doesn’t know I can prove. The Pink Panther, storied crime reporter for the
Herald
, continues an on-again, off-again lesbian affair with her ex–business partner in the L7, Julie McCoy.”

“That the kind of lawyer you are?”

“The ownership of the
Herald
is negotiating a bankruptcy plea that will invalidate its pension requirements and generate a sale to a U.K. conglomerate. Headlines help the sale. You and your brother will be dragged through the sewer. ‘Tabloid’ won’t quite describe it.”

“I don’t hide behind character assassination.”

“Noble, but child murder and rape accusations require rebuttal.” Mr. Barlow adopts his jury voice: “Either we fight their salacious innuendo and hyperbole masquerading as ‘fact’ with similar tools or—”

“Why not use the truth?”

Barlow blinks, confused. “Because the truth doesn’t matter. Winning matters.”

I look down the patio at customers busy with their own conversations. Being somewhere else would be good, and by Monday night—
after IAD, federal depositions, and the
Herald
’s next installment of “MONSTER”—probably
someone
else.

Barlow continues. “Bobby, I can’t help you or your brother without your cooperation. That’s a decision the two of you have to make. But be assured this fight will only be won dirty, and not without you and Ruben taking some hits.”

Ruben crosses himself. “Or we can sit back and take it up the ass. Enjoy being
mártires.
”

“I’m not a martyr … nor am I an asshole, most of the time.” I nod at Barlow. “Thanks for your time and advice.” Then to Ruben: “Talk to you tomorrow.”

Ruben chews his toothpick, stands, and walks me to my car. “What kinda questions your new girls askin’?”

“Officer Hahn asked about Moens and the
Herald
—if it bothered me. Today’s paper was on my seat; she was just making conversation. Did say something interesting, though. Furukawa’s run by Japanese guys. How come they’re backing Chicago against Tokyo for the Olympics?”

“Above my pay grade. Anything about me?”

“Nope.” My phone vibrates. I answer.

Buff says, “Are we sober?”

“Twelve-pack ain’t nothing for a musician.”

“We’re a go for the Latin Kings corner in thirty minutes. Train tracks and Damen—you and Hahn—now.”

“Ten-four.” I flip the phone shut.

Ruben grips my neck like when we were kids. “Where you at tonight?”

“Ashland and Twenty-first. Got me a red Toyota, buy money, and two girls the commander wants to make famous. Buff thinks it’s the beginning of an Operation Hammer.”

Ruben shakes his head. “No more ghetto. Won’t need us, we’ll all be one big happy Olympic village.” He squeezes my neck. “Think about what Mr. Barlow said.”

“Don’t need to. I’m not joining the rape-and-pillage club.”

Ruben slaps my head, then hugs me tighter than usual. “By this time tomorrow, little brother, you won’t know a soul who doesn’t think the rape-and-pillage club is
exactly
where you and I belong.” He pushes me to arm’s length. “And watch out for those girls. They ain’t in your team to
make conversation
.”