Текст книги "Penance"

Автор книги: Dan O'Shea

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Weaver was not just leery of the upcoming Ides of March, he was having his doubts about the entire fucking month. And April was looking very cruel indeed.

CHAPTER 4 – CHICAGO

February, 1971

“Jesus, Stosh, I know you’d stick your dick in a light socket if you thought you’d get away with it, but this is fucking nuts,” Riley said, looking down at the bodies.

Hastings Clarke stood by the door watching Riley. Clarke hated Riley. Hated the big, round Irish head, the massive shoulders, the ill-fitting suit, the too-short tie on the slope of the unapologetic gut. He hated Riley as the venial representation of everything wrong with the city. When Clarke came west to join the Hurley dynasty, he found not corruption as a rash overlying the sound skeleton of government but a body politic completely rotted through. Urbs in Horto, City in a Garden, was Chicago’s official motto. But Qua Mei? was its operating principle. Where’s mine?

Clarke understood self-interest. He’d met David Hurley, Jr at Yale Law and had seen the Chicago opportunity early. The East Coast was complicated. You had Kennedys and Tafts and Roosevelts. Dozens of old-line links to power, all with money and connections, all from the same schools, all looking for a way in. Clarke’s family was in the mix, of course, New York money back to the Revolution. But in Chicago, one family ran an entire state. David Hurley was going to be Clarke’s shortcut to the head of the class. Clarke went back to Chicago with David, ran his campaign for DA, served in his office, and now ran his campaign for the US Senate. Clarke would use his family money and contacts to ease Hurley onto the national stage. Then Hurley would back Clarke in Illinois. Maybe a congressional seat next cycle. Maybe Hurley would make a play for governor and Clarke would move to the senate. While his prep-school cronies were still angling for some backwater undersecretary slot, Clarke would be on the lead lap.

Now David was dead. Worse, he was a dead homosexual. Eight years wasted.

Clarke looked back at the bodies. Stosh Stefanski, head of Chicago’s Streets and Sanitation Department, the mother-lode of clout, was sprawled in the middle of the floor, naked except for a sleeveless T-shirt. The T-shirt was a mess because Stefanski had been shot in the chest. A lot. David Hurley was slumped in an armchair across the room wearing only his boxers, a bullet hole in his right temple and a bigger, messier hole a little higher up on the left side. Hurley’s gun was on the floor next to the chair.

“You did the right thing, kid, calling me,” said Riley. “What’s your name again? Hasty?”

Clarke could hear the ridicule in his voice, the alpha-male bullshit, Riley having to mark his territory, make sure the east-coast punk knew who was sucking hind tit.

“Hastings.”

“Right, Hastings. What is that, some kind of family thing?”

“Something like that,” said Clarke.

Riley was over by the far wall, turning off the thermostat. “You wanna open those windows for me, Hastings?”

“Why? It must be ten degrees outside.” Almost 10.00pm, and the temperature had been dropping all night.

“Time of death, kid. Stuff happens with stiffs. Don’t ask me the particulars, I don’t know. But whatever it is, it happens slower if they’re cold. Gives us more time to work out what happened here.”

Clarke looked at the mostly naked corpses, sniffed the smell of sex in the air. “Don’t we know what happened here?”

“Looks like Junior was a rump ranger. Stosh here, well, Stosh’d fuck a toasted cheese sandwich – especially if the sandwich was just working out which way its bread was buttered. Especially if the sandwich wasn’t really sure it wanted to get fucked yet. Stosh liked em hurt and confused, liked fucking them, liked fucking them up even better. That way, he’d have em on a string, and he could pull it whenever he wanted. Looks like maybe he pulled a little too hard. Looks like Junior got pissed. That’s the rough draft, anyway.”

“Rough draft?”

“First shit happens, then history gets written down. Got a guy on his way’s gonna look things over, decide what history is.”

“He who controls the present,” Clarke said.

“Yeah, well, you, me, and Orwell, we’re gonna go see the old man.” Riley looked over, saw Clarke looking at him. “What, you think I can’t read?”

Clarke was thinking, if they put the fix in, I may still have a play here.

Mayor Hurley stood looking out the window of his spacious, spartan office on the fifth floor of City Hall, facing the plaza to the east, where the new Picasso sculpture stood. The wind drove small, scattered flecks of snow through the spotlights that lit the sculpture.

The mayor was so different from the son. Junior had been tall, lean, dark Irish. The mayor was short, stocky, ruddy, yet emanated power like a scent. Clarke had never understood the relationship between father and son. The son was devoted to ending the corrupt politics for which his father was practically the Platonic form. No real emotional connection between them that Clarke could see – no real emotional connection between the mayor and anyone. But the mayor put the full force of his machine behind the son, and the son had an intense personal loyalty to his father.

“Fucking statue, still don’t get it,” said Hurley.

“Pardon?”

“The Picasso. Junior’s idea, you know. Public art, he says, so we can be a great city, like New York or Paris. Like we ain’t a great city already. Like I gotta put a fucking steel monkey in the middle of the Loop so we can be a great city.”

“Picasso is genius. Subjective as individual works may be, to have his work on so prominent a stage.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Make all the art critics in the world gush about us. Course you could move all the art critics in the world into the same damn place and you wouldn’t have a city, you’d have a village, cause there’s maybe a couple hundred of em, and the village wouldn’t need an idiot. And then they’d all starve cause they don’t know how to do nothing. What I like about it? The Picasso? I look out on a nice day in the summer, and I see the kids climbing up that slanty part at the bottom and sliding down. Got the parents standing there, trying to figure out is it a baboon or what, and their kids play on it. I like that. Some guy from the Art Institute came to tell me I gotta keep them kids off it, that it was sacrilege or some shit. Scrawny atheist fuck in my office talking about sacrilege. Told him that Picasso might be a drunk and can’t keep his pants zipped, but at least he makes a decent slide.”

The mayor didn’t move, hands clasped in the small of his back, still facing the window, silent again. Clarke couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” he said, “about David.”

The mayor nodded. “You was his friend, Junior always said that. Said you did good work for him. Said you was loyal to him. You and me, we got our differences. But you were good to my boy. I ain’t gonna forget that.”

Clarke didn’t buy the personal emotions, he knew he was being handled. The mayor was as close to a sociopath as anyone Clarke had ever known. “Thank you, sir. He was a great man. I am proud of what I’ve been able to do with him.”

“Still proud, after tonight?”

“I, eh, I didn’t know…”

“About the queer thing? Yeah, I know. I thought about it, maybe over the years. Seen this and that made me think. I wondered should I have said something. But there’s things you don’t wanna think, not about your own boy. Then he got married, and with the wife and the kid on the way and all, I thought maybe he’d be OK.”

“It shouldn’t define him, a single weakness. It shouldn’t become all he was. It shouldn’t be used to tarnish what he stood for.”

He could see the mayor nodding.

“It ain’t gonna. Nobody’s gonna know. Not ever. You understand that?”

“Riley told me.”

“I’m not asking did Riley tell you. I’m asking do you understand that nobody’s ever gonna know?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

Another long silence. The mayor spoke first this time.

“Junior was right, you know, about me, about how I run things. Not the way it oughta be. It was different times I come up in. You got your Hitlers and such, and nobody’s worrying too much how do you beat the son of a bitch. You do what you gotta do. And then I get this job, and see so much that needs doin’ and everybody wantin’ to chinwag everything to death. And so maybe I find some corners to cut and strings to pull, and pretty soon, I look back and I got sick fucks like Stosh running things just cause he’s got half the city by the balls. And now I gotta live with did I get my own kid killed.”

“It does need to change, sir.” Clarke was being probed, he could feel it. Hurley could write history any way he wanted, but Clarke would always have the rough draft, so Hurley needed him.

“Such a waste. He was our chance. Move away from all this crap, reach out to the next generation. There’s Billy, of course, but he ain’t got it, not like Junior did.” Billy was the mayor’s other son, just finishing college.

Careful here, thought Clarke. “It doesn’t need to be a waste, sir.”

Hurley finally turned away from the window. “You got something to say, spit it out.”

“You need a bridge to the new generation, and you need a placeholder until Billy is ready to take the stage.”

Hurley’s eyes glinted, almost the hint of a smile, seeing right through to Clarke’s play. “You think you’re the solution.”

Clarke nodded. “You’ve never really gotten to know me. You saw the Ivy League polish, and you wrote me off as some pantywaist. But you and I have the same ideology.”

“Only ideology I got is power,” said Hurley.

“Exactly. Whatever it is you want to do, you have to have power first.”

“So you want me to slot you into Junior’s place?”

“Given recent events, we would have the assurance of each other’s fealty.”

“You get a ticket to the big show, and I get a pet senator?”

“Within reason.”

Hurley walked back to the credenza, pulled a bottle of Jameson’s from the cabinet, poured some into a couple of highball glasses, handed one to Clarke.

“Never work. No secret around town how you and me get along. I put you up, you’d look like a poodle on a leash.”

“We can get around that.”

Hurley put a hand up, shushing Clarke. He walked back to the window for a minute, sipping his whiskey, then turned back.

“Here’s what we do. You declare. You’re the independent taking up Junior’s flag. Press’ll eat that shit up. They love to give it to me in the chops anyway. All those hippie loonies, they’ll flock to you. Meanwhile, I pick out some schmuck, run him in the primary. My side takes a dive, we get some of the vote out your way under the table. You’re the underdog who takes down the machine. Comes the general election, I got no choice but to back the party side.”

Clarke thought for a moment. It was brilliant. But it could also be a ploy. Could be a way for Hurley to buy his silence long enough that Clarke couldn’t ever come forward, then cut him off at the knees, have his guy actually win, send Clarke packing. It could be, but it didn’t feel that way. There’s always a moment when you have to take that leap.

“Smart play. I’ll give it a few days, lay low, grieving, get through the funeral. But you announce your candidate first – somebody out of the machine. Then I’m outraged. I have to step forward in Junior’s memory.”

“Right way to play it,” said Hurley, nodding. “Just remember one thing here. We got each other by the balls. I’ve been at this a long time, had mine twisted before. You try to cross me, I’ll rip yours off.”

“Yes, sir,” said Clarke.

Hurley let out a soft snort.

“What?” Clarke said.

“The assurance of each other’s fealty? You wanna make it in this town, you better stop talking like that. Your Ivy League crap don’t carry no weight around here.”

After Clarke left, Hurley sat in the office with Riley.

“I’ve been thinking about who we want handling it with the cops,” said Riley. “You know that Declan Lynch guy?”

“Up on the northwest side? Does some precinct work and whatnot? Rusty Lynch’s brother?”

“Yeah. Rusty can help keep him in line. Also, once he reads the tea leaves, I think he’ll smell an opportunity in it.”

“Good. Call the commissioner.”

“Zeke Fisher called while you were talking to the kid. He’s done over there. Wants you to know he’s sorry, but it’s going to be ugly. What he had to work with, only way he could go. On the plus side, looks like a chance to clean up the rest of your nigger problem. He also wants to know does he need to do anything about Clarke.”

CHAPTER 5 – KANKAKEE, ILLINOIS

Present Day

Ishmael Leviticus Fisher lay awake in the anonymous hotel on the frontage road off I-57. He needed to sleep, but the moment kept coming back to him. His wife, the quick smile and short wave out the driver’s window of the Blazer as it crunched through the yellowed leaves, down past the short stone wall, past the chestnut tree, angling to the right as it backed into the street.

Andy’s face in the back window, the delicate skin around the blues eyes crinkled, that smile that seemed to split his head like a melon full of teeth. Amanda in the car seat past him, just a year old, just a hint of Amanda through the reflection of the white house and the black shutters and the fragile blue of the autumn sky.

Then the white-yellow flash of the Semtex, like diamond lava, and a sound like all the bones in the world snapping at once, the driver’s side of the Blazer pitching up, part of the bottom showing, and then the gas tank exploding, a richer, redder fire with a sound like a bass drum stretched with his own flesh and beaten with his own heart.

Picking himself up and running to the burning hulk, half, half, half his son strewn into the street, his head now truly split, brains, not teeth, smiling out. And his wife, thrown out onto the lawn, blood sheeting down her face and a flap of her scalp hanging across one eye, a ragged triangle of gray plastic jutting from her abdomen, her right leg gone almost to the hip, the scarlet, arterial blood arcing out in desperate spurts. Her clawing at the plastic as he reached her, clawing at the invasion into her already crowded womb. And her remaining eye meeting his eyes just once, and her saying “the baby,” and her hands falling away from her stomach as that one good eye rolled back and the blood from her leg slowed, no longer propelled by a beating heart.

Fisher closed his eyes, forced the memory away. He got out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and went out into the night to run.

CHAPTER 6 – CHICAGO

When John Lynch got to his desk, he had a message to call McCord at the ME’s office. Got what he usually got, McCord eating something while he talked.

“Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, McCord.”

“Brunch, Lynch. Had breakfast couple hours ago. We can’t all keep your hours.”

“So what have you got for me?”

“You know about the cancer?”

“Priest told me. Bad?”

“Broad’s a walking tumor. Got it everywhere.”

“She in pain you think?”

“Must’ve been.”

“So I should put out an APB on that Kevorkian, huh?”

“Depends. Can he shoot?”

“So what else?”

“Definitely a descending line on the shot. Had to have some elevation. Like I was saying yesterday, bouncing off all those bones, maybe it just got kicked down, but I got a real clean entrance wound in the sternum, and the beveling on that tells me the round was headed down when it hit her. 7.62mm, so definitely a rifle round.”

“Fuck.” Lynch trying to picture the scene in his mind again. “You see anything when you were over there? Parking lot, right? Then the park. Bungalows behind that. Anything high enough?”

“Maybe the guy climbed a tree in that park, I dunno. Like I said, I just do the science. By the way, got her in the heart. Pretty much dead center. Guy’s either real lucky or real, real good.”

Lynch ran through the ME’s findings for Starshak.

“How far’s that park from the church?” Starshak asked.

“Got the street, parking lot, another street, the trees in off that a bit. Gotta be three hundred yards anyway, probably more.”

“Long way. Right in the heart, you said?”

“Yeah.” Lynch thinking a minute. “Hey, you used to be SWAT, right?”

“Yeah,” Starshak answered.

“What about one of the department sharpshooters? Think one of them might be able to break this down?”

“It’s an idea. Let me make a couple calls.”

Lynch went back out to his desk. Liz had left his place early that morning, wanting to get home, clean up, change. Lynch feeling funny standing naked in his kitchen, trading phone numbers. Lynch pulled out her card and called her office. Got her voice mail.

“Hey, Liz. It’s Lynch. Just thought I should call. Listen, I’m not that good at this stuff in person, so I’m not going to go on to some machine, but if you’d like to get together, get some dinner or something, call my cell. I’m, you know, glad you called last night.”

Starshak walked out, handed Lynch a piece of paper. “Guy named Darius Cunningham. He’s off today, but he’ll meet you over at Sacred Heart at 10.00.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

“So I hear from McGinty you were out late with some blonde looker,” Starshak said with a little dig in his voice.

“Fucking McGinty better learn to keep his mouth shut or he’s gonna lose his lease.”

Resurrection Hospital was on the way to Sacred Heart, and Lynch hadn’t been to see his mom in three days. He parked the Crown Vic outside the emergency entrance, badged the guard, and headed up.

Lynch took a minute to suck it up before he walked into his mom’s room on the sixth floor. When the doctors first diagnosed the cancer they gave her six months. That was four years ago. She was down two breasts from the cancer and a foot from the diabetes, weighed maybe eighty pounds. Better to go the way Dad went. Bullet through the head and you’re two hundred and thirty-five pounds of morgue fodder.

With his chipper face cemented in place, Lynch stepped in. The first bed was empty. The room was dark, washed with the blue flicker from the TV.

“Hey, babe,” he said. “Lookin’ hot. Docs still hittin’ on you?”

She still lit up when she saw him, but she was down to about a twenty-watt bulb.

“Johnny,” she said. She put up her left arm for a hug. The right one had too many tubes in it.

He bent down and kissed her parchment-like cheek. Her arm across his back felt like a piece of rebar in a paper bag. He sat in the chair by the bed.

“So how you doin’? Pain OK? These nurses won’t keep you in dope, I got some contacts, you know.”

“Oh, stop it. I’m fine.” She smiled. “It always does me good to see you, Johnny. You’re a good boy. You hear anything from your sister?”

He hadn’t, not in a couple weeks. “Yeah, mom, talked to her last night. She’d love to come down, but with the boys and the new job and all, well… Sends her love, though. She’s prayin’ for you.”

“She sent flowers,” his mother said, nodding toward the arrangement on the stand by the window.

“That’s nice,” he said. “She’s a good kid.”

“I got good kids. You both grew up good. That’s the biggest comfort I have. That and your father waiting for me.”

“Yeah, well good thing he’s such a patient guy, Ma, cause I’m nowhere near done with you yet. Boy needs his mother.” He squeezed her hand.

She smiled at him again, then he watched her eyes drift closed and her breathing settle into a sleeping rhythm.

Lynch would wait. She wouldn’t sleep long. Besides, WGN was just leading in to the morning news. The Marslovak killing was the lead story.

“That poor woman,” he heard his mother say.

“Hey, sleepyhead, back with us?” The motor moaned as she raised the bed.

“Why would anyone shoot a lady coming out from mass?”

“Wasn’t mass, Mom. She’d just been to confession.”

“Well, that’s good, then.”

“Good how?”

“State of grace. She died in a state of grace.”

They both sat for a minute, Lynch having nothing to say to that.

“You keeping your soul clean, Johnny? You gettin’ to church?”

“Sure, Mom. They practically gotta kick me out of the place. You know me.” Who was it said children had a duty to lie to their parents? Lynch couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter. People said a lot of things. Most of it was bullshit.

She drifted off again. Lynch left.