Текст книги "Sleep Tight"

Автор книги: Jeff Jacobson

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

PHASE 2

CHAPTER 13

11:07 AM

April 14

When the seasons change in Chicago, the transformation can be startling. Bare branches become lush and vibrant; trees seem to appear out of nowhere. Bushes flourish like a happy cancer, hiding garbage and cracked foundations. Grass turns green overnight. Even the air smells different, as if it were being piped in from somewhere down south.

During these first few weeks of true warmth, the city’s denizens peel off layers of clothing, like snakes shedding their skin, and emerge from the darkness of winter hibernation with pale skin and an insatiable lust for the sun. A collective sigh of relief can be heard, and just like the plants and trees, the abandoned sidewalks erupt with life.

Louis W. Holtzfelder liked to take a midmorning break from his tax law office in the upper floors of 845 North Michigan and stroll across the bridge to the Starbucks on the other side of the Chicago River in the Trib building. In the winter, he parked in the heated underground garage, and rode the elevator up to his office. Same thing in the deep summer. There was no point in suffering the extremes of Chicago’s weather like some common laborer when his status afforded him twenty-four-hour climate control.

When the weather was mild, a Goldilocks blend of spring warmth and refreshing breezes without summer’s oppressive heat, he gladly left the sedate hum of fluorescent lights tastefully hidden behind soothing smoked glass, and ventured onto Michigan Avenue on foot. No doubt the attire of the office girls that suddenly appeared on streets had something to do with this decision, but he would never admit this, not even to himself. Still, he couldn’t help but notice the annual baring of shocking amounts of female flesh and he tried not to stare as he made his way through corporate workers and throngs of tourists to get his soy chai latte espresso.

Sometimes he would even take the time to sit on one of the benches along the river if the stench from the polluted water wasn’t too bad. Today, though, he needed to get back to the office as soon as possible. He shouldn’t have even left, because the temp’s lack of intelligence was staggering, but by eleven in the morning, Holtzfelder hadn’t been able to resist the sunlight and smells of tree blossoms and snatches of intoxicating, exotic perfume he occasionally could catch as he passed the girls on the street.

He was on his way back when he saw the homeless woman, approaching the bridge on the far side. At least, he thought it was a woman. She was black, of course.

He’d seen her before, shambling along the sidewalks like some great sluggish buffalo, pushing a shopping cart. He had had the misfortune of having to wait for her as she took hours to cross in front of his Jaguar. Holtzfelder believed there should be some kind of ordinance that banned the homeless from the city. Or at least kept them in the South Loop, well away from where the decent people worked. This was the price he paid for venturing onto public streets on such a beautiful day he reasoned, and tried not to let her presence interfere with his pleasant stroll.

She stopped at the edge of the bridge, nearly completely blocking the sidewalk with her overloaded cart. Tourists kept a wide berth, pushing their children out in traffic on the Michigan Avenue Bridge to shield their delicate sensibilities from an honest-to-God street vagrant.

No matter the weather, she wore layers upon layers of tattered, rotten scavenged clothing. A pair of oversized black Chuck Taylor shoes could be seen under the frayed plaid bell-bottoms. Holtzfelder knew the brand because his son had begged for a pair for his thirteenth birthday many years ago. Holtzfelder had refused. No son of his was ever going to look “punk.”

Most curious of all though, the homeless woman wore some kind of plastic Halloween novelty Viking helmet. The cartoonish horns pushed their way through holes in the brown hood attached to a brown cloak that draped her bulky frame. A circle of graying, waxy hair encircled a dark face with the texture of an old walnut. She could have been anywhere from a beaten forty-year-old to a still spry eighty-year-old.

Holtzfelder just knew she was going to accost him as he drew closer. He curled his free hand into a fist and focused his gaze firmly on the blinking DON’T WALK sign on the far corner. The lights were not going to help him. He would be stuck on the corner while the traffic sped along Upper Wacker and he feared that he would be exposed and vulnerable. Well, that was ridiculous. He was Louis W. Holtzfelder; some of his clients were among the most important people in the city. He set his jaw.

He was all ready to give her a piece of his mind when he got within five feet, but she wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, she was intently watching the promenade down by the water. Unable to stop himself, as if he was passing a gruesome traffic accident, he followed her gaze.

Down on the walkway that ran along the river, between the wrought-iron benches and cement flowerbeds, was a rat. Holtzfelder’s lips pursed. Rats had no more a right to be in the city than the homeless did. Still, it wasn’t natural to see a rat out in the direct sunlight, moving so slowly.

In fact, the rat wasn’t acting right at all. It stumbled from the shadows, staggering slightly as if drunk. He needed his glasses, because there seemed to be something wrong with the rat’s hair. It looked almost as if it was crumbling away, leaving a trail of dirt behind it. It hobbled to the edge of the river, and simply fell in. There was no jump, no grace, nothing natural. It looked like it was dying.

The homeless woman spoke, so suddenly and so close that Holtzfelder jumped. “Rats be sicker than a motherfucker. All over the place. This town, it be in all kindsa trouble. You watch.”

Holtzfelder edged around her and the cart, with no idea of what to say. The lights changed, and he hurried across the street, leaving the woman still staring at the empty space where the rat had fallen.

CHAPTER 14

8:45 PM

April 17

Those first months on the job, Tommy learned the habits of rattus norvegicus. Don would lead him down into the labyrinth of tunnels and subways and fissures, leaving behind the vicious winter winds that howled through the streets above. Tommy found it fascinating. He felt privileged somehow, exploring this forbidden perspective, as if buried deep beneath the skyscrapers where the city anchored itself into the earth, he could actually see the hidden corners and abrupt angles where the city crashed against itself, grinding the cement, buckling the sidewalks, cracking the bricks.

They would start each night by hitting the alleys behind restaurants and bars, restocking bait and checking holes. Then they’d creep into ancient basements or slip into abandoned buildings, carrying long poles with loops at the ends, swaddled in heavy leather. Tommy began to understand and follow the maze of tunnels under the Loop. They could enter the subway system at Harrison and climb out at Washington avoiding the train lines altogether.

Tommy could squirm into places where Don could only shine a flashlight. Thanks to his relatively small size and strength that hadn’t faded since his glory days as an energetic human vacuum cleaner shortstop on the De La Salle Meteors, Don had come to rely on Tommy to crawl into holes and cracks, baiting and catching rats in places that had been previously inaccessible. They’d leave bait, and days later, return to collect dead rats to keep the people that read the paperwork happy. Along with his new boots, Tommy carried his high school aluminum bat, a Louisville Slugger Exogrid, in a sling across his back, in case any of the rats weren’t quite dead.

The last stop of the night was always the incinerators on the West Side.

The work was filthy, choking, and dangerous. Still, Tommy enjoyed it, relished the rush as adrenaline pulsed through his body as he crawled through the dust, always facing the possibility of running into rats ready to defend their territory. It forced him to concentrate and kept his mind off of Kimmy and Grace, at least for those hours underground. Then, when they stopped at the bar after dropping off the dead rats at the end of the night, he felt as if he’d earned a beer, and could relax.

Don, though, was relaxed all the time. He moved in one speed and never got in much of a hurry. The way he saw it, the rats would always be around. Why rush? “Besides man, rats are the most successful mammal on the planet. They’re everywhere. And they’re gonna be too, long after we’re gone. That’s what I call job security. Long as you stay outta the boss’s way, you got yourself a job for life. Nobody sane wants it, I’ll tell you that much.”

Then, that night in April, a couple of big guys were waiting in the locker room. They wore irritated scowls and name tags that claimed they were union reps. One said, “We understand you two have the highest numbers of dead rats in Streets and Sans.”

The other one said with a flat smile, “Couple stone-cold killers.”

The situation was a little dicey, because it was considered bad form to always be outshining your fellow employees, so most nights they took it easy, hanging out in the city employee bar. Still, Don said, “So what? We’re doing our job. Any problems with that?”

The first union rep spread his hands and shook his head. “No. No problems. But things have changed, at least for the time being. We were sent down here to talk to everybody, explain the situation.”

The second said, “No more dead rats. The little fuckers got a phone call from the governor. Let ’em be. Until further notice.”

“Says who?” Don asked.

“Do we really have to spell it out for you? And does it matter?”

“Guess not,” Don said.

“And it should go without saying, but we want to make this perfectly clear that this is to be kept between us. The wrong person hears that the rats aren’t on the city’s hit list anymore, they might jump to the wrong conclusions.”

“Look at it as a reward for a job well done,” the second one said.

There was no point in arguing. The message had been received loud and clear. From that night on, Don and Tommy made a show of putting out traps for the first hour or so, despite the fact that there was no bait in them. Then they would head to the bar and never leave until morning. The instructions were that simple. They would spend the night drinking beer, watching CSN, unless it was golf, then they would begrudgingly switch over to ESPN and that was the cue for everybody in the bar to argue loudly about all the other cities and sports besides Chicago.

Most everybody who worked in vermin control in Streets and Sans knew that Lee was out there, pulling strings, fucking with their jobs, but nobody wanted to talk about it much. Tommy thought it was a hell of a way to earn a paycheck, but so far, Kimmy had kept her end of the bargain, and had not blocked his visits.

CHAPTER 15

9:13 PM

April 17

“Now what do you suppose these fucking idiots are doing?” Ed asked, taking a thoughtful sip from Sam’s flask.

Sam took the flask, leaned back, and got a better angle in the side mirror. Two blocks behind them, a Chicago Police cruiser jerked to a stop at the corner of Garfield and Halsted. They had the flashers on, sending jittery blue lights across the entire intersection. No sirens though. Two uniformed patrolmen burst out of the car.

The guy Ed and Sam had been watching didn’t even bother to run. The cops slammed him on the pavement, cuffed his hands behind his back, and threw him in the back of the cruiser. They jumped into the front and took off. The traffic began to move again, and people ventured away from the buildings and started back across the street.

The whole thing took less than thirty seconds. It was as if a rock had been dropped into a puddle. For a moment, the waves splashed out, disturbing the surface, but before long the water slid back into place, obliterating all traces of the rock.

“Goddamnit,” Ed said.

“We aren’t the only ones picking forbidden fruit, brother.”

“He’s not holding.” Every cop knew this. Very few drug dealers were dumb enough to stand out in the open and conduct business. They just arranged the deal, and sent the customers to the right spot for the actual transaction.

“Doesn’t matter. Gotta be payback for something.”

“If those pricks are working for the Latin Kings, we gotta think of something halfway clever.”

The cruiser headed west down Garfield.

“Fifty bucks says they’re headed into LK territory.”

Ed whipped the Crown Vic in a tight U-turn. Horns echoed up and down Halsted. “Out of the way, hammerhead,” he yelled at a Cadillac that blocked the street.

“Thank God we’re keeping a low profile here,” Sam said.

“Those two are so jacked up from nabbing somebody off the street without calling for backup, they aren’t watching their mirrors. Don’t sweat it.”

The Cadillac finally got out of its own way and Ed sped past it. He squinted at the lights ahead. “Forgot my glasses. They still got their lights on?”

“Can’t tell.”

At the next side street, Ed yanked the wheel to the right, racing west along Fifty-fourth, so they were parallel to Garfield. They rushed through the summer darkness, blowing through stop signs.

“Easy,” Sam said. “Last thing we need is to hit a kid.”

“Yes, Miss Daisy.”

Ed knew that Fifty-fourth Street dead-ended into train tracks so he turned south on Damen. Ed coasted along as Garfield got closer.

“There!” Sam pointed. The cruiser flashed past, running with just headlights. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

Ed ignored this. “That boy is gonna be in a big hurt if they drop him off on the Latin Kings’ turf.” The guy was known on the streets as Ducey and known to the Justice Department as Darryl Adams. He’d grown up in the Blackstones, and now was one of the top lieutenants. Ed and Sam didn’t give a damn about him, though. They were just keeping an eye on him on the off chance they might spot a certain Javier Delgado.

Delgado was wanted in connection with a suspicious murder-suicide in a crack house in Northern Indiana. Word was that Delgado was hiding out with family in Detroit, but Ed and Sam knew that Delgado and Ducey’s sister had a three-year-old son together, so it was worth a shot. Commendations from both the narcotics squad and the homicide division certainly wouldn’t hurt when they went looking for consulting gigs after retirement.

But now Ducey was about to be kicked into a rival gang’s territory, a wolf tossed to the lions. The locals called it a “bitch drop,” as in you got dropped off and then ran like a bitch. Ed and Sam didn’t particularly give a rat’s ass about a gangbanger like Ducey, but it was the principle of the thing.

Ed jumped into traffic on Garfield, cutting into traffic in a storm of horns and brake lights. He pulled up next to the cruiser and Sam locked eyes with the cop driving. Sam held up his badge and pointed to the curb.

The driver nodded and gave a mock salute. He didn’t pull over to the side of Garfield. Instead, he turned the next corner and parked on a quiet side street, away from the eyes of passing cars.

“Let me do the talking,” Sam said.

“Don’t piss ’em off.”

“Let me do the talking.”

Ed eased to a stop behind the cruiser. The patrolmen didn’t wait in the car like citizens. Instead, they met Ed and Sam in the wash of headlights in front of the Crown Vic.

“What can we do to help you out, detectives?” the driver asked with a fawning sincerity that was almost real enough to mask his irritation.

“Officer . . . Falwell, is it?” Sam asked.

“Yes, sir. Again, how can we help you, Detective . . . ?”

“I’m Detective Tackleberry. This is Detective Hightower.” Sam hoped the patrolmen were too young to have bothered watching the movie Police Academy. “We’re actually working with IA.” Sam paused for dramatic emphasis, as if he was about to tell someone a loved one had been killed in the line of duty. “Officer Falwell, we need to speak with you in private, I’m afraid.”

Officer Falwell and his partner exchanged glances. “Look, whatever you need to tell me, you can tell me in front of my partner.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to glance at Ed. Ed shrugged. Sam assumed a concerned expression. “Son, I hate to have to tell you this. It’s why we flagged you down, didn’t want to use the radio.” He folded his arms, looked at the ground. “Somebody in IA has a real hard-on for you. Whatever you did, you pissed somebody off. Big time.” He took a deep breath. “Apparently, they’ve got you targeted as an officer that picks men up on minor drug charges, then forces them to perform oral sex on you in exchange for kicking them loose.”

Officer Falwell’s mouth opened and snapped shut. Rage crawled over his face.

“That’s a fucking lie,” his partner shouted, and took a step forward.

Sam raised his hands. “Don’t shoot me. I’m just the messenger. Why do you think we’re talking to you out here?”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Officer Falwell managed to croak.

“I know. I know.” Sam nodded sympathetically. “That’s department politics for you. How long have you been on the force? Year? Two years?”

“Five.”

“Then this shouldn’t be any surprise. You pissed on somebody’s shoes. From here on, assume somebody’s got their eye on you. Like him.” Sam indicated Ducey, still in the back seat of the cruiser. “He legit, or are you using him for something else?”

“This is bullshit,” the partner said. “Bullshit.” He looked like he wanted to punch something. Sam felt sorry for whoever got in the officer’s way tonight.

Officer Falwell said, “I’m gonna fucking find who did this. Gonna fucking put their head through a fucking wall.” He went to the back of the cruiser, yanked the door open, and dragged Ducey out. He unlocked the cuffs and said, “Get the fuck out of here. I see you again, you’re fucking dead.”

Ducey didn’t need to be told twice. He’d been around enough to know that whatever was going down didn’t involve him, and hauled ass toward Garfield.

Officer Falwell slammed the cruiser’s back door and moved back around to the driver’s side.

“You’re welcome,” Sam said.

“Fuck you,” Officer Falwell shouted back, got in, and took off.

“You’d think he’d show a bit more gratitude,” Ed said.

They found Ducey a few minutes later, moving quickly along the south side of Garfield. Ed pulled over and Sam stuck his arm out of the window and waved him closer.

It was clear Ducey wanted nothing to do with the Crown Vic, but he finally shook his head and sidled up to the car, not looking at the detectives. He kept his eyes flicking up and down the street instead.

“The fuck y’all want now?”

“Goddamn. Nobody’s appreciating anything tonight,” Sam told Ed. He looked back up at Ducey. “You know exactly what those boys were planning. My partner and I, we just spared you one hell of an ass-whupping or worse. You’re lucky to be walking around right now.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatcha want?”

“Take a good look at us, kid. Memorize our faces. See, you owe us. Big time. And here’s the thing. Nobody knows. Not your gangbanging buddies, not those cops back there. Nobody. Not yet anyway. You piss me off, everybody on the South Side is gonna know you’re a snitch. Here’s my card.”

Ducey took the card. He looked like he wanted to spit on it and drop it in the gutter, but he slipped it into his jeans. “Yeah, I’m shakin’. Cut the bullshit. Whatcha want?”

“Looking for Javier Delgado. You know why. If he’s around, you let me know. I find out he’s in town and I haven’t heard from you, I know cops a thousand times worse than those two fuckheads back there.”

Tommy and Don were discussing an upcoming three game series with the hated Twinkies with a couple of electricians, also employed by Streets and Sans. Both the Sox and the Cubs were off to shaky starts, but hey, it was early. Plenty of time left before the do-or-die days of September.

On TV over the bar, the anchor was wrapping up their lead story, “More details about this tragic death as they become available. In other news, Streets and Sanitation Commissioner Lee Shea today answered some tough questions about the rat population. Cecilia Palmers was on the scene at City Hall earlier today.” The camera cut away to a shot of the east side of City Hall. Lee always conducted press conferences on the county side in the morning, because the light was better.

One of the Streets and Sans guys pointed at the TV. “Our fearless leader.”

Don and Tommy turned to watch the news.

Lee was out in front of City Hall again, wearing his earnest, concerned expression. “I can assure you that everyone in my department is doing their absolute best with their limited resources. It is unfortunate that the rest of City Hall does not share my concern for the well-being of the citizens of Chicago. Nevertheless, you have my unwavering promise that Streets and Sans is doing everything within its power to control the population of vermin. I can only ask that if anyone is concerned about pests in their neighborhoods, to not only call us, but to call their aldermen as well, and ask them why it was decided that Streets and Sans would not receive sufficient funds to do this job properly.”