Calumet City (11 page)

Danny del Pasco is a shaved-head white male of about forty, lean at 200 pounds, corded and vascular in belly chains and Aryan tattoos. The unadorned portions of his skin are a lighter shade of the worn wood that will separate us. Two tears are tattooed under his left eye—badges for prison murders. He moves with confidence, not swagger. His eyes are bright but quiet, reserved, not wary. I’ve seen a number of overamped thugs who have committed murder, and he is not one. This is a
stone
killer.

We sit, twenty-four inches apart. The only defense I have is to duck. The guards retreat and close the door. One stays outside, his hand hidden in the vicinity of the doorknob. Comforting, but likely too far to stop Danny D’s first move if he makes it. Danny’s eyes are steel blue and on me, but not a glare, not a threat. I’m game faced, showing him nothing, semi-slouching in an uncomfortable plastic chair. We’re two people having coffee at Art’s on Ashland, no more, no less. At least that’s what I’m faking.

"So what’s up, Danny?"

He smiles. It doesn’t make him less threatening, but that seems to be what he’s shooting for, a prison version of nice. He leans in and I force myself not to move. The guard turns the knob, hesitates, then when nothing happens steps back.

Danny whispers. I can’t hear and have to lean forward. This is an old lockup trick that almost never ends well for the cop doing the leaning. I lean in anyway.

Danny whispers again. "FBI had interesting questions this morning. Backed ’em with an offer—I talk about you and Richard Rhodes and anybody else connected to this, and maybe they can work somethin’ out."

I wait for more, but he doesn’t elaborate. He adds another smile, an honest one that’s hard to place in this environment.

"C’mon," he says. "You gotta remember. It’s me, Danny."

I stare, clueless. No way I wouldn’t remember. From
somewhere
.

"Danny boy. The bat."

I snap back. My neck and face flush.

The door jerks open. "All right, Miss?"

DON’T FAINT. Words don’t form, so I nod, then wave
thanks, no problem
until the guard believes me and leaves. Danny watches me, but it’s not the snake eyes you see on the street.
Holy shit—the
Danny del Pasco and I
do
know each other. All I can say is,

"How you doing, Danny?"

"You look better than the pictures. Think I like the one in
Chicago
magazine best; Paul Elledge took that, didn’t he?"

The bomb’s still exploding. This is the Twilight Zone.

"Little spooked, huh?" Danny gives me a smile that bunches the two tears by his eye. "Been a weird fuckin’ week, I’d imagine."

Long exhale, deep breath. "Yeah."

Danny starts talking. I hear words, but the memory has me by the neck. My first three days in the foster home. Danny D was the older boy who protected me. He scared off Richey, who immediately saw me as a punching bag. And he scared off Roland Ganz, who had worse intentions. Sixteen-year-old Danny coldcocked Roland with a baseball bat on the third day and ran when Annabelle called the cops.

"…so that’s why."

"I’m sorry, what?"

Danny stares and suggests I take a deep breath, which I do, and continues talking, demonstrating education he likely got inside, an offset to the tattoo tears. After four minutes it’s obvious that there’s no way to deny my past to Danny D if he decides to talk about it—to me or anybody else. He finishes with "Religion’s a go-rilla in here."

We’re here to talk about Richard Rhodes the ASA, and I want to say that, but Danny keeps going.

"Like
PTL
was, you know? Jim and Tammy and ’send us the money.’" He bites his lip at the corner where it’s scarred thick. "You and I gotta talk about it some, or I gotta. You don’t look so good; maybe you just listen."

Not if I can help it.
PTL
, television’s
Praise the Lord Club
.

"Maybe you just nod."

Glare reflections slide across the glass in the door.

"When I ran, you was what, thirteen, fourteen, twelve? Richey ten or eleven."

Nod.

"Roland do
PTL
to you, like he did me and Richey?"

I squeeze the table leg hard enough to break my wrist.

"See, I don’t know when you got out, just that you did. You know, all the cop stuff in the papers. I knew it had to be you." He stops and squints. "You okay, Patti?"

"Uh-huh."

Danny’s voice is too calm for the pictures I see: Roland and Annabelle, the faces they made.

"When I heard somebody capped Roland at the house in ’87, I figured it was Richey. Woulda been me if I’da stayed in that basement."

Somebody uses my voice to say, "It wasn’t Roland, initial ID was bad. It was a friend of his…a guy Roland worked with."

Danny adds prison to his face. He leaves it there while he sees something unpleasant, then regroups when I mutter us back to Richey. Richard. Danny wonders out loud about any others at the foster home.

"There was another girl," I tell him and me. "Little Gwen. But she came after you ran."

Danny drifts again. I don’t want to ask any more but I do. "So, Danny, about Richey—"

"Recognized him from a picture they printed—big fucking deal assistant state’s attorney, or thought I did." Danny reaches for his shirt pocket and produces a new Polaroid. He slides it halfway across the table.

It’s a photo of a prison cell wall.

"Had a guard take it." He nods at the big guard with his hand on the knob.

The wall is ordered, five rows of clippings and photos and articles. I look close. It’s me. I can make out the Paul Elledge photo when I was named Officer of the Year the first time. Danny talks while I blink.

"See, I sorta pretend you’re my little sister. Wish I woulda come back for you after kicking Roland’s ass." His face hardens again. "But I got jammed up pretty quick, life of crime and all that…"

I stare. At the picture. At him.

"Man…that ain’t right. Faggot motherfucker being alive…All this time I thought Roland was gone." Danny D looks like who he is now. He says,
"Faggot motherfucker"
to his hands, then composes himself, folding his arms. "Roland was an accountant or bookkeeper, somethin’ like that. Worked for hospitals, mostly. Kind of a weekend missionary too…but that ain’t news to you." A red swastika ripples across Danny’s forearm. "Should know both him and his ol’ lady better—been killing the same two people all my life."

I remember to ask the superintendent’s question. "Who grabbed the ASA?"

"No idea."

The picture of Danny’s wall is still in my hand. "Then why call me?"

"A guy hears things. Most of it bullshit in here.
Most of it
." Danny takes a long look at me for emphasis. "There’s money out on you. And soon."

The guard knocks on the door’s glass and spreads his palm; five minutes.

"
Somebody’s hunting me?
Like they did Richey?"

Danny D shrugs. "Don’t know shit about Richey-the-big-deal-ASA." Pause and another long stare. "You, I know about."

I sit back like I’ve been shoved and take him all in, then lean forward because I’ve forgotten seventeen years of street smart. He leans at me and whispers,

"An Arizona-Idaho whiteboy shows up, starts buying crystal, met some people, hired himself some accomplices." Pause. "He puts money out, wanting your particulars. Good-sized money." Danny’s nose is five inches from mine. "And nobody I know minds giving up cop particulars if they can."

"You’re inferring—"

"I ain’t
inferring
shit. We both know about those kinda questions. Ask them with that kinda money attached and they mean what they always mean."

"And you know this how?"

Danny rubs the Gypsy Vikings tattoo above the swastika. "One of my visitors. A brother who knows you and me are family."

"What kind of accomplices is this whiteboy hiring?"

Danny takes a moment to answer, weighing the words. "Torches, for one."

I see the white ComEd workers splashing gas in the Gilbert Court basement. The same guy that hired them wants my particulars—

"We got a minute or less," Danny says. "Go by our clubhouse, ask for Charlie Moth, tell him who you are and that I sent you to see Pancake. And no cop shit—you gotta guarantee no cop shit or it’ll be me hunting you. And you don’t want that."

Nice even tone like we’re talking groceries. I’m still processing "torches" and having trouble. He has to mean the arsonists on Gilbert Court. And because of my connection to Annabelle Ganz, he’s inferring the arson attempt wasn’t just on the building, it was on the body in the basement too…or maybe
just
the body in the basement. Fear knots deep in my stomach.

"No cop shit. None."

I mumble, "Okay," thinking about Annabelle Ganz. If the arson was about her, why twelve years after her murder? Clean up the evidence? Shit, this stuff goes in every direction at once. Maybe the FBI’s right, maybe all three cases
do
intersect, all of ’em somehow with my history. Hell, the mayor’s wife owned the building.

"Pancake has answers about what I’m hearing in here. Tell Charlie Moth and him what I said—you’re my sister. If Pancake fucks with you, and he might, go ahead and shoot him. He’s a supplier, not a brother."

"How come you’re sticking your neck out?" I nod at his surroundings.

"I like being your brother, sort of. Can’t imagine you feel too good about it."

I pat his hand for the first time and look at him differently. "Don’t be so sure. And thanks." My smile’s as honest as a little girl’s. "Both times."

   Special Agent Stone is waiting outside by Officer Didier’s staff entrance, between me and my pistol. Stone has two sidekicks behind him, three pairs of government-issue sunglasses like they’re imitating Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones.

"We’ve had an interesting half hour, Officer Black. Your friend Danny del Pasco’s quite a fan." Special Agent Stone has his own Polaroid of Danny’s cell.

I smile an inch. These guys can cause an officer a great deal of heartache if they wish to—info drops to the press, unsourced accusations that light up the mayor who lights up the superintendent, formal complaints to your Watch LT, who folds and writes a CR number for Internal Affairs to work. They can subpoena your personnel file and cause IRS audits until you’re a hundred. They can also put you in prison.

Agent Stone knows I know and says, "Let’s have a cup of coffee and talk about it, see if we can help each other."

"Sorry. Have to report to my boss first. Procedure."

"This is a federal investigation, Officer Black. We have jurisdiction, not your boss."

His hand lands lightly on my shoulder, like I should follow him back toward the Admin building. I don’t and he stops.

"Right in here’ll be fine."

"Sorry. Got a train to catch."

He points, "Right in here." His pals politely block the only path to my pistol and personal items.

Headshake as red heats my face.

Special Agent Stone closes our distance. "We searched Mr. del Pasco’s cell and believe you have information that may save the life of Assistant State’s Attorney Richard Rhodes."

"Talk to my boss."

"I’m talking to you. About a man’s life, about obstruction of justice, the federal version. It puts officers and superintendents suspected of collusion or corruption into prisons like this one."

"Superintendents? Is that what you said?" Our noses are almost touching now. "Fuck you and J. Edgar’s prom dress."

"This is our jurisdiction—"

"This is a
state
prison, asshole." I wave at Officer Didier to give me my gun. "Your jurisdiction doesn’t extend beyond your fucking underwear."

Agent Stone purses his lips and nods to himself. "Possibly Alderman Gibbons is right; maybe we
should
take a closer look at the Gilbert Court shootings. ’
Federal
violations of civil rights.’"

The outside gate should feel better, but it doesn’t. I’m wondering who’s trying to kill me out here and how long it’ll take the FBI to mount an obstruction case over Danny D or a civil rights prosecution over the Gilbert Court shootings. They’ll subpoena my personnel file, find the hazy parts, and—

One of the reporters who was here when I arrived shoves a cell phone at my window and yells "Tracy Moens. Tracy Moens."

Nada. The only call I’m making is Chief Jesse, and that one’s not going to be easy. How do you tell a story you can’t tell? And to a guy who’s running you all over town tied to puppet strings? First I have to lose Tracy’s stringer scrambling for his car. Tracy’s burning for the Danny D angle—whatever it is. And the fact that Danny D knows nothing about Richard Rhodes being kidnapped won’t matter. Danny D asked for me. Only me.

My mirror fills with the reporter’s grille. Give the media two or three hours and either they or the FBI will place Danny D in
a
Calumet City foster home. From there, coincidence or not, it’ll be an avalanche. The FBI will rip my personnel file, piece together my past—the runaway years on the street, the Salvation Mission, a young woman’s lies of omission that made her CPD job application look presentable umpteen years ago. IAD will be next. Won’t even need a hearing to get my star.

None of which helps ASA Richard Rhodes. With no ransom note and no clues, Chicago is just too huge a city; worse, it’s surrounded by millions of people in other cities. If he’s still alive, CPD and the FBI won’t find him until his kidnappers want us to. And by then Richey will be well down the road of his second trip through hell.

I wince at that picture, make a hard left, and speed through Joliet’s outskirts, feint onto the Stevenson eastbound, loop a semi, and cut back under. The reporter is buried on the on ramp. I need a landline phone and the balls to tell the truth on the off chance my confession will save a man who as a boy was forced to rape me twice. Richey flashes on top of me, scared and aroused and—

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I see the seven digits that became my armor and count backwards. At 999,992 the picture’s gone. I fluff off the exercise, but the pain in my jaw is real. I don’t stop at the first ten pay phones I pass. Red light. An SUV and a trailing van fill the adjacent lane, so close and high I can’t see in either vehicle’s window. Danny D’s warning jumps in front of buried terrors.
Pay attention.
Any one of these vehicles could be the one with a whiteboy from Arizona or Idaho driving. And him and his "torch" accomplices either want to grab or kill you. Grab is not fucking possible; I have a standing suicide promise before I go through that again. I feel for my pistol; it’s out and under my leg and I don’t remember moving it.