Chicago Stories: West of Western (14 page)

“And you?”

“Me? What has been given for me to do.” Rubbing her old hands with tired fingers, she nodded. “I'll take care of Maria for as long as she lives.” Her gray eyes bored into Seraphy's. “All I want from you is to say nothing.”

“You can't even walk. How—”

Sister Ann cut her off. “Give me some credit, Chickie. I called St. Luke's House and they'll send one of the brothers to help. He'll be here tomorrow and he knows what to do.” She turned her head, listening, and struggled to get up. “Maria's awake. Go. You're not needed here. I need to get her cleaned up and start her evening feeding.”

Chapter 12

Seraphy paced the
length of the loft, picking things up and putting them down again, going over the day in her mind and finding no answers. She tried a hot bath and most of a bottle of wine, but they weren't potent enough to banish the horror of the day, and her evening dragged on forever. When she finally crawled into bed, her conscience yanked her back each time she started to fall asleep. Maria belonged in a hospital with doctors and nurses and medicine, she finally decided, not in a dirty dark room watched over by a half-crazed old woman. In the morning she would call the police, or Catholic Charities or somebody, anybody, who could help the girl. Besides, somebody shot the baby's father on her doorstep, maybe somebody taking revenge for Maria. She'd call the police in the morning.

Ten minutes later she threw the covers off. She couldn't do that. Maria ran to Sister Ann for sanctuary. Did she want the girl passed around by social workers and medical professionals, with nobody who really cared standing vigil by her side? Maria chose Sister Ann. Didn't everybody deserve a choice where and how they died? This should be Maria's choice. Rooting around in her bed, half-asleep and half-awake, Seraphy ached to do something, anything. Every time she decided, she changed her mind. The only thing she had no doubts about was Tito. Too bad Tito was dead, she wouldn't mind taking care of that scum herself. Watching and praying weren't going to cut it. Finally falling into a heavy sleep at three, she woke at dawn with stiff muscles and furry teeth. Even her hair was sore.

At work Seraphy couldn't shake thoughts of Maria long enough to concentrate on the blueprints in front of her and finally, when she failed to show for a meeting with her boss, Max called her into his office. Slim, silver-haired, a dedicated clothes horse, at seventy Max Chiligiris was the last of the Jerrod & Etwin founders still active in the firm. An old friend of her mother's, ever since her father's death Max had served as a Dutch uncle to Seraphy and her brothers and sisters. She had interned in his office as a student, and when she returned wounded to Chicago last year, he hired her as Jerrod & Etwin's newest architect associate.

“What's up?” Max said, frowning. “You've missed a couple of days. Are you still sick?”

“Sorry, Max. It won't happen again. It's nothing to do with J. & E.”

“You take two days off, come in late on another, then come in looking like something the cat dragged in, and it is my concern if it affects your work. Sit.” Seraphy sat on the edge of the client's chair facing his desk. Max watched her fidget as she tried to decide how much to tell him, and when she didn't speak, he broke the silence. “I assume you do intend to keep this job. You were late because?”

“I'm trying to decide where to start.”

“As the King said to Alice, start at the beginning. In your case that's probably a building.” Max leaned back in his chair, looked down his nose and waited. “You can start any time.”

Once started, Seraphy poured out the whole story from Ellie through Maria without stopping. Max leaned back, linked his hands behind his head, and listened without comment.

“Interesting,” he said when she ran down. “Let me see if I have this straight: you found an abandoned workshop to live in and moved into a marginal neighborhood. One gang wants you out, even threatening to kill you, you don't know about the other one, a kid was shot on your doorstep, your next door neighbor's crazy and is illegally sheltering a dying runaway, and you want me to tell you what you should do? ”

“Yes. No—that is, I'm not concerned about the gang stuff, I can handle that and I'm not moving. It's Maria. I feel like I should do something. I just can't decide what's right.”

“And just who appointed you God?” Max sat up.

Seraphy froze. “What?”

“Sounds to me like the girl's where she wants to be. Leave it alone.”

“You haven't seen . . . ” She swallowed the rest of the sentence, suddenly remembering that Max's long-time companion had died of AIDS. Max had seen.

“I'm telling you,
leave it alone
. You can't know the whole story from hanging around for a couple hours. Whatever you may think of this Sister Ann, the girl ran to her, not you, and if St. Luke's is involved, there's no one better. In any case, it's
not your problem
. Leave it.”

“I wish I could just walk away, Max, but I feel like I have to do something.”

“God, I hate Catholic guilt! You can walk away. Go home, get some sleep and come back Monday ready to work.”

“But I—“

“I repeat, who appointed you God? Leave it. Now go home.” Max turned back to his desk.

At
home, Seraphy main-lined latte and looked for inspiration. Max was right, Maria wasn't her responsibility. Maybe if she could just keep busy, Sister Ann and Maria would stay out of her head. There must be something, something that needed attention, not too hard. Tuck-pointing sounded about right, but she'd finished that and none of the other waiting jobs appealed.

On her way upstairs she'd picked up her mail, a CAPS flyer someone had slipped through her mail slot, and now, desperate for a distraction, she studied it. Chicago Alternative Policing Strategy, a mouthful. No wonder they called it CAPS. An invitation to a beat meeting tonight with the local cops from Wood Street to talk about neighborhood problems. Well, she sure had a few of those, anything was better than sitting around brooding about something she couldn't solve. The cops she'd met so far had been pretty helpful. They'd probably bring everybody up to date on the shooting. Besides, any people who showed up would be her neighbors, maybe future friends. She could watch and see what they said about Tito, even ask if anyone knew anything about her garage door. Too bad she had nobody to go with.

She did know two people. Seraphy reached for her cell phone.

“
Richard? It's Seraphy.”

“About time. I thought you forgot us.”

“Not likely.” She felt better already, just hearing a friendly voice. “Thank you and Andre for the R. and R. I was feeling pretty depressed and you took me in, stuffed me full of lovely food and cured me. A miraculous recovery, right up there with Lourdes.”

“You forgot our scintillating conversation.”

“Too obvious to state.”

“Mmm-hmm. Andre's in Vancouver for a week and I'm prostrate—that's with two rs—with grief. Abandoned and left to waste away. And it's Friday night. Hint.”

“What if I were to I pick you up at seven and whisk you off to dinner? I passed a new place on Grand this afternoon that we could try, in that cottage just east of Western. I think it's vegetarian. Been there?”

“Do I look like a horse? Hay and Things-That-Are-Good-For-You, blahhh. I'm suffering and I need serious comfort food, something Italian. Carbohydrates smothered in cholesterol, drowning in a good red. Or maybe drowning me. I'll drive.”

“Fine. After you gorge yourself at my expense, could we go to the CAPS meeting at Norwegian Hospital? I feel like I should go, but I don't want to go alone. I won't know anybody there.”

“Escorts Are Us, baby. Especially if you're paying. And we have at least one bottle of wine with dinner.”

By
the time Seraphy finished priming old green paint in the bathroom, it was getting dark. Time to think about getting ready to go out. She was headed for the shower when noise from the alley drew her downstairs to the garage door.

Small rustlings and scratching, someone was adding to the painting. She checked the video screen mounted just inside the garage door. Gotcha! Three hooded figures, the originals of the figures in the painting, appeared onscreen, complete with cans of spray paint. Seraphy grinned. Morons, back for a lesson.
No
problema
. She'd take a note from Andre.

A quick change into the black leather pants and boots, black turtleneck shirt, leather vest, and thin leather gloves she had prepared, a minute to strap on the knife that had saved her life more than once in Iraq, and she was set. Stopping for a quick look in the mirror, she grinned. Without a whip to complete the ensemble it wasn't quite as dramatic as one of Andre's costumes, but she liked the dominatrix overtones.

Taking her place in the center of the garage door, she checked that her knife had a clear path down her wrist, punched the button and waited for the overhead door to roll up. Just like a metal curtain going up on improv night.

Tattered leaves and bits of trash swirled into the garage, followed by a smelly wadded-up diaper that leaked as it rolled to a stop at her feet. Next she saw three pairs of feet in filthy unlaced basketball shoes, then as the door continued up, droopy camo pants six sizes too large, and finally three faces shadowed in black hoodies. Spray cans in hand, the vandals froze, surprise at seeing an Amazon in black leather turning them to stone.

Ah. Seraphy's smile was that of a lioness contemplating her prey. Time to end this crap tonight. She grinned and ran her tongue slowly across her teeth. Ready and waiting for an excuse, just one. Spotlighted by the light from the alley, she watched the three black-garbed figures shift uneasily and try to decide what to do with a woman who was neither frightened nor vulnerable. Seraphy wasn't impressed with the gangsta posturing learned from videos, the bobbing and swaggering, fuck-you gestures, the crotch-grabbing. Obviously these punks had no real hand-to-hand training.

“Are you boys about done dancing?” she asked, keeping her voice low and bored. “Your mommies are probably worried you're out after dark. Scoot,” she waved down the block with one hand, wishing she had a whip to flick. “I've got things to do.”

“Cholo's gonna cut you you don't shut that door,” the one on her right sneered, then took a half-step back when she wriggled her knife arm.

“Yeah? Which one's Cholo? You?” she nodded at the one in the center. “Am I supposed to be afraid of you?” She flavored her voice with scorn. Her peripheral vision caught someone watching in the shadows on her right, behind the garbage bins. Eyes on the threat in front of her, she sniffed and caught a whiff of Sister Ann. Not a problem. Sister Ann wouldn't call the cops.

Seraphy nudged the oozing diaper with her foot. “You really think I'd be scared? Of little boys playing with baby shit? Or did one of you drop his diaper? Maybe you?” Her foot moved and the diaper hit Cholo's lieutenant in the crotch.

He squirmed and looked to Cholo for guidance. Cholo's mouth tightened, he tossed the can of spray paint behind him and pulled a buck knife.

“Gonna cut you, bitch.” Seraphy watched him suck air, puff himself up, dance a little on his feet. Light flashed off the blade as he twisted the oversized knife in his right hand. “Get over here, Juan. Hector—other side.” Juan and Hector abandoned their paints and, fumbling for weapons, moved to bracket their leader.

“You don't know who you're dealin’ with, bitch.” When Seraphy didn't respond, Cholo waggled his knife again. The blade gleamed in the alley light. “Better shut that door before you get cut, bitch.”

He wasn't much to look at. Cholo, the tallest of the three, was at most seven inches over five feet tall and skinny. His affected urban slouch and oversized clothing made him seem even smaller than he actually was. Shaded by the black hoodie pulled down over his eyes, his lower face was pitted, acne-scarred around a scraggly attempt at a beard. Her lip curled as she watched him shift his right hand back and forth suggestively. He didn't have a clue about unarmed, or armed, combat.

“Careful, little boy,” she said, “you might just cut yourself.” Feigning boredom, she covered her mouth with her left hand, drawing their eyes from her right hand and the knife it now held. “You kids done pimping around yet?”

“You gonna get cut,
puta,
” Cholo hissed and waggled his knife again, and jigging from foot to foot, brushed his hood back from his eyes to reveal black teardrop tattoos.“How you like my tats? Maybe you give me another one tonight.”

“Oh! A death threat! Biiig mistake, moron.” Seraphy drew herself up. “Guess now I'll just have to defend myself. We'll have to make it quick, I've got somewhere to go tonight.”

Cholo's companions moved in, knives drawn.

Seraphy laughed. “This must be that Latin macho thing I've heard about. Three against one.” She paused, deliberately choosing her words to infuriate her attacker. “I guess it takes three ‘cause their
cojones
are so tiny. All brown and shriveled up,” she held her finger and thumb a quarter-inch apart. “Three little boys against one woman, big fucking deal.” She bared her teeth.

Soon now.

Four feet. Three.

“Die,
puta
!” Cholo lunged to make a sudden swipe, yelped and stumbled. He never saw her move. His knife skittered toward her on the pavement as blood spurted from the deep slash that split his right hand between his second and third fingers. Juan and Hector stopped in mid-step, falling over their own feet as they backed down the alley.

“You cut me!” Cholo curled his body around his dripping right hand, his left held to protect it. His voice was shocked. “Fucking bitch! You cut me!” Blood ran free from his fingers and splashed off his sneakers to stain the alley black.

“True,” she said, shaking blood from her knife. “Maybe you should call a cop.” Seraphy held her pose in the center of her doorway, her voice still bored, aware of Sister Ann behind the garbage toter next door, aware someone was watching from across the street, aware of the slight movement of the curtains in the apartment across the alley. Good. The story would be all over the neighborhood before she got back upstairs. She looked down her nose at the squirming Cholo and stooped to pick up his knife with her left hand, keeping her knife hand free.