Chicago Stories: West of Western (16 page)

“You'll understand in a minute.”

When the gates opened on the top floor, Seraphy smelled coffee, cinnamon, and something sweet as soon as she stepped out of the elevator. They followed scents down the dim unmarked hallway to a large room with a kitchen, upholstered furniture, and two waiting men.

“Good, you're here. I'm Sergeant Ettinger. Introduce me to your friend, George,” said the sergeant from the CAPS meeting.

“Seraphy Pelligrini, meet Sergeant Ettinger. Seraphy's our new neighbor. Tito got himself croaked on her doorstep.”

“I heard you moved into the neighborhood,” the sergeant said as he looked her over. “Marko told me a little, but I didn't expect you to be so, uh, young-looking.”

“He means he thought you'd look like a bull dyke,” George laughed, “‘cause Markowicz probably told him you were in the Marines.” Seraphy flinched. Jesus, did everybody know her whole story?

“Not at all,” Ettinger flushed, bright splotches of red on pale skin. “I mean, I didn't, er, don't think you're a dyke. You look, er, that is, I don't care if—”

“Not an issue,” cut in Richard. “Behave yourself, George, and stop picking on the sergeant so he can pry his foot out of his mouth. We can all see Seraphy's a fox and we're all glad she can take care of herself.”

“And we don't care what she does for fun,” George added. The men turned to stare at him. “Well, second thought, some of us might care.” He beckoned to someone standing behind the sergeant. “Come out and be seen.”

Ettinger stepped aside and Seraphy stared at the most handsome man she'd ever seen. Tall, dark honey-colored skin like old ivory, platinum hair, emerald green eyes, dazzling teeth.

“I'm glad to finally meet our new neighbor,” the god said, “I'm Diego Moratinos. I live in the church compound on Thomas.”

Of course he lived in a church, where else? Of course he'd be a baritone. Diego held out a manicured hand. Seraphy swallowed, speechless, her hand in his firm grip. Warm. Comforting. Strong. She snatched her hand back.

“Oh, God, he's done it again.” Richard, one hand over his eyes, snapped his fingers in her face. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty, the prince is just an actor. Whatever you're thinking, it's not real. What you see is his stock in trade.”

“And I guess that answers your question, Sergeant,” said George. “No self-respecting dyke would react to Diego like that.” The paramedic glanced at Seraphy, trying not to smile as he watched her consider crawling under the table. First the monk, now this. Her day for embarrassing meetings.

“Do I smell cinnamon?” she blurted, her eyes everywhere, face hot.

“You do,” the sergeant answered, pulling a white bakery box from under the table. “If you clowns are done? I stopped at Ann Sather's this afternoon—thought we might need some recharging after the meeting tonight.”

He ripped the top off and slid it across the desk. Clutching one of the rolls like a lifeline, Seraphy shoved half of it into her mouth and concentrated on chewing and looking around the room. She didn't look at Diego again until she had finished with the roll and her cheeks had cooled, then forced her eyes to avoid lingering. Looking around for a napkin and finding none, she licked icing from her fingers while the men exchanged stories about people she didn't know.

“Sorry about that,” Ettinger said, noticing her again. “I'm afraid we're a bit short on amenities here. Sit down, everybody. Okay, let's get this show on the road. Did you guys see Louie Miguel tonight? Louis Miguel Ortiz,” he turned to Seraphy, “our very own Duques spy. It's actually a good thing for us—he thinks he's getting inside info, and we feed him what we want the gang to know.” She nodded.

“Dolores, too, for the Lobos,” said Diego. “We know, we have to be careful there's nothing said at the meetings that could be dangerous. Why are we here?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw him lean back, tilting the cafeteria chair, and stretch his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. Long elegant legs. Sexy legs.

“We're pretty sure the kid, Tito, was killed by the Lobos, probably for trespassing, but it could have been an initiation. No great loss there, Tito was a nasty piece of garbage. Drugs, assaults, grand theft auto, you name it. He had a rep for being rough with girls, little girls. And, he was HIV positive. So no shortage of enemies, starting with pissed off fathers and brothers and the Lobos. Like the man said, getting rid of Tito would be urban renewal, except there's a good chance it'll start a shootout.”

Liked little girls? Another black mark against Maria's Tito, the sleazy boyfriend who gave her AIDS? Seraphy considered bringing up the connection, then realized she'd have to explain where she'd heard about him, expose Sister Ann, and Maria would be taken away. After meeting Brother Edwin, Seraphy no longer considered that an option.

“So, assuming it wasn't a gang shoot, the real problem's finding the shooter?” Richard asked. “What kind of gun? If it wasn't Lobos that shot him, there's no reason to let them start a gang war. Or is it too late?”

“Looks like a straight execution, .22 caliber street gun, junk gun available everywhere. Shot behind the ear, just like on
The Sopranos
. It's probably not too late. The Duques don't want a war; it draws attention from our Gang Squad and the press. Tito wasn't popular anyway, so the Duques'll dick around a while before they start any real trouble.” Ettinger pursed his lips and looked at Seraphy. “We've been trying to keep the killing from attracting the media. Body on your doorstep and all. We don't want them after you. They won't bother with a gang killing, but something like ‘brilliant young architect in fear for her life,’ they'll be all over you.”

“I wondered why my family hasn't been on the phone yelling at me to get out, but if it didn't make the news, they don't know about it,” she said. “And they won't hear about it from me.”

“TV would love you, though,” said Diego thoughtfully. “Great visuals—sweet young thing like you, mug shots of the big bad gang bangers and that lurid graffiti with the ghosts and the tears and a gory naked female—probably run on all the channels. CNN might even pick it up.”

“Yeah,” said Ettinger, “Whatever. Maybe you could get that door painted over? Anyhow, the captain's gonna be on our neck for a while. Lots of patrols, high visibility.”

“Sounds good to me. Maybe whoever's been harassing me will leave me alone for a while.” She smiled as she thought about Cholo and his cohorts in the alley.

“I walked over and took a look at your garage,” said Diego. “Not very nice. But maybe really stupid as well. Did you happen to document it?”

“Christ, Diego, enough of the documenting already,” Richard reached for another cinnamon roll and turned to Seraphy. “He's working on some project for the Art Institute, mixing still photos and live re-enactments,” Richard yawned, feigning boredom.

“Shut up, Richard. You'll be as fat as Andre if you keep stuffing your face like that. Actually, Seraphy, I was thinking that we might be able to identify the so-called artist. Or at least, one of my neighbors might—Nika's an art historian.”

“And that would help us how?” Ettinger focused on Diego, notebook open.

“I'm not sure. It sounds like all this stuff is happening around Seraphy's place—sorry, Seraphy, we realize it's not anything you've brought here, just something that was already here coming out. I think.”

“Thanks a lot. Makes my day. But Diego, I did document the image on my door, both video and still shots. I'd recognize his hand if I saw it again.” Besides, she already knew the painters.

Ettinger looked at her. “If we could have copies of the photos—just drop them off at the Wood Street station—I'll give them to the gang unit.” He looked around. “All this is very interesting, folks, but not why I called you here. We heard this morning that both gangs now have scanners and are monitoring cell phone calls in the neighborhood.”

“Shit.” Richard and Diego exchanged startled glances. Seraphy thought about her calls. She hadn't said anything because she didn't know anything. Easy.

“Christ, Ettinger. Thanks for telling us,” Richard said.

“We just heard. Now they think they can keep tabs on you guys, check to see if any of you are my people. And they use what they overhear to intimidate people, at least the Puerto Ricans—to make them believe that they know everything everybody does or thinks.”

“We know about intimidation,” said Richard. “When we first moved in we tried to get our neighbors to call the cops when they got broken into or their car windows smashed, and they refused. They're more afraid of the gangs than the cops.”

“You say Puerto Ricans,” said Seraphy, “but when I was out walking around I saw a lot of other ethnic types.”

“Yeah. I'd say the more upscale of you—you, Richard and your bunch at the church, Diego—you'll call the police and are a lot harder to intimidate. That's one reason the gangs want you out.”

“And the others? I met a couple of Ukrainians, maybe illegal immigrants?”

“The Ukrainians, a number of whom are illegal, won't call us, but that's not to say they don't have their own ways of coping. Anyone who harasses them has a way of ending up in the ER. You met Mischa Dankovich yet?”

“I have. And the gangs think I'm a bad role model?” she asked, then remembered calling the police about the drug dealing in her alley.

“You think?” asked Richard.

“Absolutely,” said Diego. “Unlike my bunch, you haven't particularly kept a low profile. I don't think you realize how taking over that abandoned building, doing that blitz rehab and all, and living alone, has obsessed your neighbors.

“Not bad for a girl,” Richard grinned. And you don't even know about Cholo, thought Seraphy. Not yet, at least.

Ettinger tapped his cup with a spoon. “Okay, guys, I've got to get out of here tonight. Back to the scanning. What we thought is that maybe we can use this scanning for some psychological warfare.”

Seraphy smiled. “Psy-ops?”

Ettinger nodded. “We want to make the gangs very unhappy. If you could drop a few little things, like that your cousin who works at Eleventh and State heard there's moles in the gang, or maybe there's a big federal raid in the works, somebody in the gang's got HIV, or even Herpes, like that. Anything that could make their lives miserable.”

“Andre's going to love this,” grinned Richard.

“If you'll leave your number, Seraphy, I'll see you get on our calling list. Look, boys and girl, love your company, but I gotta go. Shut the door behind you and security will let you out. Nice meeting you, Seraphy.” Ettinger was out the door almost before he'd stopped talking.

“I'm sure you have a lot of questions, Seraphy.” Diego smiled and her heart jumped. Okay, she thought, so he's an actor, who cares? A little aesthetic appreciation, that's all.

“One of us will find a way to get you over to our compound. The others want to meet you. There are ten of us in the old school, parish house and church on Thomas. I've been there for twelve years. We keep a low profile, the gates locked and the graffiti painted over.” He paused for effect, then added, “We do, however, work behind the scenes as needed.”

“Why are you there?” Seraphy asked, wondering just what working behind the scenes entailed. Maybe Diego would like some help with whatever. “Why not East Village or up on Halsted where the theaters are, somewhere trendier?”

Diego laughed. “Asked the pot of the kettle? Look who's talking! You must know that none of us have secure lives, actors and artists rarely do, or a lot of money, or at least we didn't when we came. Sometimes no money. Where is it written that only the illiterate and unattractive are poor? Like a lot of other people, we bought where we could afford to buy. The school and church were abandoned. Now we've made them our homes.”

“Like us, Seraphy,” said Richard, pulling on his jacket. “Andre and I started where we could.”

“Me, too,” Seraphy said, happy at finally finding a group to which she could belong.

“You
know anything about a banger got cut over your way last night?” Markowicz asked as she opened the door just after noon on Saturday, the day after the CAPS meeting. Terreno was right behind him. They brought the smell of urban autumn with them—rotting leaves, wood smoke, and Chicago's ever-present car exhaust. Seraphy reached for their wet jackets.

“Hello, detectives. Good afternoon to you, too. I thought you worked nights.” She threw their jackets over the stair railing and led the way upstairs. “Come in, I was just making coffee. If you'd come a couple of hours later, you could've sat on the couch I bought this morning. Well, the couch my uncle Amex bought. It's supposed to be here before five. Now you'll have to settle for folding chairs.”

“We're back on days, manpower shortage and all. We're sweating a gang war here ‘cause of Tito. I asked you a question.” Markowicz faked a glare at her.

“Why would I know anything about some punk getting cut?” She shook her head. “Not my crowd. I was with Sergeant Ettinger last night,” she said.

“Right. Before that. Seems Cholo Pedilla showed up at St. Mary's last night, big slice out of his hand, cut all the way to the bone. Coulda bled to death, the doc said. Took twenty-seven stitches and he might lose some use of his hand. Cholo told the doc he got cut opening a can of beans.”

Terreno snorted.

“Twenty-seven stitches? Those can openers are murder,” Seraphy said, pressing her lips together to keep from grinning. “Sorry, can't help you. I don't know Cholo. Have a seat.”

“Well, he apparently knows you.” The corners of the cop's mouth twitched. Seraphy avoided his eyes as she brought the coffee and mugs and poured.

“Really? Like I said, I can't say I remember any Cholo.” A memory of the gangbanger waving his buck knife flashed through her head. “Could you describe him for me? Was he at the CAPS meeting?”

“One of the orderlies heard him and his friends pissing and moaning about some ‘fucking
brujo’
while they were waiting in the emergency room. Seems some witch moved into their hood's got a hard on for him and his buddies.”

“Really?” she raised her right eyebrow. “Are there witches around here? Did he tell you this witch's name?”