Chicago Stories: West of Western (24 page)

“Bingo!” said Nika, “it's legitimate evidence because the inspector had the right to check the ducts. The DEA/FBI guys came back with warrants and took a truck-load of the men away.”

“But I didn't see anything like that, or at least, we didn't notice any of that kind of action over there. It looked like everybody just left and the residents went back in.”

“Because the Feebs like to grab ‘em just before dawn when they're all home and don't expect it. So residents thought they were off scot-free, the task force went quietly away to get warrants and all that, then the DEA and the Feebs were there at four this morning and gone before you knew it, taking at least one trafficker and a couple of dealers with them. Not Lobos, these were apparently FALN fund-raisers, and good riddance.”

“It's our neighborhood version of urban renewal,” added Nika. “Wanna bet those apartments will be empty by the end of next week? I wonder what the Feds will do with the buildings?”

“Depends on who actually owns them,” said Peter. “They'll probably be seized and eventually sold in an auction, unless they have a use for them. But the raid'll give our psy-ops calls more umph. Diego's thinking up new rumors, so don't be surprised at anything you hear. The gangs must wonder if their days are numbered.”

“I've had threats from the Lobos.”

“We know about your garage—that was Lobos? Mario's Duques aren't so bad, but Chico's insane. I think the Lobos are capable of anything,” said Nika. “Peter and I think he's behind all the killings.”

“But Cholo and the others were his guys.”

“You think that matters?” said Peter. “If Chico wants to go to war, what better way than for him to knock off a couple of his own guys, then blame the Duques? Believe me, he'd do it, Chico's a stone killer.”

“Doesn't sound good for me, then,” said Seraphy.

“I don't think you have to worry about being killed. Even Chico's not stupid enough to off somebody who might have friends and stir up a lot of outrage. They kill an upscale white woman and cops would come down on the neighborhood like lava from Mt. St. Helens.”

“And Mario and the Duques?”

“Mario's not like Chico, he's something else, but I'm not sure how much better. Smarter, and as far as I can tell, sane, and he doesn't mess with drugs as far as I know. But don't let his nice manners and sophistication fool you. Mario's a gang leader, with all that implies.”

“I'll remember that. Coffee's ready if you'd like a second round.” He's right, Seraphy thought. Mario's a gang leader. Not a nice guy. I know that. Her instincts refused to follow, whispering that the man she met was worth knowing better.

Nika took a careful sip, wiped the foam from her lips, and smiled. “You have
no idea
how glad I am you came to live here.”

When
the truck stopped out front later that evening, Seraphy flicked off her lights and went to the window. The same St. Luke's truck stood open in front of Sister Ann's. Two robed monks were carrying boxes of supplies into the house.

Brother Edwin, she thought, but the other seemed familiar, too, something about the way he moved. He glanced up as he opened the gate, saw her in the window, and smiled, his teeth flashing. Mario. She waved. Brother Edwin had found a way.

Chapter 21

Seraphy watched Sister
Ann toss her crutches down the concrete steps and hop down one step at a time. Reclaiming her crutches, she stumped off to join the stream of Sunday morning worshippers headed for mass at St. Mark's. Resplendent in a 1982-vintage orange polyester pantsuit and dark red coat, the old woman managed to keep in step with the others. That can't be comfortable, Seraphy thought, as the ex-nun's cast caught on the broken sidewalk. Sister Ann grimaced, yanked the cast free, and hurried to catch up. Tough old bird. Seraphy figured she'd be gone at least an hour.

“Good morning, Seraphy. How may I help you?” Brother Edwin stood in the doorway, his hands in blue nitrile gloves. His large body effectively blocked the opening.

“I just wanted to see how Maria's doing.” As soon as she said it, she knew it was wrong. What good answer could there be?

“As well as can be expected.” The monk cocked his head and gazed at the overcast sky, avoiding her eyes. “Maria likes my herbal tea and she sleeps most of the time now.”

Tea. The word sparked a memory—a waitress in Saigon, a bowl of ‘special tea,’ sleeping the clock around. She wondered if Brother Edwin made that same tea. She looked down and scuffed at the concrete with her toe. Brother Edwin waited, his brown eyes kind, gloved hands held away from his body.

“Mmm. Is there anything I can do to help?” Seraphy couldn't imagine what, but offering made her feel a little less guilty. She risked a glance at the monk.

“Pray for her. And for her keeper,” he said. His eyes crinkled and the corners of his mouth turned up. He glanced pointedly at the thinning stream of church-goers filing past. “You'll be late for mass if you don't hurry.”

Seraphy backed down a step. “Uh, I'm going later.” She backed down another step.

“Of course.” He nodded and stepped back. “Go with God, Seraphy.” She heard the door close behind her as she cleared the last step.

Back in her kitchen, she opened drawers and shut them again, riffled through two cookbooks, put them back on the shelf, and stared into her refrigerator, looking for something she couldn't find. Damn Brother Edwin. She hadn't been to mass since she left for college and was no more a believer now than she'd been then, so why the guilt? They must teach them how to do that in the monastery.

If she were honest, Brother Edwin wasn't really her problem. She had assumed when she finally owned a home the emptiness that drove her search would magically fill. Now some of her felt she'd always been here, in this place, in this building she'd made hers, and that was good, but another part knew she was dwelling among aliens. Would she ever belong?

Another wasted half-hour prowling around the loft and she had her head in the refrigerator when inspiration struck. Dumping iffy carrots and limp zucchini, wilted lettuce and stale bread into a grocery bag, she stopped to admire the clean, empty spaces in her refrigerator. Nice. Corny, but maybe Grams was right about cleaning curing the blues. She did feel a little better. Now for the second part of the cure.

The geese saw her coming, or perhaps just saw the stuffed grocery bag she carried, and stampeded to meet her at the water's edge. Pushing and shoving, two great drakes reared up out of the water, flapping great wings, demanding tribute. God, they acted like her brothers fighting over a pizza. She emptied her bags into the lagoon. Like her brothers, the monster birds made short work of her offerings and begged for more.

“Knock it off, you good-for-nothings.” The two drakes, nearly as tall as she, answered, all wings and beaks, hissing like a dozen snakes. “Where's your gratitude? How come you're not flying south like you're supposed to? You're nothing but a couple of fat welfare bums.”

A man laughed behind her and she turned to see Jaime jump off a decrepit bicycle before an overloaded garbage bag tied on the back fender could topple both him and the bike into the lagoon.

“
Hola”
, she said, shouting over squawking geese. “I think your friends here recognize you.”

“
Si
, I think.” Jaime balanced his bicycle against a bench and began to toss leftover greens and stale bread onto the water. Mayhem flared, the birds scrambling and fighting over ‘fresh’ greenery even more than over the stale bread.

“You've got a lot of stuff there,” she said when the first rush quieted enough she could be heard.

“No good to sell,” he shrugged, “Get fresh tomorrow. No waste—they like.”

They watched marauding seagulls sweep down, shrieking like fishwives and hassling the geese, stealing scraps from around the edge of the mob. When the largest of the geese reared up and spread his wings, the seagulls retreated. Jaime tossed a last handful of crusts into the melee, then joined her on the bench.

“It's good here,” she said, stretching her legs out before her. The overcast day muted the late fall colors into the Afga color of a Masterpiece Theatre film. The city seemed far away, held at bay by Humboldt Park's magic. “Do you come here a lot?”

“
Si.
Muy bueno
.”

“I moved in a week ago today,” she said slowly. “It's not like anywhere I've lived before.”

“
Mis amigos—
how you say, friends?” She nodded. “Friends happy you come live here. Make house nice, come to store,” he gestured at the geese, “Feed birds. Good neighbor.”

“Thank you, Jaime. That's nice of you.” Her eyes smarted. She hadn't expected the compliment and was unprepared for her reaction. Surely she wasn't so lonely as that, so desperate for praise? Katya had fled from her, and the other Latinos she had met, except George, had glanced away and said nothing. Only the artists welcomed her.

“I thought—” Her eyes flooded with unshed tears. “Somebody broke my windows and painted a death threat on my garage door.” She didn't mention the bullets fired at her windows. Or Tito.

“No, no, senorita,” he said, leaning towards her, his face taut with concern. “Not my people,
solo los Lobos.
Was Lobos. No me, no my friends.” He stopped and hunted for words. “We just, sometimes, not know good English, is hard to talk. No want look bad to you.
Pero
, Lobos bad
para todos
.”

“Tell me about the Lobos.” Her throat felt tight and she wanted to talk about somebody else. Hell. Why was she so emotional this morning? If she didn't change the subject, she'd make a fool of herself. Make that more of a fool of herself. She looked away across the lagoon and blinked away the tears.

Jaime watched the big goose grab the last of the bread and bully his flock out into the water before he answered. Giving her time.

“Chico Perez is leader, not so many, ten, sometimes twenty in gang, I think. Cholo and Juan and Hector, they dead now.” Jaime turned and looked at her. “They say you
bruja
. You cut Cholo?”

Seraphy met his eyes. “Yes, I did that. I caught him and his
amigos
painting my garage door.”

“I see door,” he said, nodding.”You brave woman. Lobos
muy malo
.”

“They attacked me with knives,” she gestured, her arm out, hand cocked as if holding a knife sideways. Jaime nodded. “I was faster and cut Cholo so he would drop his knife. Juan and Hector ran away.” She shrugged, bit her lip, then shook her head. “But I didn't shoot Cholo or his friends. I don't shoot people, Jaime. And I'm not a
bruja
. No witches in my family.”

“I think no,” he said, nodding to himself and staring out over the lagoon again. “No sorry they gone. Cholo, Juan, Hector, evil, bad inside. Sell drugs to
ninos
by school.” Jaime's face lit up with a new idea. “Maybe not gang. Maybe Mischa shoot boys,” he said, watching to see her reaction.

“Mischa Dankovich? Why would he do that?”

“
Si.
Mischa hate gangs,” Jaime said, liking the idea and reluctant to give it up, but finally his face fell. “No like my people.
Pero
no use little gun, I think. Mischa big gun
hombre
. Like Glock. You know Glock?”

“I know Glocks.” Jaime was right, she couldn't see Mischa with a .22, either. She remembered the hooded Lobos she'd seen loitering in the play lot across from Lafayette School. Cheap street guns were more their speed. Christ, drugs in a grade school.

“Tell me more about Chico's Lobos.”

“Chico like, how you say, hurt people, hurt Alejandro's dog. Not kill, break back, leave for to scare Alejandro.” He frowned, “Alejandro say he want kill Chico.”

“Do you think he killed the others?”

“No. Alejandro just talk.” They sat silent, watching the geese and seagulls sparring over bits of leaves and debris, black and gray against the white ice. “Cholo say you
bruja
.”

“I'm a witch?” Seraphy's eyebrows shot up. That witch business really bothered him. Maybe he'd heard about her dominatrix costume. “No, Jaime, I'm not a witch. I just told Cholo that to scare them.”

“
Si,”
nodding, Jaime shifted on the bench, saying nothing for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind. He looked away across the water again. “Chico told Cholo
y sus amigos
make you go away. Now Chico say El Duque kill Tito and Cholo, Juan, Hector.”

“El Duque? You mean Mario, Mario Morales? But Tito was on Lobos ground. Mario wouldn't go there.”

“
Los
Duques and
los
Lobos,
enemigos, mucho tiempo,
I think.” He shrugged. “Rockwell always border between. Long time ago, Lobos burn houses, make place for fight.
Muchos
fights.”

Seraphy straightened on the bench, startled. She had noticed the vacant lots on the corners where Rockwell intersected the cross streets, and even thought it odd that each intersection had at least one vacant corner. Three empty corner lots in three blocks seemed a lot, but Jaime's information still surprised her. The Lobos actually burned buildings to make a place for gang wars?

“You think they'll fight again? Why now?”

“
Creo que si
. Tito was Duque.” Jaime counted on his fingers. “Duques say Lobos shoot Tito. Lobos say Duques shoot Cholo and Juan and Hector. Three Lobos dead, one Duque. Chico
loco hombre, muy loco,
not want to look weak, El Duque strong. Chico get many new guns.” He shrugged and looked sad. “I think, fight soon.” Jaime stood and picked up his bicycle.

“I hope not.”

“Si, yo tambien. Adios, senorita. Tiene usted cuidado.”

Chapter 22

Seraphy stayed to
watch the geese for a while after Jaime left, thinking about what he'd said and how much this friendship had come to mean to her. Even in the sun, the bench was too cold to sit still and she soon started home. Two blocks from home she came upon trouble.