Chicago Stories: West of Western (6 page)

“How so?” she asked.

“Usual is lots of signs, like those,” Terreno gestured at the hieroglyphics in the background. “Symbols and coded messages. Taggers don't usually draw stuff, at least not this realistic kind of stuff.” He fell silent, studying every inch of the door. “Pelligrini, I don't like this,” he said when he was done. “What you got here's a death threat, personal. That's you, those are the killers.” He pointed.

“I got that. When I saw the druggies in the alley, I wondered if they're trying to get rid of me. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” said Markowicz. “Doubt it was them—they're a different bunch and they don't want to make waves. This had to be dumbass Lobos. Those signs,” he pointed to the upper left corner above the hooded attackers, “claim this as Lobos territory. You're a trespasser, and trespassers will be killed. Specifically, you.”

“So tell me about the Lobos.” She wondered if the teenagers she'd seen on the corner were Lobos.

“Lobos control this area from Rockwell to California, Augusta to Division,” Terreno said. “Then on other side of the street over to Western's the Duques. Small gangs, both of them, and only cover about twelve square blocks total, but seriously territorial. Rockwell here's the border, and this side's Lobos land. Colors are black and green. You seen ‘em around that car out front?”

“They're hardly subtle. So those are Lobos. How dangerous are they?”

“Depends. Lobos have ten to twenty guys, mostly dropouts, dumb as rocks but mean. They just got new guns, and with a MAC-10 you don't need to be accurate, just spray all over hell and hope you hit something. Or someone.” Terreno pointed to the upper right corner. “The leader's name is Chico, see there? He's a psycho.”

“We know he's had several guys killed but can't prove it.” Markowicz added. “So far he's smart enough to stay away from anybody who'd make a big noise and get the city all riled up. Like you, or I woulda said so.” He gestured at the door. “This is just plain dumb.”

“Yeah, but you never know.” Terreno handed her a card. “If you want, you can call this number and have the city graffiti blasters come and soda-wash this stuff off. Chico's nuts. Anything more than this, call us. Anytime, even with little stuff. You're safe inside, this place is a fortress and I see you already got a couple of video cameras and alarms for your doors. The gangs won't carry guns, at least during the day, ‘cause we'd nail them for unlicensed firearms, but they do have knives, so keep your distance when you're out.”

“Be careful, Pelligrini,” Markowicz was looking at the dead woman on the door. He turned to her. “I know you know how to take care of yourself, but watch your back, don't go out on the street alone at night. You look like a girl and they don't take girls too serious. They'll probably just pimp around trying to scare you. Keep your phone handy. You call, we'll have somebody here in three minutes.”

Seraphy watched the detectives leave, smiling as she walked around to the front door. ‘
Pelligrini,
’ was it? Better than ‘
Miss Pelligrini.
’

Chapter 4

The shots weren't
very loud, but after ten years in a war zone her body woke with a jerk. Pushing herself up, all senses alert and replaying half-remembered sounds. Two shots, close. Cold air moving across her face drew attention to the open window, but she heard only late-night traffic on Western two blocks east, sirens wailing in the distance, dogs barking down the alley. A door slammed, maybe a block or so away. The shooter could be gone. Or not.

What the hell time was it? Her watch and cell phone were in the jeans on the bathroom floor. She slid from under a cloud of duvet, crawled into the bathroom, and called 911. Checked her watch while the phone rang. Two-thirty in the morning. Shit. She reported the shots, ignored the operator's request to stay on the line, rubbed her eyes, pulled on a shirt and sweatpants and hunted for boots under yesterday's pile of dirty clothes.

Downstairs clarity vanished. The first patrol car came crunching to a stop through drifts of fallen leaves before she could finish tying her laces and pull on a jacket. She checked to make sure it was a cop on her doorstep, then swung the front door open just as he knocked. His fist just missed her face.

“Shit!” More startled than hurt, she groped for the door frame.

“Sorry, ma'am. Look, let me see.” The young cop brushed her hair back where it had fallen over her face and reached to steady her with his other hand. Examined her face to see if he'd hurt her.“You're okay. Just take a deep breath, now.”

“Of course I'm okay,” she said, shaking off his hand and straightening up. He guided her gently away from the doorway.“I reported shots fired,” she said.

Trying to make sense of the scene before her, dark and cold and unreal in black and white, like an overexposed photo in the high-intensity glare of the searchlights. White cop faces, black shadows. Flashing blue lights pulsed urgency. Fine rain haloed street lights. Static-filled bits of radio transmissions splintered the air with disconnected voices. Tense, focused men. Cold, hostile night.

Seraphy rubbed her eyes. Too many cops.

“What happened?” She coughed in the exhaust from the idling patrol cars. “I thought I heard shots, but I was asleep. Could have been a backfire.” Suddenly she felt cold and shivered. That was no backfire. With no one to tell her what was going on she lost her sense of time.

Two more police cars, flashing blue but running without sirens, swooshed the wrong way down Cortez. One stopped to idle in the intersection, the other turned on Rockwell and stopped half a block south, blocking off the street.

She looked past the uniforms. A pair of ragged men stood on the porch next door and she could just make out other figures behind cars in the intersections. Great, sightseers already.

“Here, come out to the car. It's warmer.” The uniform took her arm.

“I'll go back upstairs—” Where it was warm. Where she wasn't an alien.

“No,” he gestured toward the doorway, now crowded with three patrol officers. “Not until the detectives get here. We need to keep everyone away from the crime scene.”

“Crime scene?”

The cop pointed and she followed his finger to the body. Almost at her door. On its side, slim, smoky hair ragged, the victim looked to be smaller than she, dark clothing already sparked with drops of rain. Tiny round hole behind his ear, maybe from a .22? Black in the street light, a pool of blood grew under his head as she watched. A neat shooting. Cops on the sidewalk looked down at the body, the tallest muttering into his phone.

“Oh shit. Who—”

He shook his head. “Get in the car. No, you can't go back inside until we know what happened. Stay in the car. Detectives are on the way.”

Three o'clock according to the dashboard clock. Shivering from shock and wet from her few minutes in the rain, even the warmth of the patrol car didn't seem to help. Someone had left McDonald's wrappers in the backseat and the car smelled like old hamburgers. Her stomach turned over. Eventually one of the cops came to check on her and handed her a blanket from the trunk.

Wrapped in the blanket, Seraphy sat watching the police go about their work, cool and professional in the rain, and tried to make sense of the scene. Was this connected to the threat on her garage door? First the windows, then the garage, then a body? Surely not, not her, she only just moved in, no time to make enemies, at least not enemies who'd kill. Shit. Duh, she thought, remembering the image of a naked and bloody white body, and shook herself. Not to worry. Fortress Pelligrini, Tony had called it, and right now she wanted more than anything to be safe behind its walls.

Maybe she was supposed to be terrified?

“Well, hell, Pelligrini, like that's going to work. Shape up or ship out,” she muttered to her reflection in the windshield, channeling the voice of her old Marine Corps sergeant. “You've seen worse. What's one body more or less? Every God-damned day in Anwar was worse.” Deliberately she called up images of the carnage after roadside bombs, picking up pieces—a finger there, a foot here, an unidentifiable lump of flesh—bits of Darkpool friends.

“Okay, Pelligrini,” her voice curt now, “that was way worse and you functioned through it. Straighten up and fly right.” The voice began to work as it always had.

So if it wasn't about her, what was all this about? Assuming the shots she heard killed the victim. Just another gang shooting? Maybe to scare her off at the same time? She'd only been here three days. She knew the neighborhood's reputation. Even flaky Tony had warned her. Welcome to reality.

Yet somehow the pep talk fell short. Her hands stayed icy and her breath ragged. Her feet were numb. Another urban casualty, nobody she knew. Don't take it personally. Chill. What happened to the Marine in you? But it's your home, a small voice whispered. He's dead in your doorway.

Her stomach complained again. She began to count, one breath at a time, staring out into the gaudy-colored night. The blanket's satin binding felt comforting and silky and she stroked the long edge again and again, concentrating on the feel until breath came easily and she understood a little of why she was so emotional.

Easy to be cool in a foreign country, with only her physical safety and those of the men around her at stake. Missions and bases, places with no emotional meaning for her. Just the mission, nothing personal, just passing through. This was different. Now she cared. This building, in this neighborhood, was her future, her home, where she would fit in. God only knew why she'd picked this particular place, or it picked her, but it was too late to change, way too late. She had used all her leave time, her architectural skills, called in all the contractor favors she had stockpiled, traded her savings and her credit for this building. Worse, she'd fallen in love and it was part of her now.

Home. She leaned forward to peer out the rain-streaked windshield at the windows glowing in the night. This was home now. Fuck the bastards. Every stupid brick or spray painted image—or body dump—would come to nothing. You're up against a brick wall. You want a brick wall? There it is, see? Brick walls, four of them. I'm here, end of story. Period. Tony said it: Fortress Pelligrini. You, whoever you are, you want a fight, so be it.

Suffocating now in the close confines of the police cruiser, she needed to move. The patrol cop had gone back to his partner at the body. Nobody was paying her any attention. Opening the car door just enough to slide out, she stepped cat-footed, crackling through the trash-filled gutter, edging her way toward her doorway.

“Okay, Pelligrini, hold it right there.”

She stopped short, recognizing Detective Terreno's voice behind her. When did he get here? Maybe he would tell her what was going on.

“Can't stay out of trouble, can you?” The concern in his voice colored his sarcastic tone. “You know anything about this?”

She shook her head.

“Shots woke me up a few minutes ago. I called 911 and came down to see what was up—”

“That was stupid,” he interrupted, “What did you think you were doing? Real smart, walk out and see if the perp would shoot you, too?” He looked like he'd come in a hurry, coat flapping open, salsa-stained Bears sweatshirt, one boot untied.

“Give me a break, Terreno. I was just going to look out the peephole to see if I could see anything. And I called 911 before I came down.” Suddenly she realized she was out in the street in her holey t-shirt, no bra and yesterday's sweat pants, had just shoved her feet in her boots and grabbed her pea jacket on her way out. Shit. Jacket. Jesus, no wonder she was cold. She pulled on the jacket she'd forgotten she was carrying. Terreno led her over to her front door.

“What happened down here?” She wrapped the jacket tight and stretched to get a better look at the body.

“Some kid got shot. When I know more, I might tell you more. Now get inside there where it's warm and wait.” The detective put a hand on her back and shoved her through the still-open door, pulling it shut behind her.

Inside was warm and quiet, most of the night's noise shut out. Safe. While she waited for the detective, she started a pot of coffee, turned up the heat, dressed, then stood by the window above her front door. Watching, listening.

“What happened out there?” she asked the room around her, and remembered the camera over the front door. But when she checked, last night's videos showed nothing but empty street directly in front of the door. Too bad she hadn't a wider view. The shooter must have known about the camera. The shooting must have happened outside and to the side of the recessed entry, and the body been tucked up against her building. It all seemed too neat, not the way she expected a street shooting to look.

The minutes refused to move along, dragging out their seconds while she waited and watched from the window. Crackling police radios, urgent voices, sporadic babble from onlookers. Outside the night slowly faded to gray. Odd, no news crews showed.

Ambulance with squeaky brakes, jangling gurney. Easy to follow the action even when she walked away from the window. Gurney wheels scraping on the broken sidewalk. Ambulance doors slamming, big engine again.

“You awake in there?” Terreno called, his footsteps thudding on the stairs. She ran to open the door.

“Ah, warm.” Once inside, Detective Markowicz shucked off his wet jacket and hung it over the banister, glanced around the loft. “Thought you were an architect, Pelligrini? Looks a bit rough in here to me. Where's the kitchen?” He acted like he'd never been there before. Terreno followed. Seraphy pulled out chairs and brought coffee and cups and the men found seats.

“This for us? Thanks,” Markowicz said, and took a swallow. “Good stuff. You here all night?”

“Yeah, sleeping.” Seraphy handed Terreno a cup. “What happened out there?” They were dripping all over her newly sanded floors.

“Life west of Western happened. Some Duque named Tito got shot. We'll know more later, but he's wearing Duques colors and this is Lobos territory. SOS.” Markowicz rubbed his face and yawned.

“Same old shit,” said Terreno. “Welcome to West Village. We get a couple of these a month over here, business as usual.” Markowicz stuck his nose in his mug. He flinched, startled, as a rag hit him in the face.