Derailed (16 page)

“Hey, I thought you said if I opened my pack you wouldn't take us into custody.”

“Just for questioning in the office . . . and to check out these girls' packs.”

“I thought you said you needed a warrant unless the dog was doin' whatever she does.”

“That's right. But she gets a second chance. She might have been distracted by your little stash.”

“Hey, they're clean. I'm tellin' ya.”

“We'll see, won't we?” My backup arrived. “You can get up now and follow this officer. I'll be right behind you.”

All three started off, heads down like they were already part of a chain gang. But as we went through the station, the girls started complaining that they were going to miss their train. In the questioning room, I dumped everything out from the guy's backpack and patted him down while the girls stood off to the side with terrified looks on their faces. Probably the first time they'd been busted.

Nothing else incriminating turned up in the backpack. “All right, you can reload your pack, except for your baggy of weed. Ladies, would you put your backpacks on the floor, one there and one over there.” Then I turned to my eager Lab. “Corky, seek!”

It was obvious that we'd placed the most suspicious items on the floor, but Corky first went to the girls and sniffed around them before checking out their backpacks. Very interesting, I thought. But nothing got signaled.

“Looks like you two were a little smarter than your friend here.” I turned to the kid, who stood as tall as I did, though he carried himself with slightly stooped shoulders. “All right, tell you what we're gonna do. You pick up your little bag of weed and follow Officer Kramer down the hall to our own private restroom where he'll watch you flush it—all of it, every leaf—down the toilet and then rinse out the baggy and put it in the trash. When you're done, come back here and get your stuff. Then the three of you can go catch your train.” I glanced at my watch. “Almost four o'clock. You got about five minutes before the Illini pulls out.”

He grabbed the baggy and started pushing Kramer toward the door. Kramer planted his feet. “Hey, hey, hey, don't you be touchin' a police officer or I'll arrest you for assault and resisting.”

“I ain't resistin' nothing. Come on, man, let's go.”

The girls picked up their backpacks, and the one in the fancy ski jacket looked at me. All the embarrassment and fear were out of her face. “If you make us miss our train, I'm gonna file a complaint.”

“Yeah, you do that, you little ingrate. Now get outta here.”

Once the kids were gone, I looked at the two officers. “Thanks for the backup. Ha! Big deal for my first day on the job with Corky.” I glanced at my watch again, as though I didn't already know what it said. “Nearly quittin' time. See y'all tomorrow.”

As I drove home, I wondered if the day had been a foretaste of what my job would be like—penny-ante busts that would have no impact on the drug trade or the lifeblood of the gangs in Chicago. What was I doing?

Friday I wore a uniform—it had been a long
time—and saw Gilson only briefly. He'd heard about Corky and me bustin' the college students, as had most of the other APD officers. It had become something of a joke, but Gilson said, “No, no. It was good. Shows you and Corky can work together just fine. Next week's your training out in Des Plaines. It'll be a good tune-up for the both of you. And by the way, they have a trainer out there who used to work with guide dogs. She'll be able to help you two with your cover. Pretty cool, huh?”

I just nodded. The more I thought about Gilson's undercover blind man idea, the more I had to admit it might work, so I held my peace and got the paperwork from Phyllis, along with the address of the CPD K-9 training center and the name of the person we were to report to on Monday morning.

When I got home that evening, Estelle was all in a rush to get us fed. “And then,” she announced, “I want you to go shopping with me, Harry. I got a lot of baking to do this evening, and need you to help me pick up the supplies.”

I mentally clicked through all the things I could remember—knowing I often forgot events Estelle scheduled—church, work, school. But I drew a blank. “Uh . . . what's up? It seems to have slipped my mind.”

“I'm gonna bake cinnamon rolls for all our neighbors. Remember, ‘if you want to have friends, you have to show yourself friendly'? It's in the Bible. Got my kitchen set up, so tonight's the night . . . and probably most of tomorrow too.”

“And I'm supposed to do what?”

“Help me with the shopping. And tomorrow I want you to come with me to meet the neighbors. I don't like not knowing who's living around us.”

“We didn't know everyone back in the apartment building, and . . . and I already met Farid next door. Seemed like a great guy. Oh, that reminds me, I need to find my hydraulic jack for him to use.”

“Well, you can do that tomorrow while I finish up the baking.”

There was no stopping Estelle when she got a bee in her hairdo. The next morning I found my jack, and though the smell of those fresh cinnamon rolls almost kept me housebound with the hope of a taste, I carried it to my neighbor's house.

A woman I assumed was his wife answered the door, smiled, and said Farid was out in the garage. I thanked her and headed around to the back. Should have tried the garage first.

“Farid?” I pushed the side door open. “You in here? I found my jack.”

“Harry? Come on in. I never got over to Home Depot. Many thanks.”

We spent the next hour rolling around on the floor of his garage, trying to position that jack so he'd have the right angle and a strong enough purchase to push his plow back into shape. Finally, we positioned the truck over an inch-high lip in the concrete floor and started jacking.

“I think that's got it. Look.” Farid measured the two sides of his plow and they were identical. “Oh, man. I can't thank you enough. You're really a godsend.”

“No problem. Glad I could help.”

We crawled out from under the big pickup, and he rolled up the cord for his droplight. “Say, where was that church you said you went to?”

I told him again and watched as he nodded his head while he hung up the light. “It's been a long time since we've been to church. I don't know. Do you think . . . I mean, this is a Christian church, right?”

“Oh yeah, Christian. We believe in Jesus and follow the Bible.”

He shrugged. “We tried a couple of churches years ago when we first came to America, but I don't know . . .” He shrugged again.

“So, you're Christians?”

“Yes, yes. That's why we left Iran.”

“From Iran. Wow! You know, I don't think I remember your last name.”

“Jalili . . . Farid and Lily Jalili. Yeah, we had to flee Iran after they firebombed my store.”

“No way! What happened?”

“Well, I had this little boutique in Tehran—women's clothes, handbags, shoes. Police said it was because we were selling Western designer stuff.” He shrugged again in his characteristic fashion. “But I know it was because we were Christians, 'cause that's what the guy yelled when he threw the Molotov cocktail through the window.”

“Oh, man, so sorry to hear that. Musta been terrifying.” I paused, thinking he might tell me more of his story, but instead he just thanked me for my help and told me to let him know any time he could return the favor. He seemed eager to get back in to his family, so I went on home to see how Estelle was doing.

I spent the next hour helping her package batches of six cinnamon rolls each in plastic wrap with a ribbon around them and a little tag with our name on it. Of course, we had to sample a cinnamon roll or two . . . with a good cup of coffee. When Estelle had warmed up my cup for the second time, I said, “Hey, you know that family next door? I thought they might be Muslim, but they're not.”

“Oh?” She paused in the middle of pouring her own coffee.

“Their names are Farid and Lily Jalili, and they
are
from Iran, but Farid says they were forced to flee because of their Christian faith. They had a little store—women's clothes and stuff—that got torched by Islamic extremists.”

“Oh no! How scary. When did all this happen?”

“I dunno.” I thought for a moment. “Must've been quite awhile ago, 'cause he said something about not being able to find a good church when they first came to the States. But he said that was years ago.” I shrugged.

Estelle finished pouring her coffee. “Well, it's nice to know there are other Christians in the neighborhood. Now we'll have to get acquainted for sure.”

I grinned. “That's what I was doin'.”

By midafternoon we were ready to set out with Estelle's “neighborhood warming” gifts. DaShawn was writing a report on the Civil War for school, and we were glad to escape his whining. He was supposed to be starting spring break, but he'd failed to turn in the report on time. His teacher had sent home a notice giving him one last chance. If he finished it over the weekend and put it in the mail, postmarked on Monday, she would accept it. Otherwise, he would receive an incomplete. Sounded like a generous deal to me, so I had no sympathy for his complaints.

When we got to the bottom of the stairs, I stuck my head into the apartment. “Hey, Rodney,” I called toward his new room, “we're goin' out for a while. DaShawn's upstairs doin' homework. Okay?”

“No problem.”

We were barely out the front door when Estelle said, “What's he doin' in there? He doesn't even have a TV.”

“I dunno. S'pose we could loan him that little one you had before we got married.”

“Sure, if you want.” She pushed me to the right when we got to the end of our walk. “Let's go this way. You already met the guy with the truck. And this woman in this house”—she pointed to the bungalow to our south—“was one of the people who yanked the drapes closed on me that day. We're goin' to her house first.”

I laughed. “Remind me to never let you get on my case, babe, or you'll love me to death.”

“Ha, ha! You better believe it.” She hugged my arm close to her ample bosom. “I'll dog ya 'til I gotcha!”

The neat little house next door had a nice porch with a swing, though it was covered with dust as if it hadn't been used for ages. I reminded myself that spring had barely sprung. Who'd be porch sitting in a Chicago winter?

Estelle had to ring the bell twice before an elderly man opened the door a couple of inches. “Yes?”

“We're Estelle and Harry Bentley from next door.” Estelle smiled warmly. “We just moved in last week and thought we'd say hello.” She held out a package with a red ribbon and a little note with our names on it. “I made you some fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.”

The man turned back stiffly as though the vertebrae in his neck were fused. “Eva, it's those people next door wanting to sell us something.”

“No, no, no. They're a gift . . . get-acquainted gift.”

“Eva!”

We waited in awkward silence, me wishing the guy would just take the bloomin' cinnamon rolls so we could get out of there. Finally he was joined by a thin woman with a little tremor that bobbled her head under a bubble of fuzzy gray hair. She wore a faded blue print dress, and I had to stifle myself remembering that as a kid I would have called her a classic “fuzz-print.” At least she was more hospitable than her husband. “Oh, how nice. Won't you come in?”

“Only for a minute,” said Estelle. “We just wanted to introduce ourselves and say hello.”

We went in and all sat awkwardly on cheap French-provincial furniture that had never been intended for relaxing. “Well, we're Karl and Eva Molander,” the woman offered. “Been here ever since this neighborhood was all Swedish and German—”

“Except for the Krakowskis—”

“Yes. They were Polish. But now . . . well, it's all changed, and we're the last ones—”

“Ever since you got Mattie's place,” Karl said coldly. His comment made me squirm.

“What a shame. What a shame.” The old woman closed her eyes and brought a clenched fist up to her lips. “That was frightening. Just frightening to think that she fell and no one knew a thing about—”

“Nobody knew. Of course, how could they? I mean, she's the only one we really knew on the whole block. And now—”

“In fact, we used to pray—” Eva glanced toward Karl as though she'd said too much, then shrugged. “—anyway we prayed for everyone when we knew 'em by name. Even after the Mexicans and all the others started moving in, we still prayed for a long time. But . . .”

Estelle took advantage of the first break in their tag-team spiel. “And that's why we wanted to say hello.”

“Yeah,” I added as I moved to the edge of my seat and glanced at Estelle, “and if there's anything we can do, just let us know. We'd be glad to help.” But right then, I just wanted to get out of there.