Derailed (18 page)

“White, black, what? She a gospel singer?”

“White girl. More like praise and worship—CCM, I think she called it, Contemporary Christian Music. Anyway, just to let you know, I invited her to supper Wednesday evening.”

“Wednesday evening? Why?”

“Just trying to get to know our neighbors, and she seemed . . . I don't know . . . like she needed a friend.”

“And that would be you, I suppose!”

Estelle grinned. “Maybe. We'll have to see.”

“Yeah, but you remember, don'tcha, I got that training all next week? I have no idea when I'll get home.”

“Oh . . .” She grabbed her chin with her hand. “Forgot. But they won't be holdin' you too late, will they? You said yourself they've got to consider the dogs.”

“I wouldn't think so, but I just don't know.” Estelle gave me a worried look. “Don't worry 'bout it, babe. Even if I'm a little late, it'll work out. So, who's next to her? Isn't that where DaShawn's friends from school live?”

“Yes, and I'm really glad I met them. They seem like a great family, and they're old-timers in the neighborhood too, in spite of what the Molanders said. Probably the first black family on the whole block.”

“Well, there you go! If they were the first black family, then no matter how long ago they moved in, they'd still be interlopers as far as the Molanders are concerned.”

“Come on, Harry. Give 'em a break.”

“Oh, I would if they didn't claim to be Christians. Even Jesus couldn't abide hypocrites.”

Estelle sighed. “Anyway, I was telling you about the Jaspers. It's Jared and Michelle. Now, let me see . . .” She counted on her fingers. “They've got an older boy and twins about DaShawn's age. Jared, the father, works as an air traffic controller at O'Hare, and he's a deacon at Northside Baptist. Michelle is a social worker and heads up the women's ministry at their church. Got the impression they're involved in everything that goes on at the church—Sunday school, youth, prayer meeting. I don't know how they do it with three teenagers.”

“
Hmm
. They sound like church addicts.”

“What?”

“Church addicts. You know, people so busy with church stuff they ain't got no time for other people.”

“Harry Bentley, what's got into you? Why are you so cynical tonight?”

Her question gave me pause. Was I being cynical? It was tempting to defend myself, but I had to admit, I did feel all tied up inside. Maybe it was Mom. I just wasn't ready to see her life end this way. I shrugged away Estelle's question and got up. “I dunno. You want some more water while I'm up?”

“No, no thanks. But I'm tellin' you, Harry, these Jaspers are good people, and we're blessed that their kids reached out to DaShawn. He needs good friends. Lord knows there are too many of the other kind.”

I returned with my water and sat down while Estelle eyed me. I could tell she still thought something was bugging me, but she didn't push it and pretty soon picked up her tale of visiting the neighborhood.

“After the Jaspers, I went to the ‘McMansion,' as you call it. And I declare, that's some place. If you think the outside is over the top, you oughta see the inside. The foyer is two stories high with a huge crystal chandelier, and beyond that there's this sweeping curved staircase that comes down. My, my, my.” Estelle was shaking her head. “Anyway, this pretty young thing came to the door, but when I started tellin' her why I was there, she interrupted me and said she didn't really live there, but ‘Mister Lincoln'—that's what she called him—‘Mister Lincoln'—”

“What, that's not his name?”

“Hold on. Found out later his name's Lincoln Paddock, but she called him ‘Mister Lincoln' and said he was busy. Just then, this guy who looked like a movie star came down the stairs. He was barefoot, in jeans and a white T-shirt, and smiled real big at me. Guess he'd heard what I was trying to tell the girl, because he said, ‘That's okay, Jill, I'll take it from here.' She nodded and blushed and went back up the stairs. I watched her for a moment—pants so tight, they looked painted on—and before she got to the top, two other girls came out and leaned over the bannister, one was this sista with long black extensions and the other looked like some
blonde hooker. I tell you, Harry, don't you go down there without me along, ya hear?”

I put my hand up to cover my mouth.

“What . . . what are you laughin' about?”

“Nothin', nothin'. Go on.”

“Well, I gave him the cinnamon rolls and told him who we were. And he said he'd been wonderin' who'd moved into the old lady's house—”

“Sounds to me like more gossip.”

“I don't know, Harry, he didn't say it with an attitude. He was just making conversation. But I tell you, there was something funny about that place. While we were talkin', I heard a bunch of other people, upstairs and in other rooms downstairs. It was like they were having a party, and it was the middle of Sunday afternoon.”

“Well, people do have parties on the weekend, you know.”

“I know, but . . .”

I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe it's a cathouse.”

“Oh, Harry, quit bein' silly. I was worried since there were only six cinnamon rolls. Probably didn't take enough for everybody.”

Ah, that was just like my Estelle. Even though she thought something funny was going on in that “cathouse,” her warm heart was concerned that she hadn't delivered enough treats for all the “kittens.”

When I finally I got control of myself, I said, “Estelle, don't worry about it. I'm sure your gesture was appreciated.”

“Yeah, well, I still think somethin' isn't right in that place.”

“And now who's bein' cynical?”

She took a deep breath and sat up straight. “Well, not me.” She waved her hand across her face as though dismissing the subject. “Let's see . . . oh, yeah.” She reached over to the counter and grabbed a scrap of paper. “Took some notes. Last house was the one at the end of the block on our side of the street.”

“You mean on the other side of Farid?”

“Mm-hm. A young boy named Danny answered the door, looked about eight. Cute kid. Tow-headed, blue eyes. Haven't seen him around, but the weather's been cold until recently. Anyway, he called his dad to the door. Name was Tim Mercer. Tim was very gracious, and as soon as he heard who I was and why I was there, he said, ‘This is great, let me call my husband. He'll want to meet you too.' ” Estelle paused and gave me a look. “Another man came out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a dishtowel. Name is Scott . . . Scott Hanson. He's Danny's ‘daddy'—”

“Wait a minute.” I couldn't help interrupting. “I thought you said Tim was his dad.” I held out both hands in a what-gives gesture.

“That's right. Tim is Danny's
dad
and Scott is his
daddy
.”

“Oh . . . oh . . .”

“
Mm-hm
. That's right. Kind of took me aback too, but I can tell you they were some of the most grateful people on the whole block. They thanked me several times and kept apologizing for not having welcomed us first. Tim kept sayin', ‘This is the way it should be, reachin' out to each other.' I tell ya, Harry . . .” Her voice drifted off. After a moment, she frowned like she'd remembered one other detail. “Scott said they moved here six years ago from a condo they owned down in Boystown. Said they'd been there forever but they wanted a yard for Danny. They thanked me again for comin' by, said no one had welcomed them when they moved in.”

Well. God sure had planted us in an interesting neighborhood.

Monday morning, Corky and I piled into her
“chariot” and headed out to Des Plaines for our first day of training. I thought we were already working like a team, but I understood the need for recertification. We were supposed to check in at the training center at 8:00
A.M
., but it took me a lot longer to get out there than I'd figured.

As I drove, I thought about Estelle's report on the neighbors she'd met. What struck me most was the response from the gay couple two doors north of us. Of all the people we'd visited, Estelle said they'd seemed the most grateful and gracious. No one else had apologized for not welcoming us. Were the two guys at the end of the block just friendlier by nature? Or had our other neighbors—even the Christian ones—simply avoided the subject because they felt embarrassed?

As a Chicago police officer, I'd gone through all the anti-bias seminars the city could throw at me, and certainly Chicago's gay community actively defended their civil rights, doing their best to make sure the cops treated them fairly. But I'd never really gotten to know a gay couple, certainly not a family with a child that lived a quiet and peaceful life like any other family.

It made my head swim! As a Christian, even just as their neighbor, how was I supposed to relate?

Whoa
! I hit the brakes, almost sailing past the Canine Training Center. I wouldn't have noticed it if it hadn't been for the three blue-and-white Chicago police cars parked out front. My watch said two minutes after eight when I turned in and parked beside them.

Frankly, it looked like a junkyard with a high, barbed-wire-topped chain-link fence surrounding a low, rundown metal building with an old trailer house and a semitruck trailer on the sides. But the sign said Chicago Police Department Canine Training Center. I turned off the engine and looked back at Corky. “Guess we're here, ol' girl.”

“
Woof
!” She was up, tail wagging, ready for anything.

I clipped on her leash, grabbed my paperwork, and headed for the door. Barking dogs from within the building assured us we were at the right place. When I pressed the doorbell, an officer opened it, glanced at Corky, and said, “Return your dog to your vehicle, then come back and check in.”

Okaaaay
. I led Corky back to her backseat kennel.

Once inside the training center, I was introduced to Sergeant Marie Sayers, an attractive young woman with long dark hair caught up in a ponytail, who did not look like a junkyard cop at all. Dressed in dark-blue slacks and T-shirt, her badge and the weapon clipped to her belt were the only things identifying her as a police officer. I was glad I'd worn civvies.

She looked over my papers. “Why don't I give you a tour before you bring in . . . Corky, is it?”

The center covered forty acres with buildings, kennels, obstacle courses, and small structures in which “perps” could hide while the dogs searched for them. There was even a row of old cars where the dogs could practice searching for fugitives or drugs.

Back at the office, Sergeant Sayers said, “All right. Let's see how Corky does. Why don't you go get her?”

I'd begun to feel very comfortable with Corky. She'd retrieve her KONG toy whenever I threw it for her, and she was well behaved, smart. We'd even busted those students. But suddenly, I felt nervous as I walked to the SUV. What if she freaked out in this new setting? What if she couldn't work a search pattern? What if she got distracted?

We spent the morning reviewing basic commands. Sometimes Sergeant Sayers had us repeat an exercise a dozen times even
though Corky seemed to be doing it exactly right. When we broke for lunch, Corky was happy to flop down on the cool floor of one of the concrete kennels, panting, her tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth. In the afternoon, the sergeant wanted to watch her work search patterns to make sure she didn't cut corners and miss likely hiding places. For these, Corky searched for a rubber KONG with a treat inside.

Corky and I showed up at the training center two minutes
before
eight on Tuesday and had a great workout, but Sergeant Sayers wanted me to leave Corky at the kennel for a couple of nights to see how she did in a strange setting. I hated to leave her, but Tuesday night was my men's Bible study, so maybe it was just as well. Everyone wanted a report on how the new job was going. I told them I'd probably be working undercover, so couldn't tell 'em or I'd have to kill 'em. Everybody got a laugh out of that, and then I filled them in on everything—everything, that is, except Gilson's wacky idea for my cover—and asked for the guys' prayers. Prayers for protection, for God's purpose in the job. By the time I got home, I was bushed from the long day and glad I didn't have to walk Corky before going to bed.

Wednesday, it was also just as well Corky was still “sleepin' over,” because as soon as I got home, Estelle needed my help finishing up supper for our guest, the single woman who lived across the street.

A half hour later, I'd just finished arranging the chairs around the dining room table when I heard DaShawn call, “Yo, Pops! The lady's here!” I usually didn't mind him calling me Pops—kinda nice, actually. But sometimes the way he threw the sentence together sounded too ghetto, and this was a white woman coming to dinner.