Start Shooting (20 page)

Low-shoulder, street-gangster headshake. “
Chica
, we can wrap this up in a couple of days. I haven’t told the Koreans who you are. If I do, the Shubert’s over, finito,
se acabó.
” Ruben shrugs with upturned palms. “But if I don’t tell ’em your name, how they gonna know? And after they’re paid, why would they care? Gives us plenty of time to work these misunderstandings out for everyone. Robbie, too.”

I wave hello at a valet and scan Rush Street for kidnap cars. Ruben was always capable of anything—trying to kill me earlier today was new—but he’s completely lost his mind now, thinking I’ll trust him, walk deeper into his nightmare in order to get out.

You’ll
work it out with Robbie? After you got him shot. Ten to one both the Steffens are gunning for you right now.”

“Then T.P. and son are hunting Arleen Brennan, too.”

“No sale, Ruben. This is all you.”

“Arleen, baby, I called the ballistics lab since you and I chatted at the Shubert. Three guns were used in the alley—Robbie’s 9-millimeter, the Korean’s .45, and a .38. Like the one you had in your purse. Haven’t matched the bullets yet—and maybe I don’t—but it’s funny, you know? The gun that killed one of the Koreans was like yours. So maybe somebody like you was in that alley. And if she was, Robbie’s gonna think bad things about her,
setup
kind of bad things. Might even tell his father.” Ruben shrugs, and glances the banners again. “And if Robbie does tell T.P., goodbye Shubert Theater, you know?”

“I wasn’t in that alley. No matter how bad you want it that way.”

Ruben studies me—the actress—and removes his toothpick. We’re both running bluffs and we’re both professional liars. Ruben shrugs again. “Let’s say you weren’t in Greektown, the truth is you were right about Robbie and Lawrence Avenue. The man’s a cop; unless he gets paid big to be cool, Robbie can’t have a witness there. Not if he shot a Korean. To death.”

More threats, alibis, and handguns. More leverage/life insurance—Ruben’s never ending circle of shit. My father’s temper adds venom to my tone. “This girl isn’t fronting for you with Japanese women. Already did that with your psycho Koreans.” My hand balls to hit Ruben in the mouth, knock his shiny teeth out. “I. Don’t. Kill. People. Get it?”

“Your dead Korean in Robbie’s alley doesn’t count?
Somebody
blew his head off. Won’t be anywhere to hide from that,
niña
. Career’s over before it starts.” Ruben shakes his head, mumbling something that sounds like “Santa Monica.”

My breath shortens at
Santa Monica
, my face so red it hurts. “Fuck you.”

“Women’s prison … and you were so close. For you and your sister, God rest her.”

The temper begins to boil. I flash on Coleen’s funeral, Route 66, try to blink out the bus trip but can’t. My purse slides off my arm. Both hands are fists.
Don’t do it, Arleen. Don’t
. Rush Street becomes America
the Strange, passing too slow in a grimy bus window. I’m fourteen, talking to Coleen in our private language, picturing a future she won’t have and I don’t yet understand. The bus seat smells of previous riders. I finally fall asleep and wake to breath on my neck, a man’s hip touching mine. I kick and scream him away.
The Four Corners will not find me. Da will not find me
. Finally the ocean—weeks, months. Waves crash on cold nights spent outside; colder still in the backseats of Venice Beach, mouthfuls of businessmen who pat my head—but my father did find me. Goddamn him, he did.

Blink. And goddamn Ruben Vargas. Eighteen inches from his pimp smile and reptile eyes, my vision begins to blur. This will not be Coleen again.
God rest her
 … Not this time. Will. Not. Happen. I lunge ten bloodred nails at Ruben’s eyes. He bats my hands, sidesteps to punch me but I pivot with him and stomp his instep, stomp again, and slam an elbow across his eye. Ruben stumbles into the wall. I kick him in the pelvis but miss. Ruben straightens in a blur, cocks his right hand, and the lights go out.

The valet at the Mambo Grill takes my car keys as Tania Hahn disappears back into her alley. Her deal hangs in the hot summer air—wear a wire on Buff, my sergeant and friend. Be a rat and Hahn kills Child Services, kills the Moens exposé, and kills Danny Vacco—I clean up pretty for my girlfriend. Don’t even know Hahn’s script yet and have thirty minutes to decide.

Gonna be tough to explain the undercover CIA agent in our gang team as my savior. Why? What’s so tough? Just tell your team you sold her your soul. Then sold her your friends. Simple.

Then, five years from now, after Arleen has found out what a swell friend you are, you can take a last inventory of your dingy-motel-room life and commit suicide.

I button my phone, hoping for a call from Arleen. Nope, no call back to keep our connection, to play teenager with me, something I really, really want her to do. Maybe call Tracy Moens, line her up on a wall, and ask what bullshit she said.

Before I can do something that stupid I step inside the Mambo. Tito Puente’s timbales and Celia Cruz’s voice fill the doorway. A five-ten Latina maître d’ smiles red lipstick and brown eyes at the two customers in front of me. I search for James Barlow beneath the bamboo ceiling fans swirling saffron and cachucha peppers.

Odd spot he picks to meet. The Mambo on Saturday night is Calle Ocho in Miami—Little Havana—dark-eyed players in guayaberas and
torcido panamas talking with their hands; their women in slip dresses, chins high, gold crucifixes tight on cocoa skin, eyes and shoulders slow-dancing a dangerous salsa behind their cocktails.

The maître d’ says,
“Un momento, señor,”
and escorts the two customers past the bar into the dining room. The Mambo has straight-back wooden booths along both walls with hand-painted Havana scenes above them. Two rows of tables run down the center. The music’s Cuban and so are the waiters. If you saw
The Godfather
, where Michael murders the corrupt police captain, this is that place with paella and plantains.

In the back corner, my brother isn’t sitting with lawyer Barlow, a curvy blonde is, not wearing much more than imagination above the waist. In the back-bar mirror, Ruben walks in behind me. He has a cut over his left eye, a napkin to it, and dried blood on his collar.

I turn into his approach. “What happened?”

“A drunk. Woman, no less. Was trying not to be late, thinking about you and the new paper coming”—Ruben’s eyes harden—“and she clocked me.”

New paper
means complaints or arrest warrants. The cut’s not deep but his eye is bloodshot and the skin already coloring. “The lady can hit.”

Ruben’s tone drops. “Be awhile before she does it again.” Ruben wads the napkin into an ashtray. “Let’s talk to Barlow, get the new paper straightened out. I got other things to chase tonight.”

“What new paper?”

Ruben pushes me forward down the Mambo’s bar, past the low necklines and mojitos. We approach Barlow’s table; he sees us. “Gentlemen. About decided you weren’t coming.”

Ruben smiles politely at the blonde, then tells Barlow, “Homicide. Argument after. Unfortunate timing, my apologies.”

Barlow studies Ruben’s cut, avoids looking at me, then touches the blonde’s shoulder. “My niece, Mary-Charlotte Masterson.”

“Ruben Vargas. My pleasure.” Ruben introduces me. “My brother,

Bobby.”

She smiles twenty-five-year-old happy, a big contrast to Ruben’s and Barlow’s expressions. I’ve seen her before but can’t place it; good vibe
whatever it is. I’m about to say pleased to meet you and she says: “Wolfe City.”

Wolfe City is the recording studio where I did my studio-work demo, the cathedral of blues history. “Right. Right.” I push my hand at her to shake. “You dress different at night.”

“You don’t.” She leans back from my hand, grinning at one more starstruck, join-the-club blues hopeful. “If you’re here, the cell number we have must be wrong. Doc’s chasing you, or was. Ed Cherney heard your demo this morning and wanted you on behind Kenny Herbert and the Memphis Horns.”

“Me?” Ed Cherney? Jesus, he works with the giants. I grin at Ruben, the man who paid for half my first guitar.

Ruben says, “I was just about to tell you.”

Mary-Charlotte continues. “Ed’s in town for the Chess Records/Blues Heaven Benefit. The tie-in CD for the mayor’s ‘Stir the Soul’ Olympic hook. Cameron Smith had your demo and gave it to Ed.”

If you play jazz or blues, Cameron “Superfly” Smith is Chicago radio. Chess Records is … well, Chess Records. A man steps up behind Mary-Charlotte and rests both hands on her bare shoulders. Mid-forties, Armani black T-shirt and linen pants, Cameron Smith in the flesh and reaching for my hand. Cameron smiles, surprised. “Bobby, Bobby, how you doin’? Loved the demo. Son, you best be up the street. Wolfe City’ll be firin’ up about now.” Cameron shifts to Barlow, saying he and Mary-Charlotte have to go. “We’re emceeing part of Furukawa’s star-power fund-raiser. You should come.” Cameron squeezes Barlow’s shoulder, then tells me, “Personal-swag auction; Chicago-connected star power doin’ it for the cause.”

Mary-Charlotte stands. “Call Doc
right now
. Tell him you’re on the way.”

My phone’s out before she finishes. Ruben pushes my arm down and I pull it away. “What’s the number?”

Mary-Charlotte gives me the number. “Doc’s private line.”

I dial. A voice answers, “This is the Doctor.”

I step away from Ruben and tell Doc who I am.

“All good. Cameron and I liked your demo when you did it, you know? Ed Cherney’s from here, wants some of your Four Corners
behind Kenny Herbert and Rab Howat doin’ ‘Calumet City Blues,’ so … come on by. We’re just getting started.”

Silence. I can’t speak.

“Yo? Bobby Vargas?”

Finally my lips work. “Yeah. Sorry. Thirty minutes be okay?”

“C’mon.”

I flip the phone shut and sit down before my knees give out. Me recorded by Ed Cherney playing with Kenny and Rab and the Memphis Horns? I blink for focus. Barlow’s talking to Ruben, saying, “No. She actually
is
my niece.” Barlow turns to me, feigning interest, but his tone is cold. “Good news?”

Skin pinch—yeah, I’m awake. “
Me
, I’m recording with Ed Cherney.”

Lawyer Barlow doesn’t get it or doesn’t care.

“Grammys with Bonnie Raitt? Jackson Browne? Emmy nomination with the Rolling Stones? With Eric Clapton for
Crossroads
?” Still nothing. “Ed’s the man. I mean, like,
the
man.”

Barlow nods, “Congratulations.” Then loses the happy-for-you face he was faking. His finger taps the cell phone next to his plate. “Not good news.”

I glance at Ruben, his lips flat, eyes hard—this must be the new paper—then back to Barlow. “What?”

“Child Services has another complaint.”

I lean away like it will help, sense the revulsion around me.

Barlow says, “Not Little Paul. This time it’s a young girl—”

“Danny Vacco. That Mexican motherfucker keeps making—”

“No. This little girl is white Irish.” Barlow’s eyes narrow at Ruben, then back to me. “From your apartment building.”

Someone … speaking … Spanish? Blink. Brick wall ten feet away … bank ATM … traffic noise behind me. Blood taste in my mouth. I pat my face, check the fingers for blood. Blink. Café tables to my right. I’m against a fender, neon, summer, Sinatra. “What …”

Fast Spanish. Green valet vest and shirt; cigarette breath. Hugo’s. I jerk left and off the car’s fender. Ruben Vargas.

Two valets step back, hands patting air. “
Calma, señorita
. Calm.”

Ruben’s not here, left or right. My purse is on the ground. The gun didn’t spill. No, I don’t have the gun; Ruben has the gun.
Kidnap car
. I jerk to the street. No kidnap car. “What happened?”

“You fight, yell. We help.”

Blink. Ruben knocked me out.

“
El halcón
, your policeman, he leave.”

Ruben knocked me out then left before more police came. Rush Street isn’t his area; he doesn’t want “us” on the record. Maybe that’s good.