Start Shooting (32 page)

Empty and weak, I push up into the seat and wipe my face presentable. The morgue fills my windshield gray. From Hawaiian shirts and ten-mile loopy grins to … nothing, and for what? Now it’s on to Mercy to see Buff, then cry in their parking lot, too. I start the car but don’t put it in gear. Maybe nineteen years is enough.

At Roosevelt and Michigan I loop a ’62 gunship and change lanes toward the curb. Two black bangers sit the front and back. The gunship turns south behind me, away from downtown. No bangers crossing Roosevelt today. Today is Furukawa’s 10K, a law-and-order day in downtown. Today we have the right to police that part of the city.

I pull my phone to call Ruben but listen to a message from Arleen, her voice nervous, but strong: “Fingers crossed, Bobby. On my way in. Love you for calling, means a lot. Bye.” Watch check; two hours ago, hope she got it; hope she gets out of Chicago and never looks back. Exhale. No I don’t; I wish, I wish … I don’t know what I wish.

I try Ruben again and get voice mail. Again. My hand cocks … hesitates, then drops limp to the seat. Hahn was right when she said the Hokkaido package wasn’t done killing people. She lost Lopez; I lost Jewboy. And maybe Buff. A CTA passes through the intersection; Furukawa’s Olympics flag covers the entire bus. Furukawa gets police
protection because they’re the good guys. That mass-murder shit back in China? We’ll just sorta overlook that because they build a park every now and then. But Jewboy gets to die; that’s okay.

I try Ruben again, then make the right turn into Mercy Hospital’s crowded parking lot. Buff may or may not still be alive. Not sure if I can face him
and
Jewboy being dead. A doctor’s space is empty nearest the entrance and that’s where I park. My phone rings again—I answer getting out of the car.

Tania Hahn says, “Don’t know where you are, Vargas, but in the next five seconds I better. If not, that body and your Beretta’s public domain.”

“Where’s Ruben?”

“Clock’s ticking, Bobby. If you’re not wired to do your sergeant and Ruben in fifteen minutes, I’m dropping this bundle at Area 4 and finding a new horse to back.”

“Jewboy’s dead. Buff Anderson’s fifty-fifty. I’m walking into ICU now.” My car door slams and I turn toward Mercy’s emergency entrance. “Give me thirty minutes, then you and I go find Ruben.”

“No. Don’t go in till I wire you. We need your sergeant on tape to convince Ruben he’s gotta give this up.”

“Buff isn’t part of your Hokkaido package. I don’t know what he and Ruben were fighting about, but it wasn’t that—”

“Ground control to Bobby—their fight was about the package or Coleen Brennan. Or both.”

My feet stop on Mercy’s sidewalk. “Leave Coleen Brennan out of this. Last time I’m warning you.” I hate what it might mean, but repeat what Jason told me anyway. “The shooter who got Buff and Jewboy was ID’d as Asian, a female.”

“Asian, female—gotta be White Flower Lý.”

“Why?”

“She’s their
partner
, Bobby. Your
brother’s
partner. For whatever reason, Ruben’s crew is disintegrating. Get your sergeant on tape, if he’s not dead. Anderson can tell us why the crew’s coming apart. Tell us if
today’s
10K is a target.”

“Fuck you and the federal government. Robbie didn’t say shit about Buff.”

Hahn’s voice ramps. “Recovering the package
from your brother
isn’t about the federal government, asshole. It’s about your city and three million innocent people.”

“Yeah? Well fuck them, too.”

The ER door opens. It smells like the morgue and I start crying all over again.

Traffic zips past the Shubert and a marquee that later today may be mine, should be mine.
Will
be mine. Sarah my attentive agent hands me my extra-heavy purse and beams at me like I’m her only client. Her smile is dazzling and I can still taste her lipstick. She claps again and says, “There is a God and she is a woman. You were … 
monumental.
”

I can almost walk. Ruben Vargas has stepped away, into the netherworld where the Stanley Kowalskis congregate. My feet have finished floating, I think. Maybe I’ll do spins, a leap or two, throw flowers at the buses, even the Greyhounds to L.A. Could the sun be any shinier? The Brennan sisters are about to win; call Bobby Vargas, the three of us and Tinker Bell are finally out on tour.

My phone vibrates its hooray. I dig it out and flip to tell whoever it is that I am the new queen of England. It’s Ruben Vargas. My eyes and attention jump to the shadows, the street.
No
—I delete his presence and his memory and scroll past. Bobby’s earlier text message appears, bright and shiny. I punch Call and his voice mail answers. After twenty-nine years Bobby comes back to us on our day. That cannot be coincidence.

“Bobby, it’s me. I did it. They loved me.” I grin at Sarah. “Now we wait. But Toddy Pete Steffen came,
ran
down to the stage, I kid you not, said he loved me for
Streetcar
and other shows, too. Just like we planned it when we were kids, took forever but—” My toes point; maybe I’ll pirouette. “Sarah and I are leaving for the gospel brunch
at the Park Grill—our own little watch party. Call me. Please come, I mean it. Okay? I want you to be there when we win.” I flip shut and keep grinning at Sarah.

Sarah says, “Blanche and Arleen should pack for the talk-show circuit. You two may have just outgrown this town.”

“No, no, no. Chicago makes it soooo much better. None of the Brennans will
ever
have to take the bus anymore. We
will
, but we won’t have to. We’ll buy a bakery; everybody I know gets crumble muffins!”

A long black limo stops at the curb. The driver exits and opens the passenger door on his side. Out pops a youngish woman in a sensible suit, large purse in one hand, a cell phone pressed to her ear. On my left, the doors to the Shubert pop open. Anne Johns rushes toward the limo with both arms outstretched. Behind Anne, her assistant trails with a phone to her ear. The limo hasn’t emptied all its passengers. Perfect legs cross as they swing out of the passenger door; the rest of Tharien Thompson unbends into our director’s waiting embrace.

Anne Johns grins into Tharien’s face. “My God, girl, you look fabulous!”

They hug tight but air-kiss to protect Tharien’s professional makeup. She’s wearing a fitted postwar, flower-print dress, nylons, and low heels. She’s from South Africa like Charlize Theron, but today she’s stepping off a train from Biloxi in 1947, doesn’t have to speak to say “fragile, pretentious Southern belle.” Ten months ago Tharien won an Emmy for
Tarantula Rose
on HBO. Last Thursday she was nominated again.

Sarah says, “Hello, Tharien.” I just stare.

Tharien raises her chin, as if to offer us a beau dollah to please retrieve her travel case, so in character I want to cry or applaud. She’s whisked inside. Sarah and I are left to appreciate her limo. I ask her driver, “Was that the eight fifteen from Biloxi?”

Sarah reformats her agent’s smile and pats my shoulder. “The French critics hated her in
Tarantula Rose
. Suggested she return to her cameras.”

“Back to Africa would be better.” Envy, fear, more envy. “Have to admit she was a good photographer.”

Sarah throws her arm around my shoulders. “Not today, today and
Streetcar
belong to Arleen Brennan.” Sarah’s arm pulls me toward our
brunch celebration. Our first step east is through a lingering wisp of magnolia perfume.

Frown. Tharien thought of everything that I didn’t; just
too
perfect, and ten years younger. My bare shoulders tighten under Sarah’s arm and I begin to see it coming, to recognize I will be the actress who
didn’t
get it. You have to be that close—down to the final two, down to visualizing the dressing room, your wardrobe lady, hair and makeup, the preshow bus ride in from home every night, the new family who loves you, who depends on you. You have to be that close to be the actress who
didn’t
get the part.

Brunch is no longer the answer. Sarah grins at me across our plates of French Whatever; the French hated Tharien so Sarah thought haute cuisine was appropriate. She’s talking, telling me not to worry. I stare out at the city in summer. Across Pearson Street, in Water Tower Square, a man and a woman throw popcorn to a flock of pigeons. The pigeons scatter and return as each pedestrian passes. The man wears a seersucker jacket on a hundred-degree day and doesn’t look at us sitting under our table’s umbrella. The woman is Asian, long black hair, sun hat, sunglasses, and sits with space between her and the man. Two policemen, both blocky, walk through the pigeons, but the man pays them no mind. The woman dips her head as if to hide. The man is Ruben Vargas.

Ruben Vargas places the popcorn on his bench next to the Asian woman, then reaches for a cell phone and dials. The woman looks across the square at Sarah and me.

Sarah’s phone rings. She answers, smiling, “Detective Vargas.” Sarah winks and pats my hand. “Yes. Sure, thank you. She’s right here.” Sarah hands me the phone. “Wants to wish you good luck. I’m going to the girls’ room.”

I accept the phone, smile at Sarah as she slices between tables, then stare at Ruben and his woman. Ruben removes his toothpick and says, “Tharien Thompson, huh? I still like your chances. Me, Robbie, Anne Johns, Sarah—you got a lot of folks on your side.”

“I doubt you and Robbie are speaking much. What do you want?”

“Time to go,
chica
. Get you ready for the trade with the Japanese ladies.”

“Bye.”

Ruben pauses, then says, “Santa Monica, California. The pier, ten years ago last month.”

The phone fumbles in my hand. Heat gushes my face. I smother the phone shut. Don’t want to hear that again. Across Pearson Street, Ruben is standing.

The phone rings again. Ruben keeps calling until I answer. He says, “Had your audition,
chica
. Kept my word and will on the rest of our business. Robbie will get his share, so will the Koreans. No reason to blow up your Shubert run if you’re good enough to get it—and from what I hear you are. No reason for any cops to go back to California, either.” Pause. “But what I can’t do is wait any longer to deal with the Japanese.”

The phone trembles against my ear.

“Tell my friend Sarah Hellman
adiós
. We’ll all party tonight when you get the part. Now, take a cab to the Sunday Market on Canal. I’ll meet you on the west sidewalk at Fourteenth Street.” Ruben picks up his popcorn and hands it to the Asian woman. “I
don’t
see you at the curb in ten minutes, I make the call to Santa Monica. And don’t think about bringing my little brother. Get him involved any deeper and it’ll kill both of you.”

Ruben clicks off. He and the Asian woman disappear into the throng of tourists and Michigan Avenue’s well-heeled shoppers mingling with this afternoon’s 10K runners, partiers, and concertgoers. Furukawa and Toddy Pete save Chicago. Chicago saves the Shubert Theater Company. I get
Streetcar
. All good. Then I help Robbie and Ruben blow up Furukawa. The Olympics go to Tokyo. Chicago goes broke. The Shubert closes. One big happy family.

Could you dig the hole deeper, Arleen?

Sure you can. With people like Ruben and Robbie, the hole always gets deeper. And now Ruben has another hole, from ten years ago, the night I ran from Santa Monica to New York and eventually back to Chicago. My pixie-dust plan won’t hold together with the Santa
Monica pier in it. Not if Ruben somehow has proof. I’ll always be one cop-to-cop phone call away from L.A. County jail and the
State of California vs. Arleen Brennan
.

A hand covers mine. I squeeze. Sarah yelps sliding into her chair. I let go, say, “Sorry,” hand over her phone, and scramble for my purse.

Sarah grabs my wrist. “Wait. What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“I have to go.”

“Where? Why?”

I stare at her not sure if I’ll cry or scream. “I’ll be okay. Have to be, right? This afternoon you’ll tell me I got the part.” Sarah doesn’t let go. She stares at the bruises my makeup may no longer be covering, bruises from Ruben Vargas. “I have to go. But … don’t call me if I don’t get it, okay?”

Sarah lets go of my wrist and I grab my purse with the loaded 9-millimeter in it.

“Forget that. Call me either way. It’ll settle a lot of things.”

A smudged Plexiglas partition separates me from the cabdriver. I’m alone in his backseat crossing the Roosevelt Road Bridge, but I’m not alone-alone. The nightmare man on the pier whispers what I already know, that my pixie-dust plan is over; my
Streetcar
future is gone unless the 9-millimeter in my purse is in my hand when I meet Ruben.
Just pull the trigger
is now, and always has been, the only solution. The nightmare man whispers, Like you did before.
Just pull the trigger … be a good girl
.

I gag, then choke. My hand covers my mouth. I force a swallow, then gasp. I’ll call Bobby. Ask him what to do. The voice says,
No, you’ll not need a Mexican’s permission to do what has to be done. Chicago must have the Olympics and the Brennan sisters must have the Shubert Theater. Be a good girl. That’s it, you know what to do
.