The Fifth Floor (8 page)

“Aren’t you going to get anything?” she said.

I ordered a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a cup. Taylor seemed happy with that and dug into her soda. Three minutes later, she hit bottom with her straw. I got her a spoon and she scooped ice cream from the depths of her glass.

“Pretty good,” she said.

“Told you.”

Taylor pushed her glass away and turned toward me. “Are we going to talk about my mom now?”

“Sure.”

I got up and walked us over to a table by the window. We sat in chairs made of thin white wire. The fourteen-year-old with the ice-cream soda got left at the counter. Taylor Woods was back. A kid with the problems of an adult.

“You think your mom’s in some kind of trouble,” I said. “Tell me about that.”

“Mom said you knew.”

“About your step-dad?”

“Yeah.”

For the first time, I sensed a crack in the faзade. It ran like a shiver through her voice and across her lower lip, finding a home in her eyes as her gaze slid to the floor.

“You like your step-dad?” I said.

A narrow set of shoulders offered a single shrug that said enough.

“You scared of him?”

She shook her head.

“You scared for your mom?”

Nothing.

“It’s okay to be scared for your mom, Taylor. And it’s okay to be scared for yourself.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not scared of him. You wouldn’t understand.”

I thought about the guy who once called himself my father. The death of quiet inside an apartment. A footfall on the doorstep and voices down a hallway. A quiet, dangerous sort of rumble. Something you developed an instinct for. Ten years old and creeping through the kitchen as the voices got closer. Out the back door and into the fading sunlight. Melting into the streets, into the safety of the neighborhood. I’d wait until well past midnight before heading home. Marking time with whoever was around. Listening to Bruce, walking the streets, drinking beer as I got older, fighting anyone and anything. Believing it was just another day of normal. I understood more about “Dad” than anyone would ever want. More than the kid in front of me probably ever needed to know. At least, that’s what I thought.

“What’s he doing to your mom, Taylor?”

She looked out the window and onto Broadway. A couple walked by, arms linked, a stroller filled with a baby in between. They looked pretty happy, but I didn’t think it registered with my young friend.

“He’s killing her, Mr. Kelly. Bit by bit, he’s beating my mom to death and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.”

Taylor wiped at a tear as it slid down her cheek and seemed angry over it.

“When was the last time?” I said.

She pulled at a napkin. I looked across at the ice-cream guy behind the counter, another teenager, this one on his cell phone and in another world.

“It’s all the time. Every day, sometimes. Then it’s quiet for a while. Then it’s bad again.”

I wanted to reach out, maybe touch the girl’s hand. Instead, I settled for more conversation.

“Okay, Taylor, go on home. Don’t say anything to your mom. I’ll come by and have another talk with her.”

“When?” The tears had stopped as quickly as they started. She dried her cheeks, folded up the napkin, and put it on the table.

“When is he gone?” I said.

“He’ll be gone next week. Wednesday or Thursday night, for sure.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s staying downtown. Some city event for the mayor. My mom is supposed to go with him, but she’s too sick.”

“What does that mean?”

Taylor narrowed her eyes and never looked more like her mother.

“It means he came home last night and busted her face open. Now she can’t be seen with him and his work pals.”

“How bad is it?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

I nodded. “Okay, I’ll stop by next week. We’ll get a plan together.”

“I already have a plan,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“You kill him.” The girl looked up as she spoke, and I felt a chill.

“No one is killing anybody, Taylor. You got that?”

“You’re not inside that house. You don’t know.”

I pulled my chair a little closer and muscled into the girl’s space. “You think it’s that easy to kill someone?”

A shrug.

“Trust me, it’s not. Have you told your mom any of this?”

A shake of the head.

“Okay, I’ll talk to her next week. Till then, we just let things lie.”

I thought she was going to cry again. Or embroider her case for putting a bullet in Johnny Woods. Or maybe both. Instead, Taylor got up and walked out onto the street. I paid for the ice cream and found her waiting at the corner. There wasn’t much more to say so I put her in a taxi. Gave the cabbie her address and the fare plus twenty. Then I wandered down Broadway. Thought about my young friend and her developing taste for murder.

A lot of folks wouldn’t see the threats of a fourteen-year-old as anything but idle. I wasn’t one of those folks. A kid can pull the trigger just as smooth and easy as anyone else. Sometimes even easier. I knew that, mostly because I’d lived it. Or close enough.

The worst times were always late at night. The times I’d make the mistake of falling asleep and he’d get home, come looking for me. It was better when my older brother, Phillip, was there. Even if he’d been kicked quiet.

Either way, the old man would eventually get to it. Stand me up in the living room and take a good look. Close enough so I could smell the liquor-what I know now was liquor. Back then it just smelled like a beating. Mingled with cigarettes, sweat, and fear. My old man was afraid of most every big thing in life. That’s why I was out there in the first place. In the living room. At three in the morning. No fear here for Dad. Only control.

He’d pick a topic. Didn’t matter what. Maybe it was just the way I looked at him when he pulled me out of bed. Didn’t matter. I’d try to stand tough. He’d walk back and forth. Ask me questions.

Did I think I was a tough guy? He’d show me tough.

Did I think I could get away with the bullshit I pulled with everyone else?

I wasn’t that goddamn smart and he damn well knew it. School. Sports. Whatever. I half-assed everything. Goddamn faker.

He’d move close on that last word and wait for me to flinch. Who the Christ did I think I was fooling, anyway?

Didn’t matter the question. Didn’t matter the answer. There was no right answer. Nothing, nobody worth answering to. I knew that. Still, the questions got louder. The old man got closer. Finally, I’d try something, some sort of response. When I got older, I realized that was a mistake. Just what he was waiting for. He’d stop pacing, hover close.

“What did you say?”

From the corner of my eye I could see my mom, virtual rosary beads in hand, half praying, half asking my dad to go to bed and forget about it. Not much fucking chance. I’d answer again. And wait. I knew it was coming, but it never failed to amaze. The speed. The ferocity. Whip-fast. Loud and fierce. In my ears first, then exploding across my face, slamming my eyes shut, scorching white bursts just underneath the lids. It was just an open palm to the face. But it was the first shot and it always shocked me, scared me, hurt far more than whatever followed. When I was nine, I cried. When I got a little older, I just stood there and took it. Either way, it didn’t matter. Whatever my reaction, he always followed up with another shot, probably so he didn’t have to think about the first either. It was usually a half-closed hand to the head. Then he’d bring his fists to the party. Once, twice, as much as it took until I went down. After that, it was okay. The old man was sated. He’d grumble something to my mother and go to bed. My mom would come over and ask if I wanted a cup of tea. I’d say no. Then I’d go down the hall and get back into bed. I’d hear him next door, breathing already heavy, nothing else between us save a layer of drywall and a lifetime of regret.

No one would talk about it the next day. Or the day after that. None of us, not even Phillip. Instead, we’d just wait. Until we were old enough where we could leave. Or kill him. It was the last part that stayed with me today. The killing part seemed real to me back then. It seemed real to me now. Maybe even a little bit right. I’d take what Taylor said seriously. And do what I could to make sure she stayed a kid.

I woke up the next morning, looked at the clock, and allowed myself a smile. Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

“What?”

Fred Jacobs sounded like he might have been asleep all of five minutes.

“Wake up, Fred.”

“Kelly?”

There was a fumble as he dropped the phone. Followed by a curse or two. Then my favorite reporter came back on the line.

“Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What?” I said.

“It’s six-thirty on a Saturday morning. People like to sleep on Saturday mornings.”

“Get out of bed, Fred. Take yourself outside for a nice run.”

More fumbling, then the line cleared.

“What do you want, Kelly?”

“Vince Rodriguez and Dan Masters.”

Jacobs didn’t respond. I allowed the silence to thicken and congeal before I continued.

“Saw them over at Belmont and Western the other day. Asked me what I knew about Johnny Woods.”

“You think that was me?”

“I know it was you, Fred. No one else knew I was looking at Woods.”

Fred Jacobs could lie with the best of them. At six-thirty on a Saturday morning, maybe not so well. “Okay, Kelly. It might have slipped out.”

“I bet.”

“Sorry.”

Across the line I could hear the scratch of a match followed by a smooth inhale. Jacobs had lit up his first heater of the day.

“What do you expect?” he said, and blew smoke through the receiver. “You know how this stuff works. Besides, you love being down there.”

“You think so?”

“Hell, yeah. You got the itch, Kelly. Just no badge anymore to scratch it with.”

“Thanks, Fred. I’ll write that down. Next time, just try a little harder to hold up your end of things.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Jacobs’ voice puckered at the mere thought of his not living up to the journalist’s code of ethics. A code he had just admitted to trampling not ten seconds earlier.

“Okay, Fred. I need a little more info.”

“Knew that was coming.”

“It’s painless. An old Sun-Times reporter named Rawlings Smith. You know him?”

“This have to do with my story?”

“Could be.”

Jacobs thought about that for a second. Trying to figure out how he could get his scoop without waiting on me.

“He’s in Joliet,” the reporter said. “Working at a paper called the Times.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Not exactly The New York Times. In fact, it doesn’t even rate in Joliet. And that ain’t good.”

Another draw on the cigarette and a gurgle in the lungs.

“How’d he wind up there?” I said.

“Not sure.”

“You heard things?”

“I always hear things.”

“Bad things?”

“If they were good, a guy like me wouldn’t hear ’em.”

“No details, huh?”

“You going to see Smith?”

“Thinking about it.”

“Ask him yourself. I don’t know the guy, so I’ll stay out of it.”

I figured that was decent of Jacobs. Or as close to decent as this reporter was likely to get. “Thanks, Fred. I’ll let you know when I have something.”

I punched off and called directory assistance for Joliet, Illinois. There was no listing for Rawlings Smith. I called down to the Joliet Times. A sleepy female picked up on the fifth ring. I told her a reporter named Smith had left me his card and wanted to interview me for a story. She told me the guy I was looking for worked weekends and would be in at nine. I smiled for a second time, got out of bed, and got dressed.

JOLIET IS ABOUT forty miles outside of Chicago. Famous for nothing except its prison. Remember Joliet Jake from the Blues Brothers? He did his time inside Joliet’s Stateville lockup, home to two thousand of Illinois’ worst. I cruised past the big walls and kept moving. The Joliet Times was located in a storefront downtown. At the back of the empty newsroom was a cubicle. Inside it, the old crime reporter I was looking for.

“Call me Smitty,” he said.

So I did.

“Smitty, thanks for taking the time.”

I had called ahead and told him I wanted to talk. He didn’t ask why, so I didn’t offer. Now he was here. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Not a problem, Mr. Kelly. What can I do for you?”

I could see the reporter thirty years prior, brown hair, eyes sketched in blue, sharp features and intelligence everywhere. Now it had all gone to booze and cigarettes. A life swallowed up in a matter of newsprint and missed deadlines.

“I’m here about an article you wrote.”

“Been a reporter a lifetime, son. Wrote a lot of articles.”

From his bottom drawer Smitty pulled out a can of Bud and poured it into a water glass. It was more warm foam than beer, but that didn’t diminish his enthusiasm. Smitty tipped the glass my way and took down half of it in one go.

“Management doesn’t seem to care much on weekends, so I indulge. You?”

“No, thanks. How did you get here, anyway?”

“You mean paradise?”

“I’m sure it has its moments.”

He poured the rest of the beer into his glass and watched it settle. I watched with him. Then he continued.

“Not exactly the happily-ever-after you plan on, is it? I was thirty-two years old. Hell, that was more than thirty years ago.”

Smitty moved forward to the edge of his seat. One disinterested leg crossed over the other. His foot dangled at the end, bobbing time to a beat only he could hear.