The Screaming Eagles (33 page)

Sadegh walked into the house making his way to the master bedroom to turn down the covers of his bed. From past experience he’d undress in the basement each night until the man died taking off his bloody clothing and dumping it into a garbage bag before coming upstairs to shower and sleep. Picking up a bundle of bath towels, he placed them near the shower then checked to see if his TV worked. Satisfied, Sadegh went to his closet and changed his clothes.

The Kurd would cause him to delay his departure for a few days, and it would be necessary to call Baghdad, Jeddah and Switzerland. Smiling, he wondered how long it would take to break the Kurd. Torturing him was an unexpected bonus; killing him afterward would give him great satisfaction, something to be savored. He knew that he’d have to give himself enough time to have a long shower so that he could wash off any of the Kurd’s blood before catching his plane.

Humming to himself, he looked at his watch, it was time to go. The handcuffs were stuffed into his left trouser pocket, the gun and spare clip into his other pocket.

Over the years Sadegh had perfected his methods of breaking a person, man or woman, didn’t matter?they were both the same. He called it his “meal of three courses.” The first day was usually the day that all his victims tried to resist him and show how brave they were. That was the appetizer. The second day was the main course, his favorite, the day he most enjoyed. This was the day that all of his victims screamed the loudest. This would be the day the Kurd would divulge how he’d had found out about the Screaming Eagles and where his other Kurds were hiding. Sadegh was sure that his stupid cousin Abdel Amir had spoken to some one. Maybe he’d need to kill him sooner than he’d planned. Time would tell. The third day was dessert, but usually they died long before he wanted them to.

An hour and a half later, Sadegh was driving along Maxwell Street. When he turned down the side street where the motel was located, he was still humming to himself and thinking about his “meal of three courses.” He was determined to find a way to prolong the dessert so the Kurd would last an extra day or two.

*

Sadegh continued to look through the narrow gap where the curtains didn’t quite close against each other. Leaning up against the wall so that no light would fall on him in case some one walked past the entrance of the motel and looked at the lighted window, Sadegh waited. Dressed completely in black, wearing gloves, a ski mask covering his face, he’d been standing there for nearly ten minutes, carefully surveying the entire room and its contents, looking for anything out of the ordinary, wary in case it was a trap. He looked up between the flypaper hanging from the ceiling to see if there was a trapdoor in the roof.

Methodically, he checked to see if he’d overlooked anything. Nothing had changed. His ears cocked for any suspicious sound — he heard nothing. Silence was heavy all around him and he felt almost drunk and euphoric at the thought that his victim was in his grasp.

Jalal, eating from a large packet of chips, feet up sat on the bed wearing a pair of underpants and socks, watching an old movie on television, occasionally sipping from a can of soda. A heavy chain was wrapped around the television mounted on a shelf fixed to the wall about two feet below the ceiling. Wallpaper faded and peeling, bulged unevenly off the two far walls. The curtain in front of the wash basin and toilet was pulled to the side, revealing broken and chipped tiles surrounding a small mirror. A white metal bathtub standing on four legs was alongside the toilet, its faucets dripping water, the tub discolored and corroded by rust. The only other piece of furniture was a large, old-fashioned carved wardrobe stained dark brown standing against the wall in the center of the room opposite the bed. Its door was ajar, open enough so that Sadegh could see Jalal’s suit pants, jacket and shirt piled one on top of the other hanging from the corner of the door. His tie having fallen from the door next to his shoes, lay on the broken strips of linoleum that covered most of the floor.

Satisfied finally that there was no danger, Sadegh moved quietly to stand two paces away from the door. His palms sweating slightly, he tightened his grip on the gun, checking once again, making sure that the silencer was screwed on tight enough. He crouched, turning his left shoulder toward the door. Taking a deep breath, he ran forward. The plywood door shattered as he came hurtling through, slamming it with such force against the back wall that one of the hinges broke away. Still in a crouch, he steadied himself, the gun pointing directly at Jalal’s chest. Jalal sat frozen, wide-eyed, staring at the gun, not breathing or attempting to move. He was still holding the packet of chips. Behind Sadegh, the door moved slightly, creaking quietly on the broken hinge.

“If you jump at me or try to escape, Kurd, I will not kill you. I will shoot you in your balls your knees or ankles. I will immobilize you. It will be painful, and you will not escape from me. You said you would phone me later tonight and we would talk. We will talk Kurd. We will have a two-way conversation, but I will ask the questions and you will answer each and every one of my questions. Get off the bed, lie down on your stomach on the floor and put your hands behind your back.”

Jalal didn’t move. “Get on the floor, you son of a Kurdish whore,” Sadegh shouted, “or I start by shooting your ankle. Hurry up now, I will not tell you again. I am taking you out of here in the next few minutes Kurd, I don’t care if you walk or if I have to drag you because your ankles and knees are broken. Your choice.”

He watched as Jalal got off the bed and stretched out on the floor. “Hold your hands together behind your back, bring your legs up and kneel on them. Keep your head and shoulders on the floor. Don’t look at me, you piece of shit, keep your fucking forehead on the floor.” He moved forward toward the side of the kneeling man, keeping a safe distance away from him, watchful for any surprise move. With his left hand he pulled the handcuffs from his pants pocket. He moved closer, bending to cuff Jalal’s wrists, knowing that if Jalal would try anything, it would be now.

“Keep your head down on the floor, you fucking piece of shit. Slowly move your right arm off your back and stretch it out toward me. Keep the other one on your back. Stretch it out now.”

Extending his left arm to cuff Jalal’s wrist, Sadegh heard a noise. Instantly he sensed danger and glanced over his shoulder just as the wardrobe door flew open and Michael exploded out of his hiding place landing on top of Sadegh, who collapsed under him. Arms still outstretched, Sadegh tried to turn, aiming at Jalal. He squeezed the trigger, firing two shots. Jalal, anticipating Sadegh’s need to kill him first before trying to fight off the person who’d jumped on his back, rolled over and pushed himself out of the line of fire.

Steadying himself, he sprang at Sadegh’s gun hand, viciously chopping down as hard as he could with the knuckles of his fist onto the back of the glove. He heard a bone crack, Sadegh moaned, and the gun fell out of his hand.

Using a wrestler’s hold, Michael was laying crab-like on Sadegh’s back, legs outstretched on each side of him so that he couldn’t be thrown off. He’d maneuvered his arms around Sadegh’s neck holding him in a chokehold. Moving his grip an inch at a time, he continued to squeeze using knuckles to shut off the carotid artery, the flow of blood to the brain.

Sadegh heaved and pushed, trying to dislodge Michael, his breath coming in gasps as he tried to lift his hands and pull at Michael’s hair. Agitated, unsure what he should do, Jalal picked up the gun and stood above them watching Michael applying pressure to Sadegh’s neck. If Sadegh was able to break free, Jalal had the gun aimed at Sadegh’s knee. The struggling suddenly stopped, Sadegh grunted, sighed and went limp, both arms, fell onto the floor. Two fingers of his left hand scratched feebly at the linoleum, then he was still.

“I’ve got him, get the syringe. He might be bluffing, so be careful. I can only apply the pressure for a minute then I have to release his artery. Hurry.”

Jalal went to the wardrobe, kicking his clothes out of the way. Reaching inside he pulled out a small bag, unzipped it and took out a syringe. Swiftly he held it up, pressed the plunger for a split second saw clear liquid spurt. Kneeling down he pulled off Sadegh’s glove and with his left hand, applied pressure near the wrist. Within seconds the veins swelled. Choosing one of the veins, he carefully inserted the needle and slowly pressed down the plunger until the vial was empty.

Sadegh did not move.

Michael eased the choke hold but still lay on top for a while longer while Jalal cuffed Sadegh’s wrists and ankles, pulled off the ski mask and examined the pupils to see if they were dilated.

“He’s unconscious,” said Jalal.

Only then did Michael stand up. Jalal turned off the lights and closed the curtains firmly.

Without a word, Michael ran out the door to fetch his van, which was parked a block away.

Jalal took a flashlight from his suitcase and turned it on. He wrapped masking tape over Sadegh’s mouth, making sure that he could breath through his nostrils. Working quickly, he threw everything scattered around the room into a garbage bag then got dressed.

He dragged Sadegh toward the door. The yard was dark. In the distance he could faintly hear the boom boxes as kids drove up and down Maxwell Street.

Standing in the darkness, he waited for Michael to arrive. He listened to the quiet silence as it settled all around him in the room. The only sound was the door creaking gently in the breeze.

It had taken Michael half an hour to drive from the motel to the enormous complex of boarded up buildings. He’d visited the buildings once before when a developer had hired him to do a feasibility study to see if it would be worthwhile making an offer to the City of Chicago to redevelop the stockyards. Carefully maneuvering his van on roads overgrown thick with weeds he drove slowly between the buildings, until he found a door in a darkened area well hidden from the main road. When he got out, Jalal stayed in the van watching Sadegh, who was tied up and handcuffed. Still drugged, Sadegh was asleep in the large iron cage.

Wearing gloves Michael used a crowbar working mightily as he strained to force open the steel door. Bits of the metal fell onto the ground as he continued levering it until it finally began opening. A noise to the left of where he stood startled him and he waited, not moving or breathing, trying to identify what it was but there were no further noises or movements. After a few minutes he picked up his flashlight directing a beam to where the noise seemed to come from, but found nothing. Slowly he eased the small cages and fishing net through the door, then partly closed it behind him, not before however, taking a long deep breath of air outside. Tying a handkerchief around his nose he hoped to filter out enough of the vomit smell so that he could stand there without having to go outside to breathe in fresh air.

The ripeness of an overpowering stink enveloped the building, its foul stench thick and heavy even though the buildings hadn’t been unused for more than thirty years. He knew that the network of sewers and septic tanks were so blocked they’d retain gasses until the buildings were eventually demolished. The darkness was oppressive and he knew they were there, watching and waiting. No sounds or movements could be heard now that he was inside.

Turning on his flashlight he placed it on the floor between his boots. Immediately he saw dozens of pairs of eyes glowing. Now Michael heard them moving and jumping, teeth gnashing as they were drawn towards the light. He wandered how large the rats would be. He sensed them moving toward him, twittering in high pitched squeaks, curious and hungry as they darted about nervously, zigzagging, never moving in a straight line, drawing ever closer. The hungrier they were, the faster they’d come, hunger overcoming their inbred fear of danger.

Holding the net unfolded in both hands at shoulder height he felt himself sweating from exertion and the weight of the net but he didn’t move, waiting for them to come to him. When he felt the first one brush up against his boot, he threw the net heaving it upwards and straight ahead.

*

Leon sipped lukewarm tea, moving his rocking chair slightly as he stretched to put down the cup on the side table. The TV was still on, the sound turned off, part of his nightly ritual between one and two a.m. At two, old movies started. Reruns that he remembered from his childhood, which now was over seventy years ago. This was the time of night that he treasured most, his thinking time, an hour to relive his past while the kids, the grandchildren and now the great-grandchildren were all asleep. This was the time of night to look through his window and see the huge, silent buildings which stretched for more than twenty square blocks, their shapes starkly silhouetted by the lights of Chicago more than ten miles away. Now they were dark, boarded up, unused ram-shackles dying slowly as they developed huge cracks, crumbled and fell apart. He knew every inch of every building, every staircase and elevator, smokestack and water tank. These were his buildings, his home away from home where he’d spent every working day of his life. The city owned them, but no one knew them like he did. Now rats, some of them as big as a small dog, were the only inhabitants.

He’d entered those buildings for the first time when he was nine years old and his daddy had gotten him a job which paid five cents a day. Within twelve years he’d worked his way up to being assistant to Boss Reich and when Boss Reich died, he, Little Leon, had been made chief supervisor, the first black man to be given that position. He retired with his pension after the stupid mayor and the more stupid government decided to move Chicago’s most famous industry to Joliet for political reasons. The industry had created thousands of jobs and had also made Chicago and the Midwest famous all over the world.

He remembered his youth, his untiring strength and energy that only the young are blessed with. He remembered his job. For him, it wasn’t a job it was a craft. All his life he’d had only one job. How many others could say that? His job was to oversee and supervise that the cattle trucked in by rail were off loaded and slaughtered in the largest cattle slaughter yards ever built anywhere in the world, the Chicago Stockyards.