The South Side Tour Guide Page 4

  Chapter 6

  THE bright fluorescent lights of the Nineteenth District police station flickered in Andy’s eyes. Seated in a steel “reception” chair, he stared at the officers who surrounded him. Under the glare of the lights, they appeared pale and sickly.

  “Why am I here?” he asked for what seemed the twentieth time. “You know I haven’t done anything illegal.”

  “What have you done?” the silver-haired, square-jawed sergeant with blank blue eyes asked. The nameplate above his right pocket read: Robert I. Peterson.

  Andy furrowed his brow at the middle-aged sergeant. Not bad looking for a guy his age. He tried to inflect reverence in his voice, although his patience with the typical police nonsense began to wane. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “We have a warrant out on you.”

  “But what for? That’s all I ask.”

  “We’ve got you for obstruction of justice.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re just trying to shut down my business, and you can’t do that legally.”

  “We can revoke your public utilities license. But if you cooperate, you might get your van back.”

  The pack of police officers meandered back and forth between the maze of desks, answering buzzing telephones, chatting with officers in cubicles, and listening in on Andy’s interrogation, as if the sluggishness of the law weighed on their slumping shoulders. Typical police-style chitchat questioning. Never really demonstrating a single concern for what they were asking but unleashing pinpricking demands nonetheless.

  An overweight officer with the nameplate Maximilian Wozniski yawned and scratched his thigh. “You think we should jail him?”

  His fitter colleague, Officer Brian Larsen, one of the two officers who’d cornered Andy at the Clock Tower parking lot, shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Since Andy’s tour took him to the South Side (the single digit districts) he was unfamiliar with the officers stationed in Lakeview, except for one or two he recognized from the Halsted Street beat, who sometimes moonlighted by patrolling gay establishments.

  “Did you happen to witness a homicide near Fifty-Ninth Street tonight?” Officer Wozniski asked.

  “I did not.”

  “We’ve got your passenger list from your van,” Sgt. Peterson said. “We can call and detain whoever you drove around tonight for questioning.”

  “You’d be harassing law-abiding citizens. Why don’t you go after the criminals? You can start with city hall.”

  The officers laughed and nodded. “They write our checks,” Officer Larsen said, dragging a hand across his well-groomed hair. “Can’t do that. We’re not the FBI.”

  “What did you see?” another pudgy officer asked Andy, his eyes wide and emanating more enthusiasm than his associates.

  Andy hesitated and peered at Officer Calvin Walker. “None of us saw anything,” he said with a grimace. “The boy was already dead.”

  “Good enough.” The overhead lights reflected off Sgt. Peterson’s star as he turned and wandered to a desk. Andy gripped the armrests while the sergeant fiddled with papers, answered a call, chatted with a fellow officer out of earshot. The other officers wandered off also, save for Officer Walker, who continued to stare at Andy wordlessly.

  Andy turned away and let his gaze trace the cracks in the tiled floor. He couldn’t believe he was in a police station, held against his will like a common criminal, facing accusations and harassment from big-city cops. How had it come to such a moment? Refusing to go on welfare and, to a larger extent, seeking to rebel against society by giving people what they wanted, he’d walked straight into a world far removed from his former way of life.

  He almost laughed at being interrogated by a swarm of overworked and tired police officers. Officer Larsen shuffled over to his colleague, who still eyed Andy with a strange, cunning indifference that Andy had learned to associate with law enforcement.

  “Maybe we can let him go,” he said. “You think he might want to help us with that triple homicide from June thirtieth?” He looked to Andy. “Didn’t you admit to being at the scene of that one too?”

  Andy shook his head and suppressed a disbelieving grin. “I figured that’s what this was about. Listen, I always call in crime scenes to 911, unless the police are already there. What more can I do?”

  “Did you see anything?” Officer Walker asked again, using the same monotone.

  “I’ve already admitted I was there,” Andy said. “But the police arrived about the same time I showed up. I didn’t even need to call for dispatch.”

  “You see anything before the police got there?”

  Yes, Andy had seen something. Two youths in a Buick holding Glocks, followed by three successive flashes from a small opening in the window. But street life had taught Andy a hard-learned lesson—reveal little to the police.

  Soon after that June incident, Andy had consulted a friend of a friend about his legal responsibility. The attorney, who had appeared appalled with Andy, had given him a quick response, and Andy was unsure if he could trust him. But Andy understood enough of the law that he accepted the man’s callous advice. Imagine, Andy had thought after he’d taken his leave, an attorney who made his living by garnering city contracts for the mob, censuring Andy’s career.

  “Legally, I’m clear,” Andy said. “I already know that.”

  Officer Walker focused his drowsy eyes on Andy. “We think whoever is responsible for those three homicides might be responsible for some others,” he said. “We’d like to get whoever it is off the street. You help us, we help you. Quid pro quo.”

  Andy wavered, but only for as long as it took Wozniski to return with a cup of stale-smelling drip coffee.

  “I told you what I saw,” Andy said. “It’s on record. I heard three pops, and three guys went down. Three shots. Perfect hits.” Now I’m starting to sound like a thug. “I didn’t see any of the shooters’ actual faces.”

  “Shooters?” Officer Wozniski chuckled. “You didn’t see, but you know there was more than one?”

  Andy hated Officer Wozniski’s overdone Chicago accent, almost as if he tailored it for him. “We got there seconds before it happened,” Andy said, keeping his voice even. “Not a pedestrian in sight. Just the three victims. What more can I tell you?”

  A youngish blond officer with the nameplate Jayson K. Adams sat opposite Andy and propped his legs on a chair. He straightened his trousers and eyed Andy as if Andy were a cat at a dog show. “What’s this guy in for?”

  “Obstruction of justice. He won’t tell us what he knows about that triple seven-twenty down in the Seventh District.”

  “What’s he doing up here?”

  “We picked him up for questioning.”

  The newcomer snickered at Andy. “You afraid of something?”

  Andy noticed his tight trousers. “Not at all.”

  “He’s worried about his business,” Walker said through thick lips.

  “What business is that?”

  “He’s the South Side Tour Guide.”

  “The what?”

  “The guy who takes people around on tours to see South Side crime. Don’t you know anything, Adams?”

  “You’re kidding? Someone does that?”

  “Where the hell you been?”

  The officers began their usual insulting banter. The blond rookie took the brunt. One always wore the target, usually with an odd smile, as if he understood the position and perhaps even relished it. The younger officer named Adams peered at Andy with sharp green eyes.

  “You really do that? You really give tours to see crimes like murders? People pay for that?”

  Andy grew impatient. “Could I have my van and go, please?”

  With tepid authority, Officer Walker shrugged and grunted. “Probably not.”

  The officers left Andy alone to stew. He began to regret having defended the police to his friends, who often grumbled that police officers liked to harass homosexuals. Yet Andy had never known
any of them to have experienced overt mistreatment by the police. A rainbow of men and one woman in uniform surrounded him, maybe one or two who might be gay. He was in a neighborhood with the largest homosexual population in the Midwest, and the Nineteenth District recruited to fit the demographic.

  He watched the police go about their night shift protocol. A crazy lot, Andy thought. They’d hold him through the next shift if he didn’t provide what they wanted. He sat planted as their middle guy, between the criminals and the law.

  I’ve stepped into the position as their go-to snitch.

  The night impinged on Andy. Green pallor bloomed over the officers’ mugs from the sickening lights. They guzzled coffee that lacked steam, wiped their mouths with steady hands.

  He couldn’t reveal to them that his boyfriend, Officer Ken Millpairs, worked the same night shift in a South Side district. Little that might help. Besides, Ken, sealed in the closet tighter than a hermetic jar of peach preserves, would kill him if he outed him to his colleagues.

  Twenty minutes more of waiting, and Andy’s head whirled in a dizzy spectacle of despondency. He cleared his throat, conjured enough courage to speak to the closest cop, the female officer who had tried to act extra tough. “Excuse me, ma’am, what can I do to get out of here?”

  She flashed him wide black eyes and a sardonic smirk. Inadequate makeup failed to conceal her rosacea-covered face under the harsh lights. “Hey, Walker,” she hollered with a thick Chicago accent. “Your guy is getting restless.”

  “Tell him to sit tight.”

  “If I promise to speak with prosecutors, can I have my van back?” Promise to speak didn’t mean testify.

  The female officer giggled and gestured for Walker. With his signature remote countenance, Officer Walker shuffled to Andy.

  “Here’s the deal,” he said, tightening his features for the first time. “The prosecution won’t prosecute without an eyewitness. You’re the best we got. We need you on board for the case to go forward. See how much this rests on your shoulders? You want a killer to wander free?”

  “I told you all that I know.” Walker made to leave, but Andy stopped him. “What do I have to do?”

  “We’ll force you to talk, or you can talk willingly. We’d rather not have a hostile witness. Doesn’t look good to judges. We already had to let the suspects go from lack of evidence. They’ve let their guard down because they think they’re home free. You give us word, and we’ll nab them this time with solid charges.”

  Their interchange piqued the interest of the good-looking sergeant. He wandered over and peered at them as if he were watching a tennis match. Walker continued to pressure Andy. Comply or face a term in jail for obstruction of justice. Either way, the cops screwed him.

  Sighing, he said, “All right, I’ll talk to the prosecutor. But I don’t have much to tell. I didn’t see anyone’s face. And I won’t give up my passenger list. I’ve got to hang onto some semblance of a business, right?”

  Satisfied with Andy’s response, Sgt. Peterson nodded toward Walker with a downturn of his mouth and strolled off.

  A quick three days later, Andy sat shivering and rubbing his hands between his legs in the prosecutor’s downtown office. Her stare came at him from across her pretentious mahogany desk, equally frigid. Despite his coming aboard, she eyed him with a calloused, distrustful look. He shared what he knew. She took notes. By two o’clock, he returned to his Uptown studio apartment without any sense of civic pride. Somehow, he imagined Miss Steinen got something extra on the side too.

  Based on Andy’s statement, police apprehended two suspects the next day. A subsequent arraignment set their bond at three hundred thousand dollars, a pittance to a duo that could unearth millions in a few days. Their bosses, drug kingpins with the clout of ombudsmen, had a cash flow more abundant than many movie stars.

  By Wednesday, Andy, itching to forget about the impending trial the judge had set for January, was back in his van giving a tour to four passengers. Already he feared a dent in his business from the negative publicity his testimony might have given him. Nonetheless, they had a thrilling night for a midweek tour—two stabbings and a police chase. “Just like on TV,” the passenger from downstate said.

  He returned home exhausted and eager for a few cold beers, yet relieved the worst of the triple homicide ordeal wouldn’t rear itself for another six months. Drowsy, he parked his van in the private garage two blocks away and was about to step inside his building when hot pain traveled along his upper back to his nape. Before he could turn and see what had caused the burning sensation, at least two people jumped on him, followed by a thrashing that knocked him flat to the concrete.

  He pulled into a tight ball to ward off the kicks and punches and waited for the beating to stop. Moaning and writhing, he heard one of the men say in a deep baritone, “And that’s what you get for squealing, punk.” Through the fog of his pain, he watched two blurry images swaggering off.

  Chapter 7

  “VOLIM te, Daddy.”

  “What’s that, sweetheart?”

  “Volim te. Means ‘I love you’ in Bosnian. Kamila taught me.”

  Kamila glimpsed over her shoulder from the sink where she was hand washing the breakfast dishes. Harden had asked her to wait before cranking on the noisy dishwasher, but he hadn’t meant for her to scrub them by hand. Preoccupied, he’d disregarded her. He wondered why his housekeeper had bothered to teach Olivia such a phrase. Did she feel that way toward him?

  “Volim te back at you,” Harden said under his breath. “Now let Daddy focus on this little bit of work.”

  “Are you being supercilious, Daddy?” Olivia asked.

  Harden, surprised she’d articulated one of his favorite words, gave in to his chuckles despite his mounting aggravation. “I might be, but I need to concentrate. Why don’t you watch Thumb and Thumbelina?”

  “Okay.” Olivia wandered toward the living room where she kept Harden’s old laptop that he’d given her after Marshall Enterprises had bought his newer Toshiba.

  He turned back to concentrate on the bevy of farming equipment reports scattered across the kitchen table, where he needed the extra space. Local farmers had expressed interest in the manufacturer and they wanted Marshall to investigate them. The newer designs required less fuel, a major cost consideration in farming, especially lately. Dick Carelli had bellyached how fuel comprised almost a third of his operating costs.

  Kamila replenished his coffee. She moved back to the counter and finished drying the dishes. Harden gazed at her backside. Her shoulders and butt shook while she swiped the damp rag over the bowls and plates. She wasn’t so bad looking for a woman her age. About five feet five, feminine and solid. Sure, she was older, but Lillian had also been older by a few years. Man, I must be desperate.

  She unplugged the sink, dried her hands on a towel, went to retrieve her purse from the laundry room cupboard where she stowed it, and stood before him. “I go to store now.”

  “Do you have the list?” Harden asked.

  “Yes, and the money you put with.”

  He relaxed more once the purr of Kamila’s Toyota faded down the driveway. She usually took her time shopping, but she knew to return before ten. He’d already told her he planned to head to work by that time. He’d wanted to examine the research material and type a rough draft for an acquisition proposal at home first.

  The house was as still as it could be for a Friday morning. Mason had left for baseball practice in Mr. Hart’s old pickup. Since his last altercation, Mason had managed to stick to his promise and evade trouble. Harden’s threat to send him to military school seemed to have accomplished his objective. Harden did not like to use such weapons, but in desperate moments with little else at his disposal, he flung at him what he could.

  But wouldn’t he like to ship him off to military school and out of his hair?

  No, not that badly. I couldn’t be that overwrought. Besides, how would I even afford it?

  “Look,
Daddy.” Olivia ran into the kitchen holding a piece of paper that flapped like a flag in a strong wind.

  “Aren’t you watching your show?”

  “I drew a picture instead. See?” She held up the drawing to show him but upset a pot on the counter that Kamila had said contained herbs.

  “Olivia!” Harden leaped from his chair and stood over the shattered pot. Soil and green shoots were splattered across the linoleum. In his anger, he ripped off a lengthy flow of paper towels and squatted to gather the mess into a manageable pile.

  “See what happens when you’re careless? You want me to look at your artwork, but this is what I have to do instead. I have to clean up after you.” He went for the broom and swept the debris into the dustpan.

  “This is the time I must spend with you now,” he repeated, stooped over and sweeping. “You see? Cleaning up after you. If you weren’t so sloppy and always in a hurry, I could be looking at your drawing right now. I have to clean up your mess instead.”

  He watched Olivia’s red-stocking feet turn away. Nudging guilt aside, he replaced the broom with a wet paper towel to scrub what seemed like an endless mess. After he cleaned the floor and tossed the remains of the herb pot, he plopped down before his work. He sat staring at the opposing wall. Olivia hadn’t really disrupted him. Worries had plagued his mind when she’d rushed in with her drawing.

  A minute later, he pushed himself up from the table and strolled into the living room. “Let’s see your picture, sweetheart,” he said to Olivia, outstretched on her belly with her face inches from the laptop screen.

  She jumped up and grabbed the drawing from the console. “Here.”

  Harden brought her closer to his side, his arm wrapped around her waist, and gazed at the colorful crayon drawing. “Is that the swing set and burr oak?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding like a bobblehead. “Do you think it’s good?”