Painted Black, page 13
“Not so good. We kind of had a shouting match afterward. Not a big deal,” she said quickly. “At least I don’t think so. I think he was just taking out his frustration on me. And me on him, too, I suppose.”
Jack sighed. “Then I guess my condition has been met?”
“Your condition.”
“Only if all else fails, I said, remember? I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you I set up a meet with Riley King.”
“You mean it? How’d you manage that so fast?”
“Sometimes there are advantages to knowing street kids. Strike that. I wish I had no way of knowing this information.”
The meet was set in Lakeview within the hour. Jo glanced at the clock, planning her route already and hoping for no rush hour traffic along the way.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said at the end. “No way of getting around that,” he added quickly as she tried to object. “If I could send a cop or two instead, I would. But since that would get you no information at all, this is the only other thing I can think of to soothe my conscience and hopefully keep any harm from coming to you.”
Chapter 28
Emilio answered the doorbell at the shelter, but it took him damn long enough.
“What you doing, Chris? Ringing the bell so many times? I damn near no open it for you, you act like that.”
Chris pushed past him, ducking his head and sticking his hands in his pockets. “I need my backpack,” he mumbled. “Upstairs.” He started to take the stairs two at a time.
He was halfway past the second floor before Emilio caught up to him and stopped him short by grabbing his arm.
“You no allowed on the third floor until eight o’clock, Chris. You know the rules.”
Chris shrugged off the restraint. “I just need my bag, Emilio. Now let me go.”
But the man grabbed his arm again and pushed him against the wall, stepping between him and the top floor.
“Is the rule, Chris.” The words were quiet, but the steel in the grip and steady gaze made it clear Emilio meant business.
That’s when he lost it. It made no difference how many times he and Emilio had won euchre games together against opposing partners. Once he’d showed up at the shelter drunk as a skunk. Emilio let him sleep it off under the porch instead of totally kicking him out like the rules said he should.
All Chris saw now were those dead bodies. Especially the one that reminded him of Lexie, bloated gray face, dark bruises at her neck. The one going to a pauper’s grave. Dumped in a hole probably, with lime dusted on top of her like a documentary he’d seen once on PBS.
He charged Emilio in a head butt, face hot, roaring in a rage that left his throat raw. This was what he wanted to do to Sidney Cole, to Jo Sullivan, to even his Goddamn mother sometimes. Slam and punch and hammer away until they made it stop, until it all stopped and was over, Goddamn it, finally over.
“What the fuck good are rules,” he screamed, “when we all end up in the fucking morgue anyway?”
He had no chance, of course. Emilio lifted weights at the gym every day. Chris had one sprained arm and a body still bruised and aching from the fight last night. Next Chris knew, he was back out on the stoop. Blood dripped from a torn stitch on his cheek. Tears clouded his eyes like a whiny baby boy. He drew one sleeve across his nose.
“Fuck you,” he shouted to no one in particular. “I don’t need nothing from you anyway.”
But the tears kept coming as he walked away. The wind was already cutting through the thin jacket he had on. Motherfuckers could’ve at least given him his stuff back. Puke bastards.
No bus pass, no change. Nowhere to go. No paint even. So he walked. About mid-afternoon his stomach started growling, but he didn’t go back. Didn’t even wonder if they would let him go back. He knew that by sunset his hunger would grow silent again.
For him, the day turned dark long before nightfall. Dark, cold, hostile. Lexie’s black beauty beside pale naked bodies. Antonio’s bloody corpse littered with flies. A mother too busy to notice you were gone seemed so small compared to everyone else’s stories. Even Jo’s father who fucked …
He shook the words out of his head. It didn’t matter, did it? Did any of it mean anything? No one seemed to care, so surely it didn’t matter a fucking bit.
But it sure the fuck hurt.
A car honk made him look up, but it was the boy up the block that had caught someone’s eye. The young man uncurled his frame from where it had been holding up a brick wall and strolled to the curb. He leaned both forearms in the passenger side window and looked inside with a smile.
With a start, Chris realized where he was. Boystown. Waveland and Halsted just as action was heating the hell up.
Not too much action, mind you, it was still early. But cars still cruised. A few boys were in position. Three of them were young black men: one in a new Gap jacket and Nikes sitting on the steps of the furniture store. Another leaned against the corner of the photo studio where, if you were wiling to take your shirt off, they’d pay you good money to pose. The third boy walked slowly, hands in his pockets, looking up at every car that passed.
Tito could be here somewhere, working it. Antonio had been for sure. They’d found his body right over there, in the dumpster behind the video store. Shirt gone, jeans bloodied, face bruised beyond recognition. So he’d heard, but he believed it. Antonio’d been headed that way for months. Drugged out, not giving a shit, ready to sell body and soul for a little something for the pain, the constant beating this life dealt people like him.
Like me. People like me and Lexie. It didn’t matter what happened to Lexie. Not what happened to Antonio, and sure the hell not what happened to him. If you weren’t willing, were too cock sucking chicken, to leave this life, the only next best thing was find a way to get through.
So that’s all he cared about now. Getting through. Checking out of this reality whenever and however he could. No more riding the ride. Step in that quicksand and let it suck you deep. Where you go from there, who the hell cares?
Shivering, he took off his jacket and flung it over his shoulder. Low and slow, he strode up the street, his eye on the sign just up the block. Dick’s Nightclub, and all the Captain Morgan he could stomach.
Chapter 29
Riley King looked no older than twenty-five. His loose Hawaiian print shirt revealed a thick gold choker chain around his neck. A gold stud winked from his left ear. The right ear sported a whole row of earrings, starting at the lobe and following the curve of cartilage up into the tiny fold at the top.
He waited for them in the back booth of Bill’s Bar on Clark just like Jack had been promised. As they approached, he eyed Jo like he was sizing her up at a horse fair. He gave a soundless whistle when she slid across from him.
“Hey, lady.” Riley grinned and rubbed his thumb and fingers together in Jack’s direction. He grinned even wider when Jack slipped a twenty in his hand. “The man say you be straight up. Look like that right.” He pulled a soft leather wallet out of his back pocket and ruffled the bills inside until he got to the twenties, then stuck Jack’s contribution in place, Franklin’s face upright just like the rest.
He’d let them see his stash deliberately. He wasn’t talking to them for money, the action stated; this was a favor. Or he expected a favor in return.
“You know why I want to talk?” Jo asked.
“Heard you be looking for some street bitch turn up missing. Lexus, something like that.” His look dared them to question his innocent, know nothing attitude.
“Lexie Green,” Jo corrected. “Fifteen, small boned, five two or so, smooth complexion.” Soft brown eyes hardened by the life you force her to live. “She does heroin.”
Riley shook his head. “You know how many kids be shooting the dope out here? Most times I sees only dark shadows through a car window. Black hands reaching out with the money. White ones too. I knows ’em by the cars mostly. Chevy Impala. Beat up ole rusty Fords. BMWs. Yeah, that right,” he directed his words at Jo, like his selling dope was impressive or something. “I says BMWs. Brown Beauty don’t know no class, baby. She be poison to rich and poor alike.”
With hardly a glance around the sparsely populated bar, he took a small vial out of his shirt pocket and unscrewed the lid. On the underside of the lid was a miniature spoon, which he lifted to one nostril and sniffed. He shuddered, his eyes closed, then put the dispenser away and smiled. He opened his fingers to show them both a few white grains still stuck to his hand.
“See this sugar?” Jo couldn’t tell if “sugar” referred to her or the few grains of cocaine caught in the lines in his palm. “This be my personal choice, know what I’m saying? Sweet and neat, like I likes it.” He licked the remains from his hand.
“Lexie?” Jo asked impatiently. “Do you know her or not?”
“I knows someone named Lexie. Can’t say as it’s the same or not.”
“And?”
“Well, now, this Lexie thinks I be a fool. Thinks she can cheat a legitimate businessman like myself. Leastways, that’s the trash I hear from that vampire man been jiving me.”
“Vampire?” She felt the excitement rising, anticipation. “Big guy, blonde crew cut?”
“Like Frankenstein been washed clean with bleach, that be him. He try to say she set me up, send some boy toy to make off with the goods. Like they was gonna take the juice and the goose and start their own little franchise.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Don’t believe, don’t disbelieve. Jury’s still out, know what I’m saying?”
“Meaning you haven’t seen Lexie either?”
Riley leaned forward, all pretense forgotten. “Meaning that bitch better show up soon with my cash or plan on staying invisible for the rest of her very short, very black life. She already got a ass whooping coming for letting that vampire feed without buying a meal ticket first.”
“Sidney Cole? Does he know what happened to her?”
“That man tighter than a baby’s ass. He don’t say shit. All he do is try and say it’s me sent that boy to rip him off. He jus’ yanking my 8-inch dong. One thing, though. That boy done pulled the job? He knew just where to go. I knew for sure that was Crybaby’s doing, damn straight he’d be owing me one hard working whore.”
For the first time he addressed his words to Jack. “And you can tell him that, Mr. big shot case worker. Tell him I find out he tried to fuck me and he better bend over and spread them butt cheeks wide.”
Jack reached for his shirt pocket, but Jo beat him to it, sliding a fifty across the table with two fingers and not letting go until Riley tugged on it a bit and grinned at her.
“You find out anything,” she said. “And there’s more of those coming your way. President Grant here knows my number.” Her work number anyway, written in the margin of the bill.
It wasn’t until Jack slid out of the booth and Jo rose to follow that she finally found out why Riley had agreed to talk to her.
“I hear you be writing stories about the street,” he said.
Well, this was a new one. Jo waited. Why don’t you write a story on how the cops treat people like shit, he’d ask. Or promote legalized drugs so he could set up shop on Michigan Avenue and get rich.
“You find this Sidney Cole, something you should know. Something maybe everybody should know, warning them’s on the streets.”
“You want me to write a story about his freaky sex habits?” she asked.
If he was surprised she knew about that, he didn’t let it show.
“I tole him he was gonna get what he deserves. One way or the other. Whether he get it from me or from you, don’t matter which one, right?”
“Why do you care?” she asked.
He shrugged. “People freeze to death on the street, shoot shit up their arm just so’s they can wash away the pain. But there be a line. That man cross that line too far, is all I’m saying. People get what they deserve a little more often, maybe the rest don’t need no Goddamn drugs.”
Jack held Jo’s coat for her and said to King, “You’d be out of business, then, wouldn’t you?”
“That right, you got it. I be outta business.”
Maybe it was just Jo’s wishful thinking, but it seemed to her there was no regret in Riley’s tone.
Chapter 30
“Damn,” Jack said when they reached the sidewalk.
“Yeah,” Jo said. “Disappointing. Now I’ve got nothing again.”
“No, not that. Well, yeah, that, but also, I had some papers I wanted to bring with me to give you. I was doing some research today online, found this website where morticians and other mortuary professionals exchange news. The Mortuary Membership Association it was called. I left a message on their bulletin board, trying to find out more about this sublimation. Some guy led me to an article I printed out just before I came to meet you. But I left it sitting on my desk at home. You mind taking a detour to Uptown and I’ll run in and get it for you?”
Jo looked at her watch. She wasn’t due to go by the Sandwich Stop for another couple hours at least. With nowhere to go on the Lexie end of the mystery, the article was better than nothing. She agreed and turned toward her car.
“You can follow me if you want to,” Jack said. “But be warned I don’t live in the most upscale part of Uptown.”
“There’s an upscale part of Uptown?” They both smiled at that.
“You might want to just come with me, and then I’ll drive you back to your car when we’re done. It’s only like ten minutes away.”
It took longer than ten minutes, thanks to traffic, but there really was no hurry. It gave her time to think as he navigated the hazards.
“So you’re giving up?” he asked at a stop light.
“What? No, of course not. Why would you think—I know, I said I’ve got nothing, but I’ve never let that stop me before. One story was about Ted Robinson, this guy planning to clean out his company’s funds, file bankruptcy, and live the good life. I tracked that down on a rumor is all, one guy saw another guy talking—” She sat up straighter. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that.”
Jack glanced at her with one eyebrow quirked.
“When we were leaving the morgue, I saw Dean Whiteside in the parking lot.” How could she have forgotten?
“So? What’s weird about that? He’s a mortician.”
“I don’t know. There was just something about the way he behaved. I think he was arguing with one of the employees, and when he saw me he stopped in mid-sentence and scurried off. You’re probably right and there’s nothing to it. Except there’s this other thing. The city doesn’t use private funeral homes to bury unidentified or unclaimed bodies. So how did he get permission to embalm the Brit—or whatever the hell he did to him? Especially since he put him on display like that?”
“Good question. You’re on that one, right?”
Once again they both smiled. Jo leaned back and relaxed for the next few blocks. It was rare for her to have someone else in the driver’s seat.
When Jack finally found a parking space, he asked, “You want to come up?”
Jo checked her watch. “Sure, I should have time.”
Trashcans along the street spilled over and onto the sidewalk. Half a block away, five young black men lounged around a lamppost watching them, cigarette smoke a cloud over their heads.
“You might want to consider investing in a car alarm.” Jo suggested as she got out.
“It’s expendable,” he told her, patting the top on the car.
Everything he owned appeared to be expendable. His apartment was even smaller than Jo’s. The building, formerly a one family dwelling, had been cut up into tiny apartments to cram in as many tenants as possible. Jack had a kitchen, a bathroom and a wide hallway that served as a bedroom/living room. It did have a private entrance: an iron stairway loosely attached to the outside wall and crowded by the neighboring building.
He had three hefty locks on the door, plus a chain. The windows, too, had been secured against the “elements.” Corroded black bars rose from sill to lintel on the inside. Jo wondered how he ever managed to open the windows, which he surely must have to in the summer, since she did not see an air conditioner.
“Here, have a seat.” Jack kicked a kitchen chair away from the table as he searched through some papers. The yellow vinyl back spilled stuffing through a three-inch crack.
“This is the email I got back.” He handed it to her. “And this is the article.” He waved a sheaf of papers and sat down in the one other chair.
She glanced at the email first.
To: jprescott@chicagohere.com
Subject: RE: New embalming process
I’m sure I remember an article on sublimation in a recent issue of the Mortuary Science Review. They have a web page at www.la-web.com/sciences/004598.html. I think they even have a link there to a database of back issues. At the very least, you could get their e-mail address and then contact them for more info. Sorry I can’t remember which issue it was in, but within the last year.
Charles Pytak of Pytak and Sons Funeral Home
pytakandsons@yahoo.com
“According to their website,” Jack said, “the magazine has been around for 15 years. You can read it for yourself—” he put the article on the table between them—“but basically, it explains the history of lyophilization—just a fancy word for freeze-drying—and goes on to talk about what all that involves.”
Jo shivered as she remembered her glimpse of toes from one of the “well preserved bodies” the process produced.
The article went on to say the process had already been used on a wealthy entrepreneur who had subsequently been entombed in a glass walled mausoleum available for viewing. At an estimated cost twice that of the standard service—not counting coffin, memorial service, etc.—it was unlikely the technology would be widely used unless a way of minimizing costs could be found. Apparently there were several people looking for a way to do just that. The only one mentioned in the magazine was Eternities International, investors who had high hopes for future profits.
