Painted Black, page 15
When’s the last time some wino humped a load of sperm against your backside? Jo cringed at the words that rang through her head uninvited. She brushed them away. “Would he go back to the funeral home again?”
“God, who knows? Maybe I’m overreacting. It’s just—” Jo could imagine Jack’s face as he paused, jaw taut with tension. “So much can happen out on the streets. I told you about Chris’s friend Antonio, didn’t I?”
“The guy in the mural? Yeah, briefly.”
“Antonio was selling himself on the street for the price of a fix. A john picked him up one night, raped him and left him in a dumpster—a dumpster, for God’s sake—his body tossed on a pile of restaurant scraps. Whoever it was didn’t even try to conceal the body.”
“Jack, do you think there’s any chance Chris might use hustling as a way to make money?”
“Make up your mind, Sullivan. Is he a pimp or a prostitute?”
Jo pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes closed. “He’s a kid, all right? One who grew up too fast, maybe, but he’s still a scared little kid underneath it all. I could see it in his eyes when—” when she told him about her father and he realized they weren’t so far apart after all.
Her outburst left her drained and dumb. Jack let a few seconds of silence go by, then said quietly, “You see it, too, then.” His voice held none of the reserve she usually sensed in it. “There’s something there to save.”
Jo thought of how Chris had gotten those kids to stop taunting the younger boy. Remembered the way she’d felt when he stared across the street at her with that betrayed puppy dog look.
“Are you home or on the streets?” she asked Jack.
“Why?”
“There are several areas on the north side where male prostitutes hang out. Are you near any of them?”
“Clark and Hubbard isn’t too far away.” His voice lowered an octave as he repeated, “Why?”
“If you check Clark Street,” she said, “I’ll drive by the funeral home.”
“Absolutely not. It’s after midnight. Not the best time of the night for a woman to wander around alone. What if he tries to call one of us?”
But Jo knew there was no way in hell that kid was going to call her. Chris thought Lexie was just another news story to her, nothing more than a byline and a paycheck. He thought that those dead girls hadn’t phased her a bit.
Just fucking empty shells, Chris had said. Like me.
“I’m a grown woman, Doctor Prescott. I can take care of myself. Besides, I’m just going to drive by. Then we can meet at Waveland and Halsted and check that neighborhood together. What do you say?”
“You swear you’ll wait for me? If you don’t, I’ll have to skip checking downtown. Then we’ll never know if we missed him there or not.”
“God. You have got to be the most exasperating—I’ll wait for you in Walgreen’s parking lot, all right? In my car,” she added before he could say it himself.
They synchronized their clocks. “Jack,” she added, before he could ring off. “Is there—do you think there’s a chance he might commit suicide?”
“That kid is too angry at the world to kill himself—”
Jo felt a small surge of relief.
“—not directly, anyway,” Jack finished.
Chapter 34
The secret to attracting whores was to show them money. Lots of money, large denominations held loosely in the hand. The more money you offered, the less they cared what you looked like or who you were.
Sidney had found this out years ago, back when he was too young and too poor to be able to use the ruse. Way before one of the whores had planted the idea of using Riley King to get the women to come to him. But he had watched how other men did it: ugly men, mean ones, gimps in wheelchairs, men with disfiguring scars.
For Sidney, there was one other prerequisite. He found that usually he could never buy a whore twice, no matter what fee he offered them. That, however, was fine with him. Once he had photographed her, he no longer had interest in that particular slut again anyway. Unless they became one of his beauties …. He fought that thought, despite the tingle of pleasure the thought gave him.
The one they called Sheree had been one of those whores. Six months ago, late, late at night when she had given up hope of finding a more attractive customer, she had gone home with him. It was because of that she pretended not to see him now, turning away as he approached, deaf to him calling her name.
Only when he took her by the arm did she turn, and then with a snarl and a look filled with fear.
“Cry,” was all Sidney said, holding out two one hundred dollar bills. “Who is he and where can I find him?”
There were more bills in his pocket and he was willing to use them all if he had to. They were Quinlan’s after all, not his. He could always get more if he needed them. But this one was a cheap buy. She grabbed the money, then asked, not looking at him, “Why you want to know?”
His only answer was another hundred dollars.
“I saw him before,” she said, jerking her head toward the north. “Working the fags up by Dick’s Nightclub. Now move on before you scare off good customers.” She walked away, disgust on her face like he was garbage along the road.
Sidney tried to shake the memory of her expression, but it stayed at the back of the mind, digging at him. It was bad enough he had to linger in Boystown, watching the club from a distance like he hoped to be noticed by one of the men mincing by. They looked at him with sly glances, as if they shared a secret with him. One young man even approached him, swaying groin thrust forward, fingertips waving in an imitation of flirtation. “Nice night,” he said.
“Get away from me,” Sidney shouted and shoved the man so hard he fell backward into the street. “Queer,” Sidney called as the man ran away, “fairy.”
Like a school boy again. Except on the name calling end this time. A surge of power flushed away his rage and frustration. When the boy finally came out of the fag bar up the street, Sidney calmly followed. Like a predator on the prowl. Like a hungry lion about to pounce and tear apart his prey.
Chapter 35
Jo listened to the radio while she waited in the Walgreen’s lot on Waveland and Halsted. Her wrist rested on the shifter knob, finger poised above the scan button. She gave each station about three seconds to capture her attention. Elvis was alive and well and broadcasting from WKEW …. It was forty-two degrees out with an eighty percent chance of rain tomorrow …. Lady Gaga was missing Blueberry Kisses …. “So call us at 1-800-FORTUNE” …. The consensus from the Cabinet was … Gimme, gimme, gimme the honky tonk blues.
Jo paused, listening. The Rolling Stones. Long hair. Bell bottoms. Psychedelics. Sex. “She blew my nose and then she blew my mind.” The rock and roll of her father’s generation.
Jo turned off the radio. Just like she’d handled the past. Shut it out, shut it all out. She had tried to believe in her father’s innocence. After all, the trial had failed to find sufficient evidence to convict. The boy had been killed, there were no witnesses. She’d had no damning proof either, just a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach. Every time she looked at him she remembered the weeping faces of the boy’s family. How long was she supposed to live like that? So she’d made the decision to leave, to wipe it out of her thoughts.
Until yesterday. Why had she told Chris about it? Had the sting of his crude comment unearthed it? Or was it because despite how hostile he’d been, despite her suspicion that he might have sold Lexie Green like a gold-plated watch, she sensed something in his quest to find the missing girl that she also saw in her own. A guilt about something that wasn’t her fault, but needed to be atoned for anyway.
Whether Chris’s need to repent was his fault or not was still an open question.
“Hey.” Jack’s unexpected knock at her window made her jump. “Sullivan.”
“Jesus,” she said, getting out of the car. “Scare the hell out of me, why don’t you? Any luck?”
Jack shook his head. “I drove by the Art Institute also, which is why I’m so late. Someone told me that area is also seeing some activity, but there was no one there tonight.”
Jo put her hands in her pockets. “Not a sign of him at Sloan and Whiteside’s either.” Then she added quickly, “All I did was make a slow pass by the place—with my doors locked—so you wouldn’t yell at me about how unsafe it was.”
Jack looked down at her with a serious expression. “Actually,” he said, “I probably owe you an apology.”
Jo’s eyebrows arched with surprise,
“It seems like I’ve been rude to you almost every time we’ve talked. True,” Jack added quickly as Jo opened her mouth to respond, “you’ve been very rude back, but that’s no excuse. I even came close to yelling at you on the phone earlier. That’s not like me. If anything, I tend to hide behind my psychology degree to avoid emotions. You know, stay calm, think things through, use ‘I’ messages—‘shrink talk stuff’ my wife used to say. I’ve been working on that, though.”
Thinking about how angry he’d been on the phone, Jo smiled. “Apparently you’re doing a good job.”
Jack laughed. They walked east on Waveland to Broadway and turned north.
“So,” Jo said. “We start out with the right foot this time? I think I can handle that.” She stopped and held out her hand. “Hello. I’m Jo Sullivan, a reporter for Winds of Change. And you are …?”
Jack took her hand in his large, warm one and bowed slightly. “Jack Prescott, head shrinker and street walker for Night Moves Youth Services.”
For a while, as they walked, Jo felt energized. The bars were packed and traffic flowed steady. Then they walked by a young man leaning against the corner of a Blockbuster’s and Jo was reminded of her visit to the Sandwich Stop. Samuel’s “It be hard livin’ on the streets. Real hard.”
“You can’t let them get to you too much,” Jack said quietly.
“What?” Jo looked up, a bit startled.
“Don’t let what might have happened to Chris or Lexie get to you quite so much. It’s good that you care, but you also have to accept the fact that they are capable of making their own choices. You aren’t in control of their lives. They are.
“Although,” he added distractedly, looking across the street at something, “that doesn’t mean we aren’t called on to hold out a helping hand once in a while.” He stepped down off the curb, waiting for a car to pass before crossing. Jo followed.
They had reached the three-streeted intersection of Halstead, Broadway and Grace. On a bench along Broadway a young man sat apparently waiting for the bus. Overweight, his open coat revealing a white shirt buttoned crooked, he listened to music that leaked from the headphones on his closely shaved head. He gyrated in time to the metallic rhythm, eyes closed until Jack stopped in front of him.
“Hey. Jack-man,” the man said. “Shit, man. Who’d a thought? Hey, Jack-man, my man.” He held his hand out for a slap of greeting. Instead, Jack put a hand on his and clasped it warmly, thumbs entwined, fingers clasping heel, before sitting down also.
“It’s really good to see you, Dennis,” Jack said. “You haven’t been to the Center lately.”
“Hey, lady.” Dennis had noticed Jo. “Jack’s lady friend. Come on, have a seat.” He patted the bench on the other side of him, then turned to Jack. “Yeah, I know, man, but I don’t need that shit no more, see. My brother—” He noticed Jo hadn’t moved and patted the bench again. “Here, here. No fucking big deal. Plenty of room.” He waited for Jo to sit. “Drink?” He held a bottle of beer out to Jo who shook her head. Then he continued his conversation with Jack. “My brother, see, he’s loaded. He’s been paying rent for me just—” he waved vaguely to the northeast. “Just over there a few blocks. Fancy pad, man. Eight hundred a month rent, see. He’s loaded, man, fucking loaded.”
“So you’re doing okay?” Jack sounded doubtful.
“I’m doing fucking great, man. Got my brother paying the fucking bills. Get to sit around all day jiving to Metallica and getting drunk on my ass.” He laughed and pulled one of the earphones away from his head for a few seconds. Jo could clearly hear Enter Sandman. “Metallica rocks, man.” He addressed the comment to Jo. “You listen to Metallica?”
Jo smiled. “Sometimes.”
“Fucking right. They are the greatest. So what if they maybe worship Satan? Who the fuck cares, you know what I’m sayin’, man? You can get high on the fucking music.” He swiveled his head between Jo and Jack to include them both in the conversation, then nodded as if they’d agreed with him and closed his eyes again, moving to the music and singing the words in a shrill, off key tune. “Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight.”
“Dennis,” Jack said, then repeated it louder, “Dennis.”
Dennis pulled the headphones down around his neck and turned the volume lower. “Damn, this is a great night. Isn’t this a great night, Jack-man? Look at that moon, man.”
Jo asked if he knew Chris or Lexie or Tommy the Brit, but he said the names meant nothing to him. Then she asked about Samuel Walker.
“That old guy? He had a room somewhere on Broadway for a while, but he ain’t there no more. Got his Social Security check stolen, something like that, and they kicked him out. Seems I heard he’s at a shelter over near Humboldt Park somewhere.” He waved a hand in that direction.
“Know what else?” he continued. “That guy, the other one? The one you asked before?”
“Tommy the Brit?”
“Yeah, that one. I think maybe I do remember him. He had this accent, man, really thick, like you could hardly understand what he was saying. I heard him going off on some guy in the harbor tunnel—you know, where you go under LSD?”
There were a number of tunnels where joggers and bikers could go under Lake Shore Drive to get to the beach. She didn’t want to stop his story to try to pin down which one.
“I was heading to the rocks after the cops closed the place down for the night. Just catching some fresh air, man,” he said to Jack to defend the action. “So I hears him there in the tunnel. The Brit was heaving his guts out and swearing like crazy, saying somebody took his money. The other guy sounded like some big shot dude. ‘Drunks got no money,’ he says, something like that, only good grammar, you know. ‘Everybody knows that,’ he says. Then somebody got punched, or maybe the old guy just fell in a heap. Just heard a plop, know what I’m saying?”
“How long ago was this?”
He shrugged and pulled the headphones back up. As they stood up to leave, he gave Jack a high five and waved a two fingered salute at Jo. “Fucking right, man. Metallica rocks.”
“He really have a brother?” Jo asked once they crossed Broadway and started down Halsted.
“He does. His brother might even be paying for his apartment like he says. But somebody could pay his bills for the rest of his life, and Dennis would still be a train wreck ready to happen. Pardon the cliché,” he said with a grin and a sideways look.
“Wait, let me take notes for my next story. What was that again, something about a train wreck? Can’t let that one go without using it somewhere.”
“He may hit bottom and climb back out again,” Jack continued. “But sometimes it seems they just keep falling. Or die before they hit the dirt. And Dennis doesn’t even realize he’s on the way down.”
“Now who’s letting things get to him?”
“I’m not, not really. It’s a question of setting limits for yourself. I will do this, this and this,” he chopped his left palm with his right hand as he spoke, “to try to help. If that doesn’t work, then I just let go and hope some of it will take somewhere down the line. I keep myself available, but not involved, you know what I mean?”
“You sounded pretty involved on the phone tonight.”
“Well, I didn’t say my plan works every time. Some of them, I don’t know why, seem to get wrapped around my insides. It hurts like hell but won’t let go. Chris gets to me like that.”
Chris, Jo realized now, had had the same effect on her. He’d somehow wedged a small fishhook in her heart that would only hurt worse if she tried to tug it out. Was that because of something she’d maybe seen in him? Or were she and Jack simply responding to some emotional baggage embedded in their own lives?
When they reached Belmont and turned left, she realized the comfortable silence between them had lasted for five blocks.
“I didn’t know you were married,” she asked to get conversation started again.
“Married?” His eyebrows drew together in a frown.
“You mentioned a wife earlier.”
“Oh, well, ex-wife I should have said. We’ve been divorced a while now. Somehow saying ex-wife always sounds semi-hostile to me.”
“Which you’re not.”
“No.” He looked at her as if searching for disbelief in her face, then repeated, “No, I’m really not. I suppose under other circumstances I might have resented her refusal to try counseling, but at the time …” He shook his head. “At the time I was so drained from my obsession to find Dylan, nothing touched me. Later,” he smiled ruefully, “I put my best shrink talk to good use. The force that attracted us to each other, the difference in our personalities, became the friction that tore us apart. Kind of like a grain of sand that grew and grew but refused to turn into a pearl. It was time to spit it out.”
“Who is Dylan?”
Jack waited a couple of strides before he answered, hands in his pockets, chin up, eyes forward. His words carried no tone or emotion. “Our son. He was kidnapped when he was six. Even though I paid the ransom, they murdered him and hid the body. My marriage ended about a year after the police finally found him.”
The depression she’d been holding at bay every since her phone call with Chelsea thickened like a dense fog. Was life shit for everyone, or did she just suck tragedy toward her like the eye of a hurricane? Jo wondered how much time had passed before Jack gave up his lucrative practice and started earning comparable peanuts at the Center. No one would ever again consider Jack Prescott a potential ransom victim.
