Painted Black, page 17
“Wait till Jack finds out,” she muttered as she dropped into the arm chair. Lifting up a bit, she pulled her discarded coat out from under her and threw it on the couch instead.
Why did she care what Jack thought? Although it had been nice to finally spend time together without either one sniping at the other. Jo groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. She should at least let Jack know she’d found Chris, that he was all right. She grabbed her coat again, dug in the pocket for the business card, but paused, phone in hand, and thought about what she would say. It was so late. She was so tired. And there wasn’t much time. How could she talk clearly about what had happened while Chris was in the room? He would be done shortly, she knew, because the water noise had just ceased in the bathroom.
So instead of calling Jack’s pager number, Jo punched in the number of the Night Moves office, then Jack’s extension. One ear tuned to the sounds coming from the bathroom. The other listened to Jack’s recorded voice mail greeting. After the beep she rushed to say, “Jack, this is Jo. I found Chris and he’s okay. Don’t worry. I found someplace for him to stay. Call me in the morning.”
She ended the call, and then, hesitating a second, turned the cell phone off. Jack wouldn’t like it, but she’d deal with that, too, in the morning.
The bathroom door opened and Chris stepped out, robe wrapped around him, one hand toweling his hair. The tops of the wool socks disappeared beneath the hem of the robe. Jo almost smiled at her earlier thought of him as a man. With his wet tousled hair and sleepy expression, he looked more like a tall toddler waking in the night to request a drink of water.
“Who were you talking to?” he asked with narrowed eyes.
A suspicious toddler, Jo thought.
“Relax. I just left a message for Jack. I don’t want him up all night worrying about you. He’s sure to check his messages before he goes to sleep to see if you’ve called.”
“Oh God.” Chris dropped onto the couch. “Jack knows? You told Jack what I was doing?”
“I told him you were safe. That’s all.” She sat in a chair facing him. “But he knows, Chris. At least he knows it’s possible. We went looking for you together up in Boystown. But it wouldn’t make any difference to him if he did know. He believes in you, Chris. He cares what happens to you. And,” she added after a pause, “so do I.”
“Bullshit.” Chris leaned forward, fisted hands resting on his knees. “You think I’m a God damn pimp, that’s how much you care for me.”
“Well what do you expect me to believe if you don’t tell me what’s going on?” Jo said. “Think about it. Yesterday, you got in a fight with that guy over some girl. It looked like you were trying to steal her from him.”
“Steal Sheree? What are you talking about?” Chris jumped to his feet, his face flaming red. Jo pulled back into the chair cushion, but he didn’t make a move in her direction.
“Zurbino’s her pimp, all right? The son of a bitch.” Chris started to pace. “Sheree’s a friend, sort of, that’s all. I said I’d pay her if she heard from Lexie, or anything about Cole.” He stopped at the window and stared out at the street. “Don’t ask me where I was going to get the money.”
In the silence that followed, Jo had no difficulty imagining the answer.
“It was a stupid idea anyway,” Chris said quietly. “Why would she hear something? Johnny and Riley don’t hang together. I’m lucky I didn’t get her killed. Like I did Lexie.”
When he turned, all traces of the child had been wiped from his appearance. Lines marred his forehead and bordered the downward points of his mouth. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “I didn’t go there alone the other night,” he said quietly. “Lexie went with me. I left her upstairs with that freak. I ran like a worthless piece of shit and left her to be murdered.”
Chapter 39
Sitting in a chair by the front window, Jo wrapped her hands around a cup of coffee and watched the sleeping teen on her couch. Chris’s stockinged feet stuck out from under the comforter she’d given him. One arm dipped toward the floor, the other curled up around his head. Subtle snores marked the deep oblivion of his dreams.
She had given up on sleep just after dawn and had been sitting mindlessly for over an hour. Fifty-seventh Street had started to awaken, not that it ever truly slept. Cars traveled by, pedestrians hurried to catch trains and buses, jaywalked across the street. Like this was a normal day.
“It’s like I killed her, Jo.” Chris had said. Remembering his quiet words, the way he used her name for the first time since they’d met, sent chills along her spine.
A Com-Ed guy had been raised in a bucket to the light pole across the street, risking electrocution by fiddling with the transformer. Maybe that was what she needed, a jolt of something to shock her, help her identify how she felt about everything Chris had told her. Anger, maybe, could get rid of the cold shield she wore. Not at Cole, or not just at Cole—anger at life, or God. God maybe, because he or she was responsible for the fucking mess they all had to live in. And anger, too, she admitted, because she wanted to take life by the throat and shake it till it behaved like she thought it should.
For now that meant she wanted sick Sidney Cole disemboweled with all the gore and glory of a Dark Ages execution.
Her cell phone rang and Jo jumped. Chris popped upright on the couch, his sleep-dredged eyes searching the room for enemies. Jo answered the call with some misgiving. She’d been dreading Jack’s call ever since she’d turned the phone back on.
“You turned off your phone?” he asked after she said hello. “You leave me a message like that and then turn off your phone? Now tell me, is that fair?”
Before Jo had time to respond, he asked, “How is he?”
No time for a real answer. “He’s fine. We’re both fine.”
“Well it’s more than you deserve to be, either one of you. What made you—Never mind, just thank God.”
“That Jack-man?” Chris asked from the couch, his voice still thick with sleep.
“Yes,” Jo told him. “He’s scolding us for going out after curfew.” Then, in response to Jack’s “He’s there? You let him spend the night there?” she said, “What was I supposed to do, take him to Belmont Harbor so he could find a nice comfy rock to curl up on? He’s suspended from the shelter, remember? You weren’t planning to put him up for the night, were you?”
“Number one rule for people in my line of work is never take the client home with you. Well, number two, right after don’t sleep with them. I’m just saying it doesn’t look good.”
“Well, if you can think of a better idea, let me know. In the meantime,” Jo glanced up to where Chris was walking over to the bathroom. The comforter tangled in his feet. “—since he’s not my client, he can stay here if he wants. How long is he suspended for?”
“I’m not going back there,” Chris called from the bathroom. He must have heard her just before he closed the door. “That Emilio can kiss my—”
“We can discuss our options later today,” Jack was saying in her ear. “When are you free?”
Strange as it seemed, the responsibilities of everyday life still hung over her head. The workday ahead included checking the police log for noteworthy stories and interviewing a shopkeeper who’d been robbed for the fourth time in two months
“Not till after work. But we do need to talk. I need your help.”
“What’s going on, Jo?”
“More than I can go into now. Just please be patient. If you could just do me a favor, I promise to explain later.”
“A favor?” Jack repeated suspiciously.
“That guy last night, Dennis, he mentioned a shelter near Humboldt Park where this Samuel Walker might be staying. I’m hoping you could call around and see if you can find him for me. It’s important, Jack,” she hurried to say. “I have a feeling what happened to this Tommy the Brit is tied to what might have happened to Lexie. Samuel is my best lead to find out more about him.”
“And this talk we need to have—when is that going to take place?”
“Tonight, Jack, I promise. After I’ve talked to Samuel—”
“No way. Before, Jo, before. If you want my help,” he added, “you’ll have to do it my way. We meet somewhere, you tell me what’s going on, then I tell you where Walker is. And we go there together. Got that?”
Jo hated ultimatums. Hated being told what to do, and people trying to “take care of her.” So why did she feel such a sense of relief? Why did she suddenly want to cry even as she said, “I gotta tell you, Jack. This protective macho bullshit is really starting to get on my nerves.”
“This has nothing to do with your gender. It’s about numbers, Jo. Two is safer than one—that’s just good sense.”
She gave in; she’d known she was going to. “About five then? Can you pick me up after work?”
“Sounds good. In case you don’t know it yet, I’m sticking to you like glue until we get this figured out.” His tone teased now and sudden emotion caught at the back of Jo’s throat. “Just so you don’t end up with half the homeless kids in Chicago staying at your apartment. Like glue, got that?”
“There you go with the clichés again,” she said softly.
“I’m just a cliché kind of guy, I guess. See you later.”
Chris came out of the bathroom just as Jo hung up. She turned her head to wipe at the corners of her eyes and hurried toward her bedroom.
“There’s bread and jam in the kitchen for toast,” she called to him as she headed in to take her shower. “And I made coffee.”
She let herself cry in the shower, saline streams washed away like they never happened, sobs stifled into silent knots. Sticking to you like glue now, like glue. Such a stupid thing to cry over. She was tired, is all, too tired.
Chapter 40
Chris listened to the sound of the shower, like rain in the distance. Bread and jam for toast. Like he could eat. Like anything could get past the lump in his throat, or stay down if it did. Between recoil from the meth and booze last night and flashes of memory, he was lucky he didn’t throw up the water he gulped down, cold, quenching, clear.
His hand, when he put the glass down, was shaking. He pressed it hard against the countertop. When he closed his eyes, faces swam in the darkness. Sidney Cole. Lexie. Antonio. The stranger who’d taken him to his car behind the nightclub.
“No.” He turned quickly and opened his eyes. That was nothing, meant nothing. Getting by, just getting by. Fuck all those perv bastards who thought they could break someone just by ….
A hand down his pants. Fingers in his short hairs, grabbing his prick. Squeezing his nuts. The traitorous swell and throb till he just wanted to fuck someone’s brains out, rough, hurtful, hating them. The sound of his own groaning.
He leaned over the sink and retched diluted splashes of cocoa. His stomach felt it was coming up through his throat, raw and painful. He vomited until all that was left was clear spittle dripping from his mouth as he tried to catch his breath. His skin felt cold and clammy.
He flipped on the faucet, reached for a paper towel to wipe his mouth. He blamed the rum. Or maybe the meth. He’d never shoot heroin—he’d seen too many friends turn into gray shadows. Like Antonio. He thought of what he’d done last night. The water spiraled down the drain like a whirlpool. Never say never.
He filled his glass again. When he turned the water off, he realized the shower had stopped. Opening the frig, he dug around to find the jam and some eggs and some cheese. He popped bread into the toaster just as Jo crossed from the bathroom to the bedroom, but he didn’t look up.
He cut up cheese, cracked the eggs into a bowl, dropped butter into one of the pans she’d had hanging on the wall. Why was she helping him? Why did she care what had happened to Lexie? The eggs sizzled when he dropped them in the hot fat. He thought about it as he held the fork, suspended over the frying pan. Jack, too. Why should they care? No one else did.
He scrambled the eggs and stopped thinking. Thinking just fucked you up if you did too much of it.
“I can’t believe that a few hours ago I suspected you were a pimp,” Jo said. She was dressed in a blue suit and still brushing her hair. “And now here I am leaving you alone in my apartment.” She filled her coffee cup and pulled a carton of half and half out of the refrigerator.
“What makes you think I want to hang out here?” he asked.
He cut the omelette in half and handed it to her on a saucer. She looked at him funny. Not like she thought it was poisoned or anything, but like she was surprised he could cook. Or that he would bother. The toast had popped and he smeared the slices with blackberry jam.
She leaned against the counter while she ate, and talked around her food like polite people aren’t supposed to. “Because it’s going to rain and your jacket is lost along the lakefront somewhere. Thanks.” She took the toast he handed her and took a bite.
“Jack is going to meet me after work and we’re going to try to find this old guy who might know something about Tommy the Brit. So I don’t know how late I’ll be. Afraid you’ll be bored?”
That’s not what had bothered him. The idea that Jack—the idea of seeing Jack after what he’d done last night, and Jack knowing about it. He didn’t know if he could do that. He took his food and sat at the table, not looking at her.
“What’s Tommy got to do about any of it?” Delay, diversion, distance. That was his strategy.
“I’m not sure. Probably nothing, directly. But I think there’s a chance there might be more about what happened to Lexie than just the two of you trying to rip off some formaldehyde.”
She didn’t make any sense. Of course the robbery was what put Lexie in danger. The Brit was nothing more than one of the dead guys that sick freak wanted her to do things to. The fact that Lexie’d known the man had freaked her out even worse, but that didn’t mean nothing. It wouldn’t help him find out what happened to her. He used his fork to cut his egg into bite-sized pieces, but didn’t put any of them in his mouth.
Jo had finished eating and grabbed a purse big enough to be a briefcase. She pulled out a notebook and pen and threw on the table in front of him.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
“You said once that my stories don’t mean a thing because I don’t know what it’s like. Well you know what it’s like to live on the streets, don’t you? Stop obsessing about Lexie for a while and tell people about it. Jack and I will figure out what our next move is and we’ll go from there. For now, let someone else take the lead. If you write out all those emotions tying you in knots, trust me, you’ll think straighter.”
He looked at it like the notebook was a bomb about to go off.
“Think about it,” she said. “It’s yours. Draw in it, use it to roll joints—or tell me something that might make a difference in someone’s life. It’s up to you.”
When she left, Chris sat at the table a long time, staring at the untouched food in front of him. Then he got up and dumped it, every bite, into the garbage disposal. A waste, what a waste.
There was a mirror in the front room where he could see his reflection through the pass-through above the sink. He stared at it like it was someone else, someone he didn’t know.
Tell me what it’s like, Jo had said. Tell me something that might make a difference in someone’s life.
Crouched in the dirt, shivering. Pressed close to the cement upright of the “L” tracks. Rain hammering on the trash can lid he held over his head trying to keep halfway dry. Fever hot enough to burn him to ashes. Throat so raw and swollen he spit blood and could hardly draw in a breath.
That had been after one week on the streets. Right as winter was starting. Stupid time to leave home.
Ma screaming: “I can’t take it anymore.” Josey, hysterical on Ma’s hip, snot running down her top lip. “It’s just too much. Working two jobs all week, another on the weekend. And then I got to be worrying about where my son’s at so Goddamn late at night?” Trying to explain, taking Josey and wiping her nose, laying her next to the baby in the messed up bed and kissing her quiet, going back to the front room. The yelling had stopped and she just sat there crying. “There’s so much to worry about,” she said.
His fault, all his fault, always his fault.
Chapter 41
Wherever Jo’s energy came from, it didn’t last long. Lack of sleep magnified the small problems that kept cropping up as she followed her workday schedule. The usual officer she made contact with for the news shorts had been replaced by an uncooperative Amazon who acted like Jo was requesting classified files. She lost her CTA pass at the bus stop on her way to interview the shop keeper. And Luciano had been no help when she called to ask about Dean Whiteside and the man he’d been talking to in the parking lot.
“Sound familiar?” she asked after she described both men. “I’m betting the guy in the white coat is employed here.”
Luciano promised to look into it, then used a combination of sweet talk and guilt trip to set up a date. Hanging up, she felt exhausted just thinking about a whole evening of being called Madonna. She tried getting back to the article she’d been composing on proposed changes to the HUD housing policy, but it seemed to have no middle or end. Or any interest for her. She stared at the keyboard tray like she’d forgotten how to type.
Giving up, she looked up the listing for the hotel where the Art Institute banquet was being held. To her surprise, when she called, they put her through without any hesitation. Philip Quinlan answered on the second ring. She tried to introduce herself with professionalism, to sound like she actually knew what she wanted to talk about.
“Excuse me—who did you say you are?” Quinlan asked.
“Jo Sullivan,” she repeated. Maybe they just had a bad connection. “I’m a reporter for Winds of Change.”
“How did you know—? Never mind. Ms. Sullivan, I’m a busy man. Please get to the point. What is it you want from me?”
