Cascade, page 5
“Yeah, been a long day.”
The meetings were held in the second floor of the carpenters’ union pension building. It was a two-story tan building in a light industrial area in Wilmington. Most of the time it was used for bookkeeping and accounting, with some occasional training of apprentices.
“If you’re looking forward to a union meeting you’re doing it wrong,” Allen told him. He smiled, flashing bright white teeth. His hair was cut to stubble, and his head was nearly round. His skin was the color of dark chocolate, the European kind that advertised a high cacao content. “Kid got you running ragged?” Allen, a millworker, had two young twin girls.
“No, Matty’s great. Between Carli, the babysitter, and the daycare we’ve got it covered. Just an asshole neighbor, hassling me about bushes along the property line. He doesn’t like them, so he wants me to cut them down.”
Eddie frowned. “Are they on your property? Or his?”
“Mine.”
“You should have told that dickhead to fuck right off.”
That was Eddie’s response to everything. And everyone. It had never worked well for him, but he was too old to change. “I’ve got to live next to him.”
“So what?”
“And he’s a lawyer.”
“So what? Lawyers are assholes. Either he’s going to sue you, or he’s not. What kind of lawyer is he?”
Matt hadn’t thought about that. “I have no idea.”
Eddie snorted. “Then there’s a good chance he’s blowing smoke. One of those corporate attorneys who’s never stepped foot inside a courtroom. Most lawyers never do. Fucker probably wouldn’t even know how to file a case in small claims court.”
“You think?” Matt wasn’t so sure.
Allen gestured toward the front of the room with one of his big hands. “We get free legal with the union. Maybe before you take the advice of an alcoholic in a shit-ass white trash ponytail you should talk to one of the lawyers, make sure you’re good. Maybe file a case against this clown for harassment.”
Eddie hoisted a beer can. “You’re only an alcoholic if you’re trying to quit. I can stop any time I want. But why would I want to?” It was far from the first time he’d uttered the proclamation. Allen rolled his eyes and shared a look with Matt.
Matt shook his head slowly. “I don’t wanna, you know, start anything. His wife’s a lawyer too. She’s the real problem.”
Eddie snorted, and took another long drink of beer. “‘Sup to you, but it sounds like your asshole neighbor is the one starting shit.”
“People just need to relax, and be good to one other,” Allen said, sitting down at the table. It looked like the meeting was about to start. He nodded his big round head. “We’ve got to spend all our lives with each other, seems like it only makes sense to be good to one another.”
“Have you ever been anywhere? Talked to anyone?” Eddie asked him. “People are dicks.”
“Sometimes. But not everyone. Not most people.”
Eddie shook his head side to side sharply, and finished the beer in the can, then waved it around as he spoke, to emphasize his points. “You count on people being nice, you’re going to be disappointed.” He pointed at Matt. “Pretty boy’s living out with the Richie-Riches and you see what he’s dealing with. And the economy doesn’t suck too bad, we’re not at war, women still have the right to vote…” Allen snorted, and Eddie jabbed a finger at him. “Things go to shit, you’ll see how everyone’s just a selfish, violent asshat just waiting for an excuse to come out. Stab you in the back, steal your shit, fuck your wife.”
“Gee, I just don’t know why Amanda divorced you, you’re so positive and upbeat,” Allen said, and Matt snorted.
“Screw you guys,” Eddie said, as he pulled another beer out of his bag. It was cold, and covered with condensation. “You’ll see. Hopefully you won’t, but probably, at some point, you’ll see I’m right. Never bet on altruism. Bet on the opposite of that. Whatever the fuck that is.”
Any man’s life, told truly, is a novel.
Ernest Hemingway
Chapter Three: Whiskey
Whiskey was, as usual, already sitting at the table when his partner arrived for the shift briefing. Lopez sat his cup of Starbucks on the table in front of him before settling into the seat. Whiskey eyed the cup, but didn’t say anything. At least, not at first.
Officers shuffled into the ready room, talking and laughing. The sergeant checked his watch and crossed his arms at the front of the room, waiting. He knew there’d be a rush of cops in the door right at the last minute.
Whiskey leaned back in his seat, which between his weight and that of all his gear creaked ominously. He crossed his arms, sighed, then finally nodded at the Starbucks cup on the table. “This going to be a regular thing?”
Paul Lopez frowned when he saw Whiskey was talking about his coffee. “What?”
“How much do you make?” Whiskey’s voice was deep, but somehow also melodic.
“Money? You know how much I make. Pay scale’s public, right? Based on rank and time on. And I’ve been on three…three and a half years.”
Whiskey nodded. “Right. Which means you don’t make shit, even with overtime, when we can get it. And how much did you pay for that?”
Lopez lifted the paper cup. “Like, three bucks. I just get plain coffee, then put the cream in myself. They don’t charge you for that.” The Starbucks was on Cicero Avenue less half a mile from his house in Belmont Cragin. Only a quarter mile out of his way to work.
Whiskey grunted. “Three bucks. Well, hell. That’s nothing at all. Three bucks a shift. That’s what, just twelve or fifteen bucks a week? Barely notice that, right? In a year, that’s only six, seven hundred bucks. That’s only one car payment.”
One of the other cops sitting nearby laughed. “Uh-oh, Mother Whiskey’s in the building.”
Lopez looked like he’d eaten something sour. He’d been partnered with Williams for eight months, and most of the time enjoyed working with the veteran officer. Most of the time. “Leave my coffee alone. You don’t mess with a man’s coffee.” Especially not early in the morning, before the caffeine had a chance to kick in.
“You know how much it would cost to make your own cup of coffee?” Whiskey asked him.
“How much would it cost to get you to shut up?” Lopez asked him, taking an especially loud sip. Then he snorted. “You see that episode of Chicago P.D. last night?”
“You know I can’t watch that crap.”
“You’re not going to support Jorgensen?” Lopez asked with a smile. One of the technical advisors for the TV show was a Sergeant they’d both worked with, and who had recently retired.
Whiskey scowled at his partner. “It upsets me when I watch it, and I’ve got enough stuff that upsets me. It’s not the technical inaccuracies that bother me,” he said, “it’s just so damn stupid. How dumb are the people that they’re writing the show for?”
Lopez blinked, pretending surprise. “Have you met our customers?”
“Is that what we’re calling them now?”
“All right, quiet down and get your asses in the seats,” Sergeant Jerome bellowed from the front of the room. He leaned his big pale hands on the podium and glared at anybody still on their feet. When everyone was sitting and all eyes were on him, he nodded.
“Good morning, ladies and gents. You’ll see Pete passing out some lovely info sheets our detective brothers made up last night. One Antwan Jones, fifteen years old, decided to steal a car yesterday and drive up and down a few sidewalks. Put four people in the hospital, and it looks like one of them might not make it.”
“He’s fifteen?” one of the officers at the front of the room asked, holding up the paper.
The Sergeant nodded. “That photo might be a year or two old, but he’s supposed to look the same.”
Whiskey was passed a stack of flyers, took one, and passed the rest to Lopez. He studied the photo, which was likely obtained from the kid’s mother, as it looked like a school photo. Antwan Jones was a slender light-skinned black youth who looked all of twelve.
“He lives in the 9th District, Deering, but he recently moved out there from here. Dicks are sitting on his mom’s house, probably a few other addresses, but he’s got a lot of friends in this area still, so keep an eye out.
“Now for the only other thing I’ve got for you. Some of you might have seen the Mayor on the news this morning,” and at that point the room erupted in groans, profanity, and obscene gestures. Jerome held up his hands, a thin smile on his face.
“Yes, I know how just about everyone in the department feels about our current Mayor. And I’m sure she feels the same way about you,” he added quickly and quietly, with a smile. Which made the room erupt in rueful laughter. The Mayor had proven herself to be no friend to the Chicago Police Department, taking the side of just about anyone who had an issue with the officers simply trying to do their jobs. The rift had gotten so bad a huge number of officers had retired as a show of ‘no confidence’, putting the PD at record low numbers, and many of those still on the job were suffering from very low morale. When you knew the brass and City Hall would throw you under the bus no matter what happened, even if you were in the right, many officers had stopped trying to be proactive and were just showing up after the fact to take the reports and collect the bodies. And the criminals of Chicago knew it, which was why the murder rate was the highest in the country.
“Anyway,” Jerome went on, “in case you missed it, she has announced increased foot patrols in certain areas to combat crime and provide an increased sense of security to residents and visitors.” That last bit was straight from her press release. “The south side neighborhoods, which are not the bailiwick of the 18th District, but also the Magnificent Mile, which is. Apparently the stores there are still suffering from depressed sales. Tourism is still down.”
“Maybe the Mayor shouldn’t have let the protestors trash it, then,” someone said loudly.
“Or maybe let us arrest a few of them instead of standing around with our dicks in our hands,” another officer added.
“Protestors my ass,” someone else grumbled. “Millions of dollars of damage isn’t a protest, it’s a riot,” he added, loud enough for the Sergeant to hear.
Jerome waved them quiet. “First District will be donating a few officers for this detail, taking the south end of the Mag, off the river. Officers assigned to foot patrol…smile, wave, be friendly to the tourists…try not to shoot anyone, and keep the beatings down to the bare minimum,” he finished with a friendly smile. He looked down at the assignment sheet and began reading through it. Then he got to Whiskey. “Williams, Lopez, you’re Thirteen Frank, and you’re on foot patrol with Fifteen and Eighteen. Keep yourselves spread out, I don’t want six officers on the same street corner.”
Whiskey nodded at the Sergeant, but made a noise deep in his throat. Lopez looked at him. “What? The detail’s not that bad.” Less chance of dealing with any serious crime, especially on day shift, but also less chance of being shot at, or spit on.
Whiskey gave him a dark look. “How old are your feet?” he asked.
* * *
The city of Chicago was rich with historical attractions—Wrigley Field, the Navy Pier, Buckingham Fountain, the Biograph Theater where the FBI shot Dillinger. When it came to modern attractions, at the top of the list was the Magnificent Mile, the section of Michigan Avenue which stretched north from the Chicago River to Oak Street, near the lakefront. It was Chicago’s largest shopping district, and perhaps the #1 destination for tourists coming into the city. Both the retail shops and the restaurants were very popular with tourists and residents.
For most of the length of the Mag, Michigan Avenue was three lanes in each direction, divided by a narrow median. Whiskey parked the Ford Explorer patrol car midway between Michael Jordan’s Steakhouse and the Intercontinental Hotel. Across the street was a line of retail stores—Nordstrom, Hugo Boss, Vans, with a Chick-Fil-A tucked in at the corner.
“I’m glad we’re doing this now,” Lopez said, climbing out of the passenger seat.
“Thursday?”
“September. Summer and winter it’d be miserable. Spring we’d be likely to get rain. Now, it’s not too bad.”
Whiskey locked the SUV and pocketed the keys. His partner had a point. The soft body armor under his uniform shirt would likely save his life if he ever got shot, but it trapped heat like a down vest. It meant that on a surprisingly cool fall day they could walk around with no jackets and never be chilly. He’d never been shot, but he’d been shot at, and remembered that every time he wanted to complain about the vest.
He nodded at Lopez. “Make sure you turn your bodycam on. We don’t want anyone to miss one second of our thrilling walking tour up and down the Mag.”
“It’s on,” Lopez said, but then reached down to check the unit, mounted on the center of his chest.
They were less than a quarter mile north of the river, and two officers from the 1st District walked up. Whiskey recognized one of them. “Hamell, hey.” The four of them nodded at each other. The nametag on the other read ARMAND.
“Whiskey and Tacos, my favorite,” Hamell said, and fist-bumped his partner.
“That’s so weird,” Lopez said, looking from him to Whiskey and back.
“What?” Hammell said, suspicious.
“That’s exactly what your mom said last night,” Whiskey told him, to laughter all around.
“Mom jokes? Really? That’s what we’re doing?” Hammell shook his head.
“You want me to go with baking soda jokes?” Lopez asked. The two officers traded confused looks. Lopez pointed at their nametags. “Arm and Hammer? Come on guys, keep up.” Everyone laughed.
“Why not horses? More mounted unit patrols?” Armand asked.
“Too intimidating, maybe? You’d have to ask her honor the Mayor,” Whiskey replied.
“I’m sure there might be a good reason for it. Whatever that is…” Hamell said.
“That’s not why she’s doing it,” Whiskey finished for him. He looked around. “Okay, so we’re Eighteen Thirteen Frank. We’ll take from here north for a quarter mile or so. There are two more units working past that. Figure you’ve got from here to the river. Work for you guys?”
Hamell nodded, then said, “Speaking of horses, how long do you think this dog and pony show is going to go?” Whiskey knew what the man meant. Putting uniforms on display to walk the Mag meant they wouldn’t be policing the high crime neighborhoods. There were always foot and mounted patrols up and down the Mag Mile and other tourist hotspots, but not to this extent unless it was a holiday weekend. Or the Bulls were playing for the championship.
Whiskey shrugged. “We’ve got fifty-plus people getting shot every weekend in the city, and she hasn’t done anything to address it other than make speeches. I honestly don’t think she gives a shit. But if some rich white tourist gets shot down here in the Mag, or one of the city movers and shakers gets carjacked along Michigan Avenue, she’d shit a brick about that.”
“So…?”
“So a couple weeks, at least, is my bet.”
With a wave Whiskey and Lopez headed north. After less than a minute, Whiskey pointed. “Hey, look, a Starbucks. Wanna stop?” He just smiled when his partner gave him a dirty look.
* * *
“Eighteen years?” Lopez said. “You hire on right out of high school?”
“College.” He knew Lopez had done two years of college and four years in the Army before joining the PD.
“So are you going to pull the pin as soon as you hit your twenty or what?”
Whiskey shrugged. He really hadn’t made up his mind. He’d just had his fortieth birthday. While some days it felt old, it seemed far too young an age from which to be considering retirement. Deciding on a second career, as there was no way in hell he’d just be able to sit at home. “Ask me again after the next mayoral election.”
“You think if she doesn’t win that whoever does will be any better for us?” The two men were strolling slowly south along the west side of the street. In two hours they’d taken a handful of calls—shoplifting and thefts from parked cars, mostly.
“Hard to imagine anybody being worse, but maybe that’s just a failure of imagination,” Whiskey admitted.
“Were you shining me on when you said your middle name was Garcia?” Lopez asked him.
Whiskey smiled. “Well, Papa wasn’t a rolling stone, but his daddy was, and his daddy was, so the family tree’s got lots of branches, and even those of us that are close to the trunk ain’t exactly pure-blooded. I’ve got a drop or two of Cuban in me, as well as Dominican, French Moroccan, and Texan.” He raised a hand, which was the color of stained oak. “In addition to the obvious African. West African, or so the story goes. Nigeria. I keep meaning to take one of those DNA tests. I’m curious what will turn up. Maybe black Irish?” His smile was wide.
His partner frowned. “Texas isn’t a foreign country. “
Whiskey shrugged. “You should tell them that.”
They walked up on half a dozen young men hanging out at a corner, trading a thick joint. Whiskey had to fight his natural reaction, which was to use the presence of an illegal drug as an excuse to search them, and maybe find a better reason for an arrest. After so many years of arresting almost everyone he found with marijuana, he couldn’t get used to the stuff being legal. Instead, he just nodded at the young, sullen, angry faces. “Gentlemen.” His eyes automatically scanned their hands for weapons, for any telltale bulges under their clothes. Body language which signaled violence.
“Officers,” one of them sneered.
“I appreciate that it’s legal, but that doesn’t mean smoking weed is smart. It’ll make you slow, fat, and stupid.” They reeked of it. And probably had no clue that they did.
Half the kids in front of him couldn’t believe he’d said it. One of them frowned at him. “Ain’t you the one they call Whiskey?”
