At the City's Edge (32 page)

It’s just a toy, old man,
Washington reminded himself.
Can’t take everybody’s toys away.
Still, it bothered him to see it. He couldn’t put his finger on why, exactly. Maybe just seen too many boys with real guns
in their hand. He rapped on the edge of the doorframe. ‘How you doing, son?’

‘Okay.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘Just playing.’ Billy left the window and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘This used to belong to Uncle Jason. See?’ He held it
up.

Washington leaned down to read the inscription on the handle. It would have been easier to bring the
pistol to his eyes, but he didn’t want to touch even a toy gun. Maybe ridiculous, maybe not. Recovering alcoholics didn’t
tell themselves they could drink light beer. Not if they wanted to stay recovering, at least. ‘This says
Michael
Palmer.’

‘I know, but it’s scratched out. Uncle Jason won it from him.’ Billy held the gun in both hands. ‘Maybe when I grow up I’ll
be a soldier like he was.’

The knot inside cinched tighter. ‘Maybe.’

Billy looked up at him, head cocked. ‘You sound funny.’

‘I don’t like guns.’

‘Because they’re dangerous?’ Billy said it with the mocking insouciance of a child.

Washington sat on the edge of the bed, hearing that old cold song of twisting metal. The siren song that had roared through
him sure, pure, and sweet all those years ago. Like always, it tugged at him, urged him back. He sighed, cocked his head.
‘I remember being your age thinking how much fun all that stuff on TV looked, people shooting each other. But it’s only on
TV that it’s that easy. Most of the time you can’t just shoot the bad guy.’

‘Why not?’ Billy’s eyes were earnest. ‘If you know they’re bad, I mean?’

‘Well, for one thing, that’s not easy to know.’ The rain fell steady and slow, drenching the world. ‘Some that seem one way
are really the other. Ronald used to be a bad guy. Me too.’

‘
You
were a bad guy?’

A roar, and a hot punch against his hand. The boy with the cauliflower ear spinning, slow, a last pirouette, eyes already
dying.

A debt that could never be repaid.

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, I was.’

Billy chewed his lip. ‘What if somebody is
really
bad, though? Not like you or Ronald, but
really
bad?’

Washington could hear the question under Billy’s words, understood that he was asking about the people who had murdered his
father. And part of him wanted to say that you still couldn’t make that kind of decision. That people changed, that you could
change them. That good could always be reclaimed from evil. But he didn’t want to lie to the boy.

‘I don’t know, son. I don’t have an answer for you. I just know I don’t like guns.’

Billy nodded slowly.

‘But,’ Washington said as he stood, ‘that don’t mean you can’t play with your toy. Though right now, we got more important
things to worry about. Like getting you dressed for to night. You need any help?’

‘Nuh-uh.’ Billy set the gun on the bed and went over to the closet. ‘I know how to do it.’

‘You sure?’ Washington straightened his bow tie in the mirror. He’d delayed renting a tux until the last minute, but he had
to admit, he was enjoying wearing it. ‘I’d be happy to make you look as dapper as I do.’

Billy shook his head, pulled the plastic garment bag out. ‘You got that upside down.’

‘Hmm?’ Washington glanced down. ‘What?’

Billy pointed at his belly. ‘That thing.’

‘The cummerbund?’ He’d slung it the way that made sense, ruffles pointing down, kind of a sleek look. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Yup.’ Billy nodded firmly. ‘It’s supposed to go the other way, with the things up. It’s to catch crumbs.’

Washington laughed through his nose. Kids. ‘Crumbs, huh?’

‘Uh-huh. The guy at the store told me so. And there are holes in the pocket, too.’

‘Holes?’

‘For pulling your shirt down.’

Bemused, Washington slid his hands in his pockets. He didn’t plan on taking fashion advice from an eight-year-old, certainly
not on a tuxedo –

Damned if there weren’t holes in there.

It was never a good sign when you could smell yourself.

Cruz forced a smile for the bus driver, doing her best not to look like a crazy woman. Judging by the way the guy wrinkled
his nose, it didn’t work. Her hair was matted, her face dirty and bruised, blood scabbing a thin tear where her forehead had
hit the wheel. Her skin itched with something she’d rather not think about, and her jeans and summer sweater had been two
days dirty
before
they’d gone in the river.

‘Quite a storm, huh?’ she asked, and swiped her CTA card. A thin trickle of brown water poured from her wallet to spatter
on the floor.

‘Sure,’ the driver said, and looked away.

They walked down the bright aisle. A couple of girls in hospital scrubs, an elderly man asleep with his mouth open, two laughing
teenagers, a frazzled mother of four. This far south, a light-skinned Latina and a white guy would normally catch stares,
but now everyone found a reason to gaze elsewhere, afraid of catching what ever madness infected them. Only the children looked,
eyes like saucers. Shivering in her wet clothes, she took a seat in the back row, where the engine’s heat penetrated. Jason
remained standing, fingers clenched
white on a pole. Though he wasn’t moving, he gave off the vibe of a man pacing angry circles. There was something in his
posture that scared her a little bit; not
of
him, but
for
him. ‘What are you thinking?’

He shook his head.

‘The war?’

Palmer’s cheek twitched. He stared out the black windows.

She shrugged. Her head and neck throbbed, and she wasn’t in the mood to play Twenty Questions. She could see the skyline to
the east, the lights of the Sears Tower lost in glowing cloud. Tiny reflections of the city burned in every drop of water
on the window. ‘You know, you surprised me back there. Letting Playboy go.’

‘I wanted to waste him.’ He shook his head. ‘When I think of him in Michael’s house, talking about killing Billy.’

‘I wouldn’t have let you.’

‘That wasn’t what stopped me.’

‘What did?’

He paused. ‘He was a chess piece.’ He sat down beside her, bangs falling in wet clumps across his forehead. ‘Killing him,
it just…’

‘Wouldn’t have made any difference?’

He nodded, staring straight ahead.

‘We’re screwed, you know.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Maybe…’ She scratched at the back of her neck. ‘Maybe it’s time to look at leaving.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. Rent a cabin somewhere. Get out of sight.’

He shook his head. ‘You were on the news, remember? You run, it’s all over.’

‘I didn’t mean me.’

He gave her a measuring sort of gaze. She met his eyes. Even with all the grime, he looked good, a strong jaw, nice features,
something boyish in his energy. For a long moment, he just stared. Then he took her hand, weaving his fingers through hers.
Sighed. ‘They never caught the sniper.’

‘What?’

‘The one who shot my friend.’ His voice was thin and soft. ‘I remember that day so well. Scarlet sunset, broken concrete,
the brown eyes of the kid in the ambulance. But I can’t – I just – I don’t know where the sniper was. He could have been on
a rooftop blocks away.’ He shrugged. ‘I picture him sometimes, try to imagine what he looked like, what he thought when he
squeezed the trigger. A man about to get lucky with a thousand-to-one shot. He would have thought of himself as a soldier
too, I guess. Defending his country. Sometimes I think everybody sees themselves as soldiers.’

She traced the rough pads of his fingers.

‘You want to know the real reason I didn’t tell anyone about what happened? Because I’m afraid of the questions.’ His nostrils
flared, and his tone changed. ‘No, not even that. Not
questions,
plural. One question.
The obvious one.’ He turned to look at her. ‘You know the one?’

She said nothing.

‘Sure you do. The question is how in the world did I get discharged for what happened. Yes, I took my men off-mission, and
that’s not good. But I was a noncom, a squad leader. We’re expected to react to changing situations. That was my job. And
losing a man, well, it’s tragic, but Martinez was shot by insurgents. Maybe I made a questionable call, but it wasn’t negligent
or malicious. So how would that get me discharged? I mean, you’re a smart woman – didn’t you wonder?’

She tried to keep her face noncommittal. ‘Maybe a little.’

‘There you go.’

‘Do you
want
me to ask?’

He moved his teeth like he were chewing gum. Held the silence. Then, ‘I used to tell myself that it was my lieutenant’s fault.
That he didn’t back me. But that’s not true. The truth is I fell apart.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I froze up. Couldn’t stand the possibility of losing someone else under my command. I’d dream about Martinez, and then when
I had to take the squad out the next morning, I’d be a wreck. A walking panic attack. I’d abort a mission for the tiniest
reason, or no reason at all. Hell, I even managed to start drinking, which isn’t easy in a Muslim country. It’s not like the
old days, privates sucking dope through their rifle
barrels. I got scared of the responsibility, and I got selfish.’ He sighed. ‘And it put lives at risk. I
deserved
to get discharged. It was the right call.
That’s
the truth.’

She opened her mouth, closed it. A thousand possible answers paraded past her, and none sounded right.

‘I know what you’re offering to do,’ he said. ‘And I appreciate it. But I’m not quitting. I can’t.’

‘I’m not saying –’

‘It’s not you.’ He shook his head. ‘I messed up so many things. Not just in the war. I’ve been running from responsibility
all my life. Hell, if I’d taken a little more responsibility for Michael, he might still be alive.’

‘There’s no reason to believe that.’

‘I think there is. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m tired of dodging what I know needs to be done. I owe better to myself. To
Michael. And I damn sure owe more to Billy.’

The bus hit a bump in the road and set off dull firecrackers behind her eyes. With ginger fingers she explored her forehead.
The skin felt tender and swollen, warm meat. She didn’t remember hitting the steering wheel, didn’t even remember the car
falling. Just the impact that threw them, and then the water, cold, cold, her head throbbing and Jason gone. That had been
her first thought as she started to pull herself together – a complete lack of surprise to find him gone.

Then he’d appeared at her window and pulled her free, and in the process sacrificed the thing he needed most.

‘Okay,’ she said.

‘Okay?’

‘Let’s do it.’ She put all her meaning into her eyes. The betrayals, and the jokes, the loneliness. The months – years – of
not letting anyone in, not being able to. It was a lot to convey with a look, but sometimes words murdered ideas.

He held her gaze, then smiled slowly. ‘Okay.’

Outside the bus windows, neon burned, advertising taquerías and Currency Exchanges. The drizzle was letting up. ‘So what’s
our plan? We’re back where we started.’

‘Not quite. We know what’s happening now.’

‘But it doesn’t do us any good. Without evidence, telling the media won’t make a difference. They’ll just see us as crazies.’

‘What about the alderman?’ Jason rubbed at the stubble on his chin. ‘You said he’s a good guy.’

She shrugged. ‘What are we going to do, just march into the alderman’s office and tell him what we saw?’

He stared at her like she’d said the secret password, a strange light in his eyes.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not his office.’

‘Make yourself at home,’ Jason said, pushing open the door. His studio was as he’d left it, the blinds open and bedding tangled.
The cereal bowls still sat on the table where he and Billy had left them after breakfast. He saw a flash of his nephew grinning
about being allowed to leave the plates on the table, instead of having to wash them and put them in the dishwasher like he
did at home.

‘You sure it’s safe?’

‘I doubt they know where I live. It’s month-to-month, cash. Like I said, dodging responsibility.’

She nodded, looked around. ‘It’s nice.’

‘It’s a hole,’ he said. ‘I rented it when I came back. I wasn’t sure I was staying in Chicago.’

‘Where would you go?’

‘There’s the rub.’ He dropped the keys on the table, plugged his cell phone in to charge. ‘Bathroom’s that way. I’ll see if
I can find a clean towel for you. And we need to get you some clothes if we’re going to pull this off. Something swank.’

‘They’ll be watching my apartment.’

‘You have a girlfriend, someone who can lend you some things?’

Cruz cocked her head. ‘My friend Ruby lives over
in Wicker Park. She made me wear a fuchsia bridesmaid’s dress with dyed-to-match shoes for her wedding. I figure she still
owes me.’

‘Can we borrow her car?’

‘So long as I don’t tell her what happened to the last one.’

It ambushed him when he opened the closet.

Cruz had let him shower first, saying she wanted to take a bath while they waited for her friend. He’d felt kind of awkward,
not sure if he should close the door or what. What ever had happened in the river, and on the bus, it had changed things between
them. Bound them together. Door closed, he’d decided. But not all the way.

In the shower he’d scrubbed hard, the soap stripping off what felt like half an inch of grime and sweat. Stepped out reborn,
knotted a towel around his waist, and opened the door. Elena had smiled as she breezed past him, and run a hand along his
bare stomach. She’d drawn a bath, humming something, a high, sweet song, and he’d thought how he might not mind hearing it
for a long time.

Then he’d opened his closet and the garment bag had ambushed him.

His clothing was orderly, T-shirts and jeans neatly folded on the shelves, socks and underwear in bins below, dirty laundry
in a basket in the corner. The rod held two pairs of slacks, a windbreaker, his suit, three stray hangers, and the garment
bag. He hadn’t touched it, or even looked it, since he’d hung it there months
ago. It was like he’d developed a localized blindness that screened it out.