The Amateurs (16 page)

Maybe the gun went off accidentally? But there had been two shots.

Were one or two of his best friends dead in an alley right now?

“Mr. Kern.”

“Yeah.” He opened his eyes. An Indian guy in a white coat stood in front of him. Weird. The guy looked younger than him. Alex pushed away his thoughts, struggled to focus. “Doc.”

“How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts.”

“Any nausea?”

“No.”

“Numbness?”

“I wish.”

“Pain in your teeth? Double vision?”

“Huh-uh.”

The man nodded, made a note on a clipboard. “Good. Well, the results are fine. No evidence of fracture or permanent damage. The blow hit just above the zygomatic arch, which protects some important nerves. Sort of like hitting your funny bone, how it shoots through your whole arm?” He took out a pad and began to write. “I’m going to give you some Tylenol-3 for the pain. Don’t take any more than you really need.”

“What about the cut?”

“We stitched that when you arrived. You might have a little scar, nothing too dramatic.”

“You did?” He blinked. “I don’t remember.”

“You have a mild concussion. That can affect your memory.”

“Will it—”

“Be permanent? You shouldn’t have trouble remembering things that happen from now on. If you do, come back immediately. Same with vision problems or severe pain.”

“Come back? You’re saying I should go?”

“You have insurance?”

“I have child support instead.”

The man laughed. “Look, if you want, you can stay. But my advice? You’ll rest better at home, and it’s a lot cheaper.”

“Rest? Am I allowed to sleep? I thought with a concussion . . .”

“Depends on the level. You’ll be fine. In a couple of days or a week, follow up with your family practitioner.” The man handed him a slip of paper. “Your prescription.”

After the doctor left, a nurse came in, helped him stand up, gave him his clothes, wallet, and cell phone. After he changed in the bathroom, she had him sit back down in a wheelchair. “I can walk,” he said.

“Policy,” she said. “You have someone here?”

“Someone?”

“To take you home. You shouldn’t drive, sugar.”

“I can call a cab, I guess.”

“I got a better idea.” The voice came from behind. Very gently, Alex turned his head to look.

The man in the chair wore a suit and tie. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with short hair trimmed to razor edge. Something about him made Alex immediately nervous. “My name is Peter Bradley. I’m a detective with the Chicago Police Department.” His hand held out.

“A detective?” Alex shook the guy’s hand on reflex while his brain conjured images of the tip of the scissors an inch from his eye. For a moment, he thought about calling for the doctor, saying he sure felt some nausea now.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Umm.” His mouth was dry, his thoughts sticky.
We robbed Johnn
y
Love. Ian hit me too hard. Someone got shot, and I don’t know who.
“There were men with guns.”

“That’s right. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. I can give you a ride at the same time.”

“Do we have to do this now?”

“Not if you’re not up to it. But the sooner we talk, the more likely we are to catch these guys,” the detective said. He gave an apologetic shrug. “Since you need a lift anyway . . .”

You have nothing to hide.
“OK, yeah, I guess. Sure.”

“Good.” Bradley stepped behind the chair, took the handles. “Don’t you hate this crap?”

“What?”

“This. Everybody so worried you’re going to sue. Cut your finger, leave in a wheelchair.” The automatic doors whooshed open. The night was sticky after the hospital’s air-conditioning. “Here you go.”

Alex put his hands on the armrests, stood up slowly. The motion sent a bolt of pain through his head. He wobbled for a moment, kept one hand on the arm of the chair.

“You all right?”

“Feel like I spent the night slamming tequila.”

The cop laughed. “Doctors say you’ll be fine. At least you probably got some good pills out of it, right?” He gestured. “I’m over here. Where do you live?”

“Rogers Park.”

Bradley reached the car first, a pale blue Crown Vic. He unlocked the passenger-side door and held it open. Alex got in, his eyes scanning the radio mounted to the dash, the switches that controlled the sirens, the handle that moved the spotlight. Bradley climbed in the other side, fired up the engine. “Ever been in a police car before?”

“Nope. Well, once. When I was a kid.” He realized how that sounded, continued in a rush. “Got caught drinking a twelve-pack in an alley. The cop—the officer—put me in the back, drove me home.”

“Ouch. He talk to your parents?”

“No, he was cool. Just put the fear of God into me.” He reached up and gingerly touched the side of his face, his fingers tracing cotton and tape. There was something about the cop that he liked, an easy manner. Under other circumstances, he seemed like a guy it would be fun to have a drink with.

Bradley signaled, then nosed into traffic, heading for Lake Shore Drive. “So. Tell me what happened.” The headlights of other cars flared into stars.

Keep it simple.
“I was in the back room with Johnny Lo—with Mr. Loverin.”

A smile danced quick across Bradley’s lips. Alex continued. “Two men came in. They had guns and masks. They told us not to move. One of them was close to me, and I, I guess I took a swing at him. He hit me with the gun. After that, everything is fuzzy.”

“You tried to punch one of them?”

“I wasn’t really thinking.”

“Did better than most. People usually just freeze up.”

“Kind of wish I had.”

“Did you recognize the men?”

“No. Like I said, they had masks on.”

“Anything distinctive about them?”

“Guns.”

Bradley snorted. “Anything else? Scars, tattoos, heavy, tall? Anything about the clothing?”

A memory came, a time two years ago when he’d been mugged. How afterward he couldn’t remember a thing about what the man had looked like. It had been a strangely helpless feeling: all those hours lifting weights, all the standard male fantasies about what he would do, and in the moment, he’d done nothing at all—not even remember what the man looked like. “No. It’s weird, but I guess I didn’t really see them.”

“What about their eyes? Anything unusual about them?”

“Not that I remember.”

“You didn’t notice if one had a black eye?”

Something in Alex went cold. “I’m not sure.”

“What were you doing in the office?”

“Mr. Loverin asked me to come back.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Bradley merged onto the Drive, pressed the gas. There was a party going on in a Gold Coast penthouse, men and women crowding the windows, smoking on the balcony. “Tell me about Johnny Love.”

“What about him?”

“How long have you worked for him?”

“About ten years. Well, at the bar that long. He bought it, I don’t know, six years ago?”

“Did you work with him before?”

“No.”

“You never did anything for him, any side jobs?”

“What kind of jobs?”

“Anything at all.”

“I never knew him until then.” These questions were hitting closer to home than he wanted. He faked a grimace. “Look, Detective, I’m really hurting. Do you mind—”

“Sure. Lean back, relax.” Bradley moved a lane over, sped up. “I don’t want to wear you out.”

Alex felt an absurd surge of gratitude. “Thanks.”

They rolled through the night, high rises glowing on the left, their windows too bright and plentiful. Out Alex’s window, sail-boats swayed in the harbor. “I’ve never been through anything like this before.”

“You’re lucky. Things could have gone a lot worse.”

“Is everybody OK?”

“A bad guy got killed, but none of your coworkers were hurt.” The cop stared forward as they rounded the curve, Lake Shore Drive merging into Hollywood. “Do you know how Johnny Love made his money?”

“I heard rumors.”

“Bad ones?”

“I guess.”

“So you don’t mind my asking, why stay?”

“I needed the money. I’m divorced, got a daughter.”

“You couldn’t find another job?”

“Johnny was an OK boss. I figured maybe they were just rumors.”

The cop looked over, cocked an eyebrow.

Alex sighed. “Look, I hear you. You and my ex-wife think alike. I probably should have quit years ago. I just . . . never got around to it. I mean, I never saw anything that made me uncomfortable, so I ignored the rumors.”

“Went along to get along.”

“I guess. I kind of get through life by not thinking too hard about it.”

“I hear you.” Bradley nodded. “What’s your address?”

“There’s a Walgreen’s at Western and Howard. Mind dropping me there? I need to get this prescription filled.”

“Sure. I can wait.”

“You don’t need to. I’m just a couple blocks.” He tried to sound casual as he spoke, to hide the part of himself that was desperate to get out of the car, ASA-freaking-P. At least they were moving fast. Traffic was light. He had a weird memory, how when he’d first moved to Rogers Park he’d been surprised to hear sirens most every night. At first he’d thought it was cops—the neighborhood was rough around the edges—but before long he’d worked it out. It was the old folks’ homes that lined Ridge. Somebody was always dying.

“What about the shots? Tell me what you remember.”

A bad guy got killed. . . . “There were two. One a few minutes after they left. Then a pause, maybe thirty seconds or so—it’s hard to say, my time sense was screwed—and then another.”

“Nothing after that?”

“Sirens.”

The cop clicked his tongue against his lip. “Anything else?”

Alex paused. Tried to remember the scene, to envision it as if he had no greater knowledge. “I don’t think so. They were in jeans, work pants. Ski masks. The masks were black.” Shook his head. “One minute I’m standing there, then the door bangs open, these guys come in yelling—”

“What did they yell?”

“Something like ‘Shut the fuck up, don’t move.’ They were swinging guns around, and I just sort of reacted, went for one of them, and then . . .” He shrugged.

Bradley pulled the car into the drugstore parking lot. He stopped outside the front door. “Could I see your driver’s license?”

“My license?” His back tensed. “Sure.” He fumbled into his pants, pulled out his wallet, the chain rattling. Passed the ID to the cop.

“This your current address?”

“Yeah.”

Bradley scribbled it down in a pad he pulled from the dash. “How about a phone number?”

Alex gave it to him. “Do you think you’ll catch these guys?”

“Sure.”

Ice slid down his sides. “Really?”

“Why wouldn’t we?” The cop looked at him curiously.

“I don’t know. I just—well, I guess I’m just glad.”

Bradley nodded. “Positive you don’t want me to wait around for you? It’s no trouble.”

“Really, it’s fine. You know how it is, these things can take a long time.” The excuse sounding preposterous.

“OK. I’ll be in touch if we need anything else. Meanwhile.” Bradley pulled out a business card, passed it to Alex along with his license. “Just like on TV. Anything else occurs to you, don’t hesitate. Even if it seems small.”

“OK.” He reached for the door handle.

“And, Mr. Kern, a piece of advice?”

He hesitated, turned back. “Sure.”

“Your ex-wife is right about this one. Might be time to start thinking about getting a new job.”

 

 

“I’M GOING HOME.”

Jenn looked up, blinking away the alley. Funny thing, it wasn’t the violence she’d been replaying, the yelling and the fire. It was the part before, when the man pulled up behind their rental car. Those long moments, probably only two or three, when they’d been alone.

As the car headlights had splashed across her, she’d known what was coming. Not specifically, of course, but she’d been able to feel the weight of potential. And with it a chance, a slim and slippery chance to make things right. To change the future that was bar reling toward them. A chance that depended on her being clever enough, quickly enough.

If only she had thought faster. All of this would be different.

“Hello?” Ian pulled keys from his front pocket. “I’m going home.”

From the couch, Mitch said, “Why?”

“There’s nothing more we can do now, right? We just have to wait until tomorrow, talk with Alex. So I’m going to go take a shower and try to sleep.”

“Is that smart?” Jenn looked at Mitch.

“What are you asking him for?” Ian tossed his keys from hand to hand.

“It’s fine,” Mitch said. “It doesn’t matter if he waits here or there.” He looked at Ian. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like what?”

“You know what.” The way Mitch said it, that carefully measured tone, made her think he was talking about some specific thing.

Ian made a sound that was part sigh, part frustration. “I told you I was sorry.”

Mitch nodded. “OK.”

Jenn rubbed at her eyes, ran her hands through her hair, pulling it into an unbound ponytail and then dropping it to fall on her back. “All right.” She pushed off the counter she’d been leaning against. “So we get together tomorrow morning.”

“You hear from Alex, you’ll let me know?”

“Of course.”

The three of them walked to the front door. Though there was comfort in hiding here, it was still strange having them in her apartment. Ten years of unsuccessful dating had made her want a sanctuary that was all hers. It was just an apartment, but she’d painted every wall and picked out every piece of furniture, from the thin-legged hall table to the plush rug beneath the bed.