Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

Kevin shrugged.

‘‘Well, then.’’ Bernie dipped his head, as if he’d made a significant point.

I’ll call your shiner and raise you an MIA? How could you compare Vietnam to Lincoln Park? ‘‘Maybe they have a point,’’ Kevin said wearily.

‘‘What point comes out of violence?’’

‘‘Couldn’t they say the same about us?’’

‘‘We’re soldiers, son.’’ Bernie scowled. ‘‘We have a job to do. You can bet if I was on the front line…’’ He threw a glance at the two men at the next table, then looked back at Kevin. ‘‘Hey, are you sure you’re up for this?’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’

‘‘You seem, well, I dunno.’’ He gazed at him. ‘‘I got this feeling.’’

Kevin tightened his lips. ‘‘I’m fine, Bernie. Really.’’

The cemetery hugged the rear of the parish church. It was a small place, with only one or two mausoleums. Unlike the Doughertys, most Bridgeport dignitaries chose Rosehill, the huge cemetery on the North Side, as their final resting place. Kevin avoided going inside the church; he didn’t want to run into Father Connor.

Despite the blanket of heat, birds twittered, and a slight breeze stirred an elm that somehow escaped Dutch elm disease. He strolled among the headstones until he reached the third row, second from the left. The epitaph read: HERE LIES A GOOD MAN, FATHER, AND GUARDIAN OF THE LAW.

Life with Owen Dougherty hadn’t been easy. He was strict, and he rarely smiled, especially after he gave up drinking. But he’d been a fair man. Kevin remembered when he and his buddy Frank smashed their neighbor’s window with a fly ball. Frank got a beating from his father, but Kevin didn’t. His father forked over the money for the window, then made Kevin deliver groceries for six months to pay him back.

He sat beside his father’s grave, clasped his hands together, and bowed his head. ‘‘What would you do, Dad?’’ Kevin asked. ‘‘This war may be wrong. It took Michael. But I’m a cop. I have a job to do. What should I do?’’

The birds seemed to stop chirping. Even the traffic along Archer Avenue grew muted as Kevin waited for an answer.

Tuesday night Kevin and Bernie were assigned to the Amphitheater again. The convention site was quiet, but the rest of the city wasn’t. On Wednesday morning Kevin heard how a group of clergymen showed up at Lincoln Park to pray with the protestors. Despite that, there was violence and tear gas and club swinging, and police cleared the park twice. Afterward, the demonstrators headed south to the Loop and Grant Park. At three a.m. the National Guard came in to relieve the police.

Greer transferred Bernie and Kevin to Michigan Avenue for the noon-to-midnight. Tension had been mounting since the Democrats defeated their own peace plank. When the protestors in Grant Park heard the news, the American flag near the band shell was lowered to half-mast, which triggered a push by police. When someone raised a red shirt on the flagpole, the police moved in again. A group of youth marshals lined up to try and hold back the two sides, but the police broke through, attacking with clubs, Mace, and tear gas.

As darkness fell, demonstration leaders put out an order to gather at the downtown Hilton. Protestors poured out of Grant Park onto Lake Shore Drive, trying to cross one of the bridges back to Michigan. The Balbo and Congress bridges were sealed off by guardsmen with machine guns and grenades, but the Jackson Street Bridge was passable. The crowd surged across.

The heat had lost its edge, and it was a beautiful summer night, the kind of night that begged for a ride in a convertible. When they were teenagers, Kevin’s brother had yearned for their neighbor’s yellow T-Bird. He’d made Kevin walk past their neighbor’s driveway ten times a day with him to ogle it. He never recovered when it was sold to someone from Wisconsin.

‘‘Hey, Dougherty. Look alive!’’ Kevin jerked his head up. Bernie’s scowl was so fierce his bushy eyebrows had merged into a straight line. About thirty cops, including Kevin and Bernie, were forming a barricade. Behind the police line were guardsmen with bayonets on their rifles. A wave of kids broke toward them. When the kids reached the cops, they kept pushing. The cops pushed back. Kevin heard pops as canisters of tear gas were released. The kids covered their noses and mouths.

‘‘Don’t let them through!’’ Bernie yelled. Kevin could barely hear him above the din. He twisted around. Bernie’s riot stick was poised high above his head. He watched as Bernie swung, heard the thwack as it connected with a solid mass. A young boy in front of them dropped. Bernie raised his club again. Another thwack . The boy fell over sideways, shielding his head with his arms.

The police line wobbled and broke into knots of cops and kids, each side trying to advance. Kevin caught a whiff of cordite. Had some guardsman fired a rifle? The peppery smell of tear gas thickened the air. His throat was parched, and he could barely catch his breath. He threw on his gas mask, but it felt like a brick. He tore it off and let it dangle by the strap around his neck. Around him were screams, grunts, curses. An ambulance wailed as it raced down Congress. Its flashing lights punctuated the dark with theatrical, strobe-like bursts.

Somehow Kevin and Bernie became separated, and a young girl suddenly appeared in front of Kevin. She was wearing a white fluffy blouse and jeans, and her hair was tied back with a bandana. She looked like Maggie. Young people streamed past, but she lingered as if she had all the time in the world. She stared at him, challenging him with her eyes. Then she slowly held up two fingers in a V sign.

Kevin swallowed. A copper he didn’t know jabbed her with his club. ‘‘You! Get back! Go back home to your parents!’’

She stumbled forward and lost her balance. Kevin caught her and helped her up. She wiped her hands on her jeans, her eyes darting from the other cop to Kevin. She didn’t seem to be hurt. She disappeared back into the crowd. Kevin was relieved.

A few yards away a group of cops and kids were shoving and shouting at each other. Rocks flew through the air.

‘‘Traitors!’’ An angry voice that sounded like Bernie rose above the melee. His outburst was followed by more pops. As the tear gas canisters burst, a chorus of screams rose. The protestors tried to scatter, but they were surrounded by cops and guardsmen, and there was nowhere to go. The cops closed in and began making arrests.

Coughing from the gas, Kevin moved in. He was only a few feet away when the girl with the long hair and peasant blouse appeared again. This time she was accompanied by a slender boy with glasses. He was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. The girl’s bandana was wet and was tied around her nose and mouth. She was carrying a poster of a yellow sunflower with the words WAR IS NOT HEALTHY FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS.

The boy looked Kevin over. He and the girl exchanged nods. ‘‘What are you doing, copper man?’’ His eyes looked glassy.

Kevin kept his mouth shut.

‘‘You don’t want this blood on your hands. She told me how you helped her up. Come with us. You can, you know.’’ The boy held out his hand as if he expected Kevin to take it.

Wisps of tear gas hovered over the sidewalk. Kevin tightened his grip on his club. He stared at the kids. The girl looked more and more like Maggie.

Suddenly, Bernie’s voice came at them from behind. ‘‘Kevin. No! Don’t even look at ’em!’’

Kevin looked away.

‘‘Don’t listen to him, man!’’ The boy’s voice rose above Bernie’s. ‘‘You’re not one of the pigs. You don’t agree with this war, I can tell. Come with us.’’