Michael Harvey - The Third Rail

I reached for my gun on the dresser. She caught my empty hand in hers.

“What is the point?” I said, forcing the question through my teeth.

Filter was in a section of the city cal ed Bucktown. The neighborhood got its name from the goats Polish immigrants used to tie up in their front yards. Today the goats are gone, replaced by angst-ridden hipsters, spiked goths, and dewy-eyed emos. Pick a label and throw a blanket over them: what you have are a col ection of just-out-of-col ege types, living in industrial lofts bought with what was left of their dad’s cash, specializing in selfawareness and taking it al very seriously. Think yuppies with tattoos and no sense of humor. I sat at a table near the window. My waitress stumbled her way across the floor on black platform shoes, wearing ripped jeans stuffed to overflowing and a T-shirt that read WE NEVER SLEEP. She was texting on her cel phone as she set down my cup of coffee.

“Could I get a pierogi with this?”

The woman nodded and began to wander away. Then she looked up from her phone and wrinkled her nose.

“A what?” She spoke in that flat, loud, cringe-inducing tone Americans are beloved for the world over.

“A pierogi. It’s a Polish dumpling.”

“We don’t have them. We have carrot muffins.”

I was about to launch into the history of Poles in Chicago, and pierogis in particular, when the waitress’s cel phone came alive in her hand, bleating out the theme song from Sanford and Son. She beamed at her ring-tone choice as if it were a newborn and then returned to the unappetizing prospect of her job… and yours truly.

“Listen, sir, I have things to do. You want something else?”

Hubert Russel drifted into view-baggy jeans, red sneakers, and backpack a perfect fit for the Filter vibe.

“My friend behind you might want something,” I said.

The waitress rol ed her eyes and flipped open her stil — singing phone. “I’l cal you back.” She hung up without waiting for a response. Then she took Hubert’s order for chai tea and moped away.

“What did you do to her?” Hubert settled into a chair across from me and pul ed off a chili-red stocking hat. Underneath was a mop of black hair, tied back in a smal ponytail.

“Nothing. How you doing?”

“Okay.” Hubert began to unpack what I assumed was a nuclear-powered laptop. He kept his body turned away from me and his head slouched low between his shoulders. I knew there was a problem. Then the light coming through the window shifted and I knew why.

“What happened to your face?”

A shiver of anger settled in his jaw. Hubert turned toward me and blinked out of one eye. The other was partial y closed and that was the good news. He had a ragged run of stitches holding together the upper half of his eyelid and swel ed up into his brow. The left side of his lower lip had caught some thread too, and I bet whatever had happened might have cost him some teeth.

“Was it just fists or something else?” I said.

“No offense, Mr. Kel y, but I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Not how things work, Hubert. You look out for your friends. And your friends look out for you.”

“Maybe I don’t need looking out for?”

“Real y. You take care of the truck that hit your face?”

Hubert tried to smile, but it looked like it hurt.

“Let me ask you something,” I said. “You want to live your life like this?”

“Like what?”

“Scared, ashamed. Pretending whatever it is, it’s not a big deal.”

“Not right now, Mr. Kel y.” The pleading edge in his voice tugged at the fabric of denial that lay bunched between us.

“We’re gonna talk,” I said. “Later, for sure.”

Hubert took a sip of his tea. “Can we do the case now?”

I shook my head and gave him the bare bones. Most of it he had already picked up from the news.

“We have one at least solid lead,” I said. “Guy dumped his rifle in an al ey after the shooting downtown.”

“He never would have done that if it could have been traced, right?”

“You’d be surprised at how careless these guys can get,” I said.

“Guys?”

“We think there are two people operating together.”

“Can you tel me what you got on the rifle?”

I shrugged. “Nothing yet. No prints. Feds are running a trace.”

Hubert lifted his one good eyebrow. “Speaking of the feds, what do you think I can do that the FBI can’t?”

“I know the Bureau,” I said. “They’re running al kinds of scenarios, working up a profile, comparing details of the crimes against other cases. Al the stuff you’d expect.”

“Makes sense to me,” Hubert said. “Use your database to look for patterns.”

“Yeah, but I’m thinking the guys we’re looking for might not fit any of the normal patterns. On top of that, the Bureau can’t do anything without discussing it for a day and a half. Meanwhile, these guys keep kil ing people.”

Hubert didn’t look like he completely bought the logic, but there was enough there for him to be intrigued. “Do they know about me?”

“I’l talk to the powers that be. Maybe get you some sort of consultant’s role.”

“And if you can’t?”

“It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

Hubert grinned. It might have been my imagination, but it looked like the smile hurt a little less. “Do I get to carry a badge?”

“No, Hubert. What you get to do is think outside the box. Develop an analysis modeled on factors no one else is taking into account.”

“And you think that’s where these guys live?”

“I think it’s worth a shot. You nose around where they’ve been…” I shrugged. “Maybe they left some footprints.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Hubert said. “Let’s get going.”

“One more thing. Last time I asked you to help, there was no real danger. Not so here. These guys like to kil, and they’re pretty good at it.”

Hubert didn’t seem impressed. Then I told him the rest of it: the brown package, the Iliad, and my trip into the underworld from the night before.

“This guy actual y set you up?” Hubert said.

I nodded.

“And shot at you?”

“That was the general idea I got, yes.”

“Wow. Are you going to report the body?”

“If they don’t find it soon enough, I’l make a cal.”

“But, for now, you want to keep the package to yourself?”

I smiled. “It was sent to me. I’d like to figure out what it means. So, yes, the package stays between us.”

I pul ed out the cardboard cutout of the black train over yel ow. “This was in there along with the book and the map. I’m thinking it’s some sort of logo, but I can’t place it.”

Hubert picked up the cutout and studied it. “Mind if I hang on to this for a while?”

“So you’re stil interested?”

“I said I was.” Hubert kicked at the pile of documents I had stacked under the table. “Now, when are you going to tel me about al of this?”

I pul ed up the files I’d gotten from Jim Doherty. “You’re a smart kid.”

Hubert had his eyes fixed on the files. “Yeah, yeah. So what surprises do we have here?”

I’d just opened one of the files when Rodriguez walked through Filter’s front door. I waved him over. “I told the detective to meet us here.”

Hubert shrugged. “Cool.”

Rodriguez slid into the booth beside Hubert. “What’s up, kid? Whoa, what happened to the face?”

I thought Hubert might just get up and leave. He smiled instead. “Hi, Detective. How are you?”

Rodriguez looked over to me and back to Hubert. Then he noticed the old files piled up at my elbow.