Dan O'Shea - Penance

“EJ?”

“Edward Jacob. Never did get the whole line score on him. Crew foreman at Streets and San, know that much. Supervised a lot of the work when himself ripped up the old Taylor street neighborhood to put in that UIC campus starting back in the mid-Sixties. Got himself noticed somewhere along the line, round about ’70, I think. Anyway, word came down from on high. I gave him some precinct work, some ward work, bounced him around the north side for a while, tried to work him in with the Polack crowd on Milwaukee Avenue, but he just never made the grade. Pretty clear the big guy owed him one, and the big guy was pretty insistent on squaring his debts. Not so clear what he owed him for.”

“So he was a player?”

Rusty shook his head. “Big guy wanted him to be a player, but EJ didn’t have the appetite for it. God, I remember him at the Connemara Ball, this has got to be maybe 1971. He’s got on some green tux he picked up at some rental shop. His wife, she’s got some silly getup on. You never saw two souls lookin’ more lost. Himself comes up, asks Helen to dance, trying to make her at home. Look on her face the whole time, you’d think Satan was trying to butt fuck her. They were out the door by 9 o’clock. Speaking of which, you goin’ this year?”

“The Connemara? I don’t know, Rusty.”

“You should make an appearance, Johnny. People miss you. Your old man, he was well loved, and there’s them that would like to make a gesture to his boy. You’re leaving a lot on the table, son. You got a whole inheritance waitin’ on you. You know I can lay it out for you any time you like.”

“Thanks, Rusty. I know you told the old man you’d look out for me. I’m making my way, though.”

“Don’t get touchy on me now. Nobody’s saying you can’t pull your own wagon. Just wondering does it have to be uphill both ways all the time with you. You’re owed, Johnny. Nothing more than that.”

“Those debts seem to go both ways, Rusty.”

Rusty gave a little snort. “That they do, my boy. That they do.”

Back in the car, Lynch picked up his phone, checked his messages, hoping Liz had called back. Nothing. Little feeling in his gut. Might as well be back in high school. She’d been in circulation better than a year, had a couple of drinks, maybe it was just a thing. Nothing saying a woman couldn’t just be looking for a little touch.

“Jesus,” he said to himself, pulling his sunglasses off the visor. “Might as well go home and watch Oprah.”

Lynch took Harlem back down toward the Eisenhower, then cut east onto Jackson cruising the west side back toward the Loop, heading toward the United Center. His Crown Vic wasn’t a marked unit, but it was marked enough for this neighborhood. Lynch watched the look outs on some of the hot corners scurrying ahead, letting the street dealers know five-0 was on the block. Lynch rode with the window cranked down a couple turns, taking in the sights and sounds, just showing the flag a little, letting his chat with Rusty percolate.

Lynch wasn’t sure he was worried about Eddie Marslovak being out at the house. Eddie moved a lot of money around town, both on the books and through back channels, so he and Rusty, they’d be dipping their sticks in the same hole often enough. The rest of it — Burke, this Lazzara guy, Pretty Boy Fell — that pointed to some official deal, not something related to the shooting. Interesting that Eddie wanted some security, though. Lynch would think about that.

Lynch was more curious about Rusty’s quick spiel on Marslovak. Usually, Rusty was slow, patching things together, stopping to think about this guy or that guy, rummaging around the fifty years of hardball politics that cluttered up his head. So his rehearsed version of the EJ Marslovak story had Lynch wondering. Either Rusty’d been thinking about Marslovak himself — which was natural, given Helen’s murder — or somebody had tipped him off that Lynch might be asking.

Just as Lynch swung north onto the Kennedy, his phone rang.

“Lynch.”

“Hey, John Lynch.” Liz. Son of a bitch. “Thanks for calling this morning. It meant something. Saved me thinking all day. You know, was it just the booze or something.”

Lynch paused, wondering how far to go with this. Fuck it. Just roll with it. “Wasn’t just the booze, Johnson.”

“Not very macho and cop-like, Lynch. You OK?”

“Fine. Thinking about trading in my nine, maybe getting a nice.22. One of those little chrome plated automatics? Mother-of-pearl handle? Later maybe get my legs waxed.”

“Now you’re sounding better. You scared me there for a second. Nice to know that you managed to squeeze in a thought about me, though.”

“A couple, yeah.”

“Nice thoughts?”

“Well, not PG nice, but nice.”

That chuckle. Already falling for that chuckle. “Still want to take me to dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“Like a real date? I go home and change and you pick me up and everything?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“You going to open the doors for me, help me with my coat?”

“Don’t need a coat. It’s nice out.”

“Help me pull up my zipper then?”

“Help you pull it down, even.”

“So a full-service date?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

That chuckle again. “Pick me up at 7.00, John Lynch. And bring me flowers.”

Lynch went straight to Starshak’s office. Starshak was wearing what he always wore — a solid navy blue suit, white shirt, simple tie, half a pound of crap in his hair keeping everything locked in place.

Starshak’s office was always neat. He didn’t like shit out. Desk, low filing cabinet along the right wall, tall cabinet back in the corner. On the low cabinet he had a line of framed photos — his wife, the two daughters, one family shot that had the dog in it, big Collie, the kind with the darker hair. A fern hung in front of the window on the left. Thing was huge, and Starshak was always futzing with it, picking off dead leaves, spraying it with the squirt bottle he kept in his desk. On top of the tall filing cabinet, Starshak had a glass case. Starshak made model airplanes. In fact, he was some kind of hot-shot modeler, even had some plaques on the wall near the cabinet. Every month or so he’d rotate a new plane into the case. Lynch had been out to his house a couple of times, holiday things Starshak’s wife would put on for the squad. Whole basement was walled with display cases holding Starshak’s planes.

Lynch was pretty sure the plane in the case was new.

“New plane, boss?”

Starshak looked up. “Yeah. German. FW20 °Condor. Scourge of the Atlantic. Long range recon mostly. Tracked conveys and called in the Wolf Packs.”

Lynch nodded.

“So how’d it go with the SWAT guy? He any help?”

“You’re gonna love this. He says the guy took the shot from the old Olfson factory. Fourth floor, east end. Told crime scene, they got the mobile lab down there, they’re checking it out. Looks right, though.”

“That’s like what, halfway to the Loop?”

“Half a mile, give or take.”

“This just gets better and better.”

“Gave me some good stuff, though. Kind of a profile. Been lots of traffic in the old Olfson place, too — lot of garbage, lot of tagging. Based on the graffiti, looks like some offshoot of the Vice Lords hangs out in there. Gave the gang crimes guys a call, see if they can get me any names. Be somebody to talk to anyway. Took a better look around old lady Marslovak’s house, too. Found this.” Lynch handed Starshak the Wrigley shot.

“So Marslovak’s old man had some clout?”

“Talked to my uncle about it. He says Hurley the First owed the guy for something and tried to square it by wiring him in, but it didn’t take. Something about the whole thing seems off. Also, Rusty had some conclave going on out there — Eddie Marslovak, Burke from the mayor’s office, that new finance guy, Lazzara, Pretty Boy Fell, couple of DNC guys. And Marslovak’s got Pete Lewis riding shotgun for him now.”