Marcus Sakey - Good People

The detective held his gaze for a moment, a question clearly framed in his mind. Then he shrugged, turned away. “I’ve got some paperwork to fill out, and the photographer will need half an hour or so, then we should have the body out of here.” He glanced at the stove. “By the way, you were right not to throw water on the fire, but if it ever happens again, you should use baking soda, not flour.”

“Why’s that?”

“Believe it or not, it’s explosive.”

“Really?”

Halden nodded, then opened his binder and started making notes with his pen. “Yup. You got lucky with the flour.”

She almost snorted, just barely caught herself. Locked eyes with Tom, saw that he was thinking the same thing, panic laughter tearing them both up inside. Finally, her eyes on her husband’s, savoring the words, the connection, the two of them alone in it the way they used to be, she said, “Detective, you sure are right about that.”

FROM THE STOOL at the end of the bar, Jack Witkowski could look out the narrow window to the apartment building across the street. The blinds were closed, and the blue light flickering behind them had died almost five minutes before.

“You boys want another?” The chick tending bar had the look of a girl who’d dyed her hair too many years in a row. Jack shook his head, but Marshall said, “I’m all right, sweetheart, but set him up again.”

“I didn’t say I wanted one.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“What the Christ does that mean?”

“You were thinking of Bobby again.” Marshall lifted his whiskey, held it under his nose. “A drink’ll help.”

“Then you fucking have it.”

Marshall shook his head, set down the glass, stared out the window.

“Something you want to say?” Jack knew he was being snappy, taking Bobby’s death out on Marshall just because he was close, but he didn’t care. Three weeks hadn’t done a thing to ease the pain. Worst was that when he thought of Bobby, which was all the damn time, he always came back to that last conversation in the car, when he’d told Bobby everything would be fine, that he was a bad man.

Only he wasn’t, never had been. He was a lightweight thief taking on a heavyweight job because his big brother asked him to. And now Bobby was dead, killed in a dark alley he shouldn’t have been anywhere near, and Jack was left with the memory of talking him into it.

The bartendress returned, set a shot of tequila and a Negra Modelo in front of him. Marshall passed her a ten folded between two fingers. She took it, then went back to her paperback at the other end of the bar.

Jack said nothing, just studied the play of red neon on brown glass. The bar smelled of stale cigarettes and burned coffee. Marshall tapped the edge of his whiskey glass, then pushed it away. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it went down the way it did. Bobby was a good kid.”

Jack said nothing.

“But the cops are tearing the city apart. Will humped us. Once they found Bobby’s body, you know they started looking at who he ran with. Your name is top of the list. Mine too. I’m sorry he’s gone, but now ain’t the time to be running around weeping over it. He was a nice kid, but he wasn’t a professional, and that got him killed. That’s life.”

“Listen to me very carefully,” Jack said, then took the tequila properly, no salt, no lime. “If you ever talk this shit again, or disrespect my brother that way, you and I, we’re going to mix it up.” He turned sideways. “You want to talk professional? Try this on.

The four of us were supposed to leave together. You really think Will would have made a play against all of us?”

“The bodyguard-”

“The bodyguard wasn’t supposed to move. That was your job.”

Marshall shook his head. “Things don’t always work neat, man. That’s part of the business. You know that.” He paused. “Besides, it wasn’t me that sent Bobby out alone with Will.”

Jack gripped the neck of the beer bottle hard enough he could feel it creak. “Fuck you.”

Marshall said, “The point is-”

“I get your fucking point.” He took a swig, the beer tasting foul. Thought about turning and cracking the bottle into Marshall’s skull. But a voice told him that the man was right, that the job came with risks. They just weren’t supposed to land on Bobby.

He thought of Will Tuttle, that smooth voice and asshole personality, the victory cigarette he tucked behind his ear. The thought filled him with fire. Marshall was right. It wasn’t his fault, or Jack’s, not really. It was Will that pulled the trigger.

Over the sound system, Mick Jagger sang that ti-ime was on his side, yes it was. Marshall sat silent. Jack sucked on his beer. He stared at the battered bar and tried to pull up his brother’s face, found it harder than it should be. It all seemed fragmented: a glimpse of a laugh here, a smile there. Birthdays and moments in cars. The time he’d convinced Maria Salvatore from down the block to give them both handjobs, when fourteen-year-old Bobby had that split look, half fear, half unbearable eagerness. Mostly, though, what Jack came up with was Bobby holding a borrowed gun and saying he was a bad man.

Marshall cracked his knuckles and cleared his throat. When he spoke, it was in a lighter tone, aimed at changing the subject. “Something I always wanted to know.”

“Huh?”

“How’s two Polacks named Witkowski end up Jack and Bobby?”

“My mother.” Jack smiled, remembering her out in the tiny backyard, herbs in pots and paint flaking off the garage, humming while she pinned up laundry. “Big fan of the Kennedy brothers. The whole American dream. Come from a poor Polish family, work hard, do good in school, one day you end up like them.” Jack snorted. “Bobby used to say she’d been right – we both grew up to be good-looking criminals.”

Marshall laughed, then said, “I am sorry, man. And when we find Will, he’s going to be even sorrier.”

Jack nodded, took a breath. He leaned back to look out the window. “Light’s been off awhile. You ready?”

“Let’s work.” This time when Marshall set down his whiskey glass, it was dry.

THE APARTMENT WAS FRONTED by a narrow vestibule with two doors, one leading into the ground-floor unit, one to the upstairs apartments. Jack glanced out at Marshall leaning against a lamppost, an unlit cigarette held between two fingers. His partner’s head shook, just barely, and Jack went to the mailboxes, took out his keys, busied himself fumbling with them until a middle-aged couple walked by, talking and oblivious. When he looked back after thirty seconds, Marshall nodded.

Jack loved dead bolts. The locks on most doors could be picked in under a minute. But because people had twisted a knob, they felt safe, went to bed believing monsters couldn’t get in. As he swung the door open, Marshall fell in behind. They staggered their footsteps, walking on the edge of the stairs to minimize noise as they climbed to the second floor.

The kid had a welcome rug that read, “Hi! I’m Mat.” Marshall pointed at it, snorted, then pulled a flattened roll of duct tape from his back pocket and stretched off the first inch. Jack knelt in front of the door, the tension wrench tugging lightly to the side, his pick sliding down the pins. When the cylinder gave that sweet few degrees, he straightened, then twisted the lock the rest of the way open.

The apartment was a Chicago classic, a graystone built on a standard-width lot. Inside the door was a deep living room, furniture barely visible by the light trickling through the curtains. There was a faint depression on the couch where the kid had been watching television without any idea that men sat in the bar across the street watching him. Jack stepped inside, pausing to listen. Dead silence.