Marcus Sakey: At The City's Edge

"What are you talking about?"

"Christ and all his spotted saints. I'm talking about you sending this to every news outfit in the city."

"I didn't send any packages." She felt like she was half a step behind. "I know what you're talking about, but the copy I had ended up in the river. Is there a mailing label?"

He paused, and she heard the rustle of papers. "Huh. No. No postmark. It must have been hand-delivered last night."

She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples. Score another point for their mysterious informant. Stories of the gun battle and fire at Adam Kent's house had been all over the news. The media had been having a field day broadcasting theories as to how a CPD sergeant, two known mercenaries with extensive criminal records, and one of Chicago's wealthiest men all ended up dead in what they dubbed "The Millionaire Massacre."

Someone must have decided they wanted the truth out there. She could understand Donlan's ire. It was a PR nightmare. Dirty politicians, dirty cops, and a forced acknowledgement of the seriousness of the gang problems ripping apart the South Side. All heightened by a lurid whiff of conspiracy. The story would dominate dinner tables and bar rooms for a long while to come.

She tried to feel bad about it, but the feeling just wouldn't come. "Sounds like you've got your work cut out for you."

"You don't have any idea," he said. "I'm slated to be fed to the media this afternoon. But first I have to explain to the superintendent how such a colossal fuck-up happened on my watch."

"Yeah, well, cue the violins," she said. Jason walked into the kitchen, straightening his tie. He smiled at her, tapped his wrist where a watch would be if he wore one. She nodded. "I have to get going."

"Wait." She heard a creak like Donlan's chair leaning back, and could picture him in his office, broadcloth armor and a bleached smile, the smell of Dunhills. "You were there, weren't you? At the Massacre."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I could always have you arrested and questioned."

"I could always bring a libel suit against the department for labeling me an assassin in the press."

He paused, then heaved a sigh. "Look, I'm sorry. For everything, I mean. What happened between us, and afterwards. And for dropping your name on TV. I didn't have a choice."

"I think you did."

"Okay. I deserve that. I know things got messed up. But I still consider you a friend. And one hell of a cop."

She twisted the phone cord around her fingers. "That would mean more if I didn't think you wanted something from me."

"Don't be like that."

Cruz said nothing, content to wait him out.

"Okay, fine, you win. I'm a prick, all right? Yes, I want something." His breath heavy. "This whole thing, it's a mess, and there's no upside to it. But if you were involved, we could position you as a hero. The undercover cop who busted an arms ring and helped stop a gang war. That turns it around, makes this into a great story."

She laughed. "You're asking me to bail you out?"

"The department, not just me. There's no reason to get personal or political here."

It finally snapped, the last strand of affection or respect for him. She smiled to see it go. "Remember our breakfast the other morning?"

"Of course."

"Like you said then, this is Chicago. Everything is political."

"Wait-"

"Listen very closely, James. I have something I want you to hear."

She hung up.

The ceremony was hard, but it was nice, too. The minister had known Michael and Washington both, and described them with humor and warmth, telling stories of projects they had worked together, of their unflagging devotion to the community. Jason had tipped him a hundred to play "Hallelujah," the Jeff Buckley cover of the Leonard Cohen song, one of Michael's favorites. As the notes rang over the speakers, Jason closed his eyes and saw his brother smiling behind the bar, saw Washington smoking a cigar, a book on his lap.

Afterwards, they went to what had been Washington's house. With the money from Kent, he and Ronald planned to convert it into a full-time gang recovery center. Jason didn't think he'd stay on to run the thing, but he owed it to his brother and father to finish what they had started.

Ronald moved through the room slowly, his arm in a gigantic cast. "That's the fourth time I been shot," he'd told Jason earlier. "Wish these dudes would get it through their heads I ain't going nowhere." He clapped his good arm around the shoulders of friends and former gangbangers. The tension that usually filled the house was gone. Today all were united in loss.

Boys and men ate chicken casserole off paper plates and drank Kool-Aid and beer. They traded sad nods and somber stories. The Oscar kid took Jason aside and told him how Michael had helped him get his driver's license, taught him on his own car, so that Oscar could take a job out in Melrose Park. Billy moved amidst shopowners and former killers, school teachers and cops. Someone put on music, and Ronald set out a box of Washington's cigars. The air turned blue.

Jason shook hands and listened to stories, nodded and smiled. Realizing again how little of his brother he had known, how he'd seen only a certain side. But realizing also that the side he'd seen was one that others hadn't.

To them, Michael was near sainthood, a guy who fought for his neighborhood at his own expense, larger than life. Jason was the only one who knew that his brother could also be a hot-tempered, arrogant prick. There was something sweet in the knowledge. He loved his brother all the more for knowing him to be human.

"You okay?" Cruz handed him a beer, opened one of her own.

"You know what?" He smiled at her. "I think I am."

She smiled back, took his hand. They stood for a moment, then she glanced at her watch. "It's time."

They took the backstairs up to the bedroom where they'd almost made love. The memory hit them both at the same time, funny and awkward and sweet. Cruz turned on the television, tuned it to local news.

Whoever had sent the documents to the media had poured blood in the water. The reporters were smiling sharks, savaging anyone who talked to them. James Donlan squirmed, his politician's smile faltering as he repeated over and over that he couldn't discuss details, that a full investigation was pending. The mayor's press secretary read a brief statement promising consequences of the highest order. Footage of Kent's mansion played, the boxy lines cracking under the weight of fire, smoke punching out windows, smoke knocking down walls. There was a photo of Adam Kent in a tuxedo, and though the anchor stopped short of directly accusing him, she did say recent evidence suggested he may have been involved.

Cruz said, "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," and he laughed.

The anchor continued. New documents implicated Alderman Eddie Owens in the scheme. The mayor was said to be personally disappointed. There was footage of the alderman with his hands in front of his face, scurrying into a black Towncar. Jason wondered if it was the same one.

The image cut to the alderman's right-hand, Daryl Thomas, the man they'd met at Washington's party. He stood behind a podium giving some sort of a speech, distancing himself and the rest of the administration from the alderman's actions.

Cruz shook her head.

"What?"

"I don't know. There's just something so familiar about that guy."

The anchor said that while formal elections would be scheduled, Daryl Thomas would be taking over aldermanic duties in the meantime. The anchor riffed on Thomas's qualifications: BA from Chicago, MBA from Northwestern, ten years in local politics. Strong connections to industry and big business. Respected in the community.

The screen kicked back to Thomas talking, his arms out.