Evan Arden 05 Irrevocable (9 page)

“Your son?”

“Grandson.”

“My aunt.”  I point to a woman in her fifties, hooked up to machines just beyond Harpy’s bed.  “Car accident.”

“I’m so sorry.”  She places her hand on my arm, her concern genuine.  “On your mother or father’s side?”

“Mother’s.”  It’s easy enough to make up a story on the spot.  “Mom’s been gone a few years.  Breast cancer.  Aunt Betsy has pretty much looked after me since then.”

I let out a hollow laugh.

“Almost thirty, and I still need someone looking after me.”  I shake my head.

“We all do, dear.”  She pats my arm.  “Would you like to pray with me?”

Well, that would be different.

“Yeah,” I say quietly, “I would.”

She places her hands over mine, and I can feel the beads from the rosary against my knuckles.  She closes her eyes, and I do the same.  After a moment of silence, she begins to pray.

“Dear Lord, please hear our plea.  Our loved ones, Jimmy and Betsy, they need your help.  We don’t know what you have planned for them, but we beg you to have mercy.  They are loved and needed here in our lives.”  She pauses for a moment and grips my hands tighter.  “Please show us your grace, your forgiveness, and help these good doctors and nurses bring our loved ones back to us.  In Jesus’ name.”

“Amen,” we say together.

She opens her eyes and tilts her head to smile up at me.

“Thank you,” she says as she releases my hands.  “You have been a blessing to me today, but I have to return to work.”

“You’re welcome.”  I’m sure I’m not truly counted in her list of blessings, but I rather hope she never realizes this.

“I’m going to light a candle in the chapel on the way out.  I’ll light one for your Aunt Betsy, too.”

“She would appreciate that.”  I touch her arm, and she walks away.

After a few minutes, I follow her out to the parking lot where she heads to the bus stop.  I let her sit for a moment, then drive up close by and roll down my window.

“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

She squints until I stick my head out the window a bit more so she can recognize me.  She smiles broadly, nods, and gathers up her purse.

“The good Lord definitely sent you to me today!” she exclaims as I help her down into the low seat.  “Those benches at the bus stops are not friendly to my back.  What’s your name, young man?”

“Michael.”

“I’m Sonja, Michael dear.  I think you truly are an angel!”

I grin and put the Camaro in gear.  I ask her where she’s going, and she gives me directions to a seedy 7-Eleven a couple of miles from the hospital.  As I drive, she tells me stories of Harpy—Jimmy, to her—as a child.  Apparently, he started getting into trouble at a pretty early age.

“All he had done was bump his bicycle into this poor woman’s car.  She wasn’t even angry about it, but he still lied through his teeth that he hadn’t done the deed.  There was only a little scratch, and I don’t even think she wanted money for it.  She only wanted him to admit what he had done and apologize, but not Jimmy.  He never took responsibility for what he’d done.”

“I’m guessing he got into the wrong crowd as he got older.”

“That he did.”  She bobs her head up and down.  The colorful cloth slides down on her forehead a bit, and she reaches up to adjust it.  “It’s so hard for the boys in this neighborhood not to get involved in the gangs.  I wanted his mother to move farther north, but who can afford such places?”

“Not many.”

“Not many indeed!”  She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.  “I wanted to get out of Chicago altogether when I was a young woman, even moved to Gary for a short time, but when I found out I was about to have a little girl, I had to come home to my mama for help.”

She prattles on, and I try to ask questions that will give me some information I need, but she seems quite stuck on stories of the past, not the present.  As I pull up to the parking lot of the 7-Eleven, she grumbles under her breath.

“Lord help me.”

I follow her eyes to a group of young men and older teenagers.  They’re wearing orange bandanas and bracelets and seem quite content to hang at the corner by the ice machine and shove each other back and forth.

“Jimmy’s friends?”

“Friends!” she snorts.  “That boy there—the one with the half-shaved head?  He’s the one who dragged Jimmy into the gutter.  Not that the boy didn’t go willingly, but all the same…”

Her voice trails off and she sighs.  I exit and go around the front to help her out of the car.

“Thank you so much, Michael.  You have truly brightened my day.”

“You are very welcome, Sonja.  Take care of yourself.”  I watch her head inside the convenience store.

Getting out of the Camaro isn’t a stealthy move on my part.  As soon as I finish getting Sonja on her feet, I notice the gang members have stopped shoving each other and are now watching me.  I meet the gaze of the half-shaved one.

He moves his hand to the back of his jeans.  I know he’s going for a gun, but I also know he won’t use it.  There’s a cop car parked a block down, and the guy certainly knows it.  I nonchalantly pull a cigarette out and light it.  Leaning against the side of the Camaro, I take a long drag and blow smoke in his direction.

Looking nervously to his comrades, he speaks in a tone too low for me to hear.  A moment later, he walks up to me.  As he approaches, I recall his name from Jonathan’s list of Auburn Grisham’s local ruffians.  Omarie Keevers—Junko’s brother.

“What are you doing here, Arden?”

“Giving a nice old lady a ride,” I say with a smile.  “She’s a little troubled you know.  I understand her grandson is in the hospital.”

Omarie glares and starts to reach behind his back again.

“Not a good idea.”  I glance in the direction of the police car.

He heeds my warning without asking for more explanation.  At least he has some brains.  He plants his feet firmly and stands up taller.

“You goin’ on your way then?”  He intends for the words to be a command, but they come out a question anyway.

“Not sure yet.”  I take another puff off the cigarette.  “It’s such a nice neighborhood.  Maybe I’ll go apartment shopping.”

“You’re south of Forty-seventh,” Omarie says, trying to sound bold.  “Out of your territory.”

“Must be a reason for that.”  I toss my cigarette at his feet and push off the car.  “It seems something that belongs to me has been misplaced.  I think it might be misplaced around here somewhere.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”  His answer is far too quick.  He doesn’t ask
what
because he already knows the answer.  He glances over his shoulder at the group and then looks back to me.  “You need to get movin’ before my boys get aggravated.  It’s too early for bloodshed.”

“I’m going to get moving because I’m out of cigarettes, and I’m pretty sure they don’t have my brand here.  You let Junko know I’m looking for my merchandise.”

Omarie takes a few steps back as I walk around the car and get in.  I rev the engine before pulling out of the parking lot.

“Nice bumper sticker!”  I’m not sure who yells it, but they’re all laughing.

That thing has got to go.

Back at Rinaldo’s office, I dig up everything I can find on Omarie Keevers.  He hasn’t been a big player down south, at least not until Marcello’s demise.  He must be moving up in the world quickly to have approached me out in the open, showing off for his homies, no doubt.

He knows where my guns are.

I grab a USB drive out of my bag and plug it into the side of Rinaldo’s laptop.  As I start to transfer a few things, the computer throws up an error telling me the USB drive is full, and I check to see what’s still on it.

It’s all the information I had gathered about the tournament players.  I open a couple of files to see if there’s anything I still need before deleting them, and a thumbnail of a photograph catches my eye.

It’s a picture of Landon Stark.  This isn’t surprising, considering Sebastian Stark was my primary competition, but it’s not what piques my interest.  There’s a man behind him.  He’s younger, blond, and the way he tilts his head to the side makes me realize he is the same person from Jonathan’s security footage.  Joshua Taylor—Joseph Frank’s arms dealer.  He’s the guy who met with Beni, and he’s the guy who picked up the gun shipment from the southern gangs.

Joshua Taylor.

Justin Taylor’s relative?

There’s no way it can be a coincidence.  It doesn’t take long to figure out that the two men had the same father, and that Joshua relocated from Seattle to Chicago about two months after I killed Justin.  The address he was at then is no longer valid, but I can’t find any evidence of him leaving town, either.

I jot down a couple of addresses listed under J. Taylors to check out later.  As I’m finishing up, the door opens.

It’s Lele.

She’s all bundled up in a fur coat and hat, but she’s not wearing any makeup.  Her eyes are a little red and her typically perfectly manicured nails are chipped at the thumbs.

“Evan, have you seen Naldo?”

Yeah, he’s at the apartment he set up for his mistress.  He’s also skimming from his own business to set up a nest egg for her.

“Not since yesterday.”  I manage to say the words with a completely straight face.  “We had a meeting in the morning, but I don’t know where he went from there.”

She purses her lips together and wrinkles her brow as she stares down at her hands.

“Lele, what’s wrong?”

“He didn’t come home last night,” she says quietly.  “He wasn’t home the night before either, but he left me a message that he was working late.  I haven’t heard from him since, and he’s not answering his phone.”

All thoughts of misappropriated funds leave my head as I reach over and take her hand.

“He said his phone has been acting up,” I tell her.  It’s at least partially true—he did say it.  He was lying to me at the time, but the words did come from his mouth.  “There’s a lot going on right now.  I know you don’t want the details, but I have barely been home myself.”

She squeezes my fingers and nods.

“I shouldn’t worry,” she says, “but he always comes home at least to change his clothes or get some real food in his belly.  This is so unlike him.”

“He’s fine,” I tell her.  I lean in and kiss her cheek, hoping I can reassure her even when I don’t believe a word I’m saying.  “He’s just busy.  I’m sure things will calm down soon.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”  She tries to smile, but the corners of her eyes are tight.  “I was trying to get hold of my brother, but he’s not answering either.  I was hoping Naldo had heard from him.”

“He didn’t mention it.”  I’ve never met Lele’s brother, and I’m not even sure of his name.

Lele nods slowly, gives my hand a final squeeze, and leaves the office.

I watch as she walks slowly out to her car.  After she sits down in the driver’s seat, she pulls a tissue from her purse and dabs at her eyes.

I curl my fingers into the palm of my hand hard enough for the nails to dig into my skin.  Sweat forms at my temples, and my vision blurs a little.

I’ve had enough.

As a plan begins to form in my head, I know the first thing I really need is a good night’s sleep.  I won’t be able to focus and get everything right if I’m not well rested.  I immediately start looking for Alina.

It’s early in the evening, and there aren’t too many girls out on the street yet.  Those that are milling around are way too young.  I wave a couple of them on as I park along the street and wait for Alina to show up.  I’m not going to drive around in circles and possibly miss her.

I end up waiting about thirty minutes before I see her walking up the sidewalk.  Her long legs are accentuated by the hooker-heels she wears, and her hair is bundled up on top of her head to keep the wind from blowing it too much.  She’s dressed all in blue, and I feel my heart quicken at the thought of how the bright clothing will bring out her eyes.

I lick my lips as she gets closer, watching her in the passenger-side mirror.  I see her tilt her head up as she recognizes the car.  She smiles as she focuses on the back bumper, and I roll the window down as she stops next to the car.

“Need a lift?” I say with a smile.

She presses her lips together and narrows her eyes at me.

“What’s with the one-liners?”

“I thought I was being polite.”  I reach over and open the door, staring at her legs as she climbs into the low seat.  Without thinking, I begin to speak.  “It’s early.  Maybe I should take you out for dinner or something first.”

Alina eyes me again, probably trying to decide if I’m serious or not.  I’m not completely sure myself, but my stomach growls a bit at the thought.

“How do you feel about sushi?”

“I like sushi,” she says.

“I know a really good place off Michigan Avenue.”

“That sounds good.”  There’s hesitation in her voice, but I choose to ignore it.  I know my behavior is atypical, but that’s typical for me.