Sleep Tight (22 page)

He slammed his door to find three young black gentlemen in sharp suits and close-cropped hair. They all carried Bibles and gave him tight-lipped smiles. One of them said, “Evening, brother.”

Sam grinned right back and flashed his star and his handgun. The three gentlemen faded back to the front of the building, joining a couple of others in shouting upbeat slogans at passing cars. Sam shook his head and spit his nicotine gum on the sidewalk.

Anybody who had spent any time at all on the streets knew this place was as crooked as the day was long. Like a lot of other nonprofit organizations, this place wore a mask. Out front, and on paper, this place looked like a god-fearing Christian charity, spreading the good word while they clothed and fed and sheltered the less fortunate. They paid the local cops and their alderman good money to make sure that mask stayed in place.

Under the mask, they used the homeless men as drug mules, carrying small shipments to the various gangs across the South and West sides. Nobody who knew said anything. You throw a wrench into the Machine, and no matter how strong the wrench, the Machine would chew it up and spit out shards of steel. If you were lucky, you lost an eye. If you weren’t, your family would find what was left after you swallowed the business end of a twelve-gauge shotgun.

Ed helped Qween out of the backseat. She always walked a little bit like a movie cowboy, as if only her head and feet had received the original instructions, thanks to whatever childhood disease she had endured. When she carried the bag, the effect was more pronounced. She carried it close to her hip, back straight, bearing the weight with her entire body.

Ed opened the side door of the mission and waited for Qween and Sam to go inside.

Qween waited in the hallway for Sam, then followed him deeper though the next set of doors. Ed followed. Sam knew the assholes out front would be calling the office inside, and knew that he had only a minute. He moved fast, and Qween kept up. He had to give her credit; when she had to, the old girl moved fast and quiet. He avoided the chapel straight ahead and turned left in the next hallway, away from the music and candles. He guessed that the cafeteria tables and cots were to the right. He wanted the administration offices.

Sam didn’t bother to knock. He twisted the door handle and slammed his shoulder into the door, hoping it was unlocked. It was. He burst into the room, one hand holding up his star, one hand on his holster. “Evening, brothers.”

He was in luck. This was the main office. Four men. Two were busy trying to sweep cash off a desk. One of them had a desk phone wedged between his ear and shoulder. Sam ignored them and concentrated on the two guys sitting on either side of the door. They were halfway up, reaching inside their suits.

Ed was immediately behind him, and he wasn’t fucking around. He already had his .357 out. “You sit right the fuck down.” The two big guys eyeballed each other and decided their cut wasn’t worth taking on some pissed-off cop with a giant handgun. They sat.

While Sam angled toward the two guys trying to hide all the cash, Ed focused on the muscle. “That’s right, fuckheads. Sit still. Don’t give me an excuse, you got me?”

“Easy, easy,” Sam told the accountants. “This isn’t a raid. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what y’all are up to in here. We’re only here for some information. So take a deep breath. Leave that cash alone. It’s not going anywhere.”

Ed told the muscle, “I got an itch to put some holes in your heads, so do yourselves a favor and listen carefully. I don’t give a fuck who is supposedly protecting you. He here now?” He showed them his handgun. “I am. Ain’t no secret you packing. So here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna take those guns out, nice and slow, and put ’em on the floor. One at a time. You do it the right way and I don’t paint the wall with your brains.”

“Amen, brother,” Sam said.

The two men didn’t want to die. One at a time, they took out their handguns, holding them gingerly by the handles, and left them on the floor. Ed kicked them over to Sam. “Now then, since I don’t feel like searching you, y’all are gonna lie down with your hands behind your head. We’ll be out of your hair soon.

Sam said, “All we need is to talk to you about the spacemen.” He was having a ball being the good cop for a change.

One of the muscleheads said in a muffled voice, “We didn’t do nothing.”

Ed said, “Shut the fuck up, ’less you got something constructive to say.”

“All I’m sayin’ is that we didn’t do nothin’.”

“Last warning,” Ed said.

“Hey, man, what’s your problem?” The musclehead was getting indignant. “You need to talk to your supervisor. This here, we’re protected, you understand what I’m saying?”

Ed nodded. “I understand you didn’t listen.” He gave the guy a swift kick in the stomach. The air rushed out of the guy’s lungs in a stunned hushing sound, and he made a strangled whining noise as struggled to take another breath. “Dumbass,” Ed said. “Who’s fucking next?”

Sam said, “Maybe violence isn’t the answer here.” He turned his attention back to the two men by the desks. “You seem like reasonable men. Care to enlighten my partner and me? Tell us about the spacemen and we’re gone.”

The two men wouldn’t look up. They didn’t say anything.

Sam said, “No? Okay then.” He went around the desks, opened a few drawers at random until he found what he was looking for. A simple BIC lighter. He flicked it once, made sure it worked. He grabbed a stack of hundred-dollar bills off the desk, folded one over, and lit it on fire.

“You can’t do that,” one of the men said.

“I’m not doing anything,” Sam said, holding on to the burning bill until the flames were licking his thumb and forefinger. He dropped it and ground the ashes into the expensive carpet. Sam lit two more bills. “File a complaint. Take me to court. Go ahead, prove this money ever existed.” He lit the entire stack, burning at least four or five thousand dollars. “You can explain to your boss why you’re a little short today.” He grabbed another fistful of cash.

“Fine, fine, okay? Just stop,” one of the accountants said, patting the air in front of him like he was trying to get a bus to slow down. “It’s got nothing to do with us.”

Sam flicked his gaze to the groaning man on the floor. “That’s what he said too.”

“I just mean, all we do is call ’em if we got somebody in here that fits the description.”

“And what would that description be?”

“Somebody looking like they going cold turkey. Shaking. Itching. Sleeping and won’t wake up. Shit like that.”

“Then what?”

“Sometimes they come here. The spacemen. Guys in rubber suits and masks. They take ’em away.”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes we take ’em ourselves. Sometimes they call us. When they want somebody.”

“Somebody.”

“Yeah, somebody. Those times, it don’t matter. They just want somebody.”

“Somebody that nobody’ll miss,” Ed chimed in.

The guy shrugged. “I guess so, yeah. We don’t ask questions.”

Before Ed could lose his temper again, Sam asked, “Where do you take ’em?” He was willing to bet all the money on the desk that the guy was going to say, “Cook County General.”

But the guy said, “Loading dock on Lower Wacker. Between Monroe and Adams.”

Sam popped more nicotine gum. Chewed slowly. It made sense. If they were dropping people off, whoever was in charge of the hospital wouldn’t want anyone to see it. It seemed very likely that there was another way inside, not just the emergency entrance. Lower Wacker had loading docks that opened to Cook County General.

They heard a scream.

“Where’s Qween?” Ed asked.

 

Phil didn’t call for a long time. Kimmy had put Grace to bed earlier, and had retreated to the bathroom to sulk in a bath she kept refilling with hot water, over and over, when it grew too cool.

Lee didn’t give a damn. She could drown in there as far as he was concerned. He’d dug a bottle of cheap gin out of the back of his kitchen pantry somebody had left during his housewarming party and sat in front of the windows, staring at the Chicago skyline. The only light came from the television, but the sound was muted, so all Lee could hear was the hum of the air-conditioning and the occasional dull rush of hot water in the bathtub.

His uncle’s voice was cold. “I told you this was going to come back and bite you in the ass.”

Lee was drunk, but knew he’d better at least act like he was sorry. Arguing would just make things worse. And drunk or not, he needed his uncle’s help. “My apologies,” he mumbled.

His uncle sighed. “I’ve been up for the past three fucking days, trying to fix your mistakes. I’m tired and I’m pissed. You’re lucky you’re my nephew, or I’d have some fellas I know come over and teach you a fucking lesson. Give you a chance to try wiping your ass with a fucking hook.”

Lee stayed quiet, giving his Phil a chance to vent.

“As it is, there’s no goddamn point. The big boys are scared. They’re looking for a scapegoat. They’re kicking around a few names, but I gotta tell you, yours is at the top of the list.”

Lee shot to his feet. “So why’d you call then? Just to rip me a new asshole? Huh? What, make yourself feel better?”

“I called because I feel responsible, and to let you know that by this time tomorrow night, it’ll be all over. All your friends are distancing themselves from you. Me included. Got no choice. You’re goddamn toxic and nobody, but nobody, is going to want to be associated with you. I called to give you the name of a good lawyer. Forget about using the usual firm. No fucking way they’re going near this shit.”

“You can take your lawyer and shove him up your ass. I’m gonna ride this out and fucking bury you.” Lee hung up. For several long seconds, he glared at his reflection in the windows. The rage built, vibrating up through his feet, his legs, his guts. He ground his teeth together. Luckily, the bathroom was silent. So instead of kicking the door down and dragging Kimmy out by her hair, he whipped his phone at the TV. It bounced off with a small popping noise, leaving a spiderweb of cracks the size of a coaster.

 

 

When Ed and Sam had gone into the office, Qween slipped back past the church and into the dormitory, her sneakers silent on the plush carpeting. The mission was a fixture in the neighborhood; it had been around for years. Everybody knew about the homeless men carrying drug money. Few, though, knew about the homeless women and sometimes young men who were enticed with promises of a hot meal, a warm place to sleep, and of course, eternal salvation and taken downstairs, given their own rooms, and told to wait patiently for a select group of clientele, who, as it turned out, liked to inflict a little damage with their love.

She found the door she wanted in the back of the mission and quietly unzipped her bag. She gently squeezed the door handle and twisted. The door opened on a small office.

An older man was asleep at the desk. He was wearing a suit, but it was about ten years out of fashion, faded and tight on his soft, bulging frame. She set the bag on the floor and shut the door, not bothering to be quiet anymore.

The man opened his eyes and blinked as she shot the dead bolt home.

Qween said, “Told you I’d be back.”

The man nodded. “I remember you. I remember Jesus wouldn’t forgive your sins, no matter how hard we tried to save you.”

“You gonna wish Jesus was here to save you, motherfucker.”

He stood. Came around the desk. “I told you that if you set foot in this building again with that foul mouth I would—”

He’d gotten as far as the front of the desk when Qween pulled the bowling ball from her bag and dropped it on his foot. It landed with a jarring crunch and rolled away. He gasped, and bent over to clutch at his ankle, as if the foot hurt too much to touch. He stammered, “I’ma make sure—”

Qween wasn’t paying attention. She retrieved her ball and lobbed it at him with an underhanded toss, using both hands. It soared up about six feet. She stopped to catch her breath, and eyed the room. It hadn’t changed much in eight years.

The ball landed with a whispered crunch on the base of his spine and the man flopped forward. This time, he couldn’t suppress a short scream. One hand shot to the small of his back and the other splayed out for support or mercy, Qween wasn’t sure which. She didn’t care either way.

Eight years. Long time to carry that much weight. She was more than ready to unload it on the bastard who had raped her. She noted the same dark cheap wood imitation walls. The same puke-green carpet. The same set of Bibles. The same set of encyclopedias from 1974. Eight years ago the bastard had put a knife on the desk and said that if she gave him any problems, he would take this blade and shove it up her asshole. Then he would watch her try to get help as she slowly bled to death.

He’d smiled. Said either his dick or his knife was going in her ass and it was all up to her.

She picked up the bowling ball yet again and dropped it on his hand. Another scream. This one was long and heartfelt. She dropped the ball again on his broken foot, grinding fractured bones together.

There was a knock on the door. “Qween?” Sam’s voice. “You good?” He tried the handle, but the dead bolt held the door.

The man rolled over, trying to find his breath to shout for help. Qween dropped the ball on the guy’s crotch. Sour vomit spilled from between his teeth.

Qween called back to the door. “Not yet. But I’m getting there.” She picked up the ball again. It was growing heavier.

“You got thirty seconds to finish your business,” Sam said.

“We’re leaving.”

Qween struggled to lift the ball higher. The guy was moaning at the floor, good hand held up as if to deflect the bowling ball, wherever it might land. Qween’s breath whistled between the wide gaps in her teeth as she planted her feet, squared her hips, and slowly, slowly hefted the ball above her head.

“Oh God, oh God, don’t, I have—”

She raised the bowling ball almost a full foot over her head and dropped it on his face.