ways that aren’t immediately obvious and he closes the distance.
"What did you say, Sergeant?"
Sonny stops smiling and I realize he’s not a drop drunk and might be doing this for me. Might be. Sonny leans 250 pounds closer to our Watch LT. "I said, sir,
empty-holster-motherfucker,
is what I said."
If I haven’t mentioned it before, Sonny Barrett, drunk or sober, armed or not, is not someone you screw with, and everyone south of the river who needs to know that, knows it.
"I said it to Officer Hazleton, sir; that mick shithead next to you. And I’ll say it again if you’d like. Sir."
There’s a reasonable chance that Kit Carson does not want to die on Seventy-ninth Street. And he’s having trouble gauging Sonny’s condition. More than one cop has died when the day’s internal stress was marinated in whiskey and badly chosen words. I don’t know if Sonny’s playing—his whole act since my gasoline shower has been a bubble or two off—but I’m glad he’s standing there. And that feels funny for both reasons.
Kit Carson looks at me. "IAD, now," and waits until I’m driving away to turn and face Sonny. The last I see of Kit is he and Sonny are squared up, Kit Carson backed by his patrol officers. It looks like a fair fight, even backwards in my mirror.
• • •
My cell vibrates before I can get fifteen blocks to the Dan Ryan. It’s the superintendent’s secretary. The message is: "This evening’s IAD appointment has been postponed. Contact the superintendent at 0-900 hours tomorrow."
Strange…but good. At least I think it’s good; now I have time to wallow in the list of charges Kit Carson just said were brewing, any one of which would end my career if Gibbons can make it stick. Hard to figure why smart people aren’t lining up to do this job. My phone announces it has more messages. Eleven, in fact. Five from Tracy Moens and one from Julie. Julie’s is the best: "Box seats tonight! Cubs versus Cardinals."
Yeah, baby! I only get to attend two games a year, always in the bleachers, and never before in a pennant race. I punch-dial instead of steer. "Julie. It’s me. I—"
"C’mon. Right now. Park in my space and we’ll walk down."
"Maybe thirty minutes," I check the Dan Ryan looming ahead, "maybe an hour. Tell me again how to get there."
Sadly, I can’t find anything on that side of the river unless I’m following someone or the directions begin at Wrigley Field. That’s the truth except for a building up in Evanston I visit once a year—next month will be the seventeenth time—I stop out front but never go in, so it doesn’t really count.
Julie does the directions twice, then adds, "Someone wants to meet
the
Patti Black."
Every bit of me slumps. "Not tonight, okay?"
"Cowboy up, girl. We’re trading you for tickets Mayor McQuinn couldn’t get. Give ’em ten minutes of small talk at the bar and we’re four rows back of the dugout."
"Who is it?"
Julie pretends static interrupted us and makes me repeat my question while she thinks up an answer. "Could be a suitor," heroic pause, "maybe a Northside gentleman. Clean underwear
and
fingernails, the whole package."
I veer ten degrees to avoid a drunk chasing his bottle into Seventy-ninth Street. "Why me? Tracy’s dance card full?"
Julie laughs. "So full, sweetie, you can’t imagine."
• • •
It took seventy-three minutes. Why? Because the Northside is designed to confuse anyond who didn’t attend graduate school. I had to call for directions three times, each time Julie became less respectful. When I finally arrived, the L7 was a pre-game festival of sporty women who looked it and small groups of Cardinals fans who had no clue
why so many women hung out here.
My suitor was Tracy Moens and no part of her was looking to get laid, much to the chagrin of the male St. Louis fans. We had thirty-five minutes till leadoff and walked out right after I arrived, Tracy, me, Julie, and the deaf
"What did you say, Sergeant?"
Sonny stops smiling and I realize he’s not a drop drunk and might be doing this for me. Might be. Sonny leans 250 pounds closer to our Watch LT. "I said, sir,
empty-holster-motherfucker,
is what I said."
If I haven’t mentioned it before, Sonny Barrett, drunk or sober, armed or not, is not someone you screw with, and everyone south of the river who needs to know that, knows it.
"I said it to Officer Hazleton, sir; that mick shithead next to you. And I’ll say it again if you’d like. Sir."
There’s a reasonable chance that Kit Carson does not want to die on Seventy-ninth Street. And he’s having trouble gauging Sonny’s condition. More than one cop has died when the day’s internal stress was marinated in whiskey and badly chosen words. I don’t know if Sonny’s playing—his whole act since my gasoline shower has been a bubble or two off—but I’m glad he’s standing there. And that feels funny for both reasons.
Kit Carson looks at me. "IAD, now," and waits until I’m driving away to turn and face Sonny. The last I see of Kit is he and Sonny are squared up, Kit Carson backed by his patrol officers. It looks like a fair fight, even backwards in my mirror.
• • •
My cell vibrates before I can get fifteen blocks to the Dan Ryan. It’s the superintendent’s secretary. The message is: "This evening’s IAD appointment has been postponed. Contact the superintendent at 0-900 hours tomorrow."
Strange…but good. At least I think it’s good; now I have time to wallow in the list of charges Kit Carson just said were brewing, any one of which would end my career if Gibbons can make it stick. Hard to figure why smart people aren’t lining up to do this job. My phone announces it has more messages. Eleven, in fact. Five from Tracy Moens and one from Julie. Julie’s is the best: "Box seats tonight! Cubs versus Cardinals."
Yeah, baby! I only get to attend two games a year, always in the bleachers, and never before in a pennant race. I punch-dial instead of steer. "Julie. It’s me. I—"
"C’mon. Right now. Park in my space and we’ll walk down."
"Maybe thirty minutes," I check the Dan Ryan looming ahead, "maybe an hour. Tell me again how to get there."
Sadly, I can’t find anything on that side of the river unless I’m following someone or the directions begin at Wrigley Field. That’s the truth except for a building up in Evanston I visit once a year—next month will be the seventeenth time—I stop out front but never go in, so it doesn’t really count.
Julie does the directions twice, then adds, "Someone wants to meet
the
Patti Black."
Every bit of me slumps. "Not tonight, okay?"
"Cowboy up, girl. We’re trading you for tickets Mayor McQuinn couldn’t get. Give ’em ten minutes of small talk at the bar and we’re four rows back of the dugout."
"Who is it?"
Julie pretends static interrupted us and makes me repeat my question while she thinks up an answer. "Could be a suitor," heroic pause, "maybe a Northside gentleman. Clean underwear
and
fingernails, the whole package."
I veer ten degrees to avoid a drunk chasing his bottle into Seventy-ninth Street. "Why me? Tracy’s dance card full?"
Julie laughs. "So full, sweetie, you can’t imagine."
• • •
It took seventy-three minutes. Why? Because the Northside is designed to confuse anyond who didn’t attend graduate school. I had to call for directions three times, each time Julie became less respectful. When I finally arrived, the L7 was a pre-game festival of sporty women who looked it and small groups of Cardinals fans who had no clue
why so many women hung out here.
My suitor was Tracy Moens and no part of her was looking to get laid, much to the chagrin of the male St. Louis fans. We had thirty-five minutes till leadoff and walked out right after I arrived, Tracy, me, Julie, and the deaf
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