Chicago Stories: West of Western by Eileen Hamer Page B

detective, she started a pot of coffee, turned up the heat, dressed, then stood by the window above her front door. Watching, listening.
    “What happened out there?” she asked the room around her, and remembered the camera over the front door. But when she checked, last night's videos showed nothing but empty street directly in front of the door. Too bad she hadn't a wider view. The shooter must have known about the camera. The shooting must have happened outside and to the side of the recessed entry, and the body been tucked up against her building. It all seemed too neat, not the way she expected a street shooting to look.
    The minutes refused to move along, dragging out their seconds while she waited and watched from the window. Crackling police radios, urgent voices, sporadic babble from onlookers. Outside the night slowly faded to gray. Odd, no news crews showed.
    Ambulance with squeaky brakes, jangling gurney. Easy to follow the action even when she walked away from the window. Gurney wheels scraping on the broken sidewalk. Ambulance doors slamming, big engine again.
    “You awake in there?” Terreno called, his footsteps thudding on the stairs. She ran to open the door.
    “Ah, warm.” Once inside, Detective Markowicz shucked off his wet jacket and hung it over the banister, glanced around the loft. “Thought you were an architect, Pelligrini? Looks a bit rough in here to me. Where's the kitchen?” He acted like he'd never been there before. Terreno followed. Seraphy pulled out chairs and brought coffee and cups and the men found seats.
    “This for us? Thanks,” Markowicz said, and took a swallow. “Good stuff. You here all night?”
    “Yeah, sleeping.” Seraphy handed Terreno a cup. “What happened out there?” They were dripping all over her newly sanded floors.
    “Life west of Western happened. Some Duque named Tito got shot. We'll know more later, but he's wearing Duques colors and this is Lobos territory. SOS.” Markowicz rubbed his face and yawned.
    “Same old shit,” said Terreno. “Welcome to West Village. We get a couple of these a month over here, business as usual.” Markowicz stuck his nose in his mug. He flinched, startled, as a rag hit him in the face.
    “Stop dripping all over my new floors. What do you mean, business as usual?”
    “Give me one of those,” Terreno said, reaching for a rag. “My wife would kill me if I messed up her floor at home. Look, Pelligrini, gangs knock each other off all the time. You got yourself a place on the border between the Lobos and the Duques, so guess what? You surprised? Hell, even the media vultures don't bother to show up anymore.” He dropped the rag and swiped it around with his foot. The detectives were obviously tired and seemed more interested in her coffee and Oreos than the victim in the doorway.
    “What was that about West Village?”
    “West Village is the new Realtor-talk for this neighborhood. It's west of Ukrainian Village—so, West Village. Cute, huh? They figure if they give it a name, yuppies will come,” said Terreno.
    “Yeah, right,” said Markowicz, licking foam from his upper lip. “Course, they fail to mention the bodies. Like the one downstairs.”
    “Gang stuff. That's why he was shot?” Her shoulders relaxed. Maybe it had nothing to do with her after all.
    “Could be any number of reasons. Maybe a mugger. The vic was trespassing, wearing Duques colors on Lobos territory. Maybe the Lobos got him. Maybe a gang recruit needed to earn his tears. Maybe, maybe, maybe. You got any cream for this?” He waved the cup.
    “No.” Why was she so angry with these guys? They didn't kill the kid.
    Markowicz opened a battered notebook. “Okay, now you tell us. Any chance that cute little camera out there picked up anything?”
    She shook her head. “First thing I checked when I came back in. The kid must have been shot close to the building but to the side of the door. There's a blind spot on either side.”
    “Figures, a