Rumors from the Lost World by Alan Davis Page B

people I can eat out on.” He rubbed Levoski’s shoulder. “Now you’re one of them. Where you live, by the way?”
    â€œNot far from here.”
    He looked incredulous. “You live in Chicago Heights?”
    â€œT. J., be nice,” Trudy said.
    Raines shrugged. “What the hell. Hossmoor’s no better. Old fogies waiting on strokes and tumors, giving their cancers a walk every afternoon, taking their bottles of oxygen wherever they go.”
    â€œThe glamour capital of the world,” Trudy agreed, rolling her eyes like Betty Boop. “God protect me from getting old.”
    â€œGod ain’t got nothing to do with it, sweetheart,” Raines said, then turned to Levoski. “What you do in the Heights?”
    â€œRoofing business.”
    â€œNo kidding. Big outfit?”
    â€œTwenty or so.”
    â€œNot bad, Leonie. Matter of fact, I need somebody with some good muscle. There’s a development I’m looking into, a dump. We’re getting permits to put it someplace with no clout. Like the Heights.” He flashed a quick knife of a grin. “A lot of business for someone who don’t truck with unions. You interested? You won’t have to do much roofing, you understand.”
    Levoski, his union card in his pocket, shrugged. “Sure. What the hell.”
    â€œGood deal,” Raines said, helping Trudy into her wrap. “Put the kid in the business when he’s done his time.”
    â€œDone his time?” Levoski grunted to his feet.
    â€œUncle Sameroo.” Raines winked. “Your man and mine.”
    In the parking lot he gave Levoski a business card. “New Year’s Eve. Come early, stay late. Meet some people. We’ll talk some more.”
    â€œI’ll be there.”
    â€œWhat’s your company, by the way?”
    â€œMidwest Roofing.”
    â€œReal original,” Raines said, writing it down. Then Trudy rubbed against Levoski for another kiss before the couple disappeared in a pink Cadillac.
    Driving home, Leon imagined the words LEVOSKI AND SON painted on the panels of a step-van parked in exclusive Flossmoor. Even in the city, working the steel mills, Levoski had daydreamed about a father-son business. His decision to leave the Works in South Chicago had been provoked not only by layoffs, but also by the dream of that step-van. To hell with working for someone else; he could teach Paul the ropes, tell him small stories.
    Marge was dozing, head against the window. Knocked out again. Taking pills for everything from her liver, non-prescription dealies bought on sale at the Walgreen’s, to her nerves, little white tablets her woman’s doctor gave her by the gross. What had happened since those days when they shared five rooms with his parents? The bells would ring at St. Michael’s and they would worship. The rest of the week, he and his father put in time at the mills. Marge, pregnant with Paul, stayed with his mother. She didn’t have much energy even then. Red mill dust covered everything, gases from furnaces and coke ovens settled in the lungs like the croup, and their bit of a neighborhood known as the Bush was packed like a sardine between great heaps of burning slag, rail lines, and the belching stacks of the Works. The air tasted like mildewed socks. Even now, Marge hated the place, but Levoski missed it. They couldn’t have stayed, though. The Bush was hell in a handbasket. His parents dead, no overtime, crazy fools who would pull a knife on you and strip off your shirt as soon as say hello. Just like every other goddamn place—Levoski’s mental map of Chicago was a patchwork of ghettos and tiny enclaves of civilization. Otherwise there were expressways and a thin strip of safe passage along the lake.
    At his house, a small bungalow, the glare of the streetlight cast a metallic sheen over asbestos siding and khaki-green shutters. Marge stumbled to bed and he poured two