him. Had shown him.
“I have the power to heal you,” Haid said, having no intention of giving up. He had kept pace with the vet nine blocks, the cold digging into his bones like cancer. Finally making his move at the corner of Ohio and Wabash, in the neon wash of the Cass Hotel, Haid felt certain that the flophouse was where the guy lived.
“What, and take me to heaven?” The man smirked and the sound was that of a smoker’s hack. “I been to heaven and they stuck me back down here in Hell. So, go on. I ain’t got no money, but you’re welcome to take my food stamps if you have to, man.”
“What are you talking about?” Haid was baffled: Did he... ?
“Do you think that I’m here to rob you?”
“Man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do,” the vet said. “I killed a lot of innocent people when I was in-country, so...”
Both men stopped talking to watch the street corner’s only other sign of life: a Yellow cab sped to the south and careened around the Medina Temple.
“I’m not here to judge you,”Haid took a chance to move closer. Though the man’s size could be disproportionate because of the chair, he still seemed muscular enough to grab Haid and squeeze the shit out of him.
“That what they’re calling robbery these days? Sorry, I musta been sleeping when they put out the revised edition of Modern Slang and Euphemisms.”
“It’s what Father calls it.” The man’s denial so flustered Haid that he forgot about his book of psalms. He regained most of his composure by taking on his childhood persona. Bully. Intimidator.
Holy terror.
“Oh, I’ll save you, all right.” Haid said through clenched teeth.
He reached down swiftly, plunging his fist up against the vet’s chest. The man’s eyes bulged. Haid’s fist simmered and glowed, his thumb and fingers sinking through the layers of clothing first, and layers of skin second.
Haid clamped his other hand down over the crippled man’s mouth, to keep him from screaming. There was no telling about someone who had so little faith in God.
In a few seconds, both hands had disappeared into the sitting man’s body, and Haid was able to lift the entire body like a marionette and draw it to his own chest. The sizzling and the glowing started anew.
* * *
Several pieces of the body had fallen to the ground, but Haid was afraid to stay around and look for them. Father was prodding him to move on.
He didn’t notice the lake wind anymore, because his chest and arms were warm and tingling. The vet is reveling in his entrance to Heaven.
He walked over to State to catch a Chicago Avenue bus, hoping the route was 24 hour Owl Service. The healing process had taken much longer this time. Through the grates in the sidewalk, he could hear the coming of the State Street subway, running endlessly beneath an elevated hell.
Chapter Seven
“So here I am, I’m thinking,” Dean Conover glanced over at Aaron Mather, who was driving the unit tonight. “Like, why the hell is Division crawling up our asses over the bulletproof vests again? Three cops dusted this year, and because that last one, Doyle out of Wentworth, he only gets it once in the chest. Ba-bing! Time to talk about the vests again...”
He shook his head in disgust. Neither cop had to mention that Willett and Selfridge, partners out of Grand Crossing on the Far Southside, were shot in the head. Every Chicago cop had mixed emotions about the Kevlar vests. Aside from being uncomfortable in any season, constant wear caused the velcro straps to curl and not hold. Any subsequent vests had to be purchased by the individual cop.
The ultimate logic of the overall effectiveness of the vest was this: every gangbanger and street psycho, by the Chicago evolutionary scale, had long since learned to shoot for the head and/or armpit. And parents marveled when their sons and daughters figured out The Legend Of Zelda on the home Nintendo.
“And remember that detective out of Area 1, I forget his name,
“I have the power to heal you,” Haid said, having no intention of giving up. He had kept pace with the vet nine blocks, the cold digging into his bones like cancer. Finally making his move at the corner of Ohio and Wabash, in the neon wash of the Cass Hotel, Haid felt certain that the flophouse was where the guy lived.
“What, and take me to heaven?” The man smirked and the sound was that of a smoker’s hack. “I been to heaven and they stuck me back down here in Hell. So, go on. I ain’t got no money, but you’re welcome to take my food stamps if you have to, man.”
“What are you talking about?” Haid was baffled: Did he... ?
“Do you think that I’m here to rob you?”
“Man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do,” the vet said. “I killed a lot of innocent people when I was in-country, so...”
Both men stopped talking to watch the street corner’s only other sign of life: a Yellow cab sped to the south and careened around the Medina Temple.
“I’m not here to judge you,”Haid took a chance to move closer. Though the man’s size could be disproportionate because of the chair, he still seemed muscular enough to grab Haid and squeeze the shit out of him.
“That what they’re calling robbery these days? Sorry, I musta been sleeping when they put out the revised edition of Modern Slang and Euphemisms.”
“It’s what Father calls it.” The man’s denial so flustered Haid that he forgot about his book of psalms. He regained most of his composure by taking on his childhood persona. Bully. Intimidator.
Holy terror.
“Oh, I’ll save you, all right.” Haid said through clenched teeth.
He reached down swiftly, plunging his fist up against the vet’s chest. The man’s eyes bulged. Haid’s fist simmered and glowed, his thumb and fingers sinking through the layers of clothing first, and layers of skin second.
Haid clamped his other hand down over the crippled man’s mouth, to keep him from screaming. There was no telling about someone who had so little faith in God.
In a few seconds, both hands had disappeared into the sitting man’s body, and Haid was able to lift the entire body like a marionette and draw it to his own chest. The sizzling and the glowing started anew.
* * *
Several pieces of the body had fallen to the ground, but Haid was afraid to stay around and look for them. Father was prodding him to move on.
He didn’t notice the lake wind anymore, because his chest and arms were warm and tingling. The vet is reveling in his entrance to Heaven.
He walked over to State to catch a Chicago Avenue bus, hoping the route was 24 hour Owl Service. The healing process had taken much longer this time. Through the grates in the sidewalk, he could hear the coming of the State Street subway, running endlessly beneath an elevated hell.
Chapter Seven
“So here I am, I’m thinking,” Dean Conover glanced over at Aaron Mather, who was driving the unit tonight. “Like, why the hell is Division crawling up our asses over the bulletproof vests again? Three cops dusted this year, and because that last one, Doyle out of Wentworth, he only gets it once in the chest. Ba-bing! Time to talk about the vests again...”
He shook his head in disgust. Neither cop had to mention that Willett and Selfridge, partners out of Grand Crossing on the Far Southside, were shot in the head. Every Chicago cop had mixed emotions about the Kevlar vests. Aside from being uncomfortable in any season, constant wear caused the velcro straps to curl and not hold. Any subsequent vests had to be purchased by the individual cop.
The ultimate logic of the overall effectiveness of the vest was this: every gangbanger and street psycho, by the Chicago evolutionary scale, had long since learned to shoot for the head and/or armpit. And parents marveled when their sons and daughters figured out The Legend Of Zelda on the home Nintendo.
“And remember that detective out of Area 1, I forget his name,
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