As he started over, he felt his heart quicken, a lifting in his chest. His mouth was dry, his words gone. Everything he cared about depended on the alderman believing them. Jason had an image of Billy splashing down in Lake Michigan, the way the kid would always rocket to the surface in an explosion of bubbles, saying, "Again, again!" He thrust that aside, too.
Washington saw him coming, and a shadow rippled over his face. He stopped in the middle of a sentence, one arm out like he were holding a metaphor. "Jason." Not sounding happy to see him. His eyes flicked up and down Jason's uniform. "I didn't expect you tonight."
"I didn't either." Jason turned to face the alderman, suddenly unsure how to begin.
"Ahh, Alderman Owens, this is Jason Palmer. He's…," Washington paused, "… an old friend of mine."
The alderman hit him with a friendly grin. "What's a respectable soldier doing hanging around with a reprobate like Washington?" They shook, the man's grip firm. "This is Daryl Thomas," he said, gesturing to the man beside him. "He's my right hand and my second in command."
"This is Officer Elena Cruz, with the Chicago Police Department." Saying her name felt like a risk, but he needed her to lend credibility to what he had to say.
"Officer Cruz," the alderman took her hand in that horizontal handshake. "It's a pleasure." But something stirred in his eyes, like he were trying to remember details he'd recently heard. "What brings you out tonight?"
A dozen approaches flashed through Jason's mind, then vanished just as quickly. There was no strategy to follow here. He had to just tell the truth, to tell it as fully as he knew how, and to pray that it was enough. "You do, sir."
"Oh?"
"I need five minutes of your time."
"I'm always available to constituents, especially friends of Washington's. Call the office tomorrow, ask for Daryl. He'll make sure you get set up with an appointment next week."
"I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't clear." Jason straightened his shoulders and put his hands behind his back to stand at something like attention. "I meant I need your time right now. This second."
Washington put a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe this isn't the best-"
"Sir, this is a matter of life and death." Jason didn't risk looking away from Owens, but his thoughts were on Washington. Stick with me, old man. Trust me.
The alderman had the amiable hesitancy of a man expecting a punch line. "Life and death?"
"Yes."
Owens and his assistant shared a look. "I have to admit, I'm curious, Mr. Palmer. What's this about?"
There it was. The simple question, and there was a simple answer to match, a simple, dirty answer. The one they'd discovered in the basement of Michael's ruined bar, in the darkness beneath the city. An explanation for everything: His brother's murder, the hunt for Billy, the gang war, all of it. An answer written in blood and shadow.
"Money, sir. It's about money." He paused. "It's about men who are willing to do anything for money. And they're doing it in your district."
"Jason, what are you-" Washington's voice was thin and nervous.
"I'm sorry." Jason turned to face his mentor. "I'm sorry to do this here, tonight. And I know we've had our disagreements lately, and I understand your side of things. But I'm looking you in the eye and I'm telling you, this is the truth. This is why Michael was murdered."
Washington stared at him appraisingly. The moment stretched, and Jason found himself aware of tiny details, the mismatched angles of hairs in Washington's mustache, the smell of cooling steak permeating the room, the chamber music barely audible under the crush of conversation. The older man hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"Murdered?" Owens spoke softly. "Sergeant Palmer, if this is some sort of joke, I'm going to be very disappointed."
"Sir, believe me when I tell you that I've never been more serious in my life."
The alderman nodded, the motion businesslike and sure. "Then you best go ahead."
Jason took a breath. Words were all he had, but they such a small thing when set against blood. And the debt of blood here ran higher than he could say.
"A few days ago, my brother was murdered in your ward." He raised a hand to forestall sympathy. "Two men came to the bar he owned. They were looking for something, and when he wouldn't give it to them, they killed him."
"What were they looking for?"
"Do you live in Crenwood, sir?"
The alderman looked cagey at the change of subject. "Yes. Halsted and Sixty-first. Aldermen have to live in their districts."
"There's an El station near there."
"About two blocks south. What does this have to do with-"
"I grew up on the south side, but I had a few friends who lived on the north. I'd ride the El up to see them, and it was like going to Oz." He remembered staring at all the clean, bright buildings. No graffiti, no gangs. "My friends' parents liked living in the city because they were close to work, restaurants, shops, you know. All the usual reasons. After I left, I'd always wonder why Crenwood looked so different."
"The north side tends to be college-educated, with white-collar jobs and higher household income. That means better schools, more business, more community resources." The alderman shook his head sadly. "It makes sense, but can you imagine a world where the lower income neighborhoods got more support and better schools?"
Jason smiled. Felt himself liking this guy. "That'd be a better world than this one. Because I agree – those are the neighborhoods where people want to live. I'm not an expert, but as I understand it, that's why when it became popular to live in the city again, people chose neighborhoods like Lincoln Park and Old Town. And when they got crowded and prices went up, folks started to push further out, into Wicker Park and Lakeview and Andersonville. Neighborhoods that were still rough around the edges, where they could afford a flat or a carriage house, a place to raise their children. Developers came in, and then retail, and everything got nice and safe. Now the same thing is happening in Bridgeport and Rogers Park."
"Gentrification is a thorny issue." He sounded bored.
"But it's an opportunity, too, right? The trick is being ahead of the game. You need to buy before the neighborhood hits. If you really want to make money, you do it somewhere other people weren't even looking."
"I suppose." Owens glanced at his watch.
"Mr. Alderman," Daryl Thomas nudged his boss. "You should probably work the room before people start to leave."
Cruz looked at Thomas with her eyes narrowed, but Jason didn't have time to wonder what it meant. "Sir, wait-"
"Sergeant Palmer." Owens put a hand on his shoulder. "I assure you, this is a problem I've put a lot of thought into. And I'd love to hear your take on it. But why don't we talk another time, when we can really roll up our sleeves?"
"Because if you don't listen right now we may not live to see you again."
Owens paused, stared over the edge of rimless glasses. "That's a little melodramatic, isn't it?"
"Ask my brother." Jason spoke softly.
The alderman's smile curdled. "Sergeant, I'm sincerely sorry for your loss, but I'm not sure where this is going. Are you saying your brother was killed because of some sort of real estate scheme?"
"Yes. And not just him." He took a breath, then launched into it. "Sir, someone is using every means possible to lower property values in Cren-wood so they can buy it up against its eventual gentrification."
Owens gave him a long look. His eyes searched Jason's.
Then he broke into laughter.
"I'm serious, sir."