“Hey, I’m not free-associating, Doc,” I said. “This really does connect up. Problem is, the Marcy Addwatter case was also the Mike Tree murder, and at least seven other ‘events’ Rafe’s Planner might’ve set in motion....”
Midmorning the next day—sunny and cold in a brittle way that needed no help from the wind but got it anyway—I stood with my trenchcoat collar up and my gloves on as I knocked at the door of a house trailer. Which was the address that Chic Steele had been good enough to track down for me, on the city’s time.
Some stacked cement blocks provided two steps up to the door, but I didn’t want to stand on them, because they would put me too close to the entry—I preferred some wiggle room. So to knock, I had to reach up, and even then was hitting on the lower portion of the door.
I was, believe it or not, in the Ripley Trailer Court in Calumet Park, on the far southeast side, not far from the garbage dumps. Where the yard ended and a garbage dump began, however, was a mystery better solved by a more skilled detective—the junky dirt-and-cinder area around the trailer was strewn with trash, broken toys and bricks, overseen by a 55-gallon drum that served, half-heartedly, as a waste can.
My knock had brought no response, so I tried again, harder this time, insistent.
Finally the door above me opened halfway to reveal a blonde in her twenties with very dark roots and a filthy baby, perhaps nine months old, in her arms. The mother was not slovenly, however, and under better circumstances would have been attractive, her narrow, dark-eyed face blessed with nice features; but one glance said she was living a harder life than yours.
“Mrs. Hazen,” I began, “I’m Michael Tree, and—”
“I know who the hell you are.”
She wore low-rider jeans that revealed gothic biker wings tattooed on either side of her navel, and a red half t-shirt with a NASCAR logo. The baby wore a pungently filled diaper and its own little red NASCAR t-shirt and a bib with almost as much baby food on it as on the child’s face.
“Mrs. Hazen—”
“You’re the bitch that killed my Randy!” Shaking, but probably not with fear, she hugged her baby to her protectively. “Stick it, lady. Stick it in high, and break it off hard!”
Indignant, she retreated, and slammed the door.
Well, that had gone well.
I regrouped for a moment, and knocked again.
I was in the middle of my third try when the door whipped open, almost hitting me, and the doorway was filled not by Mrs. Hazen, but a bruiser about thirty whose impressive muscles were obvious thanks to his wife-beater t-shirt and low-slung cruddy jeans. His greasy brown hair was ponytailed back, and he had at least six days growth of beard going, whether fashion statement or sheer laziness, I wouldn’t hazard a guess.
Looming over me, his expression said: Is that a skunk I smell?
“I was hoping,” I said, slowly, politely, “to talk to Mrs. Hazen.”
He grunted a laugh. “I was hopin’ for a ten-inch dick.”
I smiled pleasantly. “Aren’t we all? You’re...?”
“Brother-in-law,” he growled.
That confused me. “You’re not...Matt...?”
“Naw,” he said, grinning greenly. “Matty’s still on Death friggin’ Row, where your old man put his innocent ass. I’m his little brother—Clint.”
And he stuck out his paw.
What the hell. I was a guest here. I accepted the “little” brother’s gesture.
But when Clint took my hand, he gripped it at the wrist and, with his other hand, which was a fist now, smacked me in the side of the face.
I didn’t go down, if for no other reason than he had hold of me, and then suddenly he let go and shoved me backward with one hard hand, with some real force, and I went stumbling backward, windmilling, my purse on its strap flying off my shoulder.
Then the bastard took advantage of his higher perch to dive right down at me.
I managed to roll to one side, and Clint belly-flopped on the ground, like a slab of meat hitting a packing plant floor, and I was getting to my feet but he’d already gotten to his, when he buried a fist in my stomach.
That doubled me over, every ounce of breath whooshing out of me, and I was bowing toward him humbly as he grinned and strutted with both fists extended, like a fighter waiting to see if the ref would count his opponent out.
Still hunkered over, side of my face bleeding, I stumbled tentatively toward him, doing my best to display my utter defeat.
“Okay, okay,” I uttered, pitifully. “You...you made your point. Come on—take it...take it easy...I’m just a girl....”
I was approaching him now, straightening up, patting the air with my palms in a peacemaking gesture.
He lowered his fists a little and stood in one place. His upper lip curled. “Then just get the fuck outa—”
I interrupted these instructions by thrusting a forearm into his throat, bone meeting Adam’s apple with a satisfyingly sickening crunch.
Clint grabbed his neck, gurgling, and I latched onto him by the back of his wife-beater with one hand, and his belt with the other, and hurled him dwarf-tossing style into the side of the drum waste can, where his head made a dinner-bell clang.
Then he dropped to his knees, like the garbage drum was an altar.
But I had to hand it to him. He didn’t stay down long, got right back up on his feet, straightened himself, and staggered back a few paces, badly dazed but maintaining his balance, barely.
I was watching this as I made the trip over to where my purse had landed. I picked it up, got a gloved hand into it.
Meanwhile, Clint was looking around at the buffet of potential weapons that was the trailer’s yard, and before long he found just the right brick, hefted it, and then came at me, surprisingly fast, the brick clutched in a death grip and raised high with smashing in my head its obvious intended use....
The nine millimeter came out of my purse as if of its own volition, but it was me who fired off the round that cracked the air and caught him in the left kneecap.
Clint yowled, tossed the brick limply, harmlessly, to the ground, and did a brief, horrible (but I must say fairly comic) one-legged jig before going down on his remaining good knee, clutching the bloody mess that used to facilitate walking.
“Freeze,” I said. From my purse, I got my cell out and muttered to myself, “Always get that wrong...‘freeze,’ then shoot....Gotta work on that.” Chicago cops have had that problem for years.
The police dispatcher came on the line.
“Man’s been shot,” I said.
I answered several questions, one of which was, “Who shot him?”
“Well, I did,” I said. I thought that had been obvious, but maybe I could have been more clear.
Mrs. Hazen was in the doorway of the trailer now, baby no longer in her arms, but I could hear it crying, from within its mobile-home womb.
The woman seemed stunned, her flesh suddenly ghostly pale, except for the tattooed part. “What... what have you done to Clint?”
She jumped down and rushed over and took her whimpering, fallen brother-in-law into her arms. She cradled this other child as he groaned and moaned and cried. And gripped his bloody shot-up knee, of course, red oozing between his fingers.
“You...you’re a monster,” she said.
Apparently meaning me, not Clint.
I motioned at her with gun-in-hand, somewhat irritably I’m afraid, because I was still dealing with the dispatcher on the cell.
“You bitch!”
“Quiet,” I commanded. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone?...Yeah, Ripley Trailer Park, Lot 16.”
The dispatcher asked me the nature of the wound, and I said, “His knee. So far.”