The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [148]
And where’s the damn National Guard?
At North Avenue, the mini-riot was over, but there were still a few agitators who would periodically rush at the house, waving arms and screaming curses. Bobby noted a few shattered windows on parked cars, some burn marks in the pavement where firecrackers had smoldered, red spray paint on the mansion’s locked gate.
Across the street from the house was a statue of a seated man, bald and bearded, wearing a suit, with one hand on a book, the other in his lap. The engraving called him Greene Vardiman Black. Bobby was a South Sider, but he’d been to this park dozens of times. He’d never paid any attention to this statue.
Of course, Chicago had statues erected to all kinds of pricks and douchebags.
He leaned against it just as his phone vibrated in his pocket, startling him.
“Yeah?”
“Where you at?” Traden. “I been calling you all morning.”
“If you haven’t noticed, cell reception has been inter-fucking-mittent,” Bobby said, even as he heard dozens of discordant ring tones suddenly calling out from all over the encampment, accompanied by cheers. “I’m over by Lincoln Park, checking things out. Where you at?”
“Madison and Pulaski.”
There was a lot of muffled noise on Traden’s end. Bobby could hear sirens. “Say, you gotta put a call in, Jimmy. I haven’t seen a patrol over here since I showed up. The park’s turned into a goddamn refugee camp. They almost rushed that big house with the generator at North and State. You know, where the archbishop used to live.”
“Not gonna happen,” Traden said. “West Side’s going to serious hell. Everybody’s out in the street, gats going off. We got fires, looting. I don’t know if there’s a body count yet, but it’s only a matter of time. And the force is already burning oil. The union’s screaming at the chief about overtime. The park’s all yours for the time being.”
“Christ, Jimmy. I’m on forced vacation.”
“Well, you’re showing real initiative. You got your gun, right? Your citizen piece?”
“Christ,” Bobby said again. “Hey, Jimmy.”
“Yeah?”
“If your last name was Black, would you name your kid Greene?”
“What are you talking about?”
Bobby didn’t know.
“Anyways, I got some Canada Gold news,” Traden said.
“What?”
“Did you hear about that Vegas fugitive? The dude who killed the ADA we were looking for and then disappeared.”
“Yeah, I saw that.”
“Dude is apparently obsessed with Canada, and I hear the latest theory is she’s come home to Chicago and he’s lit out after her.”
“Serious? Della thought she saw Canada the night the lights went out, but I told her she was losing it. Anybody seen the doer?”
“It’s taking some time to piece it together from different jurisdictions. Wayne Jennings is his name. They found his car in Nevada, stolen by some joyriding kids. They nabbed a methhead in Arizona who had Jennings’s wallet and a knife that looks like it might have been used to torture one of the Las Vegas victims. The state boys almost nabbed Jennings in Nebraska, except he went Boogie boarding right out the back of a moving station wagon and beat it into the woods.”
“Holy shit.”
“We’re still getting the details, like I said. Looks like he’s hitchhiking. He could be laying low, or he could get caught, or he could be here anytime.”
“Great.”
“Just thought as long as you were playing amateur detective, you could work on that case awhile.”
“No thanks,” Bobby said. “I’ll hang out here for a bit, but tell them I’m not staying all day and night. My girlfriend and I have serious under-the-sweatshirt plans.”
But before he finished saying all that, the cell lines went dead again. Frustrated cursing and groaning and screaming followed from all quarters of the park.
56
THEY WERE SOMEWHERE OVER OHIO, with another big lake to their left, when Rhodes heard the sound, and he almost didn’t recognize it. He stood and glanced at the acusmatici, who appeared as confused as he was.
“Turn it off,” he said calmly. “Find that phone and turn it off. I’m serious.” They began searching their bags and their