*

Joe is embarrassed about this, but I’ve bared my soul thus far. I get this from Bill, Fa­ther Tim, and my brother, Mark. Joe and Mark are on the late Thursday night bowling league. Anyway, the same night that Jimmy took Lisa, Joe met Mark at Pink­ies’ prior to the beginning of league play.

Mark said that they had taken seats at the bar. Joe told him how Jimmy had transferred Lisa out of T.R. Both expressed their surprise how noisy their quiet lives had become of late.

“Amazing,” Mark commented.

Seated next to Joe was a short, squat individual, whom Joe said smelled like he had forgotten to open his fly to pee. The man moved up against Joe’s back, and hung there, bumping and elbowing Joe in the ribs as the man spoke. Joe glanced back, and nodded at Mark that he should also look. Next to that man was a woman. She was shorter, heavier and had blonde hair with long, dark roots. Mark guessed that neither could have been older than twenty five or six. The man threw his arms up, again, knocking into Joe. “You owe me,” the man cried. “Big time.”

The woman turned away.

The man bounced on his toes, and Joe knew one more bump would come his way when the man leaned back and pulled his hands up be­fore him. “Excuse me,” Joe said, moving his stool closer to Mark. Mark moved his stool to compensate.

“I remember in high school,” Mark commented, “How many times Jimmy would irri­tate the hell out of someone, and wind up getting punched out.”

“You ever pay back what you owe?” the man next to Joe demanded. He bounced back so far, this time, he nearly knocked Joe from his seat.

“Excuse me,” Joe said. Once again he moved his stool.

Mark pushed over, this time interfering with the man on his opposite side. “Move over,” that man ordered brusquely.

It was Mark’s turn. He excused himself and moved a bit closer to Joe. The next elbow to Joe’s back brought him to his feet. He turned on the man. “Excuse me,” Joe said once again. “You’re taking up too much room.”

“Oh?” The man turned about. “I’m fat, is that it?”

“No, you’re taking up too much room. Move over.”

“I move over, and I’m in her way, and she is fat.”

“Not so fat that you both need to push the rest of us out of our seats. Now move over.”

“I will not. This bitch owes me, and until she pays me back, I don’t want to be around her.”

“What?” Joe demanded, pulling a wad of bills from his pocket. “A couple of bucks?”

“Uh huh.” The man used his entire body to nod. “The dean of good old T.R. No wonder these kids are shooting each other. The dean is out soliciting prostitutes.”

“I’m not soliciting a prostitute. I’m trying to get some breathing space. Now move over.”

“Uh huh. That news lady isn’t enough, is she? You want my piece, too.”

“Do I know you?”

“Uh huh. Made a real good impression on you, didn’t I? Had you for biol­ogy in my sophomore year.”

Joe studied the man, but in that light, couldn’t make out the face. He shoved his money back in his pocket, and attempted to return to his drink. “Who I date is none of your busi­ness.”

“It is when you’re soliciting my old lady.”

“I don’t want your old lady. I’ve got my own.”

“And she’s tramping around with every cop in Portland.” Again, he threw his arms out to emphasize his words. Then he turned up to look Joe in the eyes. “My bet is she helped that priest get that kid that did the shooting, too. You know what you are, Spyres? A coward. Can’t stand up to a woman like that, can you?”

“And I’m missing what here? According to your alcohol soaked brain?”

“Dignity.”

“Uh huh. Sitting on your barstool, stewing your brains in alcohol. You have no concept of what that word means.”

One remark led to another, and when Joe had enough, he punched the man in the mouth. The man dropped to his knees. Barstools fell as three men jumped at Joe’s back. When Mark tried to pull them away, a full scale brawl broke out.

Bill and three cops broke it up, arresting nine people all together, includ­ing the woman. Bill grabbed her hand, stopping her just before she could break a beer bottle over my brother’s head.

The cops loaded the paddy wagon and carted all nine to the police station. When they pulled into the sallyport, the cops separated them quickly. The heavy set man responsible for causing the fight continued to work on Joe, calling me a whore, and calling my arti­cles proof of everything he had to say. “One more time,” Bill warned, his baton at the ready. “Shuttup.”

“What are you afraid of, pig?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to clean your blood out of the bottom of the wagon when I’m done pounding the shit out of you.”

“Nah, you’re afraid this glorified high school teacher is going to find out you’re tapping his girlfriend, too.”

Joe lost it. “The only one tapping her is me. You can’t stand the idea that there’s some­one out there with real blonde hair, and weighs half of what your girlfriend does. I got it, and you want it. And I don’t have to beg.”

“Like I really wanted to hear this about my sister,” Mark commented as the group was led away to holding cells.

“And you want to hear what, Mark?” Joe demanded, following behind. “That she’s do­ing this asshole?”

“Joe, shuttup,” Bill demanded, directing them on.

The day Art slipped me in to visit with Father Tim, he explained that there are five holding cells for men and three for women. Joe and Mark were locked in one cell, the woman was taken off by herself, and the remainder of the group were divided between three cells. That should leave one empty in the men’s section, except that as Joe and the man continued to bate each other, they woke the man that slept there. “Joseph Spyres, shuttup,” a voice said. “I didn’t sleep last night, and you’re making it hard to sleep to­night.”

“Tim, is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Your brother is a jackass.”

“At times, he is.”

“And you lied for him.”

“Too many times.”

“And that’s the asshole, right there,” the jerk howled. “That priest that did that kid. Tapped Spyres’ old lady, too. Him and the cops.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Joe bellowed, banging against the bars. “You want to talk about someone’s woman, you look at your own, asshole. She’s probably tapping everyone that will have her, and rubbing your nose in it. Leave my woman out of it.”

“Ah ha, the priest wins! The priest wins! He’s the one with a dick in the kid and Spyres’ old lady, too.”

“I’m celibate,” Father Tim groaned. “And if either of you would be having a heart at all, you’d change the topic to something a bit more respectful.”

“Child molester!”

“Hey,” Joe bellowed. “You wouldn’t know a child molester if he bit you in the dick. He didn’t do anything. Or don’t you read the fucking paper? Oh, forgive me. He made it through high school by tapping his language arts teacher.”

According to Bill, Joe didn’t want me anywhere near this jerk and his nasty mouth. “Same jerk we carted out of the memorial,” Bill explained. “Remember? The one with the mouth?” So Mark called my Mom and asked her to pick them up. She wasn’t happy.

Mom and Mark had their hands full. Joe was angry, and positive he had to press charges. It took everything Mark and Bill had to convince Joe that the man could press charges, too, considering Joe threw the first punch.

The wind picked up that night, and the temperature dropped. Mentally, I said goodbye to the last of the leaves when I went to bed, as I knew nothing would be clinging to the trees come morning.

Ed knocked on my door early again. “Chief says he promised you this,” he said.

“What’s that?” I asked wrapping myself up in my warmest fall jacket.

“Got a warrant for the arrest of Jose Emanuel Estrada. The Major Crimes Task Force is picking him up today. If we hurry, you can get pictures.”

“And who is this Estrada? Never heard of him.”

“Alias Emanuel Ortiz.” That woke me up. I grabbed a camera, and extra batteries besides.

Ed doubled back onto 127th Street rather than taking 135th to Miami. When we passed Rasmonson Jewelers, he slowed down. “Look,” he instructed. To my surprise, the big picture window was boarded up.

“What happened?”

“Broken into early this morning.” He smiled smugly. “Looks like our boy, Estrada, had a real busy night. Got some great pictures from the red light camera,” he chuckled in the direction of the street light with the camera on it. It seemed to be lined up perfectly with the jewelry shop on the opposite side of the street. “Estrada, plain as day, reaching through the broken window, cleaning it out.” He sped up in time to pass that light before it changed. “He’s held up inside of the Bankencrest home. I’m sure the Chief told you we had someone sitting outside that house day and night. Saw him come in about three hours ago with a bag. Sure we’ll find something in it we can trace backwards.” Ed drove south along Miami, and crossed the bridge over the Cal Sag Channel. Just to be sure, I changed batteries as we went. I hate to think of how many photos I missed because my camera died in the middle of an interview.

“Okay.”

His smile radiated like sunshine inside our squad. He squared his shoulders. “You know something. Every criminal out there thinks he’s so smart that he thinks he can fool us forever. They always slip up. Think that they can fool everyone just because everyone is dumber than they are. Besides, doesn’t everyone steal?”

“I don’t.”

Ed nodded. “Exactly. Why would we catch them when there’s so many other thieves out there?” He shook his head. “So dumb.”

Our destination turned out to be a tiny, dilapidated frame bungalow, at the furthest edge of Portland. Ed and I waited on the next block while men in riot gear and bullet proof vests gathered. They brought Hammer and Kite, who wore vests of their own. Hammer sniffed in my direction.

The Portland cops closed off the street, directed pedestrians out of the way, and emptied homes to either side. Then detectives took off. They hur­ried, using naked bushes for cover and hugging the homes that stood be­tween them and the Bankencrest home in the center of the block. Once in place, the men broke from the bushes. They crossed from cleanly raked lawns onto one buried in brown leaves. They rushed that house, braking through the front and back doors simultaneously.

Ed and I moved onto the block, and crouched behind a car. Handlers moved Hammer and Kite into the bushes next store. Ed watched the door through binoculars. I watched using a camera setting for distance. I was ready. When two detectives raced out the door with several little ones in hand, I snapped two pictures.

Once the kids were out of the way, Hammer and Kite were released. I caught them rushing through the front door with their handlers at their heels. The dogs growled and barked, and I heard someone scream. A gun­shot sounded, and then a second, and then I heard a yip of pain. One of the dogs darted from the house. I pushed up from behind the car. When Ham­mer saw me he rushed across the yard and about the car. He curled up at my feet. I tried to concentrate on my work. A moment or two passed and two detectives hoisted a young Hispanic with shoulder length hair up by the el­bows and carried him from the house. I got pictures.

I set my camera on the roof of the car and turned to Hammer. He lifted his head and wagged his tail slightly, but then laid his head down again. He shook. I noticed then a bloody knick just below where the vest ended on his foreleg. I lowered myself to the curb. “No, don’t,” Ed ordered, reaching out to me.

“He’s wounded.” I took Hammer’s head in my lap. The dog wagged his tail again, and turned, howling at the house.

A minute or so later, his handler hurried from the house. “Hammer, buddy, where are you? Here, boy. Here, Hammer.”

“George,” Ed waved. “He’s over here. He’s injured.”

George sped over and hunkered down to examine the dog. “Good boy,” he said, tugging affectionately on the dog’s ears. Hammer strained towards him, and howled like he had some­thing important to say. “Good boy.” He smiled at me. “The cat lady,” he said. “He trusts you because he can smell your cats.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“Skin wound. Get him to the vet, and he’ll be fine.” George produced his lead and clipped it to Hammer’s collar. “Come on, buddy, let’s get you taken care of.” The dog left after a second tug.

I stayed right there as Kite searched the premises. Before long detectives carried out weapons, and two large bundles.

Ed and I returned to the police station. Art joined me on the backside of an interrogation cell. On the other side of a two way mirrored window, Keith Hubbley and another detective entered and sat down across from Ortiz. “I’m not saying anything without my lawyer,” Ortiz barked.

“You can stay as long as you want,” Art whispered. “What we’re looking for is a con­fession. That might take hours. If he confesses. If he doesn’t, we still have this animal dead to rights. Wouldn’t believe the quality of the pictures from the red light camera. Better than usual. Old Mr. Rasmonson is on his way over now. Get a good look at what we confiscated.” Art nodded and smiled. “Picked up a couple more weapons. Checking on registrations right now. Picked up a couple of kilos. Cash, too.”

“Estrada, is it?” I asked.

“Jose Emanuel Estrada. Hubbley told you about his buddies? Serving time for armed robbery. Liquor store, two years ago.”

“Right.”

“When the cops tried to pin them then with weapons highjacking, they in­sisted they had nothing to do with the highjacking, that they bought the weapons from Estrada. Surprised it took this long to find him.”

“How’s Hammer?” I asked. “Any word?”

Art laughed. “Damned tough dog. He’s fine.” He nodded at the other side of the glass. “Take a good look at Estrada. Hammer took him out when he tried to shoot Hubbley.” The man had scratches on his arms and on his neck.

An attorney arrived within an hour.

Art returned after a while. “We’re charging him now,” he said. “Those weapons we picked up this morning were reported stolen last month. Have him down to Cook County before the day is out.”

“That’s it then?”

“What else do you want?”

“What’s going to happen to the little ones in the house with him?”

“We’re waiting for a case worker from D.C.F.S. Send them to a foster home. The D.A. is talking about charging Mom with harboring a fugitive.”

“What a sad way to raise kids.”

“It sure is.”

Art scheduled a news conference for early afternoon in the Council Cham­bers next store. I couldn’t wait. Art, in his full uniform, stood tall be­hind the podium, and an­nounced to the world that the weapons supplier of the Portland Five had been captured. “At 08:45 this morning, Jose Emanuel Estrada was arrested at his home in Portland by the combined forces of the South Cook County Major Crimes Task Force. At the time of his arrest, Es­trada had in his possession a great deal of jewelry taken from Rasmonson Jewelers in an early morning heist. We found contraband weapons, illegal and restricted drugs, as well as a scale. As of thirteen hundred hours this afternoon, Estrada was charged with several counts of possession of stolen merchandise, with possession of stolen handguns, fencing stolen handguns, weap­ons high jacking, breaking and entering, grand theft, as well as several other counts having to do with the possession and sale of illegal drugs and drug paraphernalia.”

Art answered questions put to him by the media, and then yielded the floor to Carmen. As she congratulated the Portland Police Department and mem­bers of the Major Crimes Task Force, I took pictures of Art, Carmen and the officers that stood in line against the wall behind the podium. I wanted to burst with pride. They smiled and I smiled back. This was good. This was for Portland.

The media finished taking their pictures, and the television crews packed up their equipment. I slipped into the back office with Art, Carmen and the others. She couldn’t wait to sink her claws into Art. “You fat blowhard,” she growled. “You could have done this on your own without dragging in the Major Crimes Task Force. Makes us look weak. Bad enough you let those animals on the field to begin with, now you’re handing over our bust to outsiders.”

“Carmen,” Art growled. “Go tell that to the TV cameras. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Carmen?” She drew back. “It’s Mayor Herrera to you, unless you want to start over as a street sweeper.”

Art shook his head and smiled as she exited back into the Council Cham­bers. He nod­ded at me. “Even Carmen can’t ruin this day.”

I asked for a picture of the dogs, and once I had it, I took off for the office. I took some terrific pictures and I couldn’t wait until they were downloaded. I wrote my story on a work computer. I told about the investigation leading to Estrada’s arrest, and how it went down, and I wrote about Hammer and how he protected Keith Hubbley, too. Some stories are easier to write than others. This flowed like water from a broken water main.

Link to Chapter IX