Chapter I

I

Someone once told me that in the summer prior to the attacks on the World Trade Center, there wasn’t one high rise fire in all of Manhattan. I believe it. It seems like this world gets all out of kilter and then something major happens to knock it back into shape. Like a giant rubber band maybe. It vibrates back and forth between courage and cowardice, and love and loathing until the vibrations stop and the world is back in sync again.

That’s how my summer went. Nothing newsworthy happened. At all. In spite of my editor’s pleas, the only thing I could find to write about was an interview I conducted with my vet. When nothing happened again, I expanded that story into two more. My contract says I write so many articles a year, so be it. Even if I have to pull it out of my ass.

Ask Joe what he thinks on this subject and I’ll guarantee his perspective is quite different. “Worst autumn I can remember,” he told me once. The bullies had come out to play, and there were a lot more than usual. “You could see it had to come to a head.”

My first contact with this story began before the Theodore Roosevelt High School Homecoming football game, when that one weird boy approached me. I sold split the pot tickets to patrons as they entered T.R.’s stadium. Homecoming marked the beginning of Portland’s annual month long Halloween celebration, and many people dressed in costume. I wore Joe‘s old high school football jersey, which hung to my knees. I sold raffle tickets to at least six Elvis rip-offs, and a handful of other celebrity look-a-likes. I saw people dressed up as firefighters and military types. I saw angels, French mails, exotic animals and super heroes. The most unusual costume I saw was what Dicky from the Fire Department wore. “Annie, check it out,” Joe’s secretary, Carol, called. She sold game tickets. Dressed like Vampira, and wearing long, purple and spidery finger nails, she pointed through a hole in the crowd.

Dick stepped from his car. It was hard to tell what he had on his head until he turned about. It was big, beige and plastic, and turned out to be a huge penis.

I clapped and whistled, one hand holding a stack of bills, and the roll of tickets worn on my wrist like a bracelet. “Yeah, Dickey!”

“All right,” Carol called.

He turned in our direction and bowed. A family dressed as White Sox players passed in front of him. When Mom caught sight of him, she hurried her brood along. 

Police Officer Ruth Ellen de Beor noticed. She’s tall, blonde, and brawny. She moved to stand in front of Dicky, looking down on him. With her hair pulled back, her chin pointed at Dick like another finger. I could just barely hear her above the crowd noises. “Loose it, Dicky. It’s inappropriate.” A moment passed with short, squat, Dick, looking up into her baby blues. Sheepishly, he removed his head­gear.

“All right,” Carol called.

“Go, Ruth Ellen!”

“I’ll take a ticket.” Below me, a boy dressed in a fedora and a trench coat held onto a plastic Tommy gun.

“Sorry. Underage,” I replied.

Ruth Ellen pushed in behind the boy. “What’s this?” she demanded latching onto the tip of his gun. “State law prohibits even toy guns on school prop­erty.”

The boy, his eyes moving in all directions at once, jumped aside and aimed. “Say your prayers, copper! I’m going to blow you away!” He fired, and his gun rattled. Never mind his eye color or his hair. This kid, this child with smooth cheeks and pimply forehead, trembled like a steam engine burning caffeine, sucking oxygen and energy right out of the air. I shuddered. He smiled crookedly at me over his pointed weapon. That made my chill bumps worse.

Another kid dressed in a fedora and trench coat stepped between the first boy and Ruth Ellen just as she reached out for the first’s ID. “Knock it off,” the second boy ordered, pushing the tip of the Tommy gun aside. That sec­ond boy looked familiar.

“You, too,” Ruth Ellen shot. “Lose the gun.”

“We’re gangsters,” the second insisted. “It’s part of the costume. You go­ing to bust us for carrying toys?”

“Loose them now, or I put you out.” She crossed her arms.

The second boy removed his hat and straight brown hair fell about his ears. I remembered him. I tried to wipe away the chill bumps under my sleeves as he stepped aside to toss his gun into a trash barrel. Meanwhile his buddy spun about, fir­ing his weapon at me, at Ruth Ellen and at people emerging from the park­ing lots. When his gun jammed, he made the sound with mouth. The second boy jerked the gun away. “Give me that!”

Carol sighed as the second boy pitched the other gun. I know my heart slowed considerably. A slight breeze brought those chill bumps to the surface again. I tried to smile as the sec­ond boy returned. “You’re Bobby,” I said. His eyes lost a touch of their clear blue anger. “Tell your Mom Annie said hi.”

“Huh?”

“Your Mom. Tell her Annie Moriarty said hi.” He continued to watch me as he latched onto the other’s arm. “You’re Rose Boyle’s son. Right?”

“Sure. Annie said hi.” The other kid aimed his finger at Ruth Ellen and fired. “Freakin’ baby-sitter,” Bobby growled as he pulled the other through the stadium entrance. “Dude, you’re a pain in the ass.”

“Watch your mouth,” Ruth Ellen barked as she raced off.

“My God, that kid is weird,” Carol grumbled next to me. “Drives everyone nuts.”

Joe finished up a few minutes into the first quarter of the sophomore game. I passed my roll of tickets and my wad of bills on to the girl’s softball coach. Then I followed him up spiral wrought iron stairs leading to the announcer’s booth.

He growled something about how the security cameras had crashed during last period, and how he had wasted all this time waiting for the repairman only to learn the mainframe had to be carted back to the shop for work. “Monday,” he mumbled. “I didn’t want to wait that long.” He picked up the mic right away and tore into a description of the action on the field. In between, his usual good humor dissolved into a series of grumbles about security cameras, mainframes and smart ass kids.

Our sophomores scored early, and held onto to beat Austin’s Big Green Machine 17 to 6. Our boys tossed footballs into the air and jumped on top of one another. Joe grabbed the mic and squeezed the on button. “Please stand for the school fight song!” The cheerleaders kicked up their heels and shook orange and black pompoms. They sang, “Giddy-up, Horsemen, giddy-up...” Great school, dumb song.

Joe reset the time on the scoreboard, allowing specta­tors a twenty minute break. “You up for a dog?” he asked me.

I’ve known Joe all of my life. He’s two years older than I am and his best friend is my brother, Mark. One of my best friends was Joe’s late wife, Sheri. He’s tall, six, five, in fact, and thin but with strong, wide shoulders. He’s in his mid thirties. His face is long and smooth, but his hair, mostly pepper, has a few salty strands. He has this slight widow’s peak in the front corner, and as long as I can remember, he’s tried to slick it out, lick it out or cut it out. He hates it. I think it’s cute.

As I said, I’m tall and blonde, and yes, I think I heard every dumb blonde joke ever written. My hair is collar length and curly. I get my coloring from my German mother and my green eyes, square face and curls from my red­headed Irish father.

Regina Ochoa stopped me as I tried to slip out of the stands. “Didn’t I tell you about that place?” she asked referring to a discount warehouse she had sent me to buy slipcovers. In the larger scheme of things, I guess it doesn’t have anything to do with this particular story, only that when I saw her that day, that’s what she had to say, and to me that is important.

“Thanks again,” I said. Regina had dark, direct eyes, and when she focused on someone, she could draw truth from his soul. I treasured that about her. Friends don’t lie to each other.

She waved to a man, and even took his hand to pull him closer. “Doug,” she said, “One of my oldest and closest friends in the entire world. Annie Moriarty. Annie,” she said, nodding at me. “Meet Doug Adamski. He’s a salesman for one of my suppliers.” At that time, Regina ran a gift shop in Portland’s an­tique district. She turned back to Doug. “I told you about Annie. She writes for the Suburban Daily News.”

“Doug,” I said, putting out my hand. “Are you T.R. alumni?” We tried to shake hands but were forced back against a concrete wall as others squeezed by us.

“Austin, actually.” He stood an inch short of me and had a full head of hair. He wasn’t bad looking, considering his allegiances. He drew back. “I know you. You write under the name Mary Anne, right?”

I nodded. “Annie’s my nickname.”

He nodded. “You covered the Thompson murders. Christ, I followed that from the time the bodies were found, through the trial. Fan­tastic job.”

“Thank you.”

Doug nodded. “Did you actually get ar­rested?”

I nodded but said goodbye. That one incident is still a sore spot between Joe and me. He posted bail, and it was my fault. I crossed one too many politicians trying to get my story.

Police Lieutenant Bill Ramos and Ruth Ellen waved as I passed. She’s so big and light; and Bill isn’t. He has blue eyes, black curly hair, a thick mustache and a truly genuine smile. He’s a friend, a poker buddy even. And I used to baby sit for Ruth Ellen and her little brother. Friends or not, seeing uniformed officers that night reintroduced that uneasy feeling that weird kid left me with earlier. This was a high school football game. I mean what could happen?

I ran into Mayor Carmen Herrera next. She and three aldermen were working the con­cession stand closest to the stadium entrance. According to the sign taped to the brick wall behind them, proceeds were to be split between the various sports teams. Smoke from a bar-be-que grill blossomed over their heads. The smell, meaty and smoky, made my stomach rumble. I struggled with the crowd heading in that direction. “What is that?” I asked Carmen when I arrived at the booth.

“Irish garlic sausage.”

“I never heard of it.”

“If I offer you one, will you write that I spit in it?”

“Should I turn my back?”

She made a disgusting noise through her nose. “Go ahead.”

Alderman John Orlando raced up next to her. “Here, courtesy of the Third Ward,” he said, handing me two wrapped sandwiches. “Six bucks.”

I set them on the counter to go for my purse. A sharp elbow smack in the middle of my back nearly sent me head first over the concession stand counter. “One of your support­ers?” I asked Carmen. She smiled. I turned to John, handing him a ten. “Two Cokes and a bag of chips please.”

“What’s this?” Joe asked as I set them on the table before him.

“According to Carmen, they’re Irish garlic sausage.”

“Carmen? You sure?”

“Did you think she’d risk poisoning me?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. Did I hear she’s running again?”

I nodded. “Can you think of any other reason she’d be working a concession stand?”

The night sky was darkening, and the sodium vapor field lights were heating up. Joe opened his pop, and then stripped the foil and paper wrapper from his sandwich. He took a bite and nodded appreciably.

A whistle blew as he chewed. The percussion section of Roosevelt’s marching band picked up an intricate beat, indicating that the Homecoming parade was about to begin. Joe washed down the bread and meat with a gulp of Coke, and went for the mic. “Ladies and Gen­tlemen,” he began, “Students, parents, faculty, staff and alumni, please wel­come the single best marching band in the State of Illinois! Our very own, Marching Horsemen!” That received a hearty round of applause. They are good, too. They had just returned from Champlain where they had competed and won first place in an All State High School Marching Band Competition.

I took my Coke and my sandwich and sat on the window ledge, and ate as I watched.

The drum majors, one male and one female, struck a pose at the gate between the football field and the back soccer field, with their heads and cowboy hats up, right hand to chin with fringe falling from their gloves. Orange shirts, black pants and jackets, bolo ties and white boots screamed Teddy Roosevelt the Cavalry commander or Teddy Roo­sevelt the tenderfoot.

A boy dressed in a trench coat and fedora appeared from the soccer field and snapped their picture with a small digital camera. Neither flinched. On cue they nodded to count down the beat. One, two, three. They blew their whistles again and stepped out onto the track surrounding the football field. The crowd roared as twelve drill team members in sequined body suits, and white hats and boots, followed. The boy in the trench coat snapped another picture as the girls worked orange and black pennants up and down and around and around.

“I know him,” I said. “That’s Rose Boyle’s son, Bobby.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Yearbook staff. Heck of a photographer.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Me, too.” Joe took another sip of his pop. “What surprises me,” he said, setting the can down again. “Bobby is into TV production. If you re­member we got that grant to build a TV station. Cable access.”

Bobby stayed with the band, flying between columns, his coat flapping and his hat ready to fly away, as he snapped more pictures. A few others who dressed like Bobby, took pic­tures of teachers and coaches along the sidelines, and members of the audience in the stands.

“I’m surprised Bobby’s not filming this,” Joe continued. “From what I un­derstand, he has a better grasp of the equipment than the teacher does. It might be the only class he’s carrying a decent grade in.”

After the drill team, the band filed out onto the track that surrounded the football field. As they passed the home team stands, band members carrying smaller horns and wood­winds, held them up to the crowd. They came abreast of the American flag when they turned the corner at the other end of the field. Drill team members and band members with a free hand saluted. As they neared the oppositions’ side, the drum majors blew their whistles again. A flute, a trumpet and a slide trombone played a snippet of the Austin school fight song. I have no idea what a ‘Big Green Machine’ is, but I know their theme song beats the hell out of ‘Giddy-up, Horsemen.’ Austin’s spectators ap­plauded.

Teacher, Perry Armstrong slipped into the booth as the band rounded the back cor­ner. He sang the National Anthem at every sporting event, even as far back as when my elder sisters attended. He’s a dear old man who he squeals when he sings.

The band turned suddenly, marching beneath either side of the upright, and onto the field. The drum majors jumped into the task of lining band members up at the furthest reaches of the field. Drill team members set their pennants at their feet. When in place, Joe picked up the mic again. “Please rise for the National Anthem.” Perry took the mic. When he sang the audience shouted the words.

A kid in a trench coat and fedora popped into the booth, and snapped Perry’s picture with another digital camera. He kept right on singing as we wiped blind spots from our eyes.

Link to Chapter I *