A mile west of the Old Town, they passed Shattuc Road. On the right, more signs. County 5. Ben turned his head but didn’t say anything.
Luke took his foot off the gas.
The car lost speed: 30… 20… 10… and rumbled to a stop, engine running.
For a half minute: silence. A few cars passed. And between them, his friend’s quick breathing.
“So, we’re here,” Luke said. “You want to go see?”
A tractor passed, green and yellow.
“You want to go see? Might as well now we’re here. Take a decision. Come on man. Want to do it?”
Ben inhaled deep, his chest rose and fell, and he snorted back a noseful of mucus. “Don’t know. Don’t know. What you think? You think we should?”
“You do know. Quit the hell asking me.”
“Yeah, okay. I know. Okay. Let’s do it.”
Luke checked the mirror, spun the car in a circle, and swung hard left onto Shattuc.
Another mile and, on the right, out of a scraggy sea of farmland, emerged an island of red brick and clipped lawns. He saw flagstaffs and a gatehouse: single-story, sloping roof. Then a chain-link fence and razor wire. Here and there steel coils caught the afternoon light, as if disguising their purpose as art.
He turned into a lot, half-filled with empty vehicles, braked, backed up, and killed the engine. Ahead—through the fence—he saw a sports field, running track, some wooden picnic tables, and a spectator stand no bigger than a high school’s.
Ben clambered from the car and stood by the hood. Then he wandered to the fence and just stared.
Luke opened a window and heard shouts in the distance, like a parade ground sergeant’s commands. Looking past Ben’s shoulders, he saw a quarter mile away a bunch of guys in pale shirts and dark pants.
They were too far off—by some redbrick one-stories—to identify their races, much less their features. But he knew what Ben was thinking: was one of them Henry? Was one of those guys his father? If one of those figures across the prison field was him, it would be the first time he’d seen him in twenty years, five months, and days he could probably number.
All that time, the father had hidden from the son. All that time, hiding in shame.
Ben hung by the fence for maybe ten minutes. Luke stayed, unmoving, in the car. He felt so churned he wanted to cry, as he wondered what Henry did for him. Through that change in Ben’s world, his own was altered. One thing merged into the other. Without that day at the window, when the father skipped out, no son would have fallen at the cleaners.
Would that be better, or worse? Luke couldn’t say. You never know how shit turns out.
Sixty-three
IN THROUGH the burbs at half past midnight. Ben figured the math as he drove. His original obligation was a year and a day to satisfy the fine print of the loan. Leaving aside his salary and Ericson Vale rent, that was $260,000 divided by 366: about seven hundred bucks a day.
The way it turned out, though, he worked fifty-seven days: a day rate of $4,560. Plus an all-expenses trip to San Francisco, California, and every dick-stiffening benefit he could dream of. Thanks to his father, and his father’s best buddy, he got a Loyola JD, a BMW 5 series E-39, and the phone number of a lady in Nagoya. Maybe, on the side, he’d learned something about himself. Was that the steal of the century, or what?
Beside the Dan Ryan Expressway, an L train rattled: bright, full of dents, and almost empty. Luke lay asleep, his face to the door, missing planet Earth’s sight of sights. At forty-five degrees right: the eye of the heart of the middle of the center of the true capital of the United States. Three-Eleven South Wacker; Two Prudential Plaza; the Aon Center; the Sears Tower; Nine Hundred North Michigan Avenue. And, among them, Luke’s favorite: the gently tapering supertall John Hancock, rising twelve hundred feet above the streets.
First thing tomorrow, Ben would call Jad Tucker and schedule a Plus Tax practice. They’d get the living room cleared and pack them all in, just like before Memorial Day. Maybe what they needed was a sax, or a keyboard… Give the guys’ sound more depth.
Traffic picked up. Onto the Kennedy. Not far. North Avenue East. Nearly home.
Luke didn’t respond to the change of light and sound. Then his cellphone rang like a bell.
Ben reached over and took the call.
“Mr. Ronson?” A woman’s voice. She sounded scared.
“I’m Ben Louviere. Can I help tonight?”
Luke rubbed his eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Look, I’ve been arrested. They’re saying I was DUI.”
“Come to the right place. We can help.”
“What you doing man? Gimme the phone.”
“They’re saying I agreed to a blood test, and I didn’t. I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“That’ll be Illinois implied consent. Can refuse, but it doubles the suspension.”
“Man, what you doing there? Who you talking to there?”
“Can you get here in the morning?”
“No problemo.”
“Gimme the fucking phone.”
Ben checked the mirror and signaled for North Cleveland Avenue. “DUI, ma’am? Don’t do much else. I’m like Mr. Ronson’s special assistant.”
ALSO BY BRIAN DEER
NONFICTION INVESTIGATION
THE DOCTOR WHO FOOLED THE WORLD
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“Riveting”—Nature
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