“Who’s going to live here?” I ask after several minutes, during which I managed to roll paint onto a section of wall without spilling a drop. At this rate, the good reverend is going to be begging me to return.
“Shit!” Pat exclaims when she misses the paint tray while reloading her roller, adding a nice dash of paint to the floor.
“Carpet’s coming,” I remind her with a nasty grin.
“Screw you again,” she mutters while hooking a thumb at her glass eye. “At least I have the excuse of compromised depth perception with this damned thing.”
I immediately regret my smart-assed remark. Pat seldom mentions the eye, but I know the depth-perception issue challenges her on a regular basis, especially as it affects her personal painting.
She shrugs it off and gets back to work while she answers my question about who will live here. “They’ll find a family that needs a home and is willing to do the hard work needed to rebuild and reclaim the neighborhood. Folks have to be in for the long haul and be willing to face down the punks and druggies.”
“Not a job for the faint of heart. Jakes and his people sell the houses to these folks?”
“Whenever possible. The project needs the money to move on to the next house.”
“What if the family can’t get a mortgage?”
“Reverend Jakes has recruited a couple of community banks to get involved. New Calvary will take out a mortgage if they have to, then rent the house back to the family on a rent-to-own basis until the homeowners can get their own financing.”
We paint and chatter for another half hour before Pat lays her brush aside. I pause in midstroke and realize that she’s finished two walls in the time it’s taken me to do about ninety percent of one.
She looks at her watch. “You go ahead and finish that wall while I start cleaning up. We need to get you home before Brittany calls.”
I think about Pat as I finish. I came to understand last year just how deeply immersed she is in Chicago and have developed a deep appreciation of who she is. Despite having been raised in the same neighborhoods and attended the same schools, I’ve somehow managed to get through the first few decades of my life without contributing ten percent of what she’s done. For all the social climbing I’ve done, hers has been far and away the richer life. With that lesson learned, I’ve been playing catch-up—not that I’ll ever come close to matching her accomplishments. At least I’m now in the game.
“Have you and Penelope developed a sense about how vulnerable Billy Likens and his partner are?” Pat asks once we’re in the car and on our way back to Liberty Street.
My thoughts turn to the NTSB investigation and the lawsuit that R & B Ramp Services is caught up in. “Sort of. There are so many moving parts to this thing. It’s like trying to sort out a giant jigsaw puzzle with a couple of thousand scattered pieces. Papa’s trial last year was like a ten-piece toddler’s puzzle in comparison.”
Pat snorts at my analogy.
“Really,” I insist. “I’m so over my head with this thing that it frightens me.”
“You’re not up to the challenge?” she asks sharply as we coast to a stop at a red light.
“I promised Mel I would look out for Billy, but I’m not sure how to do so in this damned case. I can’t stand the thought of letting them down.”
Pat turns sideways in her seat. “Look at me,” she commands. I do. “This sounds an awful lot like what I heard from you last year, Tony—the whole ‘I’m not good enough, I’m going to get Papa executed’ crap you were spewing before you went to trial and got him acquitted. Why is it so hard for you to accept that you’re smart and capable?”
I gaze back at her angry face and shrug. Over the years, my older brother, my ex-wife, former business colleagues, and a string of disillusioned girlfriends have all attested to what a worthless piece of shit I am. I’ve always had a tough time arguing against what seems like a mountain of evidence. I do try, but it’s a constant struggle, and I’m sometimes prone to backsliding at the merest hint that they had me pegged correctly.
The honk of a horn behind me interrupts our staredown. I glance up to see that the light has turned green. Cicero Avenue may be clear ahead, but I’m in no doubt that the lawsuit littering the road ahead will severely test my limited legal skills. Penelope is probably going to have to bail me out if we hope to save Billy’s and Rick’s asses in court.
Chapter Ten
I’m sitting at the kitchen table with Papa and Ed Stankowski shortly after ten o’clock the following evening when I start nodding off and decide it’s time for bed. I drain my glass of bourbon and get to my feet. “Bedtime for me, gentlemen.” I fix them with a pointed look and add, “Stay in the house tonight, you two.”
Ed smirks at me and lifts his damaged left arm in its sling, reaches inside with his good hand, and produces his pistol. “I’m right-handed. I’ll be fine if anything goes down.”
Officer Marty Zeller, who quietly told me that he’d driven here at the end of his shift after being told Ed was here tonight, turns a questioning gaze on me.
“I found these two sitting on the front porch with a couple of beers last night,” I tell him over my shoulder as I rinse my glass.
Zeller rolls his eyes. “Even if you had two good hands, Ed, the two of you sitting out there is dumb as shit. Tony’s right. Stay inside. I’ll personally drag your asses back into the house if I catch you out there.”
Ed doesn’t argue.
Papa’s another story. “You no tell me what to do at my home!”
Zeller ignores my father. “Get your
