A hardboiled detective novel
Tigers of wrath are wiser than horses of instruction.–Blake
PROLOGUE
The young man, Rudy Cruz, stood in an eyesore—-a smelly, polluted alley in the inner city-—the flurry of wind flush upon his face. Not just any wind but Chicago’s nighttime Hawk—-cool, dark, compelling. Only when he sensed the cold did he become conscious of the wind as it swirled, hovered and dipped, kicking up scraps of paper and whistling perceptibly.
He shook and buttoned his leather jacket. Even in late April the wind felt cold. He sensed the cold and was . . . afraid.
As the wind clawed his unlined face, Rudy wondered why he had allowed himself to be taken to such a desolate spot. He was no pushover, no slouch. A good-looking ladies’ man, he was a street-wise Puerto Rican who knew better than to make a deal withsomeone who might want to end his life, be it a gangster, a hustler or a thief.
Rudy had come here to take care of business. He had come in search of money, dinero, “flow.” Unknowingly, he had been duped into making a date with death. And by the time he understood his error in judgment, three bullets ripped into his midsection at point-blank range. Unable to defend himself, he fell, lay wounded and bleeding.
Yes, Rudy would certainly die tonight. Because this was so, he suddenly felt ashamed. Ashamed he had led a less than savory life. Ashamed he had used others, especially the opposite sex. Ashamed he would not be given a chance to make amends. He had come here unprepared for death, its electric shock and searing hurt. Its unremitting physical and emotional pain.
Sadly these thoughts would remain forever in this dark place, unspoken.
In that inglorious spot, with the Hawk already perched and poised to nip at his prostrate flesh, Rudy came to grips with his manhood, his life and his fate. The wind gusted. And as a dark curtain shrouded his eyes, he was repentant.
CHAPTER 1—-YOU EVER KICK SOMEBODY’S ASS?
The sex didn’t help. The fighting, blocking, kicking–the exercise, though invigorating, was useless. No doubt the kumite session Guarionex Blanco just completed lessened the tension and increased his blood flow, yet the physical activity inherent in the martial arts did little to unburden his mind, that “I feel out of it” feeling. And the practice of fighting stances and forms—-katas–was just a waste of time.
After giving it some thought, Guarionex (better known as “Rio,” as in Rio de Janeiro) analyzed his condition using one word: salao. It happened occasionally. When it did, he detested feeling this way, like a hot-and-cold hitter. Rio Blanco enjoyed life when it offered him something more substantial than a Windy City chill, an unending rut.
No work, no pay, no play. And the worst of it: it would soon be summer in Chicago. He would hate being broke—-and momentarily unemployed—-this summer.
Rio realized that harboring negative emotions was unbecoming a private detective skilled in the martial arts, since he knew he possessed a quality to counter depression: willpower.
Suddenly these words occurred to him: You ever kick somebody’s ass, Rio? For the hell of it?
He didn’t recall who had asked him that or under what circumstances, but the answer was a definite yes. He had done so, and would probably do so again–soon. It was a premonition, he was sure.
The private eye left the makeshift dojo in the field house in Humboldt Park and drove north on California Boulevard.
Even the day–overcast, chilly–smacked with the flavor of lean times to come. He checked his watch, which read 11:00, and seriously considered downing a couple before lunch. Nothing malicious in that, since ordinary Joes engaged routinely in this ritual.
Then why not an ex-cop turned private eye?
For one powerful reason. The belief that such behavior would result alien and out of character. Rio Blanco professed respect for the bottle and in this way avoided a certain pitfall, behaving like a payaso, what Latinos call a clown. Moreover, having the good sense to keep his composure in a bad situation had gotten him through it with no serious injuries on many occasions.
A second-generation Puerto Rican-American who made his living in the hood on Chicago’s West Side would never drink during an investigation. Any detective worth his salt would choose to remain conscious, cool and sober.
Then how could he explain this powerful desire for drink? Again, why did he want to?
He was off duty, but that didn’t explain it. He felt like kicking ass, but that didn’t explain it, either. Was it the heat, from a decade spent on the force, finally catching up to him? Was it the memory of those ten years, a kind of meltdown, making its presence known?
Rio wondered and continued north, then he turned right, going east in the direction of the North Avenue Inn. After passing a bevy of traffic lights he veered, parked his car and got out. Perhaps Nicholas Lusinski, the bartender-owner of the tavern to which Rio walked, could illuminate this quandary.
Why Nick? The man became Rio’s official adviser on the night the detective thwarted an attempted robbery in Nick’s place. Shaking snowflakes from his jacket and rubbing the cold from his hands, Rio entered Nick’s bar. The bar was empty except for a good-looking young couple nursing their last drink before calling it a night. They stood but before they left, the male patron was either too preoccupied or drunk to notice his lady friend smile, then wink, at Rio.
Had he been given time, the detective would have considered the beautiful woman and her warm smile, but then the unexpected happened. A hoodlum wearing a dark coat and a stocking mask stormed in. He carried a 9mm semiautomatic and with it demanded Nick hand over the money in the register.
Nick said, “This is the second time this month one of you punks has tried to rob me. I’m getting sick and tired of it. Fuck off.”
Stocking Mask pointed the gun at Nick, and said, “Get your head out of your ass and hand over the money. Last chance, old man. The money, or say bye-bye.”
Nick shook his head and the gunman fired. The shot rang out, deafening, as the bullet struck the mirror behind the counter and sent shards of glass tinkling everywhere.
In the distraction, Rio moved, striking the robber’s chest with a vicious side kick that sent him sprawling at least fifteen feet. Releasing the gun, Stocking Mask landed on his back, legs and arms splayed, looking like a ham that had just been smoked.
Rio retrieved the gun and handcuffed the man. Nick then called the cops.
Since that memorable encounter, whenever one or the other felt burdened with stress, the man free of the symptoms woul serve as the sounding board, providing a sympathetic ear and friendly advice.
Once inside the private eye shook the barkeep’s hand. “I want a shot, Nick. Double. Don Q, if you have it; if not, Bacardi Gold.”
Nick knew enough Spanish to season their conversation. He said, “Qué pasa, amigo?”
“With me?” Rio pointed to himself. “I’m a sweetheart. No líos for this man.”
“You look depressed, angry or bored.”
“It isn’t that. I just feel like kicking ass. Happens to me every new moon or so. Maybe I’m coming down with something. Hombre, I’ve told you my trouble. Now how ’bout that drink?”
The barkeep poured him a double shot of Bacardi rum, which Nick had shipped directly from Puerto Rico and kept on hand especially for Rio. Another reason Rio frequented the bar and liked this man.
Nick said, “There’s your drink. Salud, Rio.”
Rio looked at the shot glass in his hand, then at Nick.
His friend had thinning gray strands meticulously groomed and combed, and pale blue eyes over a vein-streaked nose which looked like a road map of downtown Chicago. Nick had an air of patience, like a priest in the confessional, as well as a muscular physique no doubt acquired from jogging and pumping iron even into his late fifties.
Nick’s entreaty might have been a blessing, or a premonition. Something.
Rio gulped the drink, and coughed. Not his forte, straight rum. Both men knew it. Rio placed the shot glass on the counter and grimaced. “I don’t see how ordinary Joes, not alcoholics, enjoy liquor straight. My old man loved it with a passion. But it wasn’t cirrhosis of the liver that killed him.”
“I don’t mean to pry,” Nick said. “What did?”
“A date with death. Some dope head shot him and took his paycheck. Just walked up to him, took out a gun and bam—-adiós.You believe that?”
Nick rested his elbows on the counter. “I do. Hell, murder happens all the time in Chicago. In this city, a man’s life isn’t worth a dollar fifty carnival ride.”
“Tell me about it. Just another big city statistic. Only this time it happened to my old man.”
Nick said, “Private eye business got you down? Not like they show it on Cheaters, Inc., huh?”
“Hell, yes!” (Rio pronounced it “jes.”) “You got that straight. Most of the time it’s just surveillance and legwork. At other times I tape what goes on.”
“You mean,” Nick said, “hanky-panky and the ol’ hoochie-coo.”
“No jive,” Rio responded. “Think about it. Me, an ex-narcotics cop, a master of undercover investigation and practitioner of tae kwon do, tailing some reckless, roly-poly sex-starved bimbo.”
“If you don’t like it, why do it?”
Rio looked at Nick. “Would you believe me if I told you it beats playing poker for a living?”
Nick scratched his bald spot, where his hair looked thinnest. “Then why don’t you go back on the force?”
“I left the force because I wanted to try out my luck solo. If I can’t make it work, what’s the point in leaving the force?
It’s just a matter of sticking with it. Perseverance, my man.”
“I’m with you,” Nick said, grabbing cashews from a dish and dropping them into his mouth one at a time. “The tavern business is like that sometimes, bitchy, especially every time a genuine piss-in-my-eye drunk stumbles in.”
“Don’t say?” Rio commented.
“Yeah. Had one here last night. Gave me hell, what with his bitching about his unfaithful wife and snotty kids. So I give him a little advice. He gets irate and tells me to mind my ow n business. I escort him to the door, and he pulls a knife on me. I take it from him and throw him out. Hell, I’m still living.” Nick leaned in Rio’s direction. “You got cojones, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I got cojones,” Rio said. “Gimme another shot.”
Nick served the drink. “Then go find a client and kick some ass.”
Rio drank the shot, smiled. “That one went down sweet.” He placed a bill on the counter.
Nick refused it and said, “On the house, amigo.”
“Thanks for your honest o’,” the private eye said. “And the drinks. Te veo.”
“Adiós,” Nick said, scratching his balding head and munching another cashew.
Rio left Nick’s place. He soon parked near Milwaukee Avenue and Division St., an intersection from where he could see his office building: a four-story red brick affair with rickety fire escape and venetian blinds on most of the windows.
Once inside he used the stairwell and trod to the third floor, cursing the building’s owner for not having installed an elevator. Along the way he regretted the couple of shots he had “chugged” at Nick’s because the Puerto Rican rum (which he preferred mixed) had given him a murderous headache. Something valuable came out of that excursion, however.
Rio’s recollection of the night he floored the assailant had revivified his private eye’s sense of value, worth and self-respect. And this fact lifted that dead pachyderm from his shoulders. It made him hungry for work. For the first time that day he felt good about himself.
You ever kick somebody’s ass? Just for the hell of it?
Again those words. Why did he think of them? Perhaps the reason was that on occasions-—especially during his heyday as a narc—-violence had dominated his existence with a precision bordering on clockwork. During one incident, for example, Rio had refused to take a drug “hit” from the cocaine peddler who had offered to be his supplier. So the man pulled out a hunting knife to get his point across. In spite of the knife Rio used his bare hands and the offensive advantage of tae kwon do to arrest the criminal and make the drug bust.
He often thought about such times-—episodes of intense anger-—how they had channeled the direction of his life, and then he would stop to consider: Conquering others is power. Conquering oneself is strength. Memorable, common sense words from the Tao Te Ching.
The sign in black block letters on the translucent pane of his office door read:
GUARIONEX VICENTE BLANCO
PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
He thought it should have included a third line: ASS KICKER.
He opened the door and entered, wondering what—-if anything– the day would bring.
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