Freezing rain spits on my windshield. It’s another beautiful spring day, to match my mood. I’m headed west on Grand Avenue, away from the skyscrapers that stand guard over the city, into an Italian neighborhood. This is no Michigan Avenue. Out here, glass storefronts are fortressed by metal gates. There’s no window-shopping, and what few people walk the street are as certain of their destinations as the trains that follow the tracks out of the METRA station.
I stopped for coffee at the Caribou on Wells before I came down this way, but the caffeine doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. I didn’t sleep well, and I’m pissed at myself about last night. I thought about calling Mason back and telling him about O’Connor. Instead, I drank. I thought about calling him this morning, too. Instead, I dumped all the rest of my booze in the sink, took some Tylenol, and promised myself I’d sober up. My head hurts from too much drinking and my mind has been going in too many circles.
I make a mental list of what I know. One: Mason is still looking for Trovic and he doesn’t want my help. Two: O’Connor is using scare tactics because he needs my help. And three: Neither one of them can really help me. I certainly won’t get them to compare notes. That’s why, four: I have to investigate on my own.
Once I’ve passed the sparse blocks between expressways, Grand Avenue bends northwest, and I realize my mind’s not the only thing going in circles. I cross Chicago, again, and Division, again. As I keep driving farther into unfamiliar territory, I wonder if the address I got from Information is correct, because Trovic wouldn’t exactly go unnoticed here. When I pass Homan Avenue, I know I stick out like a white female. I’m the only driver who stops at a red light and, believe me, I didn’t want to. As I approach Pulaski, the neighborhood turns white again, and I know I’m getting close.
I park on the street across from the address. The place looks like the landlord abandoned it a long time ago. The building is a three-story walk-up, set back from the curb by a yard full of ignored, resilient weeds. The glass in the windows is warped like it used to be in the fifties. My parents’ building had windows like this. My mother spent a lot of time staring out of them.
It’s a busy street, but that doesn’t make it friendly. Two young kids stop a game of street ball to watch me cut across their playground, though passing cars don’t merit the same attention. Another boy stares me down as we pass on the uneven sidewalk. I keep my head up, but I don’t look him in the eye. I don’t want any more trouble.
I go up the steps to the door and buzz number three. No one answers. I assume Trovic’s place is on the third floor, but I peek inside the first-level window anyway. The place is stuffed with big white couches covered with plastic. There’s a glass-enclosed, mirror-backed cabinet filled with tacky crystal figurines. The carpet is white, and it looks like no one’s ever set foot in the room—until a short, sturdy Eastern-European woman pushes a vacuum through the foyer. Her hard eyes are set on me, telling me she is not the cleaning lady. She is the mother of this house, and I am looking in her window.
I step back to look for signs of life in the upstairs windows. I buzz the door again. No answer. I hear the kids from the street getting closer because one of them is bouncing the ball, and they’re talking. But not in English. They sound much older than they looked in the street.
I hold the call button and say, “Hello? Mrs. Trovic?”
“Go away,” a female’s thick accent says from the box.
“I need to speak with you; I’m looking for Marko Trovic,” I continue. Something hits me lightly in the back of the head. I don’t dare make a quick move, so I turn slowly and keep my face as expressionless as I can. A group of about six boys has gathered at the bottom of the steps. I say boys, but they’re probably old enough to have done jail time. And they’re coming out of the woodwork, all wearing black leather coats like a gang too cool for colors. Another guy comes around the corner, does some hand sign to his friends, and then flips me off. I might as well have worn my uniform, with the attitudes I’m getting.
“I don’t talk to cops,” the voice in the box says.
“A cop?” one of the boys asks. “A cop bitch?”
“Do any of you know Marko Trovic? It’s important.” I hope they’ll respect my sincerity, if not my profession or my gender.
“No-a speak-a ingles-a to you-a policia,” says a skinny one wearing a big gold medallion that reminds me of Trovic’s. They all laugh and a few speak to one another in Serbian. The only word I know in Serbian is not a good one, and I hear them say it repeatedly.
Then I hear a horrid scraping sound, and I follow it to a big kid standing on the other side of the street, in front of my car. He has long, slick black hair that’s either wet or held in place with too much gel. His black leather jacket is a slightly longer variation of the other boys’. It fits only his wide shoulders and hangs open, the belt dangling, letting his stomach protrude. Somehow, he is not cold; it could be the heat of the moment. Traffic blows by him like a soft breeze. He grins slyly, and puts a set of keys in his pocket.
The rest of the boys carry on in Serbian, congratulating one another like they’ve just overthrown a regime. They’re getting too close to me. I turn back to the box for one more try:
“Please, if I could just speak with you, I have some information—”
I stop cold when the front door opens and Marko Trovic stands in front of me, holding a little girl in his arms.
I back away from him and catch myself just before I fall backward down the steps. I didn’t think it would be this easy. My mouth hangs open, and I try to cover my astonishment by saying something. Nothing discernible comes out. Did I just gasp?
Trovic is pleased by my reaction and his cheeks swell into a smile that reduces his eyes to sharp slits. He does not look the same as I remember; he is not the monster I built him up to be in my mind. The reality is he’s a bloated lowlife whose defiant smile is actually pathetic. I don’t see hate in his eyes; in fact, it’s more like vacancy. And, I’m taller than he is. I don’t remember that.
“What do you want?” he asks. Immediately I know why he does not scare me: he might be a Trovic, but he is not Marko. Marko’s use of the language was vulgar and imprecise. He slurred his words. And, if this guy were Marko, he would certainly know what I wanted.
I spread my feet to stabilize my stance and cross my arms. “Marko Trovic?” I ask, just to make sure.
“Marko is not here. What business do you have with him?” So he is not Marko, but rather Marko’s spitting image, minus ten years, plus thirty pounds and proper English. He must be a very close relative. The little girl squirms in his arms.
“Papa,” she proclaims.
“Papa is not here.” He puts her down. “Go on.” She skips past me into the arms of one of the boys on the steps. “Go on,” he says again, and then I realize he’s talking to me. Behind me, one of them bounces the basketball. Every time it hits the ground I want to flinch.
I stand my ground, because if I let these guys scare me away, I’ll never get to Trovic. “Do you know where Marko is?” I ask.
“I already told the police; we cannot talk. We do not speak the same language. My brother, maybe he speaks your language for a price, but I will not speak for him.”
“You’re his brother?” I ask.
“We are a tight-knit family,” he says; “you mess with one, you deal with all.”
That wasn’t exactly the answer I was looking for, but then the kid with the medallion interjects something in Serbian that causes all the others to chime in. It sounds like they’re quarreling, the way they talk over one another. Marko’s brother doesn’t participate; he just watches me.
Maybe I shouldn’t push it, but I ask him, “What are they saying?”
“Our language has so many more swear words than yours,” he says, “though the meaning is generally the same.”
I don’t stick around for a translation.
Thankfully the guys clear a path for me to leave, though they shout at me all the way to my car. I slip in and lock the doors and start the engine. In the sideview mirror I can see a nice long scratch on my passenger door from the long-haired kid, but I’m not going to examine it now. I get out of there quick, hoping Trovic’s tight-knit family doesn’t extend much beyond the guys on that porch.
Once I’m a few blocks away I wipe the sweat from my forehead and comb through my hair with my fingers. That’s when I find the gum one of them threw at me.
I should have known those guys wouldn’t tell me where Trovic is, but maybe I learned more from Marko’s brother than I would have had Marko been there himself. I don’t think Marko’s brother knows where he is, and I don’t think he wants to, either. He said Marko spoke our language, “for a price,” he said, like Marko was stooling for us.
If Marko was working with us, Fred didn’t know about it, or he wouldn’t have been so hot to bust him. Snitches might not have any sense of allegiance, but we do, and Fred would have stepped aside for the cop who got Trovic to flip.
What about Fred’s snitch? If he was willing to give up Trovic once, he’d do it again. What was his name? The guy trying to get himself out of a little trouble. The guy with the funny walk. The guy . . . ? Shit. I remember everything but his name.
When we met him at the El stop, Fred said the guy had paged him, so he must have talked to the snitch on the phone sometime that night. That means there’s a phone number somewhere. Maybe in Fred’s locker. Or at his house. Or in his phone records.
I’m done going in circles. I drive up to North Avenue, turn right, and head for the station to see what I can turn up.