Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Twenty

My gamble with Calibretti pays off, and I make it to the end of the day with no more calls from him.

My gratitude to him? Two stories, one a brief "encouraging" article about the triple-shooting investigation that reported police believe there may be a witness, and the other a hefty news feature for the weekend about a young woman who'd been found beaten to death in an alley on a barely populated residential block. Frankly, the report of her death may have been buried inside the Metro section if I hadn't checked the archives, because her name sounded familiar, and then realized I'd read about her before.

Elroy Sykes, a now-retired cops beat reporter, had given me a thick folder full of his old stories when I'd been hired at the Midway. For a grisly vet like him, it was not at all a gesture of vanity but rather one of coaching. He knew that as a young black man I'd be held to a different standard of excellence, a higher standard, in many cases, than some of my peers. He wanted me to see how to get to the gritty basics of a crime story and determine quickly if the reporting called for a simple, straight shot or more explanatory feature that delved into the whys of victims and perpetrators. Corrine Barkley's death fell into the latter category, especially since Sykes had already written years earlier about her grade school run-in with Chicago Police.

As for the triple, I'm careful to offer no details about this possible witness, for her own safety. But I emphasize that investigators —meaning Allah— believe the witness could be the key to breaking the case open, finding the killer, and stopping this mess before it goes further.

I'm feeling pretty good about the state of the "triple threat project," as the newsroom congregation has taken to calling it, at least from a reporting perspective. I've managed to stay ahead of my newspaper rivals at the Tribune and Sun-Times, and far ahead of my broadcast rivals. Each story I've written and published has broken news — that there were three victims, that one survived, that they were reputable boys, that city officials are panicked.

Feelin' my oats, as they say.

###

"Ray, what's good!"

My entrance to the Shangri-La is more of a statement than a question.

"You tell me, main! You in the paper every day and on the cover, no less. Impressive! Plus, I hear you are Mr. Nightclub."

He laughs, pleased with his joke.

Can I at least take a seat first?

"What'd you hear, Ray?" I ask, as Candy unnecessarily delivers a drink that her boss and lover could've simply slid across the bar.

A sip. It's stronger than usual.

He's setting me up for bad news.

He takes his time, peering at me curiously over the brim of his coffee mug.

"It's easy being el Negro hombre, eh, homie?"

Ray's talking the skirmish at Dawn. If it wouldn't get me locked up, I'd jump over the bartop and strangle this guy.

"Don't look at me like that, mane. Why did you come to that guy's defense? Hmm? Hmm?"

It wasn't so black and white, I tell him, no pun intended.

"This guy was about to throw hands with one of those bouncers. The short Italian guy with the — you know the one, the guy with the pubic hair beard and that stupid man bun. Well, he was effin with your guy just because, just because he could."

We stare at each other in what Ray likes to jokingly call his version of a Mexican standoff. Neither of us daring to speak  — because he doesn't want to piss me off, and I because I don't want to encourage him to speak more on this subject.

But the thing about Ray that makes him so different from a lot of bartenders is that he can't help himself. He talks too much. Words are like a bad taste for Ray, and he has lots of bad tastes! So, he spits them out and keeps going and going and going.

"OK, listen homey, you are killin' me! This man told you flat out he don't wanna be Black no more! What more do you need?"

But I ignore him. Something he said about the nightclub fight a moment ago disturbs me. Something about the type of people unplanned attacks happen to.

"Ray, you got a paper?"

It's like dialing the Batphone. He knows I mean the Midway and reaches under the counter for the morning edition.

I flip to page six of the Metro section and quickly skim the brief that Ray's nightclub rant reminded me of.

I can't believe I missed it earlier. And that says something, as I read the paper cover to cover every morning to start my day.