Free Start Shooting by Charlie Newton Page B

Japanese men as the maître d’ says, “Dr. Ota is inside, Mr. Steffen.”
    Ruben seems surprised at the reference to Dr. Ota, the Furukawa CEO headlining today’s paper, and turns to look. “T.P.’s looking fresh as ever.”
    Mr. Barlow adds, “Toddy Pete joins the immortals if the Olympics rethink Chicago.” Mr. Barlow cuts to me and taps the newspaper. “If we beat the
Herald
and the paper doesn’t go Chapter 7, we will be well paid. If we don’t beat them, Officer Vargas, the
Herald
will put you and your brother in prison. Ten years minimum, maybe life.”
    “No offense, but tell me something I don’t know.”
    “Late this afternoon, counsel for the Duprees filed to exhume Coleen Brennan’s body.”
    My eyes close. Barlow waits, then surrounds the images with: “The federal lawsuit filed by Anton Dupree’s family names the city, your brother, and three fellow officers for wrongful death. It’s possible the
Herald
will join the Dupree motion for exhumation, or already has, as a silent partner. What that means to you is that although you are notyet named with your brother in the Duprees’ wrongful-death suit, you will be added if the
Herald
’s evidence against you is only
moderately
compelling.”
    I open my eyes, disgusted. “The Dupree lawsuit is civil. What’s their plan, take my shirt?”
    “The Dupree lawsuit is civil, but the accusations the
Herald
says they will make are
criminal
. First-degree murder, rape, suppression of evidence. I assume you’ve been contacted by IAD?”
    Nod.
    “I’d be willing to bet the
Herald
is already sharing whatever criminal evidence they have with the Duprees, who already have civil depositions scheduled for Monday. And a civil trial date shortly after that.”
    “And?”
    Barlow cants his head an inch. “Do you want to face the U.S. attorney under oath? Because federal
criminal
court is where the civil suit leads if the
Herald
gets the public behind the case. U.S. Attorney Jo Ann Merica already hates the Chicago Police Department and wants to be governor—she’ll file a criminal case against you and Ruben, crucify the
corrupt
Chicago Police Department, force a deserved restitution to the family of a retarded black man wrongfully executed, then convict the
real
monsters who ‘raped a thirteen-year-old Irish girl to death.’ ” Pause. “Forget governor, Jo Ann rights so many wrongs she could run for president.”
    Ruben sips his Scotch, nodding, no smile. I ask if Mr. Barlow is representing him.
    Ruben says, “Not yet. City’s paying for my civil fling with the Duprees.”
    I nod down LaSalle Street at city hall. “Will the city stay with you after the
Herald
says you and I are John Gacy?”
    Ruben sets his glass by the Chianti-bottle candle and removes his toothpick. “Now you have it,
buey
. Before today’s paper, Ruben Vargas was either hero
cop/patrón del barrio;
or a cop who knew too many of the bad people; or a racist cop—all depended on whose story they were selling that day. No six o’clock news there. But in here”—Ruben taps the
Herald
—“they make the brothers Vargas into
monstruos
who have to die … then,
esé
, you and I
día del muerto.
”
    Mr. Barlow adds, “One way or another.”
    A cute waitress stops next to my shoulder, hesitates because it’s obvious I’m some kind of cop and on duty, then asks if I want a drink anyway. I tell her no thanks. Mr. Barlow spins his finger for another round. She leaves and I tell him: “I knew Coleen when we were kids. I liked her, a lot. I don’t hurt people I like.” I cut to my older brother in his expensive sport coat and concerned expression, then back. “But I have no problem hurting people I don’t like. So I’ll do my job until the department or the city decides to submarine me. If and when that happens, maybe we’ll talk.”
    Barlow stares. “Suit yourself. I can’t make you want to survive.”
    “Take care of my older brother. He thinks being a Mexican legend makes