Free Calumet City by Charlie Newton Page A

my second restaurant meeting with Chief Jesse in three days, this time in Bridgeport, the stronghold of the Daley machine, and in public, not the backseat of a Town Car. The superintendent breakfasting with me could be a show of force or a personal blessing. If I were Chief Jesse, this is the last thing I’d do.
    Unless he knows stuff that I don’t.
    Duh?
    But what? Why parade me when I’m radioactive?
    Think
Southside Irish
. Who do they hate more than the English? The smile makes my eyes squint. I’ll stop for a paper as soon as I recognize the geography.
     
•  •  •
     
       Outside the Bridgeport Family Restaurant I buy a
Herald
. Page two has my answer. The stacked, one-column header reads: "Hero Cop Threatened by Alderman." I believe they call that spin. Big exhale, like half the firing squad temporarily ran out of bullets. I look up. Inside past the glass, Chief Jesse is waving me to his back booth.
    On the way there I accept a handshake from a stubble-faced flannel shirt. One of his pals pats my shoulder. Both think, "The fuckin’ Ayatollah shoulda died on West Madison back in ’69."
    The captain who vacates the superintendent’s booth, says, "Proud of you," and gives me a pat too. For a few moments, it’s me who won the beauty pageant. Then I’m alone with the superintendent, surrounded by steamy clatter and Irish accents, and he says, "Nice work."
    I can’t tell by his expression whether he means it or not. The waitress brings coffee I didn’t request, smiles like I’m her sister with the mortgage money and steps to the next booth. For sure I’m coming here tomorrow. I’ll bring Cisco and Sonny.
    The superintendent asks, "And the word in the ghetto is…?"
    I report on yesterday’s Gibbons-Farrakhan missions. The superintendent listens without comment. Not that I provide much to comment on regarding a possible coup d’état.
    "You’re transferred to 18, effective an hour ago."
    "What?"
    "Phone transfer. Enjoy."
    "Bullshit."
    Chief Jesse now has a pained expression on his face as he balls his left fist, either
really
angry at me or a heart attack working its way down his arm. He hesitates until whichever it was passes. "We are less than a month away from the election, and only two weeks from the casino license vote. The governor called the mayor’s office last night. Threatened us both with the FBI. The governor feels the FBI should be involved in the assassination attempt. Alderman Gibbons wants them in too—a federal probe of ’systematic civil rights violations by the Chicago Police Department,’ the most recent being your Gilbert Court shootings and yesterday’s ’criminal altercation’ between you and his grief-stricken lapdog."
    My eyes roll. "It wasn’t an altercation."
    "As you know, I am appointed by the mayor; if he goes, I go." The superintendent doesn’t seem to care what I think. "The governor and Alderman Gibbons would like that and never miss a chance to suggest that we do not ’serve and protect’ to their elevated standards. Nor are they shy about charging rampant police corruption."
    Rampant police corruption
charges are not new and tend to precede every mayoral election. This year is no different.
    "Among the many other recriminations offered me by His Honor last evening, it was suggested in the strongest possible terms that you, Officer Black—soon to be
Detective
Black if you don’t fuck it up here—are not to speak one word to your media pals, on or off the record, about Alderman Gibbons or Monday’s unrelated firefight at Gilbert Court."
    "Unrelated to…"
    Chief Jesse leans across his plate, staring all the way. "The two dead Gangster Disciples on Gilbert Court are
unrelated
to the assassination attempt on the mayor."
    "That’s easy."
    "And the assassination attempt is
unrelated
to the body found in his wife’s building across the alley."
    Whoa
. The mayor’s wife?
    "According to His Honor, and this is a quote, ’his reelection does not need a