“You been shot, huh?” Conrad said to Morrell. “Not running in front of a bullet meant for Vic, were you?”
“No, these were all meant for me,” Morrell said. “Or, at least, for anyone trying to get into Mazar-e-Sharif that day. Or that’s what the army told me—I don’t remember it myself.”
“Sorry, man, tough. I took a few at Hill 882.”
Conrad was embarrassed at letting his feelings about me goad him into plain bald rudeness. For several minutes, he and Morrell and Mr. Contreras traded war stories—my neighbor had somehow survived one of World War II’s bloodiest battles without being hurt, but he had seen plenty of other dead and wounded men. Marcena had her own store of war zone anecdotes to contribute. South Side street fighter that I am, I’ve seen my share of ugly fights, but these were small and personal, so I kept them to myself.
“‘War is sweet to those who never saw one,’” Morrell said, adding to me, “Erasmus, I think—you’ll have to ask Coach McFarlane how he said it in Latin.”
His words broke the chain of reminiscences; Conrad turned to Marcena. “Vic was telling me you’ve been riding around the South Side, Ms. Love. Have you been on your own?”
Marcena looked at me reproachfully; I hadn’t been a good chum, telling on her to the cops.
“You’ve spent a lot of time down there lately, you’ve seen a lot of the community, and people talk to you frankly,” I said. “I told Commander Rawlings, because you might have seen or heard something that would be useful to him.”
“I can ask my own questions, Vic, thanks, and don’t go tipping off witnesses again, okay? Maybe Ms. Love and I will go out for coffee and let you two be alone.”
“Absolutely,” Marcena said. “Morrell, when you’re ready for me to drive you back to Evanston, ring me on my mobile. This will be great, Commander: I’ve needed to talk to someone in the police to round out my picture of South Chicago. So much of it seems to be under permanent surveillance.”
Conrad ignored her to stand over me. “Vic, I meant what I said about you messing up my turf. Take care of the basketball program. Deal with the financial crooks on La Salle Street. Leave the Fourth District to me.”
17
A Frog in My Jeans
“What’d you do to get a police commander so annoyed with you, Pepperpot?” Morrell asked.
“Nothing he won’t get over in another decade or two.” I leaned against him and shut my eyes.
“He thinks Cookie here got him shot four years ago,” Mr. Contreras put in, “when it was his own darn fault for not listening to her to begin with. Good thing, if you ask me, ’cause it made him—”
“It’s never a good thing to get shot.” I couldn’t bear to hear Mr. Contreras celebrate Conrad’s and my breakup, especially not in front of Morrell. “And maybe I should have had that bullet instead of him. Anyway, Marcena will charm him out of his bad mood.”
“Probably will,” my Job’s comforter agreed. “She’s perky enough for a whole squad of cheerleaders.”
Morrell laughed. “She’s a prizewinning journalist—I don’t think she’d appreciate being compared to a cheerleader.”
“But she is full of zip,” I murmured, “and she knows how to home in on everyone’s wavelength.”
“Except yours,” Morrell said.
“But I’m a pepperpot, not a cheerleader.”
He pulled me closer. “I like pepper better than cheers, okay?”
“Yeah, but, cookie, you could learn something from her,” Mr. Contreras said, his brown eyes full of concern. “Look how she got Conrad Rawlings eating out of her hand, after he’d been threatening you.”
I stiffened but didn’t say anything; the old man had been so supportive all day it would be mean to turn on him, and, anyway, it would just prove his point. I looked up to see Morrell grinning at me, as if reading my mind. I punched him in the ribs, but settled back against his shoulder.
Finally, after fidgeting around the living room for several minutes, my neighbor announced he was taking the dogs out. “You two ain’t fit for anything but sleep right now,” he said, then turned brick red at the innuendo.
“Don’t worry; sleep is all I’m fit for.” I thanked him for all his help during the day. “Especially the spaghetti—a real corpse reviver.”
“Clara’s old meatball recipe,” he beamed.
It took another ten minutes for him to finish his strictures on Conrad, his advice for my recovery, his promise to intercept Marcena so she wouldn’t wake us when she came back.
“That’s right,” I said. “You two figure out a strategy for the Arlington track that’ll set you up for the rest of your life. Morrell and I will design a strategy for healing our torn-up bodies.”