“I need your keys,” Mason said. “And if somebody comes in looking for me, call my cell. Don’t tell them I’m out.”
She gave him a look. “Yeah, no kidding. I’ll tell them you’re in back doing something. Or in the office making a call that’ll take a while. Stall them. Give you a call. You can decide if you need to get back here.”
“And I was thinking it was an original idea . . .”
He took the keys from her and went out the back door to the little alley behind the restaurant. Her black BMW M5 was waiting there. Cole must have a thing for black cars, he thought. Or maybe she bought this herself. Who knows.
He got in and started it up. He pulled onto the side street and headed west, away from Rush Street. He stayed on the secondary roads for a while, then worked his way south. Most of the addresses on the list were on the South Side, so Mason knew he’d have no problem finding them.
He had the list on the seat next to him. While waiting at the bar, he’d put numbers next to each address. Go here first, then here, then here. Being smart about making one big loop through the South Side. No doubling back. No wasted effort.
He started in Avalon Park. The address turned out to be a restaurant. One Heart was a world away from Antonia’s, a small place on the corner that seemed to specialize in fast Caribbean food. Busy, the height of the lunch hour, people were lined up outside the door. Must be some damned good jerk chicken in there. Mason was getting hungry. But there was no way he was getting out of the car. A white man in a BMW would get noticed and be remembered.
Mason watched the people going in and out of the place. He watched the cars going by on the street. Then he pulled away from the curb and went to the next address.
It was a barbershop, just a few streets away. It was one of those places that served as the center of the neighborhood. Two chairs, both occupied, two barbers in white shirts, snapping scissors, talking, listening. A half-dozen other chairs lined the wall and front window. Men sat waiting, flipping through magazines, shooting the shit. Other men stopped in to say a word or two, then continued on their way down the street. Mason sat there for a while and watched the place.
He moved on to a liquor store down in Roseland. It was busy in the way that all liquor stores are busy. Mason parked outside and started to wonder if he was doing this the right way. But he didn’t think he could walk into any of these places and start asking questions.
Mason drove to Washington Heights and found a small grocery store. One of those places where you can buy everything, right down to the overpriced toilet paper, because you don’t have a car and you don’t feel like lugging a bunch of shopping bags on the bus. He didn’t even bother parking and watching the place. He saw a McDonald’s down the street and hit the drive-thru.
He decided to hit the first address last. It was on his way back north, anyway. When he crossed into Englewood, he started to think about Darius Cole and the stories the man had told him about growing up here, getting his start on a corner.
He found the laundromat. Right out of Cole’s own life story, his first experience taking drug money to be made clean. Be a hell of a thing, Mason thought, if this was even the exact same place.
He could see it all happening through the windows, slightly fogged by the heat from the machines—a dozen young mothers, some grandmothers, sitting around waiting for their laundry, while their little kids ran laps around the place.
Then he saw the car.
The Chrysler 300—black, immaculately clean—was one of those boxy luxury sedans that looked like an old-school Cadillac. It was parked half a block down the street. Mason couldn’t see inside the car. He was too far away and the windows had too much tint. But he thought he could make out the vague shadow of a driver sitting at the wheel.
That’s his car, Mason said to himself. It’s gotta be. So Tyron Harris can’t be far away.
? ? ?
Detective Frank Sandoval sat in his car on the opposite side of Rush Street, looking across the traffic at the black Camaro parked outside the restaurant. He looked down at the pad on the seat next to him on which he’d written down the license plate number for the Escalade he’d seen at the park. He’d watched the man who met Mason at the fountain walk back to the vehicle and had just enough time to get the plate before picking up the tail on Mason.
He grabbed his radio and called in the number. Dispatch came back with an owner named Marcos Quintero. No warrants, no recent arrests. His record showed a gang affiliation with the West Side La Raza many years ago but no recent contact with the police.
Sandoval signed off and sat there for a while, thinking about how a gangbanger goes that long without even getting picked up. You don’t leave that gang, Sandoval said to himself. La Raza is for life.