The Old Neighborhood Read online

  We walked towards home in the quiet—our heads hung. The weight of it all around us. The air was thick, and the carnival roared on in the distance. The sound of the children’s joyous screams rose and fell, but I had no urge to return. We walked down Clark to Hollywood Ave., where the yellow sign of the corner store glowed stale and flickered. We stood there under it a while.

  “You think dey’re gonna get caught up?” I asked.

  “Naw, there ain’t nobody gonna rat dem out.”

  “Shit… He was dead wadn’t he.”

  Ryan didn’t answer. We walked down and crossed Ashland with the sirens floating in the air. Ryan went his way to the north, and I went home. I went up to my room and sat on the bed a while in the dark as the orange-yellow of the streetlight seeped in through the window. I thought about God. I thought about heaven and if Lil Pat could ever go there now. I wondered if I could go there now that I knew what I knew and was never gonna tell. I held my crucifix and prayed to Jesus that he wasn’t dead. After the others had gone to sleep, I went downstairs to the TV room and watched the reports of the murder.

  And that was the birth of Pistol Pat.

  •

  WHEN I WAS A LITTLE KID, all I ever wanted to be was the baddest kid on the block. At least that’s what I thought I longed for; deep down, all I wanted was for my family to stay together, but I didn’t find that out ’til later.

  My Ma got pregnant with Lil Pat when she was thirteen and the old man was fourteen, and they had to go down to Tennessee to get married ’cause at their age it was illegal in the State of Illinois.

  The far North Side was a strange place back then. Uptown and Edgewater were full of hillbillies from West Virginia who came looking for work, found it, and stayed. Their hillbilly family vendettas came with them. Rifle volleys resounded over Sheridan Ave. from one low-rent high-rise to the next. Folk music flourished. John Prine, Steve Goodman, Fred Holstein—all of them spewed out of the North Side of Chicago.

  At first, my family lived on the second floor of my grandmother’s two-flat. It was right there on Olive Ave. in-between Ashland and Hermitage Ave. in the St. Greg’s Parish. The old man had evolved from street thug, to car thief, to cat burglar, to repo man. In other words, he’d gone pro. And Ma was babysitting. They had three raccoons and a fox as pets. Then, they had Blake. He was a sick baby—had a heart defect—but don’t worry, he grew up to be probably the biggest and strongest of the brothers. Richard was born a couple years later, and everybody said, “Look at the size of the feet on that kid! He’s gonna be a giant!” but he never broke six feet.

  Ma started to worry that my Dad was only gonna give her boys, and she really wanted a little girl. So she thought of adoption, but DCFS was already breathing down her neck because she was running an illegal babysitting outfit out of the apartment, though the only thing illegal was that she had too many kids. What DCFS didn’t understand was that Ma was really good at taking care of ten to twelve kids at a time, in addition to her own.

  She’d read an article in the Trib about adoption and found out that you could adopt kids from third world countries really easy. She and my old man looked into it and started saving. Next thing you know, they’re on a flight to Puerto Rico to change planes and head to the Dominican Republic to adopt a little girl.

  My Dad had earned himself quite a reputation as a tough guy in quite a tough neighborhood at quite a tough time in Chicago. Well, he ends up in the pisser at the airport in Puerto Rico, and he says when he walked in there was a uniformed cop standing at the door. So there he is pissing at a urinal when three “Spanish guys” (they weren’t from Spain, though) walk in and step up behind him in this empty bathroom. Pin-prickles dance up his back and neck. The three of them stood in complete silence behind him, though all the other urinals were open. Dad figured they weren’t gonna wait for him to finish, so he didn’t wait either. With his thang hanging out in mid-stream, he spun around on them. He said he’d never kicked anyone in the face harder in his whole life, which means something because he had a long, storied history of kicking people very hard in the face. At the end, he grabbed the last of them by the head and broke the porcelain urinal with the guy’s cheekbone. When Dad walked out, the cop at the door had evaporated. Interpol grabbed him, and my Ma didn’t know where the hell he was ’cause he didn’t inform her that he was going to the john.

  Anyway, somehow they made it to the Dominican Republic. An adoption agent took them miles inland along winding dirt roads to a tiny village full of huts. They literally lived in a shack made of scrap metal and salvaged wood with chickens and lizards running around on the dirt floor. The girl’s family was comprised of thirteen children from two fathers—the first had passed. My parents went for the infant, but the birth mother urged them to also take the second-youngest in the belief that her children would get a chance at a better life in America. The negotiation took place as giant, black hornets swooped in to kill the tarantulas. The second-youngest was a little girl about to turn three, and somehow Ma convinced Dad, so they came home with not one but two little, dark-brown, frizzy-haired angels. They named the youngest Rose and the older one Jan, but they’d forever be known as Jan’n’Rose and have their names be confused by all of our family, even though Rose was much lighter skinned and taller than Jan, who was dark and small-framed with a fiery temper. I came into the picture about a year later. A “late-in-life baby” my Ma always said, but she was just twenty-seven. It was a different time.

  •

  LIL PAT BECOMING A MURDERER didn’t spark off out of the blue. We could feel it coming—in the family and in the neighborhood.

  The TJOs sprouted up in Edgewater in the ’60s. The original name was the “Thorndale Jarvis Organization.” They were a fairly organized stone greaser gang that hung out right under the Thorndale stop on the Red Line directly across from the huge dark brick armory where I took gymnastics as a little boy. Their real estate ran between there and the Jarvis stop on the Red Line. Under the leadership of Joe Ganci and Bob Kellas, the gang flourished, and membership skyrocketed to over 200 members in the early ’70s. At one point, there was a whole juvenile courtroom full of TJOs on a variety of charges. The judge’s name was Reynolds, and he was known for his hot temper and quick wit. After he’d sentenced the twelfth TJO to appear that day, he looked up and said, “What is this TJO crap anyway? These guys are nothing but a bunch of Thorndale Avenue Jag Offs.”

  The name stirred uproarious approval through the entire courtroom, and the gang forever changed the official name to the Thorndale Avenue Jag Offs.

  The older TJOs had slightly biker-ish leanings and at times called themselves “Thieves Junkies and Outlaws.” Eventually, they garnered the attention of Sonny Barger and his crew, and the Hell’s Angels would sporadically stop by and pay the neighborhood a visit while on their countrywide tours of wreaking havoc. It was around then that the TJOs began dealing heroin. Some say it was the Angels that biked it in, concealing it in their fuel tanks, but others say it was the Mob, who Ganci and Kellas started doing low-level hits for. Those hits eventually got the both of them pinched on a murder rap, but during the months-long trial, they both miraculously escaped from Cook County Jail in a week that saw seven inmates escape, including one who was in the county hospital for a stab wound and just walked out of the front door in broad daylight. Needless to say, it was a bad week for those friendly confines that the regulars lovingly called “California” due to its location on California Ave. Both men were caught within weeks. Ganci took the plunge and got natural life, and Kellas got ten on conspiracy to commit murder.

  Mickey’s big brother and Ryan’s dad, Rick Reid, took charge and brought the TJOs into the ’80s until he got in a traffic dispute on Clark, ripped a guy out of his car window, and beat him to death in front of his wife and child. In the process, he nearly exposed the long-running extortion ring the TJOs had going with the businesses on Broadway and Clark, between Thorndale Ave. and
Foster Ave. Word was that Rick went into a bar across the street while the ambulance hauled the guy away, and the police began to question people on the sidewalk right in front of him. The entire neighborhood claimed they didn’t see anything. Mind you, the assault occurred in the middle of a busy Saturday afternoon on Clark. All the press brought on a big two-year investigation in an attempt to link heroin, extortion, murder-for-hire, and all-around Chi-town All-Star thuggery. The smart-ass TJOs decided to sue the City of Chicago and the Chicago Police on charges of harassment, and it actually got before a judge before being thrown out for its utter ridiculousness.

  In the mid-’80s, Kellas was released from prison and regained the reins from an up-and-comer nicknamed Wacker. Word was that Wacker headed the murder-for-hire division of the gang. The TJOs enjoyed a short reign in the North Side heroin distribution ranks through newly acquired friends Kellas made during his stay in Joliet Correctional Institution. Then, a nobody buyer approaches him wanting to purchase two kilos of heroin for $40,000 dollars. Now, the TJOs were top dogs at this point for a long stretch of real estate—from Uptown to Howard Street—so it wasn’t out of their reach and reputation, but sensing that there were no Mob ties or muscle involved, Kellas and Wacker get greedy. They set up a deal in the Carson’s Ribs parking lot at 2:30 p.m. on a Friday—the same time school lets out at Senn High School, which is across Clark and down a block.

  They decided to bring a newly acquired MAC 10 UZI with an extended clip in place of the two keys of H and figured they’d negotiate from there. Afterwards, they’d head over to pick up their girlfriends at Senn and see how the young bucks were holding down the courtyard, 40 stacks the richer.

  They show up rolling in a souped-up, dark-green Mustang convertible with racing slicks. The guy is there just like they talked about. They all exit on the side of the Carson’s. They ask to see the green, and he asks to see the brown. They show the MAC 10, and the guy starts stuttering. Then, Wacker sprays the side of the guy’s Cutlass with a short burst from the MAC 10. A briefcase is handed over. They jump in the Mustang, and off Kellas and Wacker roll, already counting the money. Suddenly, a U-Haul truck flies out of nowhere and T-bones their Mustang. Thirteen DEA agents pour out with their guns drawn and firing. Wacker crawls out of the mangled muscle car and empties out what’s left in the extended clip. One of the DEA agents shoots him in the head. The bullet strikes his skull at an angle above his left eye, scorches through the flesh between his scalp and skull, ricochets off his hard Irish bone, and exits the back of his head. He passes out but survives, scarred for life. A giant wave of kids vacating the school walk past, astonished at the sight. The co-leader of the TJOs lies there presumably dead with a bullet hole in his head. A mob forms. The Chicago Police also arrive. There are more arrests, but finally it simmers down. Both of them go away for assault on federal agents and conspiracy to distribute heroin, which, when it’s all settled, leaves Kellas with a thirty-year sentence. Since it’s Wacker’s first felony offense, he gets ten years. Now, we’re getting into the mid-’80s and the rise of Mickey Reid, Fat Buck, and my big bro, Pistol Pat.

  CHAPTER 2

  DA

  I USED TO WALK MY NEIGHBORHOOD a lot as a little kid. We called it Edgewater back then, but nowadays most people call it Andersonville. At first, I walked with my grandfather. His nickname was Da, which was my mom’s first word. Some babies say, “Dada,” but Ma just said, “Da,” and it stuck. We never called him anything else. All us kids walked with him over the years, running his weekend errands, getting ice cream and then early lunch at McDonald’s until we aged-out. It was our own little familial tradition, precious in its simplicity. Da was a sharp, good-looking old man who dressed well in collared shirts and slicked back his thick, black hair in immaculate columns. He worked the streetlight truck for the city and was the precinct captain in the neighborhood. He was a milkman before operating the streetlight truck, and to this day, I can’t come in contact with either without thinking of him. After Da got sick and couldn’t walk anymore, I started to walk the neighborhood collecting envelopes for Lil Pat.

  It was an easy job: walk down Clark, step into a shop, and say “Collection” to the person at the register. They’d hand over an envelope, and I’d walk to the next one. I’d finish it in about an hour. Lil Pat would cruise the neighborhood around then and check in on me once in a while. He’d slowly ease past with a grin, and I’d give a nod if everything was fine and all the envelopes had been handed over. If not, I’d shake my head and he’d stop to chat. He’d keep track and go back and talk with the shop manager himself. I’d finish right by Hollywood. He’d pull up, I’d jump in and hand over the envelopes, and he’d give me twenty bucks. It was like a second allowance, and it kept me stocked up on comic books, baseball cards, and candy. I loved it. A few months after I’d started collecting, I began to figure out what was happening.

  My walk shadowed the walk we did with Da. We’d walk south down Ashland to Foster and turn left past the funeral home where Da’s wake would be held and I’d crack jokes in a side room with my cousin J, then cry uncontrollably as the priest said the final words.

  Then, we’d turn north down Clark. Da’s Cocker Spaniel, Sheba, led the way, cutting through the busy mass of old ladies with the little bells jingling on her collar. It was busy as ever on Clark. I passed the crazy Middle Eastern shops with neon-green statues of Buddha glowing in the windows, as well as other strange knick knacks and herbs and candles. I stepped into the ice cream shop where I used to order a Green River Float every time with Da, and my sisters would tease me and try to trick me into ordering something else. The old man in the white smock behind the counter looked down at me, sad, and handed me the envelope. He must have missed Da, too. Da wasn’t the same since he got cancer—he was sad and cried a lot. Even then, I kept hope that he could beat the cancer and that he’d be back making his walk like nothing ever happened in no time flat.

  I walked to Almo’s Shoes, where Almo himself would blow up a balloon for any kid who entered the store, whether his parents were buying or browsing. I didn’t get balloons anymore, just the envelopes and the same sad face.

  “How is your grandfather?” Almo asked as he placed his hand on my shoulder.

  “He’s OK,” I said. “He’s doing real good.” I thought that if I said it enough it could turn true. It wasn’t true though; he got sicker every day.

  I knew the people on the walk worried about Da because he was a good man. They couldn’t have really known half of it though—I didn’t even know then. When Lil Pat was young, Dad used to beat him a lot. Dad was just an angry, confused teenager. When it was bad, and Dad wouldn’t stop beating him, and they thought he might put my brother in the hospital again, Da would throw himself on top of Lil Pat and take the beating for him. He was a non-violent man. When people were hurt, it made him sad. All of that just oozed out of everything he did with us kids, and it made it easy to love him a whole lot.

  I closed my eyes as I walked, and I could hear Sheba’s bells ringing faintly. Then, I could feel Da walking beside me in his patient gait. I remembered how we used to hold hands sometimes, and I reached out beside me. I walked square into something heavy and opened my eyes to see an old lady with a curly wig frowning at me. She swore in Swedish and brushed past.

  “Sorry,” I said, and kept going. I liked to collect the envelopes from the shops that Da never stopped in because I knew they wouldn’t ask about him and it was easier. Sometimes, I even had to run around the corner into the alley and cry by a dumpster until I got mad. When I got mad on the walks, I’d start to steal stuff, and I wouldn’t feel bad about it, and then I wouldn’t be sad anymore.

  I finished my walk and stood at the corner of Hollywood and Clark next to the Edgewater Dollar Store, waiting. Two old ladies hobbled by in faded housedresses and smiled at me in the sunlight. I stood proud and dutiful, clutching my bundle of envelopes bound with a green rubber band. The low morning sun cut Clark in ha
lf; the east was cast in cool shade, and the west smoldered in a deep, golden haze. The density of the morning bustle was the same on either side, though one was a mysterious calm, and the other vibrant and naked.

  A tan Lincoln Continental swayed up Clark, knifing through the light. It eked to a halt across the street, and Lil Pat waved me over from the driver’s seat. His wrist sparkled. He chuckled as I crossed. His eyes were hazy-pink and tired.

  “How ya doin’, kiddo?” he asked.

  “Alright,” I answered.

  “Did dem sand niggers pay up?” A voice crackled from the shadowed cab.

  There were four in the car. Mickey Reid sat shotgun. He was the scariest human being I’d ever laid eyes on. He had a large head, a muscular brow, and his scowl was sunken so deep into his face that it never left.

  Lil Pat sighed, turned, and snapped, “Give me a minute with the kid, OK? What de fuck?”

  I stepped up to Lil Pat’s door, and he reached out his big, meaty arm and hugged me to his chest. My belly pressed against the sun-baked sheet metal. His body was warm against my head like he had a fever. Funny how sometimes it’s the ones capable of the most horrific deeds who are also capable of the most compassion and the deepest love. Maybe it’s that they’ve seen the dark face of man and what we are capable of that makes them give love this way—to shelter and protect us.

  “I love ya, Joey,” Lil Pat whispered, then kissed the side of my crew cut.

  I giggled and tried to squirm away, but I knew Lil Pat wouldn’t let go ’til I said it back.

  “I love ya,” I squealed, and he finally released.

  “Look what I got for you,” he said, pulling a silver chain out of a cup holder in the center console. It had a flat, gold crucifix attached to it with immaculate little etchings traced along it. He reached out and slid it over my big round head. It just barely cleared my ears. I reached up and took the cross in my fingers and rubbed the etchings. Lil Pat reached in through the neck of his shirt and pulled out a matching one.