Cross slumped heavily into his swivel chair. “Angel Rogers says Covington’s going to run Trent’s execution. He’s telling the world now.”
Branch flipped on the TV.
“Reporting live from Springfield,” an anchor bawled, animated as a reality host. “With full Action News coverage of this dramatic . . .”
Branch thumped his cane. “He’s gonna draw crazies like flies to horse flop.”
“No kidding,” Cross said. “We have to call the cavalry now. No choice with Wayne coming. Go ahead and notify the State Police.”
“When do you want ‘em?”
“By noon tomorrow,” Cross said. “I’m also asking for the National Guard. Not enough cops in the world to stop 10,000 protesters if they go nuclear-”
“Chief?” his secretary interrupted, poking in her head.
“Ma’am?”
“You’ve got to see this.”
“You’re kidding,” said the managing editor of the Chicago Sun-Times.
“Nope,” said the news editor. “Wanna put out an Extra?”
“Is the pope Catholic?”
“Are they saying what I think they’re saying?” Cross asked, looking down on the police station entrance from the upper-floor windows. To his left was Fire Department headquarters and Lake Osborne. To his right, animal control and Safety Town.
“Yup,” Branch said.
Twenty-six sailboats.
“Who let these idiots breed?” a traffic cop complained. “Em’s the good guy, not the bad.”
Cross smiled to himself. The officer was the oldest of old-school, his entire career a suspicion of “wimmen police.” But Emily’s gritty performance two years ago changed his opinion, and these days he was, if not Dr. Phil, at least open-minded. Little victories.
“Want me to move ‘em out?” Branch asked.
Cross considered it, then saw Viking, a barrel-chested paramedic who’d been here since Naperville grew corn, not condos. He was backing a truck out of the fire station attached to headquarters. It bristled with lights, ladders, and water cannons, the high-pressure pumps that knocked down fires in seconds flat.
“Don’t think you’ll have to,” Cross said.
Viking locked down the rig and hopped out of the cab. Went to the pump controls, flipped some, twisted others. He aimed the shiny nozzles toward Lake Osborne and let ‘er rip.
The wind bent the spray sideways. Water typhooned over the cop shop. Drowned khakis ran for their minivans, sputtering and screaming.
“Oops,” Branch said.
The Executioner munched another bologna and cheese as he watched the coverage with Bowie. Of course Covington would be the headliner.
Friday wouldn’t work without him.
3:48 p.m.
Johnny Sanders window-shopped Michigan Avenue, killing time till his meeting with Oprah’s producers. His wife was crushed to not accompany him. Both her coworkers had called in sick, so she’d been stuck. He wanted to buy her something nice, make up for the hurt.
He ducked into a jewelry store faced in white-veined black marble.
“How much?” he asked the counter man over strains of Vivaldi, pointing to the tennis bracelet he’d spotted in the window. He’d splurge because she’d adore it. Anything up to 5,000 he could handle . . .
“Eighty-four thousand dollars,” the man said. Matter-of-fact, like people bought a yacht’s worth of baubles every day. “Plus tax. Shall I wrap it for you?”
“Just looking,” Sanders said.
He continued walking north, chuckling at his naiveté, moving slowly to avoid sweating up his weddings-and-funerals suit. The breeze off Lake Michigan caressed him at each cross street. Two cabs, one yellow, one white, both filthy, traded horns and middle fingers. A Chicago Police wagon serpentined down Michigan Avenue, siren blapping, blue lights flashing. Muscled Latinos dumped newspapers next to vendors – ELECTRO-GOV! - the front page screamed - and he caught whiffs of caramel corn, pizza, and Chinese. One woman screamed at another in a language he didn’t know.
“Shine your shoes?” a kid asked at Ohio Street.
Sanders nodded. Nothing too good for Oprah.
He put his wingtips on the crate, let the kid rap his life story as he waxed and buffed. What a great job, Sanders enthused. I can see my reflection. The rap was catchy, even if he didn’t get most of the words. All that for five bucks! Sanders gave him twenty, earning a toothy grin. Then the kid was off stalking his next tourist.
Five minutes here is a year in Springfield, he thought happily.
4:09 p.m.
“So now I’m ‘Ken’ instead of ‘Chief Bite Me’?” Cross said.
The guffaw on the phone was deep and genuine. “You know I can’t stay mad at you.”