Steven Sweeney, Chapter 3

[foolish_m0rtal]

Short chapter. Sorry. Got to get ready for some random New Years party.
Just so you know, Sweeney's kind of a 'social low life' as he called himself in Chapter 2. Yeah, he curses a lot. Yeah, that's going to be in here. I can't change that without changing his character. You can tell so much about who someone is and where they're from by how they talk. I can't change him.
So if you can't read foul language, sorry.

Minor change: Bea's hair has been changed from red to brown, because I don't want everybody in this story to be from the same districts.

 Secondary Note: Since this story is so blatantly AMERICAN, I am attempting to write this using American English. Please let me know if I slip.
 

I shut the Baranova’s door behind me, and it creaked open again as the busted lock didn’t click. There was nothing else I could do here. Lyov poked his head out of the door next door.

“Here.” I gave Khostov my card and pointed at the number at the bottom then at myself. “You call me if you remember anything else.”

Khostov nodded and clapped my shoulder. He said something and looked at Lyov. “Isai Olegovich is asking whether we can call on you if there is any more trouble here.”

I looked back at Khostov. “What, you mean about Andrei Baranova?”

Lyov shrugged. “About anything.”

“I...I don’t get it.”

Lyov smiled, maybe for the first time since I’d met him. “The police do not help us. You are the first one who has been respectful. Acknowledged our ways, had tea with us. It is...unusual.”

“Well,” I squinted at him through the afternoon sun, “Can’t say that I’m a usual kind of guy.” I’d wondered why the police had done such a shoddy investigation here, and not for the first time I was glad I had quit the beat all those years ago. I turned back to Khostov. “Sure. Any time.”

From the way Khostov nodded approvingly and tucked the card away, I suspected I would be having a lot more Russian clients from now on. So Rokossovsky’d been right about this too, damn him, though I wondered how he knew the Rogers Park folks would take a shine to me.

Lyov walked with me all the way back to the compound gates, lugging a huge metal sauce pot Mrs. Khostov had given him. I guess old ladies made kids the neighbourhood errand boys around here. Lyov had helped me out a lot; he could have just split after I met Khostov, but he’d stuck around, helped me out. I appreciated that. You didn’t get a lot of that good Samaritan stuff in a place like Chicago.

I couldn’t offer him some green. That felt...insulting. “Hey,” I felt around in my pocket. “Here’s my card. Steven Sweeney. You come down to the office sometime and we’ll go down to Blackie’s for a couple of milkshakes. My treat.”

The kid beamed like the goddamned sun and held the card like it was made of gold.. Well hell, if I’d known before that milkshakes were such a powerful bribing tool, I would have put some money in ice cream when I opened the agency. “Thank you! I will definitely come some time.”

I nodded. “I’ll hold you to that. See you round, kid.”

“Goodbye, er...” he frowned. “What is your father’s name?”

My father’s name? “Name was George.”

“So then you would be...” Lyov smiled brightly. “Stefan Georgiyovich.”

That made me laugh, a low gravelly sound that had scared Bernice to death the first couple times she’d heard it. Lyov didn’t even blink, brave kid. “Stefan Georgiyovich. I like that.”

“Here.” He thrust the pot at me. “Take this.”

I was so surprised I almost dropped the thing. “Uh, thanks, but-”

“Isai Olegovich told me you would be going to Andrei’s goods store. Please give this to Anton Yefimovich’s wife. Tell her Kapeka Rolanevna thanks her.” Khostov’s wife. Apparently little old ladies had the right to make errand boys out of anybody.

I hefted the stupid pot over my shoulder: Steven Sweeney, dishware transporter extraordinaire. Rokossovsky’s nine dollars plus expenses were sure being put to good use. “Okay, I’ll do that.” But I had a few calls to make first.

 

When I got back to the office, I put the pot down in the visitor’s chair with a clang and grabbed the phone off Bernice’s desk.

“Aw, for me?” she asked, craning to check out the beat up pot. “Mr. Sweeney, you shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, Bea. Funny,” I muttered and dialed in a number.

Douglas MacIntyre and I went way back when we’d both been Chicago PD’s finest. I’d gotten sick of the beat after the first couple of years, but Mac had stuck it out. Last I heard, he was doing pretty well for himself. Didn’t mean he wasn’t the same guy, and I was counting on that. Mac had been like a goddamn human clock back when I’d known him. You could have set your watch by when he scrammed to get a bite for lunch or even went to take a piss. If I knew the guy, he’d be in the main office right now, grabbing a cup of coffee.

The phone rang a few times before someone picked up. Roz’s voice hadn’t changed at all. “Chicago Police Department, how may I-”

“-Hey, beautiful. It’s me.”

She laughed. “Steven! Haven’t heard from you in a while. We miss you down here.”

“Yeah, you too, girlie. Hey, is Mac there?”

“You know him,” she said, and I heard the phone exchanging hands.

“Hullo?”

“Hey, Mac.”

“Stevo!” He sounded good. Happy. “How’re you doing, pal?”

“Same old, same old. How are Margaret and the kids?”

“Oh, great. Yeah, Susie’s going to school. Doug Jr.’s walking and talking now. Wrecking the whole house. Gives the rest of us a hell of a time.” But he sounded proud.

“You don’t say. Great news, great.” I coughed. “Listen, there’s someone I’d like you to look up for me.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, buddy. You even have to ask?”

Mac still acted like he owed me a solid for saving his life a couple of years ago when I'd taken out thugs that had been sneaking up on him during a shoot out. Truth was, he helped me just as much as I helped him. And I’d helped him a lot. Mac knew my gut was pretty trustworthy, and he always kept his eyes peeled whenever I called in about something fishy going down. It had saved his and a bunch of other police asses in the past. Like the Valenti shootings from a couple of weeks ago- it had only been Mac’s last minute call to stay clear that had stopped some of those stray bullets from the warehouse from taking out his guys outside.

“Yeah, you know a guy called Akula Demidov?”

“Demidov.” I heard his chair squeak over to the filing cabinet and Roz saying something in the background. “Demidov, Demidov...got it. Oh, jeez.”

“What?” I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “He’s got a file?”

“A file? Extortion, money laundering, armed robbery.” He whistled. “You name it, this guy’s gotten away with it.”

Well, hell. “So how come I haven’t heard of this guy?”

“Well, that’s just it. We haven’t been able to link any of this back to him. This guy’s police record is cleaner than God’s.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Stevo, you put them both on trial, the Good Lord’s going to the big house.”

“Damn. What about those murders we’ve been seeing these past few months?” I’d never seen murders like those. There was cold-blooded killing, and then there was...well, it was enough to give a guy nightmares. “Was he behind those?”

“Let me see.” I could hear him riffling through the papers. “Looks like we tried to pin it on him, but...I don’t know- looking at this sheet, he seems more like a greenbacks kind of criminal. Psycho murder doesn’t seem his style.”

“Huh.” After years on the beat, I’d come to trust Mac’s hunches too; he was a damn good profiler when you came down to it. But I didn’t want to think about that just yet. If Akula hadn’t done those other murders, then there was still a Joe Bloggs at large out there somewhere. “Another thing, Mac. It possible that Akula could...be a dame?”

“A dame? What makes you say that?”

Sure, the police never thought about that. Just because some tomato flashed her gams at you didn’t mean she couldn’t pump you full of metal when your back was turned. You’d be surprised how many perps I’d caught over the years had been twists.

“Just thinking. The weapon at the scene of the crime was the kind of peashooter the dames carry around. You know.”

“Yeah, I got you.” I heard the papers rustling on the other end. “I dunno. Could be. The records don’t argue different. Seems kinda violent for a woman, though.”

“Hmm.” Apparently Mac and I had been meeting two different kinds of dames.

“Stevo...” There was a pause on the phone. “You’re not trying to nab this guy, are you?”

“I don’t know, Mac. He might be my guy, might not.”

“M’serious. This guy’s dangerous, buddy. Even by our books. You keep your eyes peeled.”

“Always, Mac.” I checked my watch. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Say hello to Thelma for me.”

“Will do, Stevo. Bye.”

I hung up and flipped open the phone book. “Bea, get your coat.”

“Why?” she asked, already reaching for it.

I ran down the list of addresses, preoccupied. “Because we’re catching a cab.”

She pulled on her coat. “To where?” That was my Bea, doing what you asked but talking your ear off with questions.

I held the door for her. “You, kid, are going to get your gams over to the police station and type me up a copy of everything they’ve got on Akula Demidov.” I grabbed my hat from the stand and jammed it on my head. “And I’ve got a factory to visit.”

Maybe checking out where Yuri had worked would give me some clues.

 

Comments

[grimmsical.livejournal.com]

The thing with Sweeney and Lyov was was freaking adorable. And him and Mac were probably a good team when he was still with the police.

Hurr... us immigrants are always just pawns in the palms of our grandmothers (even if they aren't exactly ours.) You just don't say no to them. They can be evil. xD

Your lingo just tickles me pink. Seriously.

[foolish-m0rtal.livejournal.com]

Lyov was awesome to write. I don't get too much into depth with him here, but hopefully in the future. I can see myself in him a lot, torn between two cultures. In school, he's too Russian; at home, he's too American. I can identify with that.

Oh yeah, doesn't have to be YOUR grandmother. Haha. If she's at least twenty years older than you, you address her as Auntie, and you do her BIDDING. T_T The party I'm going to has a LOT of Aunties. Cheek pinching will happen. My face is already aching with phantom pain.

Sweeney and Mac probably WERE a good team. As you'll see further down the line, Mac's a good guy. He's probably the only one who understands why Sweeney left the police. (Get into THAT later too)

I was grinning like a loon while writing 'tomatoes flashing their gams at you.' I really was. XXD

But it's a hoot that you think my lingo's the cat's pajamas. (wrong era, ^_^)

[foolish-m0rtal.livejournal.com]

Okay. ^_^ I'll go with your order of tomatoes instead of mine. (I didn't think they were going to put so much butter on those grits, dear GODS)

Also, have fun in Richmond. Say hello to Momo for me. And if I don't hear back from you, I'll know you spit in his yougurt again. There are just some things one human never does to another. Cannibalism and messing with their yougurt. Really, woman.

[foolish-m0rtal.livejournal.com]

er, ACTUAL tomatoes. Not...slang tomatoes...

[foolish-m0rtal.livejournal.com]

"If anything happens, you know what to do."
"Er, actually, no I don't."
"Me neither..."