Chapter Three
Imade Tripp wait in the library until after I had gotten Maggie and her guardian dog, Mouse, back to school for the week, taking her there in the reborn Blue Beetle, a refurbished old VW Bug that ran like it was brand new.
I dawdled over a cup of coffee after that and realized that I wasn’t being childishly vindictive toward Tripp.
The man had been a pain in my ass during a part of my life I didn’t want to so much as remember, much less relive within the pleasure of his company.
The really bad parts of your life can attach themselves to people, places, things.
There’s an instinct to avoid that kind of pain, even after you’ve gotten past it.
I didn’t want to see him because I knew it would, to some degree, take me back. Make me remember the bad times. And I was afraid of that.
There’s only one way to deal with fear—punch it in its stupid face.
I mean, metaphorically. Punching Tripp in his stupid face wasn’t going to help anyone.
And Marcone was right. Principles weren’t principles if they only applied to people you thought were appropriate.
I’d met Tripp when he was suing a benevolent tutoring service for money they didn’t have in an effort to pay off a narcotics gang in St. Louis whom he had disappointed.
And that had been the most rational thing he’d been doing at the time.
I suspected he was full of crap, and if that was the case, I’d be happy to tell him to get lost.
But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he really did want to go straight. Maybe he really did want out of the outfit life.
Couldn’t know if I didn’t hear what he had to say. Even if it reminded me of bad times. Even if I really didn’t want a thing to do with him.
I took the coffee and walked into the library, where my Valkyrie bodyguard was entertaining Tripp.
“That’s not for my car,” Tripp was saying, in the tone of a punch line being delivered. “That’s for my wife!”
Bear let out an easy laugh, grinning broadly. “Ah, there he is,” she said. “Behave yourself, Mr. Gregory, or I’ll throw your ass into the street.”
“You got it,” Tripp said amiably, and shot Bear with his forefinger.
Bear stopped near me and said, under her breath, “You all right with this?”
“Fine,” I growled. Then added, “Fine enough.”
She raised a fist to waist level and bumped her knuckles against mine. “I’ll be outside, if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
She left, and I walked over to sit down in a chair across from Tripp’s.
“Before you say anything,” he said, “maybe I oughta say some stuff right out front. You know?”
“Your problem was never not being up front about things, Tripp,” I said. “But go ahead.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “I know,” he said. “I was a pain in everyone’s ass at a real bad time, right? I get that. And when those guys grabbed me after the trial, maybe even I had some of that coming.”
I lifted both eyebrows.
“Go on,” I said.
“I’m sitting in the back of this car with a gun in my ribs, right?
” Tripp said. “And, like, everything from my whole life is in front of me. And I just keep thinking to myself, For what? Like, all this stuff I done, all these people I pissed off, and what did it get me? Here I am, I’m about to buy it from these hard cases from St. Louis, and why did I even do all the stuff that got me there?
It didn’t make me rich. Didn’t make me happy. Didn’t get me respected. You know?”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Sure.”
“So, these fu—these guys are taking me out to the middle of nowhere to eighty-six me, and here I am with no one to turn to, ’cause that’s how things work when you done what I done.
And my mom, right, she was a church lady.
Every Sunday, rain or shine. Always telling me I needed to look for God or I’d get lost. And I figure, here I am, lost as the damned day is long, right? I don’t even know what state we’re in.”
“Classic lost soul,” I noted.
“Hey, I ain’t that old yet, to be classic,” he said.
“I never done it before, but I figure what the hell, talking to God can’t hurt.
And I pray to Him and I tell Him, ‘Hey, You get me out of this, and You got a boy for life, You hear? Whatever You want.’” He frowned and chanced a moment of eye contact with me.
“And … like, I mean it, right? If I get another chance, I’m gonna make something, you know, like good outta my life. ”
“Lot of people get really sincere when they’re facing the Reaper,” I noted.
“Right?” Tripp said, his eyes widening. He’d missed the skepticism in my tone.
“Like, I’d never been in a place like that.
And it does something to a guy.” He shook his head.
“Anyway, they drag me to this bluff over a river and they put the gun to my head and click. Like, just click. It don’t fire.
And before they can get another one, I throw myself in.
My hands are tied, right, but in front of me, and I swim like hell, and they start shooting down, but they don’t get me and …
” He spread his hands. “Long story short, I’m still breathing. ”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “I can see that.”
He straightened, and something I could have sworn was a sincere expression came into his face. “And now,” he said, “I gotta make good. To God. Or He’s gonna make sure I get a bullet in the back of the head and go right back into that river.”
I was taking another sip of coffee as he said that last part, and half-choked on it as a snort of involuntary laughter came up out of my chest. I coughed and cleared my throat, trying to get most of the coffee to go down the right way.
My views on the Almighty were only vague ones, but I was pretty sure the creator of the universe didn’t operate like Vito Corleone.
But for a lifetime criminal like Tripp, maybe it did make sense. His authority figures had been men like John Marcone—who absolutely would make sure Tripp got a bullet and a river if he’d made that deal with him. Why would God be any different?
Which said something about Marcone and probably a lot more about Tripp.
Hell’s bells.
“And I’m tryin’ like hell,” he said. “I really am. I’m doing a charity for kids.
I guess the schools closing so long after the terrorist attack got them all screwed up and there’s a lotta teaching work needs doing to get them fixed up.
And I’m raising money for that.” He fished in the pocket of his coat and produced a card, offering it to me.
I took it. It had a couple of crayon-style stick people that a child might draw on either side, under a cheerfully colored logo reading KID POWER! Underneath it, print read, Accelerated Learning for the Children of Chicago, Tripp Gregory, CEO.
I frowned. “Is this your new scam? Getting money out of people for a good cause?”
“No scam!” he said, raising both hands palms-out, his face a little panicked.
“I don’t want no bullet in the back of my head.
This is legit! Working with a couple aldermen and ombudsmen and lady social workers and everything!
” He flushed. “I even have some of the money going to Sunflower, you know? On account I was, you know, such a dick to them. And because it turns out they’re good at this stuff. ”
I narrowed my eyes. “How’d you get the money for all this, Tripp? Last I saw, you owed to everyone and had nothing coming in.”
“I went out and raised it,” he said. “I got back, Mr. Marcone said I was …” Tripp screwed up his face, remembering, “… ‘unexpectedly facile at survival.’ Means I’m good at it.”
“I know what it means,” I said.
“Mr. Marcone says he respects that. I told him what I wanted to do and he said he’d help. Made some introductions. And I talked this old rich lady into it. She gave me a bunch of money and I was off to the races.”
“So, what do you need me for?” I asked.
“Yeah, well,” he said, averting his eyes. “Things kinda got complicated.” He took a breath and said, “I need help.”
I sat with that phrase for a long moment. Then I asked, “What happened?”
“The friggin’ government got involved.”
“Oh,” I said. “Ah.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tripp asked.
“It means we need a lawyer.”