Timothy Alston “Goose” Satterwhite is my unapologetic homage to Robert B.
Parker’s Hawk. Named by his father for the first major league manager to write
Jackie Robinson’s name on a lineup card, Goose grew up in the late, unlamented
Robert Taylor Homes in Chicago’s South Side. He makes a living collecting
things for people who lack legal means to do so. Goose reads two or three books
a week and is in the midst of an endless process of gutting and rehabilitation an
old house; he worships Norm Abrams as a god. In another book he leaves dinner
with Forte to walk an elderly neighbor’s dog, yet “menace rose off him like
heat from a parking lot, even when he smiled. Sometimes especially when he
smiled.”
(Editor’s note: Mr. Satterwhite meant well, but Clyde Sukeforth was
actually Jackie Robinson’s original big league manager.)
Goose answered on the first ring.
We arranged to meet at my house, it being more or less on the way to
Romeoville.
He beat me there, even after
stopping at Mrs. T’s on Boughton Road for a pizza. We sat at my kitchen table
with our coats unbuttoned, narfing pizza and drinking caffeine-free Cokes while
we made up the plan.
“Not going to be the easiest place
to be inconspicuous in,” Goose said between bites.
“You know it?” Goose had
information on places that weren’t even open yet.
He shook his head while he
swallowed. “Think about it. You a face Ellison not likely to forget. That means
I go in. We be at a place called Crazy Joe’s in Romeoville. How many brothers
you think hang there?”
“I could call Eddie Riefsnyder.
He’d come, but I don’t think there’s time for him to get here.”
“Eddie a good man, but he smell
like three shades of cop. I’ll go in, look around. You don’t hear from me in
five minutes, come in and look for a high sign. Like you don’t know me.”
“Close enough to a plan for me.” I
stood and put my plate in the sink. “Let’s go. I want to get there in time to
scope things out, see how many exits there are.”
“Don’t I get to finish my sumptuous
repast?”
“We’re pressed for time. Eat in the
car.”
Goose closed the pizza box. “You
flunked history in school, didn’t you?”
“What makes you think so?”
“Lincoln freed the slaves, honky.”
“All the thugs in the world, and I
work with the sensitive one.”
“If you prick us, do we not bleed?”
“When’s the last time anyone made
you bleed?”
“Getting bled on count?”
“No. It has to be your own blood.”
“You got me there.” He paused to
catch my eye. “This better not be the night.”
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