A Full Bucket of Trouble

Young. Beautiful. Missing. She's in
A Full Bucket of Trouble
By Chase Driven

Email: chase.driven@gmail.com
Twitter: @ChaseDriven

I. The Viaduct

No one knows when they'll die for sure.

I'm standing in the Michigan Avenue viaduct, two guys with guns in front me. I had been checking on some people I used to know when they jumped out from behind a dumpster.

They look more nervous than they should given that they're armed and I'm not, but I don't get the feeling it's because they know who I am or what I do or understand even the smallest portion of the situation they've put themselves in.

"Your wallet!" the taller one says for a second time.

"I heard you," I say, my voice moderated to the professional calm vibe designed to help even the most strung out junkie calm the fuck down. "But I'm pretty sure you've got the wrong guy."

The shorter one is getting noticeably itchy. He's not wearing a belt so his pants are hanging down and his boxers are showing. The taller one? Looking left and right, not focused enough for what he thinks he wants to do.

I stand by what I said: no one knows when they'll die for sure. But I'm guessing tonight is not my night.

"Your wallet!"

How original. "OK," I say, "just take it easy." I have a backup plan for times like this, times when the voice doesn't work. I slowly reach for my back right pocket. It's where anyone would normally keep their black calfskin. Mine is on the other side, but what I pull out looks like a wallet, or close enough for these geniuses.

"Throw it!" It's the tall one again.

I squeeze it just hard enough to break the internal bladder on the wallet substitute. The chemical reaction takes seven seconds. The trick with these fake wallets is positioning them relative to your target. But I have time -- all the time in the world. I aim between them, and throw, maybe a little too hard if my goal was to simply give it to them but just right for this baby.

They both look, the shorter one leans down to get it. And then science takes over. Chemicals mix and the decoy wallet goes up with a little flame and a whole lot of smoke. The poor man's tear gas jets into their faces. One of them pulled a trigger but by then I was out, around the corner and up on to Wacker Drive.

Sure, things could have turned out differently. These two wanna be's -- they could have turned a small mistake into a much bigger one.

Luck was on their side.



II. North Avenue

Traffic on the west end of North Avenue follows a predictable pattern. For three green lights in a row the traffic blocks any and all pedestrians and to the casual observer it looks like one of those streets that is impossible to cross. And then traffic opens up enough to pass. People walking dogs. Mother's pushing strollers.

Or me going to my office.

I moved out here a few years ago and found a nondescript place just a few blocks from my house. The area has a completely different feel from the rest of the city. Smaller buildings, bigger lots. And as a bonus the ghosts of the Chicago Outfit are more solid out here on the west side than any place else in the city. The house I bought, for example, has both a thick walled nearly invisible safe room in the basement and an indoor incinerator. Used to belong to the head of the Italian American Small Business Association.

Draw your own conclusions.

My office is in a 1950's monstrosity, a boring one-story clad with fake green stones. The only marks on the door are my initials, HWB, and even those you have to know what you're looking for in order to find them.

There's a woman standing in front of my door as I approach. She's large with short salt and pepper hair. Her posture is surprisingly good. She turns around and her eyes light with recognition. Her wringing hands tell me everything I need to know.

"Mr. Bucket," she says. "Mr. Bucket -- I'm so glad I found you. I need your help."

Her name is Sylvia Moreno and she cleaned for my family and I until we moved too far away from her home to make it worth the trip. Our families were always close but I haven't seen her in five years. I unlock the door, disable the alarm, turn on the lights and invite her in.

This is her first visit and she pauses to take in the scene. "Mr. Bucket," she says, "you need a maid."

I could argue the point but she's right. The place is a mess. I like it that way. Or, if I don't quite like it, I'm not worried enough about it to change.

"Yes, I know," I say. "Sylvia, what brings you out here? How can I help?"

"It's Raphaela. She's missing. I'm so worried."

The last time I saw Raphaela she was 12 going on 28. I helped Sylvia get her computer up and running a few years ago. Truth be told we both watched while the kid handled most of the complex stuff. She was a precocious and head strong girl, every inch her mother's daughter. I'm sure the last half a dozen years have been interesting for both of them.

"What happened?" I ask.

The story came out in bits and pieces. Raphaela had finished high school -- early -- and was awarded a full scholarship to a small liberal arts college in Ohio. She started school in six days. Everything was set for her to have the life Sylvia had wanted for her.

Until she met Ozgu.

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