Excerpt
Worse than a Lie
1
November 4, 2008The Gunderson Security patrol cruiser was doing fifteen miles per hour as it rounded the corner of the shopping plaza in Avondale in the northwest side of Chicago. It was driven by Chicago native Hollis Montrose, who tapped the brakes, slowing to a crawl, and idled behind a Macy’s department store.
Over the radio, President-elect Barack Obama was making his victory speech from less than ten miles away in Grant Park. Everything about the moment was unprecedented.
When Obama finished his speech, Hollis couldn’t tell if he was hearing the roaring cheers of approval and applause over the radio or echoing from downtown. Either way he let the sound fill the car.
Now fifty-three, Hollis had left boyhood long behind, but he still listened to the president-elect’s speech with the same glee he’d felt as a child when watching Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., deliver one on television. He turned up the volume as he continued to survey the parking lot of the Danbury Plaza in his cruiser, a white Dodge Charger.
Working security was Hollis’s second job, three nights a week and no weekends, because weekends were for family. By day, he was a police officer for Metra, the rail system that served the Chicago area and northeastern Illinois. It was nothing like being a street cop, a job Hollis had held with the Chicago Police Department for over a decade. Instead, he patrolled the subway and train stations and hopped on and off train cars. Hollis intended it to be his last position before retiring. He continued to patrol the Danbury Plaza parking lot listening to the speech with pride—he was proud to be a cop. Even with all he’d been through on account of wearing the badge, he was able to care for his family, he had a pension, and soon, he’d enjoy the fruits of his efforts as a grandfather intent on spoiling his grandkids. With the money he made working for Gunderson, he’d be able to renovate one of the bedrooms in his home and turn it into a playroom. He had another grandchild on the way and the room would get plenty of use over the years.
Pop! Pop! Pop!He lowered the volume—it was gunshots, he was certain of it. It was the unofficial way Chicagoland liked to celebrate, and shots were ringing out all over the city. The sound echoed in the distance, but Hollis was still worried. He put pressure on the gas pedal and the car crept back around to the front of the plaza.
On a night like this, there was a strong likelihood of looting and vandalism, but the parking lot was quiet—empty—with no suspicious activity or loiterers.
His cellphone rang in the center console. He glanced down and saw the caller ID. The words “My Rock” lit up the screen.
He answered on speaker.
Raquel Montrose, whom Hollis and her family and friends affectionately called “Rocky,” was already mid-sentence and talking at top speed. “I would’ve called you sooner, baby, but I know you’re making your rounds. I said to myself, I know he’s listening to the speech . . . You are listening to the speech, aren’t you, Hollis? Isn’t it the greatest thing you ever heard?”
Her joy was palpable through the phone.
“Oh, I’m listening to it, Rocky,” he said. “This whole night is shaping up to be pretty incredible.”
“Everybody is outside over here,” she said. “I’m sitting on the porch.”
The sounds of people cheering poured through the phone. Someone was singing “Amazing Grace” how they’d lead their church choir on Sundays. It was beautiful, and soon other voices joined in.
Pop! Pop! Pop! More shots, only this time it sounded like they came over the phone line.
“Rocky, baby. Go back inside right now. It’s too dangerous to sit out there.”
“Oh Lord,” she said. “I’ll never understand people shooting when they’re happy.”
“Don’t know either, but it’s a quick way to turn joy into tragedy,” Hollis said. “You back inside yet?”
“Yeah, baby, I’m in. Going to take a seat on the couch.”
“Good.”
“You coming home soon?”
“Working on it.”
“I gotta say, Secret Service is going to have their hands full. It’s got to be the hardest detail in history, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’ll be tough,” Hollis said. “He’ll need the best people around him.”
“You know, I was thinking maybe you could apply for his security team.”
Hollis laughed.
“What? I’m serious,” Rocky said. “Think of all the things you’ve done in your career. You’d be great at it.”
“Are you just angling to find a way to meet him?”
She giggled. “I’m just saying you’d be an asset.”
“I don’t know . . . the Secret Service is a young man’s game.”
“Just think about it. How about I go online and see what jobs are posted.”
“All right, baby. It’s not like I can tell you not to anyway, especially once you get your mind fixed on something.” He looked at the time; it was 11:44 p.m. “I love you, and I’ll see you in a little bit. Remember, I have to make a stop in Woodlawn to pick up that sanding equipment from Finn so I can start working on the playroom.”
“Can’t that wait until morning?”
“He said he’d be up, and this is the only time I’ll have to get it. Then I’m heading straight home to you, my knockout queen.”
Aside from Rocky’s sharing the name of the titular character Stallone made so popular, she was indeed Hollis’s fighter. She’d always be in his corner, no matter what.
They exchanged “I love yous” and ended the call.
Hollis pulled into the space designated for Gunderson Security vehicles. He exited the car and clicked the remote lock. The car chirped twice as Hollis headed for the glass door, the only entrance to the building. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door, as it was protocol for the place to be tightly secured, considering Gunderson had a modest cache of handguns, tasers, and pepper spray.
He went into the locker room and took off his quilted black leather jacket and company uniform. He crammed the security shirt into his duffel bag for Rocky to launder. There were three others, fresh and ironed, hanging inside the locker. Hollis kept on the black pants he was wearing, changed his shirt, and put his leather jacket back on. Not all security personnel carried firearms because they weren’t willing to risk their lives to protect a retail establishment. As a police officer, Hollis preferred to carry his department-issued 9mm, which remained holstered on his hip. He shut his locker and walked back to the lobby, where he hung his key on an empty hook inside a small security box hidden under the front desk, then locked the box.
“Big night,” Joey Henderson said. “Guess America really did the damn thing?”
Joey lived about fifteen minutes from Gunderson Security but always managed to arrive late or just in time. Once, when he had car trouble, Hollis drove to his house, picked him up, and brought him to work. He’d taken on an extra shift just so they could clock out at the same time and Hollis could drive him back home. That was before Joey had saved up enough to buy his truck.
Joey lowered his head so he wouldn’t smack it against the doorpost as he entered the lobby. He was a tall, lanky, brown-skinned boy with a curly fade and a diamond stud earring. A red sucker was lodged in his teeth. Hollis thought it looked like a Tootsie Roll Pop. “Gotta give God the glory,” Hollis said.
“That’s right, Mr. Montrose.”
Hollis wasn’t sure Joey was much for religion or attending church, but he was always respectful of Hollis’s beliefs. “Be blessed and have a good night, Joey.”
“You, too, sir.”
“And Joey, watch yourself out there. I heard plenty of shooting while on patrol. It sounded like the Fourth of July.”
“Hear you loud and clear, sir.”
Hollis zipped up his jacket and readied himself for the cold. He gave a departing nod as he left the building and walked to his dark-gray 2004 Ford Expedition, which was parked next to Joey’s red Ram truck. As Hollis drove off, he knew he would always remember how he felt the night the first Black president was elected.
