Young. Beautiful. Missing. She's in...

A Full Bucket of Trouble

By Chase Driven

Email: chase.driven@gmail.com
Twitter: @ChaseDriven
Web: http://hwbucket.com

Copyright (c) 2009 Reid Carlberg

*** All Rights Reserved ***

First Edition: November 23, 2009

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to any individual living or dead

is purely coincidental.

Cover photo Copyright (c) 2008 Reid Carlberg

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.

"Ozgu -- that's the only name he uses, I don't know if it's first or last -
- he became obsessed." Sylvia was not a woman prone to tears but
her eyes were red and swollen. "He called. He emailed. He texted.
Raphaela knew he was wrong for her but he wore her down. And now I
haven't seen her in almost a week."

I ask the obligatory questions: Have you ever met him? No. Do you
know what he looks like? No. Have you called the police? Can they
help? Yes, probably but they haven't. What about her friends? No one
has seen her.

"Sylvia," I say in measured tones, "what do you think happened?"

She drops her eyes to the floor, pauses with a worry only a parent can
know. "I don't know," she says. "One day I wake up and she's gone. I
don't think about it for a moment because she's often up and out of
the house before me. But then she didn't come home that night or the
next. I started calling people and no one knew where she was."

She raised her eyes to mine and asked, "Can you help?"
What can I say? "Of course."
III. Uptown Girls

Sylvia and Raphaela Moreno lived in a small apartment in a Belmont

Avenue high rise near the lake. It was out dated, cramped and
expensive, but they stuck with it for the nearby schools.

Sylvia had given me a list of Raphaela's friends, everyone she knew,

and all of the contact information she could find. Most of the friends
she knew about were in Lakeview or just north in Uptown.

Like any area of this city these two had their issues. Lakeview likes to
party. Uptown -- well Uptown likes to party, too, but the substances
are all different. The first methadone clinic I ever saw was in Uptown
and it wasn't there because the rent was cheap.

I headed to meet her best friend, Dierdre Flores, 19, in a coffee shop
on Broadway, one of those with a pun for a name -- Sufficient Grounds
or something, probably run by wanna be lawyers. Dierdre had
graduated a year before Raphaela but the two had remained close.
She was waiting for me when I arrived.

"Ms. Flores," I say, "I wish we were meeting under better

circumstances. Thanks for coming." She was young and beautiful, the
kind of woman old men email pictures to each other about. Her black
hair was in a simple pony tail, her makeup was almost non-existent
and her jeans -- well, I probably shouldn't talk about those.

"Call me Dee", she said. "I'm glad to. I haven't heard from Raps in a
few months and have been really worried about her. What's going on?
What can you tell me?"

"'Raps'? Raphaela?" I ask.

"Yes -- everyone except Sylvia calls her 'Raps'," she says. "What do
you know?"

"Her mother thinks her disappearance has something to do with

Ozgu."

"Who?" Deirdre -- Dee -- looks genuinely confused.

"Ozgu. A boy who was interested in her," I explain.

Dee pauses to digest. "She never mentioned him to me. But we
haven't been close the last couple of months."

"Did she date much?" I ask, leaving the question of being best friends
or not until later.

"Depends on how you define it," she said. "She liked to date but she
liked to tease even more. We used to hang out at The Green Mill --
yeah, too young, I know -- but by the end of the night every up and
comer had her fake phone number and she hadn't paid for a single
drink."

The Green Mill. Home to Al Capone back in his day but now just
another one of Chicago's bars packed with good looking young social
types. Good jazz, scarce seating and plenty of booze. I did my time
there decades ago.

"Here's your coffee, Dee." It's the waiter, something's wrong with his
voice.

"Thanks, sweetie."

"You're talking about Raps and Ozgu, aren't you?" he asks.

"Yeah, sweetie, we are." It's only a slight pause while Dee puts it
together. "Wait -- Javi -- do you know something? Have you seen
them?"

Javi turns out to be Javier Bourdain, not the most impressive coffee
house waiter you will ever meet. Tired eyes, dirty apron and trembling
hands. "They stopped in last week," he says, eyes blinking dryly. "But
I haven't seen them since," he says. "What's up?"

"Her mom asked me to help find her," I say. "Did you notice anything
unusual?"

Javi pauses and you can almost hear the gears turning. "They were
arguing a little," he says after a few moments. "I don't know what it
was about."

"Were they angry," I ask?

Javi looks at me and then back to Dee. "It's ok," she says, "Detective
Bucket is helping us."
He gives me a stare, longer than I like but that's a hazard of the job.
I'm used to it and wait it out.

"No," he says finally. "It didn't sound like a big deal."

"Do you know his last name?" I ask. Javi doesn't exactly get more
impressive when he says no, no he doesn't. "Can you describe him?"

"Big guy, Samoan, I think," he says. "Probably 300 pounds. Dark

hair."

That's it, I ask?

Yeah, that's it.

I give him my card and he takes off, back behind the counter. I can
see his reflection. He watches us for a second and then helps another
customer.

I turn back to Dee. "What's wrong with his voice?"

"Javi's? Something about a fight a few years back," she says. "A guy
crushed his larynx. He had it completely rebuilt -- no one thought he
would speak again."

"So," I said, turning to my list of unanswered questions, "What

happened between you and Raps? Sylvia told me you were best
friends, but you haven't seen her in a couple of months?"

Dee paused, clearly pained. Young faces show their emotion so clearly,
their owners not yet used to hiding them yet. That's the way it should
be, anyway. "Well that's probably my fault. She wanted to step up the
partying, said the Mill was getting stale. Wanted to hang around the
Viagra Triangle to see who showed up. I didn't want to."

The Viagra Triangle. State and Rush. Older men and younger women.
Much younger. Dee's unwillingness to spend time there was a plus sign
in her corner.

I get the details -- this all started at the beginning of summer. Dee
had heard Raps had been working in a bakery in the early morning
after a long night out and then sleeping during the day. The whole
cycle started again at about 9 PM.
I excused myself and made my way for the door. The mirror reflected
Javi as he watched me leave.
IV. The Wonder of Bread

Pomona Baking Co. had been a Chicago institution since my dad was a
kid. They made the bread used by all the best sandwich shops in the
city. It was thick crusted with an inside that was as light as air. Perfect
for Italian beef, sausages or even a turkey sandwich with everything.

I made my way to their main bakery and headquarters on the near

northwest side, Chicago and Western Avenues. It had been there for at
least 60 years. I had never been inside but knew it from the many
profiles I'd read in the business press over the years. The plain
building housed an ultra modern commercial bakery who's main output
was money -- 24/7.

Sylvia told me about PBC but I knew it needed to be my next stop

when Dee mentioned the Triangle. Jerry Pomona -- PBC's current
president, 49 -- had a habit of visiting that particular intersection
himself. I stopped at human resources and asked if Raphaela had been
to work lately.

"Oh, Mr. Pomona's niece?" the HR assistant -- Elizabeth -- said without

a touch of irony when I mentioned her name and showed the picture.
"She's on paid leave until further notice."

That's too much. "'Paid leave'?" I ask. "Does PBC routinely offer paid
leave to their junior hourly employees?"

"She's not hourly," Elizabeth replies. "She's a 'special marketing

assistant'."

What does that mean?

"You'd have to ask Mr. Pomona. He supervises all of the special

marketing assistants himself."

And where can I find Mr. Pomona?

"Mr. Pomona is on vacation through the end of the month."

I could tell that was the end of Elizabeth's helpfulness, so I said thanks
and left, trying to decide my next move.

***
I had headed home to let the dog out and was on my way back into
the city with the sun at my back. I could see oncoming drivers
squinting behind their sunglasses and the traffic reports indicated a
few accidents in the usual suburban hot spots.

My next step had to be the night life. I had to talk to Pomona. Jerry's
twisted -- yeah, we'd run into each other a couple of times -- but I
don't think he'd do anything crazy like hurt someone, especially once
that person is already a "special marketing assistant" for the family
business.

He's stupid, but not that kind of stupid.

I was too early to see any action at The Oily Lizard -- pillar of the
Viagra Triangle -- but I was right on time to catch the transition from
tourist central to meat market.

And to get a decent parking spot around the corner.

I people watch for a couple of hours. Hoosiers hauling kids and their
American Girl booty. A middle aged couple in plaid walk the same
stretch of sidewalk three times before pulling out and unfolding a large
map.

Then the fat men with skinny PYT's on their arm start to show up.

And sure enough, about 9:45, I see Mr. PBC himself, Jerry Pomona,
join the crew. He steps out of a car that cost more than I've made in
the last five years put together and then helps a young, tall, size four
woman out of the passenger side.

"Mr. Pomona," I call and of course he doesn't hear me. "Jerry!" I say
loud enough for him, the people across the street and anyone else who
might be interested to hear.

He turns and squints, smart enough to know I'm just going to yell
louder if he ignores me again. "Do I know you?"

Always the joker. "Yeah," I say as I get closer. "You know me." I pull
out a picture of Raps. "Have you seen this woman, Raphaela Moreno?"

He pauses and gives a sidelong glance to the woman on his arm, who
appears to be recognizing a bit of herself in the eight by ten. "Who is
this woman, Jerry?" she asks. "Are you sleeping with her, too?"

"Your 'niece'?" I add in, hoping to diffuse what I can see is a very
unproductive pending explosion from his companion.

Jerry appears relieved. "Of course not, sweetie. This is my niece." He

gives me a wink. "And who wants to know?"

I give him the short version.

"I can't believe this is the first I'm hearing of this!" he says, clearly for
his date's benefit. If there was an award for over acting, he would win
it. "Let me introduce you to a friend of mine who might be able to
help. He's with the Chicago Police and works here as a bouncer on his
off nights." Jerry scans the crowd and lands on a large man. I'm
guessing he tops out the scales at about 300 pounds. We head over.

"Mr. Bucket," he says, "meet Ozgu Rupi."

Ozgu. The name rings in my ears. How many 300 pound guys names
Ozgu are likely to live in the city?"Mr. Bucket," he says. "Nice to meet
you."
V. Good Things Come in Big Packages

Ozgu and I are in a private room in the back. Our luck. On a busier
night this place would be filled with local B listers regaling their friends
with tales of celebrity encounters past, or maybe with a couple of
Viagra poppers and their unemployed arm candy.

Tonight it's just the two of us.

"So tell me about the obsession," I say.

"You know how it goes," Ozgu starts. "You see a girl and you think,
'Maybe.' And then you talk to her and it becomes, 'I hope so.' But
then she's with another guy and ..." his voice trails off.

"Mr. Pomona?" I ask.

"Can't talk about that," he says. "But then that ends and you think
here's my shot and -- you know -- it's easy to go a little bit crazy."

I do indeed know. Sleepless nights take their toll. It started for me in

junior high school, with a girl who called me Kool Aid, but that's a
story for another time.

"The calls?" I say. "The texts? They were all from you? Just trying to
get her to go out with you?"

He grins wistfully. "Yeah. Those were me." The pause tells me

there's more to the story, more that I don't need to know.

"So what happened?" I say, trying to bring him back into the present?

"She blew me off." Every man knows the feeling.

"So where is she now?"

"How am I supposed to know?" he asks. There's enough sarcasm in

his voice for me to know he'd fallen for her more than he cared to
admit. "After a couple of weeks of no response I realized I was going
crazy and decided to see if I could flip the script. It hasn't worked."

I tell him about Sylvia's visit -- how she's convinced he has something
to do with it.
"I don't know anything," he says.

"What about the argument in the coffee shop?"

His face drops into a look I recognize -- sheepishness backed by a little

self loathing. "Yeah," he says, "I blew that one. That was my chance.
And I got all up in her face. It was not good."

After agreeing to help me find Raps, he tells me to stay put and leaves
to round up his crew.

A bit later a waitress comes through the door with a couple of plates.
In most parts of the world they would feed a family of six, but this is
Chicago where a 20 once rib eye is a meal for one. I'm starving so I
dig in.

Good thing I'm not a vegetarian.

***

Twenty minutes pass, then thirty. The empty plates in front of me tell
the story of someone who has too much practice stuffing himself full of
food. My Midwest heritage comes out in predictable, mundane ways.

There's a quick knock at the door and Ozgu comes back in flanked by
three guys, about a thousand pounds of posse. "Enjoy it?" he asks
with a grin, gesturing to the empty plates.

"Yeah," I say. "Thanks."

"OK," he says. "These guys are with me. Pete, Venice and Joe" --
they each nod in turn -- "You can trust them."

I shake each of their meaty hands in turn. "What's the plan?"

VI. The Missing Link

Ozgu's obsession had left him with a surprisingly detailed knowledge of

Raphaela's personal life. Her friends, her hangouts, what she liked to
drink. His plan was simple: fan out and talk to everyone who might
know something.

Note to self: be careful of the obsessions you inspire in people with

substantial investigative resources at their disposal.

The four of them split Ozgu's list. Our plan was to stay in close
electronic communication as they checked and rechecked everything
he knew. If no one found anything we'd reconnect and pursue plan B.

Only problem was we didn't have one. That's where I came in. My job
was to reconnect with Sylvia and see what maybe should have been
on his list but which he missed.

Sylvia was shocked when I told her Ozgu was a cop. I don't know if it
was that she had to change her mind about what she thought had
happened or if it was the sudden realization that the person obsessed
with her daughter was not a boy but a man who should have known
better.

Raphaela's disappearance had already taken it's toll. Sylvia looked like
she'd aged a decade in a just a few days.

"Mr. Bucket," she has said as I left her apartment early the next
morning. "Raphaela is a good girl. These things you say -- I know
some of them are true. But that doesn't mean she deserves whatever
is happening to her right now. Don't give up."

Far from it.

The challenge was finding the missing link. None of it added up.

I had arranged to meet with Dee Flores again to see what she could
add to the list. We met at her apartment. I brought her up to speed
on everything.

"So Ozgu and his buddies are out trying to find all this out?" she
asked.
"Yes," I said. "They were about half way through when we checked in
an hour ago. Ozgu will meet us here in a minute if that's OK with
you. He wanted to ask you a few questions himself."

Just as I said this her doorbell rang. It had to be Ozgu. Dee went to
look out the window before buzzing him up.

"Mr. Bucket," she said, turning to me slowing and not hitting her
buzzer. "What is The BTO doing here?"

I looked out the window.

"The BTO?" I asked.

VII. Return of The BTO

Everyone has a hidden past. I've seen it again and again over the
years. And when hidden past and meets hidden present -- unexpected
things happen.

It turns out The BTO was none other than The Big Terrible Ozgu. The
nickname was a leftover of growing up in Chicago and attending
Chicago public schools. He and his friends had decided to call
themselves a gang, The Hideous, and he had been their leader. It
changed his life in many ways.

The BTO -- Ozgu -- appeared to be lost in his own thoughts as we

sped north up Broadway. He had called a swarm and we could hear
sirens converging on our destination.

We pulled up behind an assortment of cop cars -- sedans, SUVs and

unmarked -- all with their lights flashing. It was barely 8:45 in the
morning, and Sufficient Grounds was packed when we walked in. The
initial respondents had detained everyone who had been there for
morning rush.

Dee led the way to a man in cuffs bent over a counter.

"Javi," she said, "what have you done?"

Ozgu didn't wait for him to answer as he grabbed Javi by the arm and
pulled him to the back. "Bucket!" Ozgu shouted, "I'll need your help!"

The uniforms parted as I followed. Javi's voice croaked a protest as he

was dragged out of sight. The cops closed ranks. I caught Dee's eye
as we walked in the back. Everything was happening too quickly for
me to process and she looked just as shocked.

Dee had been the one to make the connection when she recognized
Ozgu as his former self. Before joining the CPD, The Hideous had
been the guys who got in a fight with Javier Bourdain's gang and Ozgu
-- The BTO himself -- had been the one to crush Bourdain's larynx.

It was telling that Ozgu didn't even remember the incident. But he
also didn't challenge for a second that Dee was right.

It was the only possible connection. Bourdain had seen the two
arguing and had understood more about what Ozgu wanted in the
moment than maybe Ozgu himself had. He saw a chance to get some
revenge on the man who had imposed this new life on him.

Ozgu and I came back up front just a few minutes later. Anyone
looking through the door would have seen Bourdain slumped in his
chair. "The basement!" Ozgu led the way as a dozen cops followed
him down the narrow stairs.

We found Raps locked in a back storage room. She had hit the first
man through the door with a broomstick. She was ready to leave and
nothing was going to stand in her way.

Once he saw she was OK, Ozgu managed to disappear into the crowd.

Raphaela scanned the room and locked on me. Somehow she

recognized me after all these years. She ran up and gave me a hug.

"Mr. Bucket," she said, "I knew my mother would contact you. Thank
you."

"You're welcome," I replied.

She paused. "How much does she know?"

Everything I had learned over the last couple of days ran through my
mind at once. Jerry Pomona, The Green Mill and the rest. Kids grow
up faster than we would like and I'm pretty sure there was more to the
story than I had heard.

"Everything," I said, not knowing if I was telling the truth, "and none
of it matters."

Raphaela looked a bit skeptical but then relieved. By then we were on

our way upstairs and out the door.
VIII. A Better Way

No one knows when they'll die for sure.

Raphaela had spent several days locked in a basement and by all

appearances never even considered the possibility that she might
meet her end in that coffee shop storeroom.

When Ozgu pulled him into the back, Bourdain had every reason to
assume the worst. Here was the man who had maimed him before
come to do it again. The past in which he'd been living suddenly
manifest in front of him.

The prosecutor had the security tapes from the back room at Sufficient
Grounds and they showed all three of us clearly. Ozgu did the
talking. And although the tapes don't contain sound, I can tell you
this: there were no threats and there was no violence. The BTO was
no more. Ozgu simply apologized, completely and contritely. He
asked for the opportunity to make it right and asked if they could
leave Raphaela out of it.

Ozgu was different and he couldn't change the past. All he could do
was help Bourdain out of the situation he was in today.

Bourdain wasn't the best waiter and was even worse as a kidnapper.
He'd managed to drug her and get her locked into the basement
successfully, but his plan had stopped there. He didn't really know how
to exact his revenge, even how to contact Ozgu to tell him it was on,
so just just kept feeding her pastries and giving her bottles of water.

But in that back room, when Ozgu apologized, Bourdain had a moment
of clarity and told us everything before he broke down sobbing.

That was a good thing for him.

Sylvia was ecstatic -- what parent wouldn't be? -- and Raphaela -- or

Raps as she now insisted I call her -- Raps was off to the bucolic future
Sylvia had been planning for her since before she was born.

As for me, I completed the paperwork the CPD needed and went back
out to my home on the west side.

A man's obsession can make him do unfortunate things. Ozgu's led

him to make a fool of himself to a young woman. Bourdain's
obsession with Ozgu will change the rest of his life.

And mine? Well -- mine are better left for telling on another day.