Paper Cuts and Gun Metal

Paper Cuts and Gun Metal

Chapter 1

Chicago never whispers. It hisses.

The rain came in sideways off the lake, sharp as buckshot, rattling against the office window like it had something personal to settle. Streetlights smeared themselves across wet pavement below, turning Halsted into a ribbon of dull gold and gasoline rainbows. A streetcar clanged somewhere down the line, the sound thin and metallic, like a knife tapped against a glass. Bells from St. Brigid’s rolled through the evening air, heavy and slow, like a priest clearing his throat before a hard truth.

My office sat over a barber shop that never closed early and never asked questions. Second floor. Narrow stairs. Smell of talcum powder and hair tonic rising up through the cracks in the floorboards. Outside, the world was wet and cold and moving too fast for its own good. Inside, it was lamplight and paper and the steady tick of a cheap wall clock that always ran a little slow. Rent was cheap because the building leaned a little and the plumbing groaned like an old Marine getting out of a bunk.

I kept the place the way I kept a footlocker—clean lines, nothing loose, nothing wasted. Desk squared with the window. Blotter centered. Two sharpened pencils parallel. File cabinet locked. Coat on the back of the chair, not tossed. Ashtray emptied. Wastebasket lined. A man can’t control the city, but he can control the inch of it that belongs to him.

It wasn’t fussiness. It was habit. Twenty years of habit.

The Corps doesn’t just teach you how to march and shoot and take orders. It teaches you that chaos is always waiting. It teaches you that the first loose thread turns into the whole uniform coming apart. It teaches you how to look at a room and know where the danger is before the danger knows you noticed.

Civilian life tries to soften a man. It tries to make him forget the edges. Chicago will remind you, if you let it. Chicago has a way of bringing a man right back to what he was when he swore his first lie and meant it.

There was a small crucifix over the door. Not for decoration. A reminder. A line in the sand. I wasn’t a priest and I didn’t pretend to be. But I knew the difference between confession and self-justification, and I’d met too many men who used one to avoid the other.

The phone rang at six-fifteen.

It rang like it meant business.

I let it go twice before picking up. Not because I was playing games. Because a man who calls a private investigator ought to sit in his own fear for a few seconds and decide whether he really wants what he’s asking for.

“McKenna.”

A pause. A breath on the line.

“Gunny McKenna?”

“That depends on who’s asking.”

“My name is Patrick Donnelly. I was given your name by Deacon Fallon.”

That explained the hesitation. Fallon only handed out my number when someone had something they didn’t want handled in a confessional or in a precinct. Fallon believed in clean souls and dirty work, and he didn’t mind who did which as long as it got done.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Donnelly?”

“I’d prefer to speak in person.”

“They all do.”

Silence again. Then, “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be here.”

I hung up and watched the rain crawl down the window like it was trying to get inside.

I could see the street below through the watery glass—headlights cutting white tunnels through the wet, men in hats hunched against the wind, a woman tugging a boy along as if the weather might steal him. A cab slid around the corner too fast, tires hissing, the driver leaning on the horn like it could push the rain out of his way. Chicago moved even when it had no idea where it was going.

My knee gave a small, familiar complaint when I stood. I walked to the file cabinet and checked the lock. Habit. Then to the door and glanced at the hall. Empty. The kind of empty that makes you listen anyway.

There was a small framed photograph on one corner of my desk. Dress blues. Campaign ribbons straight. Gunnery Sergeant chevrons sharp enough to cut paper. I didn’t look at it often. I didn’t need to. But sometimes you feel the old life sitting behind you like a second shadow. Sometimes you hear the cadence in the back of your mind when everything else is quiet.

Twenty-two minutes later, the stairs creaked under measured steps. Not hurried. Not casual either. The knock was firm. Two raps. A man who’d been raised to knock properly.

“Come in.”

Patrick Donnelly stepped through the door like he owned every inch of carpet he’d ever stood on. Mid-forties. Pressed charcoal suit that didn’t have a wrinkle in it, like it had been born that way. Tie knotted tight. Hair slicked back without a strand out of place. The kind of man who shaved twice on Sundays, once for God and once for the neighbors.

His eyes told a different story.

They were ringed in sleepless gray. Not red from drink. Not swollen from tears. Just worn. Like a man who’d been staring at a problem too long and realized it wasn’t going to blink first. He carried a leather briefcase that looked expensive enough to buy my building twice. He closed the door behind him and looked around the office—clean desk, bare walls except for the crucifix, the chair positioned so I didn’t have to turn my head to see the hall and the window.

“You keep things tidy,” he said.

“I don’t like surprises.”

He managed a thin smile. It didn’t hold. A smile like a match struck in the wind—there, then gone.

“You’re a Marine.”

“Was.”

“They say once a Marine, always a Marine.”

“They say a lot of things.”

He sat when I gestured to the chair opposite my desk. He didn’t fidget. But he adjusted his cufflinks twice. That told me enough. Men who are comfortable don’t touch their own hands.

“Deacon Fallon said you handle matters… discreetly.”

“I handle facts,” I said. “Discretion depends on what those facts look like.”

He nodded slowly, like he’d already rehearsed this conversation and was disappointed it didn’t feel any better in the doing.

“My company is being extorted.”

There it was. No warm-up. No circling the drain. A respectable man saying an ugly word in a clean office.

“Tell me how.”

“Donnelly Construction,” he said. “We’ve been in business since my father came back from Europe. We build schools. Parishes. City projects. We do honest work.”

I didn’t interrupt. Men like him needed to lay that down first, like a coat they could wrap themselves in when the cold started biting.

“Six months ago,” he continued, “we were approached by a consulting firm. Midwestern Development Advisory Group. They said they could streamline permit approvals. Smooth union negotiations. Expedite inspections.”

“Expedite,” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“We declined.”

“Of course.”

“Two weeks later, our permit for a school expansion in Bridgeport was delayed for ‘additional environmental review.’ That had never happened before. Then a union grievance was filed over a scaffolding subcontractor we’ve used for fifteen years. Then a city inspection cited us for minor code violations that had passed without issue the month prior.”

I leaned back and let him hear the rain against the window. Some men need silence to speak into.

“And the consulting firm?”

“They called again. Politely. They suggested a monthly retainer would resolve misunderstandings.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand a month.”

In 1956, that wasn’t a nudge. That was a shove. That was a mortgage and a half. That was a new car. That was the difference between a man’s wife sleeping at night and staring at the ceiling wondering if the world was about to fold.

“You pay?”

His eyes dropped to his hands as if he didn’t want to see them attached to him.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Four months.”

“Cash?”

“Certified check.”

“Payable to?”

“Midwestern Development Advisory Group.”

I stood, crossed to the file cabinet, and pulled out a legal pad. Sat again. The chair creaked once, then quieted like it had learned manners.

“I want everything,” I said. “Invoices. Correspondence. Canceled checks. Building permits. Union notices. City inspection citations. Any phone logs. Any letters. If it has ink on it and touches this problem, I want to see it.”

He reached into his leather briefcase and produced a thick envelope tied with string. He set it on the desk like it weighed more than paper.

“I brought copies.”

That told me he’d been thinking ahead. Or scared enough to prepare. Sometimes it’s the same thing.

I untied the string and spread the documents across the blotter. The letterhead caught my eye first.

MIDWESTERN DEVELOPMENT ADVISORY GROUP

Suite 804

South Wacker Drive

Chicago, Illinois

The paper was heavy stock. The typeface crisp. No smudges. No uneven spacing. Whoever printed this had money and knew presentation. I ran my thumb along the edge—clean cut, no ragged tear, no cheap shop work.

Street outfits didn’t bother with embossed lettering.

“How did they first contact you?” I asked.

“Telephone. A man named Walter Briggs.”

“Accent?”

“Local. Educated.”

“Threatening?”

“No. That’s the thing.” He leaned forward slightly. “He never threatened me. He implied… inefficiencies. Suggested cooperation.”

“And when you paid?”

“The inspections eased. The grievances disappeared. Permits moved.”

A machine, I thought. Not a thug. A machine.

“Why come to me now?” I asked.

His jaw tightened, and for a second I saw the man underneath the suit—the one who grew up learning where the knives were.

“Because yesterday, my son found something in his car.”

That landed differently. The city can squeeze a man’s business and he’ll pretend it’s politics. Put fear in his family and the pretending stops.

“How old is your son?”

“Twenty-one.”

“College?”

“Loyola.”

“What did he find?”

He hesitated. For the first time, his composure cracked—not much, just enough to show the strain.

“A photograph,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Of himself.”

Rain tapped hard against the window. Bells had stopped. The streetcar clanged again, farther away now, like it didn’t want to be involved.

“Doing what?” I asked.

“Entering St. Brigid’s school.”

I didn’t speak.

“It was taken years ago,” he continued. “He was a student there. Perhaps ten years old. The photograph is dated on the back. In pencil.”

“Dated when?”

“1936.”

The year hung in the air like smoke.

“And what was written?”

He swallowed. His throat moved like he was trying to push something down that didn’t want to go.

“‘We remember everything.’”

Not a demand. Not a number. Not instructions.

A reminder.

“You still paying the retainer?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And this arrived anyway.”

“Yes.”

I gathered the consulting firm letters and held them up against the light. Perfect alignment. Professional spacing. No typist’s slip. The ink was uniform. Corporate.

“Briggs ever meet you in person?”

“Twice.”

“Describe him.”

“Mid-thirties. Clean-cut. Dark suit. No visible muscle. No jewelry. Polite.”

“Where’d you meet?”

“Hotel lounges. Public places.”

“No threats?”

“None.”

“Any mention of St. Brigid’s?”

“Never.”

I watched his hands. The cufflinks again. His fingers drifted toward the inside pocket of his coat and stopped, like they’d been trained to behave in public.

“You brought it with you,” I said.

His eyes lifted. “What?”

“The photograph. You’ve been guarding that pocket since you walked in.”

For a beat he didn’t move. Then he exhaled—slow, defeated—and reached into his coat. He drew out the photograph as if it might cut him. He set it on the desk between us, face down, like he didn’t want even the paper to look at him.

I didn’t touch it immediately. I let it sit there and let the weight of it do its work.

“What else came with it?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing doesn’t leave a man pale.”

He stared at the photo, then at me. “I don’t know what they want.”

“That’s usually the point.”

He slid it across to me then—his hand flat, like he was pushing a poker chip into a pot he couldn’t afford.

I flipped it.

Black and white. Grainy. A boy stepping through the stone archway of St. Brigid’s. Satchel over shoulder. Head down. Innocent. Unaware. The kind of picture families keep in drawers and forget about until someone dies.

On the back, in pencil: 1936. We remember everything.

The handwriting was deliberate. Block letters. No flourish. No emotion. Just certainty.

“This consulting firm,” I said slowly, “it’s not street-level extortion. It’s leverage. The money’s just a hook.”

He nodded once, stiff. “So what do they want?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” I tapped the letterhead with one finger. “But I’m telling you now—this isn’t about permits.”

He looked at me like I’d just spoken a blasphemy.

“Your father still alive?” I asked.

“No. Passed in ’48.”

“Your father involved in parish affairs?”

His face tightened again. “He funded half the renovation in ’35.”

There it was. The year before the date on the photograph, like a shadow attached to it.

“And your son attending St. Brigid’s was… tradition?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone from that time still around? Priests? Teachers? Men who sat on committees and counted parish money?”

“Father Kelleher was transferred in ’37.”

“Transferred where?”

“I don’t know.”

I let the silence breathe.

“Mr. Donnelly,” I said, “someone waited a long time to say they remember. That kind of patience usually comes from pain.”

He stood abruptly, then caught himself, as if manners were a lifeline.

“I have done nothing wrong,” he said.

“Maybe not,” I answered. “But someone thinks your family did.”

He stared at me like he wanted absolution. I don’t run that kind of office. I find facts. Absolution belongs to God and the men who pretend they speak for Him.

“What do you need from me?” he asked.

“Authority to dig. Full access to your records. And you don’t lie to me. Not once. If I find out you held something back, I walk.”

He hesitated. Then his shoulders dropped a fraction, like he’d been carrying something heavy and finally admitted it was heavy.

“You’ll have full access,” he said.

“Good.”

He moved toward the door, then stopped as if the hallway might be listening.

“If this becomes… public—”

“It will if the wrong people get spooked,” I said. “Right now it’s a shadow game. Let’s keep it that way.”

He left without another word.

The door clicked shut.

I sat alone with the rain.

For a moment the office felt smaller, like it didn’t want to hold what had just walked in. I listened to the city: water in the gutters, tires on wet pavement, a distant shout that might have been laughter or anger. I looked again at the letterhead—too clean, too practiced. Not some corner outfit shaking down contractors for beer money. This had structure. Filing cabinets. People who wore suits to do dirty work and slept fine afterward.

And then there was 1936.

A date wasn’t proof of anything. But it was a door cracked open.

I stacked the papers neatly, because that’s what I do when my mind is busy. Neat stacks make the world feel less slippery.

The phone rang.

I let it ring once before picking up.

“McKenna.”

A younger voice this time. Tighter. Trying hard not to sound tight.

“This is Sean Donnelly.”

“The son.”

“Yes.”

“You found the photograph.”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

A pause, then a breath like he was deciding whether to tell me the truth.

“There was something else.”

“What?”

“On the seat beside it. A church bulletin. St. Brigid’s. From 1936.”

My grip tightened on the receiver.

“What was circled?”

“An announcement,” he said. “About a fundraiser. Renovation fund. Donnelly Construction listed as sponsor.”

The rain hit harder, like it approved.

“Anything written on it?”

“No.”

“Keep it,” I said. “Don’t show anyone else. Not your friends. Not the parish. Not even your father.”

“He’s already seen it.”

That was a mistake, but it was too late to undo it.

“Where are you now?” I asked.

“At home.”

“Is the car parked outside?”

“Yes.”

“Then go outside, open the glove box, and make sure nothing else is in there.” I listened to the line. “If you find anything, don’t touch it with your bare hands. Use a handkerchief. Put it in an envelope.”

“You sound like a cop.”

“I’m not,” I said. “But I know how men plant things.”

“Am I in danger?” he asked.

There it was. The real question. Not about permits. Not about money. About whether the city had marked him.

“Not yet,” I said. “But this isn’t about your tuition or your father’s inspections.”

“What is it about?”

I stared at the crucifix over the door and felt the old, familiar pressure behind my eyes—the kind that comes when you know you’re about to step into something that won’t let you leave clean.

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But nobody waits twenty years to argue about money.”

I hung up. The radiator hissed behind me like it had an opinion.

I went back to the desk and turned the consulting firm letterhead under the lamplight. It was too perfect. Too official. Like it belonged to the kind of world that pretends it has rules even while it breaks them.

A machine.And machines don’t run on impulse. They run on design. I pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward me and wrote one line at the top:

1936 — St. Brigid’s — Renovation — Leverage.

The bells began again in the distance, low and deliberate, the sound traveling through wet air and settling in my chest like an old ache.

This wasn’t about money. It was about memory. And someone had just reminded the Donnellys that memory never forgets.