Gold Coast Blues Read online

  Gold Coast Blues is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Marc Krulewitch

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN 9780804177696

  Cover design by Scott Biel and Caroline Teagle

  readalibi.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  By Marc Krulewitch

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Stones crunching and popping off tires registered innocuously in the back of Tanya’s mind as she sat in an armless swayback lounge chair swiping her finger across an iPad. She felt wonderfully cozy with her legs folded tightly underneath herself, wearing jersey knit stretch pants and an oversized sweatshirt. At no time in her young life had she ever imagined seeing a house like the ones on the Home & Design website, never mind relaxing in a modern living room of concrete and glass looking into a leafy paradise. When she heard knocking and doorbell chimes, Tanya felt more annoyed at having to leave her comfy lounge chair than alarmed by the urgency of whoever was visiting.

  She opened the front door to see her friend’s familiar smile. He treated her like gold but his arrival deflated her mood a bit, reminded her that her days of living in a suburban wonderland were coming to a close. Good things lay ahead, she knew, but a bittersweet mixture of hope and anxiety was also never far away.

  “What’s in the suitcase?” Tanya asked, as if she didn’t know.

  “Your train has finally arrived, my love,” her friend said, locking the door then following Tanya back to the living room, pulling a small metallic suitcase on rollers. Tanya returned to the lounge chair. Her friend dragged a chair over from a card table and sat in front of her. They made small talk for several minutes before he smiled broadly, put both hands on the suitcase handle, then struggled to lift it chest high, where he held it a few seconds before dropping it back down.

  “Oh, my god!” Tanya said.

  They both laughed. Tanya told her friend she couldn’t wait to buy more comfy clothes like what she was wearing. Then tires skidded on gravel. Soon after, someone fiddled with the door. Tanya’s friend jumped to his feet, then backed away from the living room entrance, dragging the suitcase with him.

  That’s when the guys with the guns walked in.

  Chapter 1

  TEN DAYS EARLIER

  The first day of spring. Cold, rainy. Ten A.M.

  Coltrane, a giant saxophone-playing rodent wearing a red beret, hung from the ceiling of Mocha Mouse, a kind of coffee shop–deli that had become my hangout. I had just finished reading an article in The Partisan about the most recent collection of rubber stamps given to the new mayor—the one who promised a city free of bookkeeping ploys or sleight-of-hand political maneuvers—when I looked up to see a kid standing in front of the door, shaking the water off his leather jacket and scanning the room. His T-shirt clung to a severely chiseled physique. He was slim, about five-nine, and his shaved head and baby face reminded me of the screaming man in that famous painting. When his gaze reached the far corner of the room, he looked at me squint-eyed for several seconds, then advanced. His swagger meant business. As he approached, I recalled eyeing my holstered gun as I left my apartment. Alas, I’d left it behind.

  “Are you Mr. Landau?” he said in blue-collar New Jersey.

  “I might be,” I said, unable to keep a straight face. My humor escaped him.

  “Oh. I thought maybe—”

  “Sorry. I’m Landau. What can I do for you?”

  The kid took a seat and folded the jacket on his lap. “Mr. Kalijero told me to see you.”

  “First, tell me who you are.”

  “Uh, I’m Eddie Byrne.” Eddie offered his hand. I took it. A spiderweb tattoo stretched between thumb and forefinger.

  “How do you know Detective Kalijero?”

  “I don’t know Detective Kalijero. But he’s friends with a cop I know back East. Kalijero said you’re good at findin’ people.”

  “Tell me what Kalijero looks like.”

  “I just talked to him on the phone.”

  I folded the newspaper shut and pushed it aside. “Are you searching for birth parents?”

  The kid screwed up his face. “No, no. My girlfriend, Tanya Maggio.”

  He handed me a photo taken in a booth where you sat on a stool while the camera flashed rapid-fire then spit out a strip of pictures. She bordered between cute and pretty, with straight dark hair and a perky nose.

  “How old is this picture?”

  “It was a while ago,” he said. “But that’s what she looks like.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Over a year ago.” He started scratching the back of his neck. A bear claw of black ink graced his left forearm.

  “Okay, if you want me to help you, then you need to tell me a story about Eddie and the gal he hasn’t seen in a year. Let’s start with where you’ve been the last year.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I ain’t never talked with a guy like you before. I’ve been away. So me and Tanya haven’t been seein’ each other so much but now I’m back and I heard she came to Chicago.”

  He was starting to annoy me. “You were away, like away in the Peace Corps?” I was pretty sure that wasn’t it.

  Eddie looked confused. “No, no. I don’t know no Peace Corps. I just had some business out of town for a while.”

  I stared at him then took a calculated risk. “Just say it. I was in prison the last year.”

  Eddie scratched his neck again then looked at me with a sheepish, mea culpa face. “Yeah, okay, I was, but more like three years. She stopped visitin’ me over a year ago. I got my last letter six months ago. And then nothin’. She knew I was gettin’ out. And we was all excited because I was gonna make a new start with her, you know? And then she takes off.”

  “Hang on. She came to Chicago a year ag
o, after her last visit to you in the can? Or six months ago, after her last letter?”

  “I dunno. Her last letter had no return address or nothin’.”

  “You didn’t even get an email?”

  “Ain’t no email in East Jersey State Prison.”

  “What about the postmark on the letter?”

  More confusion. “I don’t remember.”

  “What did the letter say?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Nothin’ special. Nothin’ about leavin’.”

  “What about her friends?”

  “Nobody knows nothin’ except she took off for Chicago. And she was workin’ at some fancy wine bar.”

  “And nobody knows why she left without telling you nothin’?”

  Eddie turned his head away just enough to indicate he was about to lie—then he looked back at me and nodded.

  “Well, I don’t think I’m your guy. But it was nice meeting you.” I picked up The Partisan.

  “What? Why? I got money.” From under the leather jacket he took a folded wad of cash in a rubber band, then reached across the table and dropped it in front of me. General Grant and the troops looked pretty well worn, like they’d just retreated from Cold Harbor. I looked around the room. “That’s five large,” Eddie said quietly.

  “You got balls, Eddie. I mean, this isn’t a tough neighborhood, but if you go tossing 5K bankrolls around, it’s only a matter of time.”

  Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, turning the nice kid into a serial killer. Just as quickly, he softened. “Yeah, well, I guess this is how I know to do business. It’s just a down payment to show you I ain’t full a shit. And I got plenty more. I really gotta find Tanya. She’s been at my side my whole crappy life. She’s never let me down. I don’t care what it costs, Mr. Landau. I’ll pay it.”

  He slouched in his chair, staring at the table. His lower lip quivered a few times. I picked up the cash and fingered the beat-up bills. Then I took two cards out of my jacket pocket and tossed them to Eddie. “Write your number on one of them. And tell me about this wine bar.”

  Eddie wrote down a number. “I don’t got the name of the bar, except it’s on the North Side and they serve the fancy stuff to yuppies.”

  “Maybe they don’t drink wine in Jersey, but the North Side’s a big neighborhood with a lot of fancy wine bars.”

  Eddie rubbed his temples. “It’s near the river.”

  Actually, that narrowed my search significantly and I took this as a good sign.

  Chapter 2

  The late morning rush at the Kutaisi Georgian Bakery on Devon Avenue was winding down as I parked in front of the place. Six months had passed since the owner had been arrested, along with Chicago’s deputy director of the department of revenue and two Russian gangsters, for their roles in murder, human trafficking, prostitution, and money laundering. The cousin of one of the murder victims now owned and operated the thriving bakery. In the course of my investigation, we had become intimate. Gradually, the bakery wedged us apart. Yesterday, she left a message asking me to stop by.

  Tamar, a petite woman with jet-black hair framing a beautiful, slightly Asiatic face, flitted through the kitchen and prep room, absorbed in her endless duties. I watched from the counter, curious how long it would take for my presence to break the spell. The apron and silly hat did nothing to diminish Tamar’s loveliness. She approached me, obviously distracted, offering nothing in the way of intimate recognition.

  “I should’ve told you to call first,” Tamar said.

  Before I could respond, she grabbed an employee’s arm, spoke in her ear while taking off her apron and hat, then motioned for me to follow her to a table.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t offer you anything,” she said after we sat. She looked about to cry.

  “You look sad.”

  She sort of nodded her head. “I don’t think I have the time or energy right now.”

  “For me.”

  “For us. Until I find people I can trust to help me run this place. It’s not fair to you.”

  It’s not you, it’s me.

  Disheartening scenes should be brief. “Call me when you feel more settled,” I said.

  “Thank you,” Tamar said, then looked over to the kitchen where several employees were peering into the huge brick-domed oven. “I better get back; we’ll talk soon.”

  Halt and catch fire, said the female computer to her boyfriend. We wouldn’t talk soon, but that was beside the point. I watched Tamar put the apron and hat back on, quickly give directions to subordinates, then disappear into the prep room. Just in case my visit hadn’t depressed me enough, I still had one more stop before beginning the fancy wine bar search.

  —

  Men called “associates” took care of Dad. They shopped, cooked, cleaned, and generally made sure Dad’s life was agreeable. These perks were not from regularly paid insurance premiums, but from favors accumulated over decades of loyal service to individuals and organizations operating as a de facto syndicate. Sixteen years spent keeping his mouth shut in a medium security prison was worth a quality long-term disability plan.

  Dad rarely left his apartment in the 3700 block of Pine Grove, which is why I didn’t bother calling. Through the door’s oval glass, Arthur, a big bear of a man with a heart of gold, trudged toward me. By the look on his face, I could tell it had been a rough morning.

  “What happened?” I said when he opened the door, then heard Dad shout, “Goddamn it!”

  The two of us hurried back to his bedroom, where Dad sat in a recliner watching an old Bonanza rerun. “What’s wrong, Bernie?” Arthur said.

  “The goddamn snakes are back! Look at ’em in the corner, slithering all over each other. I told you to get rid of them goddamn snakes!”

  I pulled Arthur out of the room. “When did this start?”

  “About two weeks ago he began seeing snakes. And then there was a hole in the back door, and a guy on the porch, in a black coat and black hat, was dumping the snakes through the hole.”

  “Has he seen a doctor?”

  Arthur nodded as Dad shouted, “What the hell are you two talking about?”

  “It’s a type of dementia,” Arthur said. “Lewy-something.”

  “Can they give him anything for the hallucinations?”

  “They’re trying different drugs but it takes time to work.”

  I returned to Dad’s room and sat on the corner of the bed, next to the recliner. Dad sat slack-jawed, staring at Little Joe on the television. “Hi, Dad. It’s Jules.”

  Dad turned to me. “Hey! Did you see the snakes? A whole pile of ’em.”

  “No, I didn’t see them.”

  Dad eyeballed me. “Goddamn Arthur. Telling me there’re no snakes.”

  “He’s a nice guy and he works hard for you.”

  Dad looked back at the television. “I don’t even know who all those people are. Do you know those people?”

  “What people?”

  “They’re all over the place. I don’t know who the hell they are. Are you hungry?”

  “No—”

  “Arthur!” Dad shouted. “Make Julie a salami sandwich.”

  “No thanks, Arthur. I’m not hungry.”

  Dad eyeballed me again. “What’s the matter with you? Why’re you so down in the dumps?”

  His sudden shift to sanity surprised me. “I’m fine. Just got another case. Missing person.”

  “That’s nice. You need any money?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Dad turned back to Bonanza. I peered out the door. Arthur sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. When I looked back at Dad, his eyes were closed.

  —

  Around West Wacker Drive and Orleans Street, the Chicago River forked north-northwest, roughly parallel to busy Clybourn Avenue, which served as an excellent boundary to neighborhoods I thought might accommodate a nice wine bar. Webster Avenue ran through one of those neighborhoods and when I saw the Auvergnat Vin Bar, I slowed down before parking acro
ss the street, at Pâtisserie Grenouille. A violin-playing frog dressed as a maître d’, and standing on a hunk of Camembert, graced its window.

  A black Porsche SUV with the license plate VINMSTR was parked in front of the Vin Bar. Although a wine tasting wasn’t scheduled until four, the door was unlocked, which I took as an invitation to enter. The venue reeked of country cottage schmaltz. Large paintings of sweeping Rhône sunsets and Loire Valley vineyards covered the walls. Antique wooden cabinets and wine racks hung from exposed brick. A few tiny shelves of distressed wood blended in perfectly despite holding pamphlets advertising something called a “wine equity trust.”

  Behind the bar, a man carefully arranged a row of sidecar cocktail carafes. Near him, a gangly redheaded kid, who looked too young to be legally standing behind a bar, held a small spiral-bound notebook while studying a row of glass stemware, each holding a different shade of red wine. Standing in front of the bar, a man wearing a full-length black apron garnished with a stickpin of gold grapes looked thoughtfully over tables covered with bottles, glasses, and menus. He was tall with thick, black wavy hair, and his nose was slender and shiny. Around his neck hung a small silver saucer attached to a chain. I was practically in his face before he glanced at me and said, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry, I guess you’re not open yet. But your door was unlocked.”

  “Yes, we don’t mind if people curious about wine wander in. Unfortunately, the Provence tasting doesn’t start for another hour.”