Windy City Blues Page 5

  In this business, offering promises or guarantees was nothing short of stupid. But men often say stupid things in the company of beautiful women.

  11

  “I took another murder case.”

  Frownie’s smile vanished. He turned away from me and, if possible, appeared older. The guilt hit me hard. Why hadn’t I expected it?

  I stared at the profile of a man old enough to remember his uncle Davey pathologically describing hand-to-hand combat at Belleau Wood, until one day Uncle Davey stuck his army-issued Colt revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger. The bloodshed of Prohibition gangsters, the privation of the Great Depression, the mass slaughter of the Second World War, and every other human tragedy since were deeply embedded into Frownie’s consciousness. Yet here he sat in his last year of life, tears brimming forth as if I was destined to relive all of history.

  Then a surprise.

  “Of course you’re goin’ to tell me,” Frownie said with a laugh. “What—you’re gonna come visit and lie to me?” He laughed again. “But you gotta tell your old man, too. Don’t keep secrets from your father.”

  “I’ll talk to Dad soon,” I said, then told Frownie about Izzy showing up at my office and described his bizarre personality and the cash he carried with him.

  “That’s the gumshoe biz. At any time some nut shows up and gives you a pile of money. But you can’t let the money alone make up your mind. Ya gotta know what you’re gettin’ into. The money’s not always worth it.”

  He was right, although I would have to think about it later to determine what role the money played. I told Frownie the details of the case while he stared straight ahead as if calculating the various components into an equation. As I waited for him to share my enthusiasm, I realized how much his approval still meant to me.

  “Tell me about the stiff,” Frownie finally said.

  “An immigrant from one of the former Soviet republics just wanting a middle-class American life.”

  “I don’t like it. They say them Russian mafia guys are more cold-blooded than anything we had in the old days. And you got this corporate prick with more money than God. That combination scares the hell outta me. And it should scare the hell outta you, too.”

  “Hang on a second, Frownie. I’ll give you the corporate money angle but not the Russian thing. The guy was from Georgia, a separate people and culture with their own tragic history.”

  Frownie continued staring and then perked up. “Ah, what the hell. What do I know anymore? This editor, Palmer, who got the call. You’re sure he’s in your corner? He know what he’s gettin’ into?”

  “So far he’s acting born-again. A true believer. He wants to find a financial angle to the murder. I expect him to stay pretty much in the background.”

  Frownie looked at me. “Why’s he helpin’ you, anyway? What does he give a damn?”

  “I’m not sure. Trying to make amends for something in the past, I think.”

  Frownie clearly did not like the idea of Palmer being involved in the investigation. “Just remember. If he stumbles upon some money angle—those guys are the first to disappear. And I don’t mean they volunteer.”

  —

  It was still pleasant, although the sun had sunk low enough to remind me of the fool’s paradise that autumn induced and how the slightest chill revealed the vulnerability of a cotton T-shirt. I found a parking place three blocks from my apartment. Had a parking deity blotted out the sun and permanently guaranteed for me this space, I would’ve accepted it without complaint, even at ten below at two A.M.

  Before going home, I stopped at Tasty Harmony, a take-out utopia only a few storefronts from my apartment. It was run by some kids I’d met when I stopped at their Fort Collins, Colorado, eatery and begged them to open a restaurant in the 2700 block of North Halsted Street, Chicago. Six months later, I discovered four white kids in dreadlocks and Carhartt overalls hammering, sawing, and measuring away as they transformed a former payday loan outlet into an organic vegetarian oasis. The only other place in the city where I was known as “Jules” was a carniceria where each week I purchased a package of entrails for my feline roommate.

  Halfway up the stairs, I heard the thump of Punim’s paws hitting the floor. As expected, I opened the door to a patrolling puss whipping her tail and meowing demands for the innards of small mammals. Two turkey livers and a chicken heart quickly pacified her lust while I dined on a falafel and hummus sandwich topped with cucumbers, tomatoes, and sprouts, all wrapped in a large collard leaf.

  As I ate and Punim meticulously licked the blood from her fur, thoughts of the previous two days gathered. Most of us knew that urban societies had grown numb to annual body counts in the multiple hundreds. We coped with such tragedy by embracing the cold comfort of the assailant’s motive—that violence targeted a specific life for an identifiable reason, that it wasn’t the random act of a meandering lunatic. In my mind, the blatant disregard of Gelashvili’s murder by the cops and media eliminated a chance-encounter scenario. This case was barefaced and screamed for attention, like how a drug mule’s car driving exactly the speed limit in the right lane shouted, Don’t pay attention to me!

  12

  At five-forty in the morning, a cat’s paw swatted my head. Had I shut the door the night before, the door would be bouncing off the jamb. Had I inserted a shim to keep the door still, continuous scratching and yowling would fill my world. Usually, I fed the creature and returned to bed. But this morning I was wide awake. Gelashvili’s murder had infiltrated the deeper regions of my consciousness where I imagined impulses to the heart resided. Frownie called this a “personalizin’ issue,” and no doubt this personalizin’ had something to do with Gelashvili’s cousin Tamar. Frownie would not have approved.

  I showered, ate, read the paper, got a cup of chai from Tasty Harmony, and arrived in the Budlong Woods neighborhood at nine A.M. I parked on busy Western Avenue around the corner from Gelashvili’s apartment and began walking. Western was a wide four-lane street that could have been in any city in the country. Three-story walk-ups lined some blocks while storefronts and offices with an apartment overhead dominated others. Each corner had a gas station–convenience store combo or fast-food joint. I saw no parking devices of any kind. I walked to a side street that took me to Lincoln Avenue, another major artery that offered a landscape identical to Western with the exception of meter boxes along the sidewalks.

  You always heard about the omnipresence of parking officers, yet there I stood for over an hour before I noticed a thin, gray-haired man in his fifties slowly walking past the line of parked cars, peering through the windshields to locate the meter receipts on the dashboards. His body movements appeared coordinated in a defined order repeated every twenty seconds or so. He’d stop, look around, lift an electronic ticketing device to within inches of his reading glasses, type in a plate number, then complete the routine with a dab to the nose from a handkerchief he kept balled up in his palm.

  I stepped into his path with at least twenty yards between us and waited. When he got close enough for me to read “Jones” on his name plate, he turned on his police radio and performed a microphone check.

  “I mean you no harm, officer,” I said and smiled broadly. “I come in peace.”

  Jones did not share the humor. He took off his glasses and said, “You have a question?” His voice sounded hoarse.

  “I’m investigating the death of Jack Gelashvili. Did you know him?”

  Jones stepped back and blurted some kind of radio code into his mic. Before I had a chance to explain, a police cruiser pulled up. Apparently, I had asked the wrong question. The driver’s side door opened and out stepped an African American officer who did not look amused.

  “What now, Rich?” the officer said.

  “I’m not sure. This guy’s asking about Jack. They found his body about five blocks from here, you know. Kinda weird he should be asking about him.”

  “I’m a private investigator hired to look in
to Jack’s murder.” I took out my identification card and held it up. “I just want to talk for a few minutes.”

  The cop walked over, and I handed him the card. He glanced at it, gave it back, and motioned for me to follow him a few more steps away. “Rich is a little jumpy,” he said quietly. “A little trigger-happy with the radio.” He waved Jones over. “Come and talk to the man, for chrissake.”

  Jones obeyed. “Jules Landau,” I said and extended my hand.

  He looked at me and then at my hand and then back to the cop.

  “Go ahead and shake his hand! What the hell’s gotten into you?” Jones took my hand and I sensed he felt better. “That’s it! Now, just talk to the man and I’ll see you later.” The cop mumbled something into his radio and walked back to his car.

  An occasional tic under his right eye added to Jones’s sickly appearance. “You’ve been at this job a long time?”

  “Twenty-three years,” Jones said, taking a wad of tissue from his pocket and wiping his nose. “Damn allergies. In all that time, I never heard of anything like what happened to Jack. Getting spit on was the worst I’ve had done to me. But nobody ever laid a hand on me or any officer I knew. Weird, though, because when I heard an officer was found dead, I wasn’t surprised.”

  “Once in twenty-three years and you weren’t surprised?”

  “No, not in a big city. Especially lately. Everyone hates us. They look at me, and I can tell they’re thinking of how to kill me. It had to happen eventually.”

  “How well did you know Jack? Did you consider him a friend?”

  Jones wiped his nose again. “Yeah, I guess. We liked Jack but we didn’t really know him. He was a good guy, helped you out—covered shifts, that kind of thing. But he never had drinks after work. He seemed lonely.”

  “But you—personally—were friends? You set him up with Lada, right?”

  Jones looked surprised, but not in a happy way. “What do you know about Lada?”

  I shrugged. “Only that you introduced them and he fell for her. That’s it. Do you remember her last name? Sobor-something?”

  “Soboroff,” Jones said, still looking spooked. “Who do you think did it? Who killed Jack?”

  “Don’t know. What do you think?” Jones got fidgety. He looked around several times then shrugged. “C’mon, officer, what’re you thinking?”

  He stepped a bit closer but looked away as he spoke quietly. “I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, there’s a guy who lives in this neighborhood who’s had a running battle with all of us. But I got no proof, so I don’t know. But he’s like the guy who one day snaps. You know what I mean? And he never learns. No matter how many tickets he gets, he still doesn’t feed the meter. But it was when we started towing him I thought he may have reached the breaking point.”

  I waited for more. “Okay, so what happened? Jack towed the guy?”

  “No, no, no. We don’t tow; that’s another department. But we’re the punching bags. It’s like if the food sucks, it’s the waiter’s fault. But I know this guy, Gordie Bastard, got towed last month for the third time. The story is that he showed up when the car was already hooked. He offered to pay, but the boot guys said it was too late. Bastard begged the driver to drop it, but they just laughed. Watching his car towed away must’ve pushed a crazy button in the guy because he started throwing things, kicking, screaming. He picked up this hunk of loose concrete, slammed it down on the sidewalk, and started screaming how he hated us parking Nazis. When the cops showed up, they put him in cuffs and took him away. But like I said, I ain’t got no proof he killed anyone.”

  “I assume the police questioned this guy?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s something weird. After the guys towed the car, it would reappear parked in the same spot that same day!”

  “Somebody would pay the fines and get the car?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess.”

  “You told this to the cops?”

  “We told everything to those two detectives who came by the department. They got pissed off at anything we said and told us not to spread rumors. They started soap-boxing us about a citizen’s right to privacy, and we could be sued for slander. Ain’t that a twist. Two police snoops lecturing me about a guy’s privacy when they can’t wait to peek through your window or tap your phone or look at your bank records.”

  “The guy that got towed. His last name is really Bastard?”

  “Gordon Baxter. We just call him Gordie Bastard.”

  “He ever act that way with Jack?”

  Jones thought about it. “I don’t know.”

  A kid on a skateboard came rolling down the sidewalk. As he passed, he shouted, “FUCK YOU, METER MAID! GET A REAL JOB!”

  Why the hatred in the kid’s voice shocked me, I didn’t know. Jones appeared unmoved.

  “That behavior surprises you?” he asked. “Welcome to my world. Insults from punks who never had a job are routine. And I’ll tell you what, that kid’s parents are probably just as nasty.”

  I let Jones get back to his world and walked away with a newfound respect for those who spent their days universally despised.

  13

  “Jimmy, where do short-timer cops waiting for full pension eligibility piss away their days?” I listened to the ensuing silence while testing the reclining limits of my executive desk chair, feet on my desk, staring at the cracked paint on my office ceiling.

  “Oh, right, I forgot. I’m supposed to instantly recognize Landau’s voice ’cause we’re such good pals.”

  “You said that last time I called. Christ, Jimmy, after all we’ve been through, can’t you pretend to like me just a little bit? Can’t you pretend to respect me just a tiny bit for not becoming a career criminal despite a genetic predisposition to corruption? Would it kill you to think maybe I’m a good guy?”

  “Daddy spent too much time in the pen, didn’t give you the approval you wanted? So now you want it from me?”

  “Yes, Daddy. Getting in touch with your paternal side might be good for your heart.”

  Kalijero mumbled something in Greek. “What do you hear from Frownie?”

  “You asked me that last time, too. His mind is clear, but his body is on its way out. Where can I find Detectives Abbott and Costello?”

  “What about your old man? Happy his kid investigates murders?”

  “We’ll see when I talk to him next. Now, what about—”

  “Calvo and Baker are both divorced, I think. So try Reilly’s on Milwaukee. That’s where the over-fifty badge bunnies still hope to land a cop husband.”

  “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? Maybe I’ll be able to help you out someday.”

  “You can help me out by leaving me alone.”

  This time, he didn’t hang up on me. I took that as a sign he was only half serious. “Why are you so damn depressed? How about I tell you where I am with the investigation?”

  “Stay in this business long enough and you’ll understand depression. Go ahead, tell me what you’ve got.”

  “I got a lot of weirdness shouting at me to do something…” I gave a chronological report starting with Palmer and ending with a chronic scofflaw named Gordon Baxter. “I thought I’d talk with Calvo and Baker and see if they’ve looked up this Baxter guy.”

  Kalijero laughed. “Don’t expect much from those two. The newspaper editor is a better bet. Either the CEO is the biggest control freak ever to exist or something caused him to impulsively phone this guy. That call is a flashing red neon sign. I suggest you keep your newspaper boy safe.”

  Kalijero’s sudden interest flattered me. Maybe we would be friends one day. “I’ve got to find a link between an immigrant parking officer and the CEO of a media corporation. Agree?”

  Long pause, then, “Yeah, it looks that way. That editor. You expecting him to get involved in your investigation?” Kalijero’s tone had suddenly sharpened.

  “I don’t expect anything. It’s up to him. He’s interested in finding a financial asp
ect.”

  “But he knows it’s about murder because he was told to play it down.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Responsibility, Landau! He’s a civilian. You gotta make sure a civilian knows what he’s getting into! And the fact I have to tell you this really pisses me off!”

  Kalijero’s volatile mood pissed me off. It was my turn to hang up on him.

  14

  Besides the scratchy green shamrock hanging above the door, nothing about Reilly’s reminded me of an Irish pub or anything much removed from a tool and die maker’s basement bar. The metal stools with their torn plastic cushions, the chipped Formica tables, the folding aluminum chairs suggested décor that had not changed since the last of the department stores and small industries shut down decades earlier. The only food offering came from a vending machine holding three bags of corn chips. I wondered how Reilly’s survived among this neighborhood’s art galleries and upscale microbrew pubs serving ten-ounce prime beef burgers.

  Behind the bar, a scrawny elderly man stood watch over five middle-aged women sitting evenly spaced along the bar, each sipping from a martini glass and steadfastly ignoring each other. The bartender reminded me of the guy behind the counter in that famous Hopper painting Nighthawks. I decided his name was “Philly.” A few of the tables had a male occupant bent over a glass mug. The only sign of life came from a table in the far corner where four men of ample girth, each wearing a different colored polyester sport jacket, chuckled and snorted around three pitchers of beer.

  I stepped up to the bar and ordered a bottle of Bud. In one fluid motion Philly reached under the counter, popped off the lid, and slammed down the bottle. “Two bucks,” he said in the unpolished accent one expected from an old guy named Philly.

  Even though I rarely drink alcohol, I sat at the table closest to the four men and sipped from the bottle as if I were just a regular Joe kicking back with a cold one. After struggling a moment with my gag reflex, I caught bits of conversation from the raucous table evoking a reminiscent tone as the men took turns asking “Remember when?” Their overhanging stomachs and patterned sport jackets demonstrated why stereotypes linger through the generations. With references to ’Nam, hippies, and the 1968 Democratic Convention, I safely guessed their age group as late fifties to early sixties.