Applaud the Hollow Ghost (11 page)

“The summer's gone, and—”

“Is that you, Mr. Foley?” A man's voice—clear and loud and strong. Heads retracted back into their offices. Doors closed.

“In the flesh,” I said.

Up ahead, where the corridor made a right-angle turn, were two men. The one I didn't recognize had a pinched, mean face and a widow's peak, wore gray pants, a white shirt, and a thin blue tie that hung down and draped over a potbelly the size of a volleyball. The other man was Dan Maguire, looking like he was headed for the plane to his place in Palm Springs, in cordovan loafers, dark blue slacks, and a light blue short-sleeved golf shirt. He was over fifty years old, maybe over sixty, but trim and lean and lightly tanned. Not tall—about five-nine—with curly graying hair that was receding back from his forehead. The closer I got to him, the more he looked like a pleasant, intelligent, self-assured man—a take-charge guy, but someone you could trust.

As far as I knew, he really was everything he looked like. But then, there's a lot I don't know. At any rate, I was determined to dislike and distrust him, no matter how difficult he made it.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Maguire,” I said, sticking my hand out toward the potbellied man.

“Very funny,” the man said. “You know—”

“Relax, Paul,” Maguire said, and then, to me, “I'm Dan Maguire, Mr. Foley. Pleased to meet you. This is Paul Anders.”

“Hold this a second, Paul,” I said, shoving the Coke can at Anders. He actually took it, too, freeing up my right hand. Maguire and I shook hands. Anders just stood there. I didn't know him and I didn't like him, and the look on his face didn't make that hard at all.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Maguire said. “Long-distance call and I couldn't—”

“I'm sorry you did, too.” I took the can back from Anders. “Where shall we talk?”

“I've reserved a conference room,” Maguire said, leading Anders and me around the corner and, just a few steps down the hall, into a room with a long table and ten chairs, all in a dark, polished wood. One wall of the room was a panorama of the city, looking north from downtown through blue-tinted glass.

We settled in, with Maguire seated at the end, naturally, and Anders and I facing each other across the wide table. There was a brief pause, during which nobody offered anybody coffee or wished anybody well.

“I understand,” Maguire finally began, “that you represent Lambert Flem—”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You mean you aren't going to tell me exactly who your buddy Anders here is?”

Anders didn't move, just stared at me. Maguire said, “Why sure, Paul's assisting me in this case, and what we—”

“Oh, well,” I said, “that explains everything. But as I recall, you said something on the phone about a suggestion.”

“Yes,” Maguire said. “You see—”

“Incidentally,” I said, “I don't
represent
Lambert Fleming. I'm doing some work for him, or more accurately, for his lawyer. Anyway, what's the suggestion?”

If Maguire was insulted that I'd interrupted him in three out of his first three sentences since we sat down, he didn't show it. “For now, Mr. Foley, let's call it a request. I'd like you to cease all contact with Dominic Fontana—immediately.”

“Dominic Fontana? The brother-in-law of Steve Connolly? The Dominic who's married to the niece of Gus Apprezziano?
That
Dominic Fontana?”

“Yes.”

“My, my, Counselor. How long you been feeding from that trough?”

Maguire's eyes looked suddenly sad. “Mr. Fontana is a citizen, Mr. Foley. With the same rights you and I enjoy.”

“Right,” I said. “The inalienable ones.”

“Including the right to enjoy his home in peace.”

“Uh-huh. That's the request? Stay away from Dominic?”

“That's it.”

“Well, sir, suppose, with all due respect and as a matter of principle, I deny your request. Then what?”

“Then, regrettably, the request would become a demand. Dominic has directed me to file an emergency action against you seeking a protective order, a permanent injunction, and monetary damages.”

“That's hard to believe,” I said, happy that no one was talking about breaking fingers or crushing kneecaps, not yet. “I mean, did Dominic use all those big words?”

“The suit is being drafted as we speak. As a courtesy, I'll give you a copy of our proposed complaint against you as soon as it's completed. You have already caused bodily injury to Dominic.” He paused and took a deep breath.

But it was Anders who spoke next. “Think over your position quite seriously, friend. Because if we sue you, we'll take everything you own, and everything you ever will own for the rest of your life.”

Ah, one of those times that the struggle for total liquidity is so rewarding. I placed both hands on the table in front of me, palms down, and stared straight across at Anders.

“Listen up. First, I'm not your friend. Second, you and Danny boy here can file your suit against me and I doubt I'll even file an answer. You could take a fifty million dollar judgment against me by default and it wouldn't bother me one bit.”

“You'll be a ruined man,” Anders said.

“Maguire,” I said, turning to look at him, “do you have any idea what I'm worth?”

“We're working on that, also.”

“I wouldn't spend much time or money on it. I own my clothes. Like these nifty leather boots I'm wearing, these khaki pants, this handsome WFMT Chicago Symphony Orchestra Radiothon sweatshirt, and a closetful of stuff pretty much like them. I rent a furnished apartment, up over a garage. Oh, I do own a piano, which I don't play very well. But then, it's not a very good piano, either.” That last part wasn't exactly true.

“You live well,” Anders said, “without regular employment. That suggests substantial assets.”

I'd maneuvered them into playing my game. “No real estate, no investments, one bank account—and that's owned by a trust, not me, and seldom has much in it. Check it out. Take a look at my tax returns.” Something that passed through Anders' otherwise expressionless eyes suggested they'd already done that. I turned back to Maguire. “If I live well, which is debatable, it's because I spend what little comes in as fast as I can. Like the Buddha once said, ‘If you ain't got much, they can't take much.' Or words to that effect.”

“Mr. Foley,” Maguire said, “I'm afraid you—”

“Something else.” Anders broke in. “If you continue to harass Mr. Fontana, you'll face criminal charges, and lose whatever assets you have or don't have stashed somewhere. Plus, there's your private detective's license. That can be taken away.”

“So what's this? Round two?” I looked back at the man across the table from me. “First, you won't convict me, or even get my license, not on the testimony of a lowlife hood like Dominic Fontana. Second, I've been locked up before, and it didn't change my behavior much. Third, I hope I never have—”

“Mr. Foley,” Maguire was talking again, and getting to his feet. “We've talked long enough, and I believe we've made our position clear. Now what about it? Do you plan to stay away from Dominic Fontana, or not?”

“That was my third point, Danny boy. My only goal is to see that Lambert Fleming doesn't go down for a nasty crime he didn't commit. Period. I'll be ecstatic if I can do that without getting one more whiff of Dominic Fontana. People rut around the pen with a hog, y'know, the stench rubs off on 'em.” I drained the last of my Cherry Coke. “I mean, consider the two of you.”

CHAPTER
14

O
NCE IT DEGENERATED TO
barnyard talk, my meeting with Maguire and Anders went to hell in a hurry, so it wasn't long past noon that I was on Lake Shore Drive, headed north in my latest rental car, a white Dodge Intrepid.

I might hold them off for a while by my claim that I wasn't really interested in Dominic. But if they knew what I knew—or if they had reason to suspect it—they'd have to figure my best option for getting Lammy off the sexual assault hook was to skewer Dominic firmly on it.

It didn't seem likely they'd file a lawsuit against me, though. They'd soon discover it was true that I had little of monetary value to lose. If they brought criminal charges I'd be entitled to a jury, and even with Dan Maguire's help no state's attorney would want to try to make Dominic Fontana look truthful to any group of human beings who managed to stay awake.

I took the Drive to Hollywood Avenue, then Hollywood to Ridge, and on up into Evanston. I'd already called and asked Barney Green's secretary to check
Sullivan's,
the directory of lawyers. There was no Paul Anders listed at Bauer & Barklind, or anywhere else in the state. On the other hand, he didn't seem much like a mob associate of Dominic, either.

I'd had the clear impression throughout our conversation that Maguire was wishing he were somewhere else, that he was doing a job someone else wanted him to do. And the more I rolled that around in my mind, the more I wondered what the hell was going on.

At Green Bay Road and Central Street I noticed I was hungry and turned east. A few minutes later I parked in the shadow of Northwestern's Ryan Field and walked back to pick up some lunch at Mustard's Last Stand. By the time I left, with a couple of root beers and two jumbo hot dogs to go—no fries today—I was wondering whether I should be mad at Maguire, or feel sorry for him.

Back in the car I continued east, then north. Just past one o'clock, I twisted the old-fashioned bell at the Lady's mansion and she opened the door herself. She already had her coat on.

Walking her to the Intrepid, I asked, “You want to drive?” It wasn't an offer lightly made. The Lady's one of the few people I feel truly comfortable riding with. She handles a car like a good cop on the beat—smooth and steady, eyes everywhere, never missing a thing.

“Not today,” she said. “I'll simply sit and enjoy everything.”

Everything?
That had to include the sky—a dismal, dark blanket that drooped about three stories above ground level—and a temperature that had risen a few degrees above freezing, so that sprays of salty slush thrown up by passing cars merged with the gray mist that already hung in the air and kept everyone's lights on and windshield wipers working hard.

I headed south. The Lady accepted one of the root beers, but left her hot dog for me. The idea was I'd take her to pick up my Cavalier from the body shop. She'd use it the rest of the day to visit her shelters and then leave it in the garage under the coach house for me.

“You always do, don't you,” I said.

“Um … I'm afraid I missed something, Malachy.”

“Enjoy everything, I mean.”

“Oh. Yes, usually. Occasionally I lapse, drift off into old habits.”

“Even you?”

“Even I.” Her British accent and proper grammar were inseparable. “At any rate,” she continued, “how is your ghost?”

“My ghost? You mean Lammy? Well, they beat the … beat him up pretty badly, but he's home now. Casey's staying with him.” I glanced across at her, but she was looking out the window, enjoying the damnable weather. “I … uh … I kinda thought he'd stay out of my dreams now, y'know? But he was back last night, up to his knees in the river again.” I thought for a minute. “Maybe it was all those French fried potatoes I had with the cheeseburgers that brought him back.”

“You said nearly the identical thing once before, Malachy. Only it was
mashed
potatoes that time.” When I looked over and caught her smiling at me, she turned her head as though to look out the rear window. “In fact, it was the potatoes that made me think of—”

“Ah, so
that's
why you sent me that book,” I said. “Scrooge. When Marley's ghost appeared, Scrooge figured his senses were deceiving him, that undigested potatoes were giving him bad dreams and the ghost wasn't real. Right?”

“As I recall, he mentioned a fragment of an
underdone
potato.”

“Right,” I said. “That was it, or a bit of undigested beef. And Marley's ghost was transparent, or hollow, just like—”

“Yes. Anyway, rereading
A Christmas Carol
made me think of you and your ghost.” She paused and leaned forward, apparently trying to look into the outside mirror on her side of the car. “I'm not really surprised, though, that the boy in the river is still making his appearances.”

“I am. I thought once I started helping the
real
Lammy, the one in my dreams would go away. But apparently that'll happen only after I get him out of this mess he's gotten himself into.”

A moment passed and then she said, “That's really quite extraordinary.”

“What?”

“The way you phrased that. From what I've heard, your friend hardly seems to have been personally responsible for his predicament.”

“Well, I just—”

“And you apparently take for granted that you'll succeed in extricating him.”

“That's what—”

“Then there's your belief—or hope, anyway—that the boy reaching out for help will disappear from your dreams.”

“Damn it, Helene.” The traffic signal just ahead turned yellow. I accelerated, then slowed, then accelerated again through the intersection, and just missed being broadsided by a UPS truck. “Sometimes you can be so—”

“Malachy?”

“What now?”

“Didn't you want to turn west there, on Howard Street?”

“Ha! Gotcha! You think because I was mad at you I wasn't paying attention to my driving.” I threw a hard right and hit the accelerator. “That's a very long light there, at Howard. And I may just have gotten rid of that car that's been following us.”