Blood Shot (23 page)

“Why don’t you tell me what he said, and then I can evaluate whether he needs to talk to you himself or whether I can handle the matter.”

I smiled. “Either you are totally in Mr. Humboldt’s confidence, in which case you know what he said, or you’re not—in which case he would much prefer that you not find it out.”

The remote eyes grew colder. “You can safely assume that I’m in Mr. Humboldt’s confidence—I’m his executive assistant.”

I yawned and got up to study a print on the wall across from the sofa. It was a Nast cartoon of the Oil Trust, and as nearly as my inexpert eye could tell, it seemed to be an original.

“If you aren’t willing to talk to me, you’re going to have to leave,” Redwick said sharply.

I didn’t turn around. “Why don’t you just check with the big guy—let him know I’m here and getting restless.”

“He knows you’re here and he asked me to meet with you.”

“How hard it is when strong-willed people disagree so vehemently,” I said mournfully, and left the room.

I walked fast, trying each of the doors I came to, surprising a succession of hardworking assistants. The door on the end opened to the great man’s cove. A secretary, presumably Ms. Hollingsworth, looked up in surprise at my entrance. Before she could utter a protest, I’d gone into the inner chamber. Redwick was on my heels, grabbing at my arms.

Behind the mahogany door, in the midst of a collection of antique office furnishings, sat Gustav Humboldt, a document unopened on his knees. He looked beyond me to his executive assistant.

“Redwick. I thought I made it clear this woman was not to disturb me. Have you come to think that my decisions no longer carry authority?”

With a considerable diminution in his cool poise, Redwick tried explaining what had happened.

“He really did do his best,” I chimed in helpfully. “But I knew that deep down you would be sorry forever if you didn’t talk to me. You see, I just came from the Ironworkers Savings and Loan, so I know you’re the person who pressured Caroline Djiak into firing me. And then there’s the matter of the life and health insurance that Art Jurshak’s been handling for you. Not my idea of a proper fiduciary, a man who pals around with guys like Steve Dresberg, and the state insurance commissioner would probably agree with me.”

I was on thin ice there, since I wasn’t sure what the report meant. Obviously it had rung a thousand bells with Nancy, but I could only guess at why. I danced my way through possibilities, throwing in references to Joey Pankowski and Steve Ferraro, but Humboldt refused to rise to the bait. He strode to his desk and picked up the phone.

“Why did you lie to me about that lawsuit?” I continued conversationally when he had hung up. “I know a big ego is a sine qua non for success on the scale you’ve achieved, but you must really be myopic if you thought I’d take your unsupported word on that suit. Too many things had been happening in South Chicago for me not to be suspicious of a high-powered CEO who—”

I was interrupted by some new arrivals—three security guards. I couldn’t help being flattered that Humboldt thought it would take so many men to get me out of his building—one of that size and apparent conditioning would have done the trick given the shape I was in. I didn’t feel up to a bravado display so I went along without a fuss.

As they ushered me from the room—with more force than was really necessary—I called over my shoulder, “You gotta get better help, Gustav. The guys who dumped me in Dead Stick Pond are in custody and it’s only a matter of time before they cop a plea by telling the police who hired them.”

He didn’t answer me. As Redwick shut the door behind us, though, I heard Humboldt say, “Someone has got to shut that meddlesome bitch up for me.”

Alas, this seemed to put paid to the idea of my ever drinking his remarkable brandy again.

35

Changing Words at Buckingham Fountain

It was a little after eleven when the great apes finished escorting me from the zoo, time for me to check in with young Art. I was within walking distance of my office, but I wanted to get clean away from the Humboldt Building. I paid my eight dollars for the privilege of parking next to it for an hour and moved the car to the underground garage.

I’d forgotten Mr. Contreras’s forcible entry to my office Friday night. He’d done a thorough job on the door. First he’d smashed in the glass in the hopes of being able to reach in and turn the lock. When he’d found it was a key-operated dead bolt, he’d methodically broken all the wood around it and pulled it from the frame. I ground my teeth at the sight, but didn’t see any point in mentioning it when I called the old man. It would be easier to arrange for someone else to repair it than to go through his long string of remorse—and far easier to get outside help than to go through the agony of watching Mr. Contreras fix it.

Art came uneasily to the phone. He had spoken with his dad, but he wanted me to know that I really owed him. It had been pure hell having to negotiate with Big Art. Oh, yes, he’d gotten the old man to agree to come to the fountain, although he said he couldn’t make it before two-thirty. It had taken a lot of cajoling; his father had pressured him unbelievably to be told where he was staying. If I had any idea how hard it was to stand up to Big Art, I might treat him with a little more respect.

“And can’t you think of someplace better for me than here? This old man can’t leave me alone. He treats me like I’m some kind of child.”

I replied more soothingly than I felt, “And if you really want to go someplace else, I don’t have any objection. I’ll see if I can arrange something with Murray Ryerson at the Herald-Star when I talk to him this afternoon. Of course he’ll want some kind of story in exchange.”

I hung up on his shrieking that I had to promise not to go to the papers about him, but I did forbear to mention his name to Murray when I called.

“You know, Warshawski, you’re a fucking pain in the ass,” he greeted me. “Don’t you ever check in with your answering service? I left about ten messages for you over the weekend. What did you do to the Chigwell woman? Hypnotize her? She won’t talk to the press—she says you can handle any queries we have about her brother.”

“It’s a course I took by mail,” I said, surprised and pleased. “You send in all these matchbooks and they ship you a set of lessons on how to make yourself invisible, how to enter the thoughts of another person—all that kind of stuff. I just never had a chance to try it before.”

“Right, wise-ass,” he said resignedly. “Are you now prepared to reveal all to the people of Chicago?”

“You told me you didn’t need me—that you were getting all your info direct from the people at Xerxes. I want to talk to you about something much more exciting—my life. Or its possible termination.”

“That’s old news. We already covered it last week. You’ll have to go all the way this time for us to get excited about it.”

“Well, stay tuned—you may get your wish. I’ve got some heavy guys gunning for me.” I watched a handful of pigeons vying for space on the windowsill. Tough dirty urban birds —better decor for my office than original prints by Nast or Daumier.

“Why are you telling me this now?” he demanded suspiciously.

A train rattled by on the Wabash el tracks. The pigeons fluttered momentarily as the vibrations shook the window, then settled back on the sill.

“In case I don’t live through the night I want someone who’ll follow my trail to know where it’s been taking me. I’d like that person to be you, since you’re better able to think ill of the gods than the cops are, but the hitch is, I need to talk to you before one-thirty.”

“What happens at one-thirty?”

“I strap on my six-guns and walk alone down Main Street.”

After some more poking, to see if matters were as urgent as I claimed, Murray agreed to meet me near the newspaper for a sandwich at noon. Before leaving the Pulteney I sorted my mail, tossed everything but a check from one of the clients I’d done a financial search for, then called a friend to replace my office door. He said he’d get to it by Wednesday afternoon.

Since it was close to twelve already, I headed north to the river. The air had thickened to a light drizzle. Despite Lotty’s dire words, my shoulders felt pretty good. Another couple of days—If I stayed a jump ahead of Gustav Humboldt —and I could start running again.

The Herald-Star faces the Sun-Times from the south side of the Chicago River. A lot of that area is getting trendy, with racquet courts and chichi little restaurants springing up, but Carl’s still serves a no-nonsense sandwich to the newspaper people. Its scarred booths and deal tables are packed into a dingy stone building on Wacker where it runs under the main road next to the river.

Murray swept into the tavern a few minutes after me, raindrops making his red hair glint under the dim lights. Lucy Moynihan, Carl’s daughter, who took over the place when he died, likes Murray. She let us jump the crowd to take a booth at the back and stayed for a few minutes to kid with Murray about the money he’d lost to her in last week’s basketball pool.

Over a hamburger I told him much of what I’d been doing the last three weeks. For all his flamboyance and conceit, Murray is an intent listener, absorbing information through every pore. They say you remember only thirty percent of what anyone tells you, but I’ve never had to repeat a story to Murray.

When I’d finished he said, “Okay. You got a mess. You have your old childhood brat wanting you to find who croaked your teammate, an indigestible young Jurshak, and a strangely behaving chemical company. And maybe the Garbage King. You be careful if Steve Dresberg is really involved. That boy plays very much for keeps. I can see him being tied in with Jurshak, but what’s Humboldt got to do with it?”

“I wish I knew. Jurshak handles his insurance, which isn’t a crime as much as a misdemeanor, but I can’t help wondering what Jurshak’s doing for Humboldt in return.” The elusive memory I’d been trying to force since Saturday swam across the surface of my mind again and disappeared.

“What?” Murray demanded suspiciously.

“Nothing. I thought I remembered something but I can’t quite get it. But I wish I knew why Humboldt is lying about Joey Pankowski and Steve Ferraro. It’s got to be something really important because when I went to his office today to ask him about it, I got hefted out by some enormous security apes.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like you buzzing around him,” Murray said maliciously. “There are times when I wish I had security apes to kick you out too.”

I faked a punch at him but he took hold of my hand and held it for a minute. “Give, Warshawski. There’s no story here yet. Just speculations that I can’t put in print. Why are we having lunch together?”

I pulled my hand away. “I’m doing some research. When I have some results I may have a better idea of why Humboldt’s lying, but right now I’m off to meet with Art Jurshak. I’ve got a major club to use on him, so I hope he’ll cough up what he knows. So that’s what I want from you. If I somehow die, talk to Lotty, to Caroline Djiak, and to Jurshak. Those three are the key.”

“How serious are you about being in danger?”

I watched Murray drain his stein and signal for a third. He weighs two-forty, maybe two-fifty—he can absorb it. I stuck with coffee—I wanted my head as clear as possible for Jurshak.

“More than I like. Someone left me for dead five days ago. Two of the same hoods were waiting outside my apartment on Friday. And today Gustav Humboldt sounded strangely like Peter O’Toole trying to get his barons to do in Becket. It’s pretty real.”

Of course Murray wanted to know the club I had on Jurshak, but I was absolutely determined not to let that get public. We fought about it until one-fifteen, when I got up and laid a five on the table and headed out. Murray hollered after me, but I hoped to be on a southbound bus before he could extricate himself and follow.

A 147 bus was just closing its doors as I reached the top of the stairs. The driver, a rare humanitarian, opened them again when he saw me running for the curb. Art had said two-thirty instead of two—I just wanted to make sure he didn’t show up early with some kind of armed escort. I hardly knew young Art and I sure didn’t trust him—he might have lied to me about fooling his father. Or maybe Big Art didn’t trust his kid, either, and discounted the story. Just in case, I wanted to get there ahead of a trap.

I rode down to Jackson and walked the three blocks east to the fountain. In the summer Buckingham Fountain is the showpiece of the lakefront. Then it’s shrouded by trees and crowded with tourists. In the winter, with the foliage dead and the water turned off, it makes a good spot to talk. Few people visit it, and those who do can be seen a good way off.

Today Grant Park was desolate under the dull winter sky. Empty potato-chip bags and whiskey bottles mixed in with the dead leaves provided the only signs of human presence in the area. I retreated to the rose garden on the fountain’s south side and perched on the base of one of the statues at its comers. I stuck the Smith & Wesson in my jacket pocket with my thumb resting on the safety.

A light drizzle kept up intermittently during the afternoon. Despite the relative warmth of the winter air, I was chilled through from sitting still in the damp. I hadn’t worn gloves so that I could handle the gun more readily, but by the time Jurshak showed up my fingers were so numb, I’m not sure I could have fired.

Around a quarter to three a limo stopped on Lake Shore Drive to deposit the alderman and a companion. The limo moved on up the drive to Monroe, where it circled and came to a halt about a quarter mile from the fountain. When I was sure no one was getting out to take a bead, I scrambled down from my perch and made my way back to the park.

Jurshak was looking around, trying to find his son. He paid only passing attention to me until he realized I was planning to talk to him.

“Art won’t be able to make it, Mr. Jurshak—he sent me instead. I’m V. I. Warshawski. I think you’ve heard my name from your wife. Or from Gustav Humboldt.”

Jurshak was wearing a black cashmere coat that buttoned up to his chin. With his face set off by the black collar, I could see an overwhelming resemblance to Caroline—the same high round cheeks, short nose, long upper lip. Even his eyes were the same gentian, a bit faded with age, but that true blue that you rarely see. In fact, he looked more obviously like her than he did young Art.

“What have you done with my son? Where are you holding him?” he demanded in a forceful, husky voice.

I shook my head. “He came to me on Saturday afraid for his life—said you’d told his mother he was as good as dead for letting me get that report you filed for Xerxes with Mariners Rest. He’s someplace safe. I don’t want to talk to you about your son, but your daughter. You may want to ask your friend to step aside while we speak.”

“What are you talking about? Art’s my only child! I demand that you take me to him at once, or I’ll get the police along quicker than you can blink.” His mouth set in the angry stubborn line I’d seen on Caroline’s face a thousand times.

Art had been a power in Chicago since before I’d started college. Even without his clique controlling the City Council, there were plenty of police who owed Jurshak favors and would be happy to run me in if he wanted them to.

“Think back a quarter century,” I said softly, trying not to let anger turn my voice ragged. “Your sister’s daughters. Those luxurious afternoons when your niece danced for you while your brother-in-law was away at work. You can’t have forgotten how important you were in the lives of those two girls.”

His expression, as mobile as Caroline’s, changed from rage to fear. The wind had whipped color into his cheeks, but beneath the red his face looked gray.

“Take a walk, Manny,” he said to the stocky man at his side. “Go wait in the car. I’ll be over in a couple of minutes.”

“If she’s threatening you, Art, I oughta stay.”

Jurshak shook his head. “Just some old family problems. I thought this was going to be business when I asked you and the boys to come along. Go ahead—one of us oughta stay warm.”

The stocky man looked at me narrowly. He apparently decided the bulge in my pocket must be gloves or a notebook and headed back to the limo.

“Okay, Warshawski, what do you want?” Jurshak hissed.

“A whole bunch of answers. In exchange for answers I will not let the fact that you are a child molester with a daughter who is also your great-niece get into the papers.”

“You can’t prove anything.” He sounded mean, but he didn’t try moving away.

“Screw that,” I said impatiently. “Ed and Martha told me the whole story the other night. And your daughter looks so much like you, it’d be an easy make. Murray Ryerson at the Herald-Star would be on it in a minute if I asked him, or Edie Gibson at the Trib.”

I moved to one of the metal benches at the edge of the paving around the fountain. “We’ve got a lot to say. So you might as well make yourself comfortable.”

I saw him looking over at the limo. “Don’t even think it. I’ve got a gun, I know how to use it, and even if your boys finished me off, Murray Ryerson knows I’m meeting with you. Come sit down and get it over with.”

He came over, his head down, his hands jammed into his pockets. “I’m not admitting anything. I think you’re full of hot air, but once the press got their teeth into a story like that, they’d ruin me just with the innuendoes.”

I gave what was meant to be an engaging smile. “All you’d have to do is say I’m blackmailing you. Of course I’d run Caroline’s photo, and they’d interview her mother and all that stuff, but you could give it a shot. Now let’s see—we’ve got so much old family business to talk about, I don’t even know where to begin. With Louisa Djiak’s mortgage, or me in the mud at Dead Stick Pond, or Nancy Cleghorn.”

I spoke musingly, watching him out of the comer of my eye. He seemed a little jumpier at Nancy’s name than Louisa’s.