Gold Coast Blues (2 page)

—

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 across 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.”

“What’s a wine equity trust?” I said.

Grape Man looked me over. Then he kind of shook his head a few times with a look of utter confusion. “Sorry. Who are you exactly?”

“I’m looking for a girl named Tanya Maggio. I was told she works here.” I showed him my investigator’s license.

“My god, you’re serious.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Grape Man let out a laugh-snort. “I’ve just never met a private eye before. I thought you guys only existed in the movies.”

“Next time, I’ll wear an overcoat and fedora. Do you know Tanya?”

“I’ve never known anyone named Tanya, and she certainly doesn’t work here.”

“What about the other staff members? Maybe they knew her before you arrived?”

Grape Man snorted again. “Ahhhh—no. None of them arrived before me. I hired them all—stole them all, some say. Only people with a proven background and education in serving and tasting wine can work here.”

“Any other fancy wine bars on the North Side, near the river?”

Grape Man’s face lit up. “Any wine north of here along the river is poured from a cardboard box into a plastic cup.” A hearty laugh. I was the perfect straight man. “I put this place out of its misery six months ago.”

“You’re the
new
owner?”

“Six months ago. That’s what I just said.”

I wondered how long this guy would last in Eddie’s world before someone shoved that pin down his throat. “And the poor huddled masses that made up the staff of the previous miserable establishment? All fled from the black-caped wine taster with the silver spoon around his neck?”

Grape Man gave me a savage look. “I hold diplomas from the Court of Master Sommeliers, the Wine and Spirit Education Trust, and the Institute of Masters of Wine. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you walk into my wine bar and insult me.” As he continued describing my disrespectful behavior, I put a card on the bar, then bowed deeply as I backed away.

Chapter 3

She worked at a fancy wine bar,
I thought while driving. Maybe in Eddie’s Jersey neighborhood wine equaled fancy. After turning back onto Clybourn, I pulled over to answer my cellphone.

“You’re the guy who was just in the wine bar?” a male voice said.

“Yeah. Who is this?”

“I heard you talking about Tanya and I saw your card sitting on the bar. What’s up with her? She in trouble or something?”

“Were you the redheaded kid studying the wine?”

“Yeah. I’m Ted Goldberg. I’m training.”

“How do you know Tanya?”

Ted paused. “Uh, how do
you
know her?”

“Uh, did you
read
my card? Under my name it says
private investigator
.”

“Wow. So she’s in trouble, huh?”

Here again, another kid getting on my nerves. “I didn’t say that, Ted. Some folks are worried. I’ve been hired to find her. Now, be a good lad and tell me everything you know about Tanya.”

“We all worked for the previous owner when it was the Webster Avenue Saloon. I was in the kitchen but I hung out with the waitstaff a lot. Tanya and I were sort of friends but this other guy, James, probably knew her best out of everyone who worked there. Although Spike knew her pretty well too.”

“Spike? The guy’s
name
is Spike?”

“Tanya told me his real name. Landon ‘Spike’ McFadden. He tells everyone to just call him Spike.”

“Where can I find James and Spike?”

“James works at Arbitrage on Armitage. Spike, uh, I’m not sure.”

“Were James and Tanya dating?”

“Well, I guess they were dating—maybe. She was real pretty and we kidded him that she was out of his league.”

“What would James say about her?”

“He didn’t talk about Tanya much. Although he did tell me once, she never talked about herself. Everyone knew they came from different worlds, you know? She was kind of rough around the edges. Not stupid, just not educated. I think James liked that. He got kind of whipped on her, actually. None of the girls liked Tanya, that was obvious.”

“And what happened between James and Tanya?”

“She kind of blew him off. And then she just disappeared not long before the place shut down.”

I made Ted promise to leave my business card on the bar, but save my phone number in his contact list. Then I promised to do the same.

—

Arbitrage on Armitage, a coffee shop or an exhibit of oxford-cloth performance art. Both depictions worked. I did not approve, however, of the incongruous décor. Antique financial charts should not hang from walls painted earthy tans and warm grays. The choice of chrome, granite, and stainless steel made the place as cozy as an operating room. Rising steam from a coffee-cup silhouette on the staffs’ aprons formed a mallet-wielding polo horseman. This long-established symbol of class privilege contrasted sharply with the uneven angular black hair of the kid behind the counter. He looked like the anti-barista.

“Can I help you?” he said, doing his best to smile.

“Are you James, the guy who dated Tanya?”

His smile disappeared. “Why? Who are you?”

“I’m a private investigator. Ted Goldberg told me you worked here.” I handed him a card. He held it like he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t bite him.

“Is she okay?” James asked with a dramatic hair flip.

“I’m trying to find out. A guy at that new wine bar referred me to you. He said you all worked together.”

He nodded while examining my card. “Yeah, a while ago.”

A couple of V-neck wool cardigans with suede elbow patches walked in, took their place behind me, and stared at the menu on the wall. “You got a break coming?”

“What do you want? I haven’t seen her since that place shut down.”

I took out my wallet and dropped one of Eddie’s fifties on the counter. “That’s for nothing. I’ll be over there. If you can get away and sit with me for a few minutes, you get another.”

James looked over his shoulder, grabbed the fifty, then greeted the next in line.

—

My only choice was to sit practically elbow to elbow in the row of two-tops along the wall. I must have looked odd without a laptop or coffee, just
The Partisan
and a laminated card of barista terminology to keep me company. Arbitrage guaranteed a perfect cup of coffee, regular, skim, or soy, and explained the trials required to become a certified Arbitrage barista. Meanwhile, a row of customers had formed along the counter and looped back around the pole of the rope line. A man closer to my age joined James to help with the rush. The speed and dexterity the two displayed mesmerized me. I watched them
dose, tamp, pull,
and
steam
as deftly as most of us tie our shoes.

When the crowd thinned out, James said something to the other guy, who then glanced at me, nodded, and patted James’s shoulder before the kid walked over.

“Holy shit, you guys are good,” I said as James took a seat. “How long does it take to learn all that?”

James shrugged. “So what do you want to talk about?”

“Was that your boss? He seems like a nice guy.”

“Yeah, he’s all right. But it could get busy again so—”

“Tanya. You met her working at the bar. What kind of bar was it?”

“Is she okay?”

“Don’t know. She’s missing. I’ve been hired to find her. That’s all I know. Tell me about the bar where you worked together.”

James nodded. He looked worried. “It started out as a place to get local microbrews. I thought we were doing pretty good. We had a lot of regulars. On a Saturday night I could go home with a couple hundred bucks in my pocket.”

“So the clientele were young like you, or more professional types?”

“All kinds. Too pricey for the guys who order Bud on tap. But anyone else could come in and hang out.”

“I heard the place described as a fancy wine bar.”

James chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far. Like I said, we were doing good. I know Tanya was psyched with the kind of money she was making. But then the owner decided to experiment with wines. He thought he could get more of the highbrow crowd. We all thought it was a stupid idea.”

“The cultivated Chicagoan didn’t come forth.”

“What a moron. Doug Daley just started buying cases of wine. Tens of thousands of dollars of inventory that just sat there. It’s like he thought if he just bought the right stuff, the right people would show up. He pushed out half the beer choices to make room for wine.”

“And during this time, you and Tanya were dating?”

James hesitated. “We were seeing each other.”

I waited. “That’s not the same as dating?”

“I
wanted
to be dating. Just us, you know? But she kind of wouldn’t go there.”

A lightbulb lit up. “You were sleeping together, but you weren’t exclusively boyfriend-girlfriend.” James nodded. “Okay, tell me about Tanya.”

“She showed up several months before the wine transition began. At first she didn’t really fit in. But she was trying so hard, it was obvious. She was sweet to everyone. Even though we were all waiters and bartenders, most of us had been to college and were just trying to make some money while figuring out what to do with our lives. Tanya was seriously working class. The other girls used to laugh at her accent. She didn’t understand why it was funny, but it didn’t bother her. Sometimes we couldn’t understand what she said and we’d all laugh.”

“What did you like about her, besides that she was hot?”