Maxwell Street Blues (12 page)

* * *

The debris pile on Maxwell Street looked the same despite Snooky’s body no longer lying on top of it. A fifty-five-gallon metal drum overflowed with rubble, as if someone had the idea of keeping the area tidy and then gave up. In cold weather, the drum
would’ve been ablaze and surrounded by bums keeping warm.

Next to the mess, the Juketown Community Bandstand stood relatively unscathed. Perhaps the spirits of the blues performers who had stood on that stage kept the evil developers away. Down the street, crews worked on constructing a chain-link fence that would gradually encompass the entire block. The arrogance of the signboard’s sleek architectural rendering of the residence hall earmarked for Maxwell and Halsted was not lost on me. I tried and failed to picture my father’s romantic immigrant world that once occupied this corner. Thanks to Granddad’s stories, I saw just a pathetic fish peddler who had tried to challenge Great-Granddad’s authority only to watch the cops toss the poor man’s kippered herring, halibut steaks, and A1 haddock to the “huddled masses” eager to receive this manna, apparently from heaven.

Across the street, a university chancellor was being framed for murdering a man whose body was dumped practically at his office doorstep. The evidence was circumstantial yet compelling—and completely illogical.

“What’s all the noise?” Audrey said when I phoned her.

“I’m on South Halsted. Lots of construction.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I need to talk to you about the case.”

“So talk.”

“In person. When are you done tonight?”

No response. I repeated the question. “After seven,” she said and hung up.

I walked north on Halsted and stopped in front of a man about my age holding a large sign that read, “Extinguished Flame, Campus of Shame.” He handed me a flyer outlining the so-called premeditated process by which the neighborhood was “stolen.”

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“To fight back,” the man said.

I looked at the paper and read of an alleged scheme developed decades earlier and implemented gradually. First there was the piecemeal purchase of land followed by buildings demolished or mysteriously burned. Then the phony rumors of the city’s plan to impose eminent domain on property owners who refused to sell. Bit by bit, a struggling neighborhood capitulated. Those who had defiantly remained moved out and took with them any hope of new investment reinvigorating a once-thriving marketplace for the poor.

“It’s an old story,” I said. “Nothing changes, nobody cares.”

“I care,” the man said and then politely told me to fuck off.

I deserved that, I supposed, and continued walking. At Roosevelt Road, I turned east a few blocks and then back north on Desplaines Street, in search of the new Maxwell Street Market. But instead of a neighborhood block party atmosphere, I saw throngs of people milling about a concrete expanse bordered by the expressway on one side and anonymous warehouses on the other. Tables and booths selling everything from tacos to ceramic statues of the Virgin Mary lined the margins, while the blues and jazz performers who would have been scattered throughout the old market were now exiled to a designated area. Sequestered from the privilege of intramural university ball fields and stylish condos, the Maxwell Street Market was now a flavorless bone thrown to the poor.

As I headed back to campus, I thought of Tate’s comment about having access to the trustees. Typically, trustees were prominent members from the business, legal, and financial communities mixed with a smattering of career educators and a few students. In Illinois, trustees had the final decision regarding the university’s use of funds appropriated by the state’s general assembly. Historically, political corruption and cronyism had cracked this ivory tower—despite its ostensibly honorable façade—early and often.

I stopped at a cybercafé, bought thirty minutes of Internet time, and downloaded the trustees’ website. Twelve photographs appeared in four rows of three. Under each picture was a hyperlinked name caption. I scanned the photos, unsure what I was looking for but curious about those people known by the term “trustee.” It was a cryptic title, under the radar of the general public except when one was caught paying for call girls with the taxpayer’s dime.

Had there been several women trustees instead of only one, my brain might not have registered the familiarity of her face, and I might not have noticed among the staid portraits of corporate manhood the glowing, confident smile of Linda Conway. I clicked on her link and examined her résumé, which boasted titles of “Principal and CEO” and several corporate chairmanships—and then I checked her voting record.

27

Through the opaque glass of her office door, I saw the fuzzy outline of Linda Conway sitting behind her desk holding a phone to her ear. I heard the excited inflection of her muffled words while she offered encouraging advice to a prospective client. When the conversation ended, I tried the doorknob and was surprised it wasn’t locked.

She looked up and said, “You should’ve called first.”

“Your line was busy.” I walked in and closed the door.

Conway’s chair screeched backward. “You’re very unprofessional, Mr. Landau. And I really don’t have time—”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a trustee?”

Conway stared at me. “Why would I? What does that have to do with Snooky?”

I walked to one of the leather chairs in front of her desk and sat. “That depends on what else you might not be telling me.”

“Out of respect for your friendship with Snooky, I’ve been trying really hard to like you. But your cheeky arrogance is making it difficult. And right now I can tell you, sir, that I don’t like you and I want you to leave my office.”

“By the way, I took your advice and checked the bylaws.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The rules that govern faculty members conducting private business from their offices—and then there’s that evangelizing thing.”

“I’ve done nothing illegal!”

“I don’t know. With the language they use, it’s a
really
gray area. Ultimately the ethics committee should decide.”

Conway closed her eyes and sighed through her nose. “What do you want?”

“For five years you were on the record for voting against the redevelopment of Maxwell Street. Then in January, you voted for it. What changed your mind?”

“The buildings were in disrepair. There was no evidence of the cultural continuity that once defined the neighborhood.”

“And you just realized this in January?”

“I hadn’t been paying attention. I’d been relying on my memories as a child and the stories my grandfather told me. Then it was pointed out to me how much things had changed.”

“Perhaps it was Chancellor Tate who pointed out to you how much things had changed?”

Conway stared at her desktop. Then she said, “Several people discussed this with me. Dr. Tate may have been one of them.”

“Did you know Snooky was laundering kickback money from Baron Construction to Tate and Representative Mildish?”

“It was none of my business what Snooky did with his clients’ money.”

“Why are you protecting them?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about a half-billion-dollar construction contract, and I’m talking about murder.”

Linda Conway stood, then walked to the door. “Get out!”

I placed one of my cards on her desk. Before leaving, I promised to call next time.

28

Back home, I put the glass elephant on the windowsill and collapsed on the couch. As my brain waves gradually slowed, I thought of checking the university’s bylaws to see what they actually said, then wondered if a junkie took Snooky’s elephant. And what was Voss’s memory theme about? His tone had a childish “I know something you don’t know” quality. I hated goddamn games.

Two hours later, I awoke to Punim mewing loudly while holding a small plastic fish in her mouth. I put a variety of hearts, livers, and kidneys in her bowl and fixed myself a sandwich of avocados, sprouts, tomatoes, and cucumbers. Then I cracked open a cold diet ginger ale and turned on the Cubs game, where they were about to throw out the first pitch. By the third inning, it was time to head over to Taudrey Tats. When I walked out of my apartment, I couldn’t recall if there had been any scoring or who they were playing.

Audrey sat in the hydraulic chair with her face buried in a fat paperback. Her index finger moved quickly down one side and then the facing side. By the time I had walked to the edge of The Kitschen, she had twice turned over new pages.

I said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“What do you mean?” The book was
Atlas Shrugged
.

“You read
that
fast?”

She gave me a blank look. “I lose myself. It’s like there’s me looking at the words, and then another part of me interpreting. It’s the same for my art. Part of me draws, part of me interprets. When they both agree, then I feel free.”

I took that for a yes, although I had no idea what she was talking about. “Someone called the police from your phone the Monday morning after they found Snooky.”

Audrey blinked a few times. “L.A. made the call.”

It was my turn to give Audrey a blank look, and then I remembered her dark-haired friend visiting from California. “Why did she call?”

“To tell them we knew the deceased.”

“So when I walked in here the next day, you already knew Snooky was dead?”

“Part of me did,” she said, sounding a touch impatient. “But I was denying that part until you walked in and told me he was
murdered
. Then it hit me that Snooky was gone forever and I fell apart. I’m hungry.”

Audrey was hungry. “What did L.A. say about her conversation with the police? I assume they sent someone over.”

“Nobody came over. She said they didn’t seem that interested. Can we go eat somewhere?”

We walked to Broadway and then headed north until we stopped at a Chinese restaurant. On the way Audrey started talking about a potential client who wanted his entire back covered in a mural. “It’s going to tell the story of wolves devouring humans until the humans become endangered and have to be put in protected sanctuaries …” She was still talking when we sat down. “Am I boring you, Jules?”

“Did your dad know your meth-head client Jason?”

“You’re joking.”

“How do you suppose Jason got your dad’s home telephone number and why would he call him?”

“You said he had his business card.”

“The card had only his office number.”

“Then he must’ve copied it from my address book.”

“You have your dad’s address?”

“Of course. I told you I know where he lives.”

She had a good memory. “Why would Jason call your dad?”

“Maybe he was looking for me.”

“He knew where to find you.”

Audrey did her best to look offended. “You think I’m up to no good, Jules?”

“It’s your dad I’m trying to figure out.”

“You get to be friends with repeat customers. I knew Jason was a drug addict, but I treated him with respect. If he was going to kill himself with drugs, there was nothing I could do about it. That’s just his story. And he always paid me in cash. It was just business.”

“You let anyone look in your address book?”

“It sits on the counter. What do I care who looks at it?”

“What could’ve been so important that Jason couldn’t wait until he saw you at the shop?”

“The guy was out of his mind. Maybe he was going to ask me for money again.”

“You gave him money?”

“Once. He paid me back many times with tattoo business.”

“The calls were only ten or fifteen seconds long. Would your dad have told you Jason called?”

“He would’ve left a message on my cell. During the day it would have been Anna, his personal assistant, answering the phone. She’s there every weekday to feed the cats, tidy up, run errands, and leave something in the fridge for dinner. Anna has my cell number, and she would’ve called me if I had a message.”

“Why would anyone call you at your dad’s house?”

“Because the landline I have is just a courtesy phone for customers to make local calls. When my cell rings, I always know it’s going to be a
business
-related call.”

“You’re friends with this personal assistant?”

“Sort of. I feel sorry for her. She seems kind of desperate. I pay her on the side to let me know what’s going on. Dad needed someone to take care of him. I met her first and described what she was getting into. I told her he’s just a big baby with a bad temper. She drew the line at changing his diapers.”

Our food arrived, and while we ate I feigned interest in the wolf mural she was planning for someone’s back and listened as she spoke excitedly of what such a project could mean for her reputation. As her words washed over me, I studied her lovely face and thought how the promise of sex gave women an extraordinary power over men. She spoke with a bubbling, self-absorbed, childlike joy, as if she were the creator of worlds and her client’s back existed solely for a chapter of her story. The wolves would be beautiful yet bloodthirsty; compassionate yet ruthless. And they would feast on entrails ripped from human torsos.

After dinner, we strolled down Broadway. Audrey continued talking about what she could do with the bloody realism of the mural while I enabled her discourse with innocent questions about the world of body art.

She stopped abruptly. “I’m really sorry about the other night,” she said and laughed. “I had too much wine. And I really need to get home.”

“Where is home, anyway?”

“It’s probably better you don’t know.” Audrey gave me a quick hug and walked away.

29

At eight o’clock the next morning, I drove back to the park across from Tate’s house while eating one of Santiago’s burritos. I had hoped the personal assistant would get an early jump on things but had to wait until ten-thirty before a beat-up blue Subaru wagon with Pennsylvania plates stopped in front of his house. A nice-looking woman of above-average height with a lean build and light brown hair stepped out. She wore a sleeveless shirt. Her arm muscles were well-defined, as if she had known a life of heavy lifting. I guessed midforties.