Maxwell Street Blues (6 page)

“A cop just stopped by,” the female voice said, and it took a moment for the dust to settle in my brain before I recognized Audrey’s voice.

“Detective Kalijero. He’s been tracking me.”

“He wanted to know what
we
talked about. He freaked me out.”

“Just tell him what you know. He’s the police.”

“I said we talked about my friendship with Snooky and that I told you someone called Milly was nervous. Then he asked if you had a book of Snooky’s clients, and I said I didn’t know.”

“There is no book.”

“He scared me. He really wanted that book. It almost felt like he was threatening me. Are you sure you don’t have a book? I don’t want him coming back here.”

I reassured Audrey she had nothing to fear or hide and told her to always cooperate with the cops, and then I said, “I’m sorry for all the hassle. Was it possible Snooky knew your father before he was hired as his accountant?”

“No.”

“And you’re absolutely sure about that?”

A pause and then, “Well, Snooky never mentioned knowing my dad. I don’t see why he would. Dad did his own taxes and didn’t run a business on the side.”

“But you said something about real estate.”

“Sure, but I don’t think it’s anything too complicated. Collecting rent on a couple of condos or something.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Someone just walked in.” She hung up.

10

The unmistakable smell of fried lunch meat. “You want some?” Frownie said.

I declined and watched a man in his eighties place strips of American cheese on bologna slices, spread mayo over white toast, and then slap together dinner. I bet his LDL cholesterol was less than one hundred. We sat down at the fancy dining room table in his high-rise apartment.

“So whaddya got?” Frownie said and took a bite of his sandwich.

“I’ve got a man lying to his daughter about knowing Snooky. I got a police detective who’s got a hard-on for me.”

Without looking up from his plate Frownie said, “The liar—what does he do?”

“College administrator.”

“Who’s his kid?”

“One of Snooky’s favorite clients.”

“Who’s the cop?”

“Kalijero.”

Frownie stopped chewing and looked at me. “The guy who put your dad away?”

“Yeah. Why’s he so hot for me?”

Frownie started chewing again. “Lots of reasons,” Frownie said. “You think Kalijero hired Snooky for his cleaning service?”

“No idea. Does a lying professor and a horny cop mean they know each other?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. Could be a million reasons why the college man knew Snooky. But Kalijero surprises me. He was clean when I knew him. The daughter—what does she know?”

“Nothing.”

“You gettin’ into her britches?”

“You’re a sick bastard.”

Frownie wiped the grease off his mouth with a cloth napkin and took a deep breath. “From the start I didn’t like it, Julie. Mob scum is bad enough, now maybe a dirty cop?”

I waited a few seconds and said, “You know I’m not dropping it.”

Frownie rubbed his eyes and sighed. “You gonna talk to the kid’s father?”

“That was my plan,” I said.

Frownie gave me his favorite expression,
make sure you give him enough rope to hang himself
, and then said, “If you find out Kalijero is dirty, you go to the Feds.”

We walked to the door. I could tell he was upset. Frownie said, “The best investigators are the ones who don’t get emotional—but I told you that already. They stay detached and let things play out before reachin’ conclusions. They don’t show what they’re thinkin’ or feelin’. Can you do that?”

“It’s in my bloodline,” I said.

“I’ll never forgive myself if I outlive you. Do me a favor and let me die first.”

* * *

That Frownie’s somber words failed to penetrate my consciousness I attributed to the family curse. That is, the genetic code responsible for my family’s propensity toward graft also explained why I drove home thinking only of cold pomegranate juice and Cubs baseball. With luck, Punim would stretch out on my lap and allow me to stroke her belly. My goal for the evening was to think of a way to question Audrey’s father, the college man.

Walking from my car to my apartment, I was feeling good. I caught a glimpse of myself acting in the movie of life as a private eye in a big city investigating a murder. In two days I had found two liars, I thought, and then Frownie’s words hit me hard in the face.

11

“Proud of yourself?” His voice competed with the pulsating pain from my right cheekbone. “What’re you doing in this goddamn business?” was the next sound from my
father’s mouth, and my left eye opened to see his big snoot standing over me.

“What happened?” I said.

“You’re in the emergency room. You got clubbed in the face. Ten stitches and a fractured cheekbone. I found you leaning against the door to your apartment.”

Dad put an ice pack in my hand and moved both to my eye. The cold felt good. “You should’ve told me Kalijero was on your ass. This ain’t worth dying over, you know.”

“How did you know about Kalijero?”

“It’s a coincidence I’m here? He called my parole officer and got my number. I tried calling, but you don’t answer. So I stopped by and there you were.”

“So he’s on my ass. So what?”

“So what? This was a message, Jules. You probably only got hit once. A few more with whatever they used, and you wouldn’t be waking up.”

“I’ll be more careful next time.”

“I’d be responsible for my own son’s death—”

“You’re the second old man today who wants to be responsible for my death! I’ll be responsible for my own death, okay?” A nurse walked over and asked if everything was all right. My head throbbed. Dad looked as if he didn’t recognize me. He sat down in the chair and stared into space.

“Oh, c’mon,” I said. “I would’ve found out about Snooky anyway, and I’d be in the same situation whether you knocked on my door two days ago or not. So what did Kalijero say?”

Dad turned to me. “He thought he could threaten me. He said he could nail you for obstruction, and I would be your accomplice. He’d make sure I spent my last days in prison. You’ve got him shitting his pants.”

“He wants that book I showed you.”

Dad nodded. “Maybe Kalijero got in too deep. Maybe he killed Snooky. Or maybe he just knows who did and why.”

“The book doesn’t mean shit.”

“He doesn’t know that. He’s desperate.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Try not to worry.”

“It’s my fault you got into this. I was a shitty father. It was your mother’s weakness that she accepted me for who I was. I didn’t deserve her. She loved me no matter what.” Dad pushed himself up from the chair. “Your mother got sick just a year after I went away. It’s my fault she died so young.”

“Oh, c’mon, Dad. You can’t blame yourself for that. And Mom just wanted me to
be happy. She wouldn’t have cared what I did for a living.”

“I don’t know. She was first generation, remember. I think she would’ve wanted more for you.”

“Blame Great-Granddad, not yourself.” Dad didn’t respond. “Listen,” I said. “I like my life. I like doing what I’m doing. I don’t mind taking a beating. And if I get killed, that’s the price I’ll pay, but this is exactly the way I want it.” Dad gave me the
all is lost
look. “And you’re not doing me any favors by turning into a guilt-ridden old man. I want your help, but not if you’re going to get all sentimental and repentant.” He departed with a faint smile, failing to hide his resignation.

12

I awoke the next morning with my right eye engulfed in hideous shades of purple, yellow, and green. In the middle of it all were ten dissolvable stitches under a bandage. It hurt to blink. A horrified middle-aged woman at the health- and beauty-aids store applied beige foundation to my face as I stood in the aisle. She offered to pay for the bottle. Then I drove to the university’s administration building, a massive concrete monolith serving as the symbolic tombstone for the dying neighborhood surrounding it. I pulled in behind a row of illegally parked pickup trucks and asked a nearby construction worker holding a “Slow” sign if anyone paid attention to parking ordinances during construction hours. He pointed out that the trucks all had special construction permits. I took out twenty dollars and asked if he could secure a permit for my Honda. The man took the money and assured me I had no worries.

The lobby was cold enough to hang meat. I stared at the directory for several moments but could not find a Professor Moreau. My first murder case required my first cell phone call.

Audrey picked up on the third ring. She sounded stressed.

“Look for Dr. Tate,” she said.

“Your father is
President
Tate?”

“No. My father is
Chancellor
Tate.”

How logical that every previous instant of my life had occurred so I would hear Audrey’s words in that moment. It almost seemed unfair that it could have been this easy, as if I should have worked harder before having “Chance” from Snooky’s notebook fall into my lap. Would Milly, Devil, and Butch be as accommodating?

* * *

Chancellor Tate’s photo hung prominently in the lobby. He was handsome in the silver-haired corporate style, a chiseled-featured CEO who still had a thirty-four-inch waist and probably modeled for
GQ
in his spare time. Alongside the chancellor hung photos of the president, provost, and regents. Their somber expressions reflected disapproval of the mobs crisscrossing the marble floor in their torn jeans and facial piercings.

I just wanted a few minutes with Tate, just enough time to put his brain in overdrive. I took the elevator to the tenth floor and asked to see the chancellor. His secretary looked about fifty and wore a white sweater with a large red and blue
GO Flames!
button pinned below the shoulder. She looked like a retired cheerleader. She asked if I was a graduate student, and when I said no, she said I would have to make an appointment.

“What time does he eat lunch?”

“Sir, you will have to make an appointment. Next Monday would be the earliest opening.”

I wrote “Snooky” on one of my business cards and asked if she would hand it to him. She said she would put it in his in-box. I asked if I could just quickly hand it to him and leave. She said I’d have to make an appointment.

The door behind her was closed, which didn’t necessarily mean Tate was in, but I thought,
What the hell
, and bypassed Ms. Flame to crash the party. Stretched out on a leather couch, the silver-haired chancellor napped with an ice pack across his forehead.

“Jerry, he just barged in—”

Tate swung his legs off the couch and sat up. His eyes moved back and forth between Ms. Flame and me like a Betty Boop wall clock.

“Is something wrong?” Tate said.

“He just barged in, Jerry—”

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I’m a private investigator looking into an important matter.” I handed him my card.

Tate squinted at the card. Ms. Flame grabbed reading glasses off his desk and handed them to him. “I said he had to make an appointment—”

Tate waved her off. “That’s fine, Barb.” Barb gave boss-man a helpless look before walking out.

Tate picked up the ice pack from the floor and put it in a small fridge against the wall. Then he sat behind his desk and stared at the card a few more seconds. “You’re not
the police?” He stared at my eye.

“I fell off my skateboard. No, I’m not the police.”

“Someone is paying you to be here?”

I wondered if all chancellors were this sharp. “Tell me what you know about Charles Snook.”

Tate looked around. “I believe he did some work for an associate of mine—and of course I heard about his tragic death. How did you get my name?”

“The usual record checks.”

“Records? I had no business with this man. I never even met him.”

The power was intoxicating. “Ah, you know, these bean-counter guys write everything down. Maybe that associate you mentioned gave him your name as a potential client. You’re one of a long list of names I have to track down. It’s all really routine, boring work.”

“I wish I had something for you, but like I said, I never met the man.”

“What about your associate? Did he ever talk to you about him?”

“No,
she
didn’t—or maybe she mentioned his unusual name, which is why I remember it. And then the paper running the story and finding his body just a block from here.”

“Maybe I could talk to this associate?”

“Perhaps. Uh, Linda something. She was in the assembly with me. We were acquaintances, really …”

“No problem,” I said. “If you think of her name, give me a call.” I could feel Tate’s relief. Even the lights brightened. I thanked the chancellor for his time and made a move toward the door and stopped. “You know anything about real estate?” I said. “I was thinking about investment property—no pensions in my business.”

“Well, I have a mortgage,” he said and laughed. “Honestly, Mr. Landau, my experience is higher education. The university offers adult education courses on real estate.”

I thanked him again, and as I walked out, I also thanked Ms. Flame for her time.

13

At the lobby’s Starbucks, I grabbed a
Tribune
and ordered a tall iced mocha. The girl behind the counter kept staring at my eye. “Covering a nasty bruise,” I said. “You should
see what the other guy looks like.” She smiled quickly and looked away.

Iced coffee in hand, I stepped into the midday heat and was sweating by the time I had crossed the street to my car. The construction worker hadn’t moved. I waved, and he saluted. Capitalist pig. My gut told me that about now Tate’s mind was racing, and the worst-case scenarios were winning the day. Tate knew a dead man had been funneling him laundered money. Tate lied about knowing this dead man. He would need a shoulder to cry on.

I was either lucky or good because less than an hour later the chancellor walked out of the building. I turned the key and my Civic jumped right in as expected. I loved my little machine. Despite the domination of fuel injection, a clean carburetor and unsullied oil still gave you a devoted friend. I turned on my hazards and pretended to peer for an address as I followed Tate for two blocks, pissing off anyone behind me. When he walked into the office of a garage, I drove around the block and saw the garage’s exit located on a less busy one-way street, which made it easier for me to pull over and wait with the newspaper partially obscuring my face. Moments later Tate emerged driving a Cadillac de Ville convertible, license plate LJI1158. I repeated, “Leslie-Jane-Irving 1158,” until the plate was in the vault.