Maxwell Street Blues (7 page)

I knew the chancellor wasn’t driving to a restaurant since the neighborhood had every type of food within walking distance, and when you’re freaking out, appetite is often the first casualty. He struck me as a snobby North Side type, and I expected him to head back that way, which he did when he turned on Halsted. But then he surprised the hell out of me and turned onto the Eisenhower Expressway. West Side?

Traffic was fairly light, and we were soon outside the city limits. Ten minutes later, he exited onto Ridgeland Avenue, which took us into the suburb of Oak Park. I followed from a safe distance as he led me through a neighborhood of magnificent old mansions on quiet, shady streets lined with enormous trees. He slowed to a stop in front of a white Victorian with a wraparound porch. I parked a block behind him.

Tate held a cell phone to his ear with one hand while gesticulating wildly with the other. From the house, a bearded man in his sixties appeared. He wore a yellow polo shirt with tan slacks. He walked casually, as if it was a routine meeting. As the man reached for the car door, I focused my SLR Ultra Zoom through the windshield and squeezed off a ten-frame burst as he entered the vehicle. Tate put the phone down. If the two were talking, they were doing it while looking straight ahead. The bearded man’s head fell back, as if trying to catch a few Zs. A few minutes later a black Escalade turned onto the street from the opposite direction and parked across from them. A fat, smartly dressed man with a butterball face emerged from the car and walked quickly to the powwow. I
squeezed off another ten frames, including the Escalade’s license plate. As soon as the man climbed into the backseat, Tate started giving him an earful. For fun I triggered ten more frames to see if I could catch a maniacal expression to add to my collection. With luck I would snap a few bubbles of airborne saliva. When the chancellor finished his tirade, the meeting adjourned. I started the Civic and headed back to the expressway with a chancellor, two license plates, an address, and two new faces—all part of some kind of equation. Time to call in a favor.

14

Punim sat on my lap and stared at me. As I dialed the phone, she blinked.

“I love you, too,” I said, and as if on cue, she dug her rear claws into my thigh and leaped off. Our love was complicated.

A female voice answered, “Johnny Bonds.”

“Jules for Johnny,” I said.

On hold for two seconds, then, “Don’t tell me, Jules needs bail?”

My pal Johnny Duggan found me after taking a pile of business cards from a restaurant’s fishbowl, thus depriving someone of a free lunch. A classy guy.

“I need a favor, my friend.”

“Whaddya got?”

Johnny credited me with saving his marriage because I proved his wife was not cheating but
really
meeting her girlfriends at a diner, and that Sean could also be a woman’s name. His wife worked for police communications and ran background checks on the side.

“Two plates and an address.” I gave him the information and then decided Tate deserved more attention. “Just for fun. LJI1158. See if he’s got parking tickets. I need locations, days of the week, times of day.”

“Give Sheila an hour,” Johnny said.

Before hanging up, I gave Johnny my cell phone number. It was time, I thought. After all, guys like Johnny were the true heroes. Without guys like him, guys like me wouldn’t stand a chance. I prepared a sandwich of textured vegetable protein, wheat gluten, lettuce, tomato, red peppers, and Dijon mustard. Punim got a chicken heart and a kidney from an anonymous donor. I ate while relaxing in the recliner and letting the events of the previous days drift around my consciousness.
If they could see me now
.

15

A young woman sat in The Kitschen chair while Audrey worked on her shoulder. Audrey’s black dress stopped at mid-thigh. I wondered how many short black dresses she owned. Lightning Bolt was there again on the waiting bench, this time paging through
Guns & Ammo
. “Getting the owl touched up?” I said.

He turned to me but said nothing. I’d never seen eyes so bloodshot. Then he said, “You takin’ a fuckin’ survey or somethin’?” I didn’t know what shocked me more, his rotting teeth or putrid breath.

“Be nice, Jason,” Audrey said. Jason threw the magazine down and stormed out.

I walked to the edge of the work space. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“He gets jealous when men come in,” Audrey said without looking at me. “He’s a great character.”

“Your character is a meth-head.”

“As long as he’s a
paying
meth-head,” Audrey mumbled. “I think this man has a crush on me,” she said to the girl in the chair.

“I’m not sure I was supposed to hear that,” I said. “I don’t think you’re my type, but how about having dinner with me anyway? Tomorrow night?”

Audrey looked up at me. “Ooh! What happened to your eye?”

“I fell.”

Audrey gave me her
as if
face then said, “It’ll be a late dinner. I’m here until ten.”

“The later the better,” I said. I had no idea what I meant.

“What do you do?” the girl in the chair said. She was short, cute, with long black hair like Audrey’s, and big blue eyes. She wore a denim skirt with a white spaghetti strap T-shirt. Her eyebrows were bright red and stuck out like neon signs. Her voice matched her appearance—that is, small and trusting.

“He’s a private investigator,” Audrey said and introduced her friend, “L.A.”

“What does L.A. stand for?”

“It stands for L.A.,” L.A. said. “You don’t look like a private investigator.”

“And you don’t look old enough to be getting a tattoo. And you should tell your tattoo artist to keep a gun handy with clients like Jason.”

Audrey stood and swiveled L.A.’s chair toward the mirror. “What do you think?”

A black-and-white sea turtle flew through the water. On the side of her neck her hair partially covered another tattoo I couldn’t identify. “It’s perfect,” L.A. said. “I’ll be
the envy of Echo Park.”

“Not very kitschy,” I said.

“L.A.’s not a client; she’s a kindred soul. And she’s old enough to manage her own tattoo shop in Los Angeles.”

L.A. walked to a stand-up mirror and admired her new reptile while Audrey cleaned up. I felt awkward standing there, but she had yet to question my presence. I saw this as a good sign. Then Audrey said, “I thought you weren’t going to bother me anymore, private investigator. I have a business to run, you know.”

“I’ll buy an hour of your time.”

“Sixty bucks an hour. Have a seat.”

I did as told. L.A. kissed Audrey warmly on the cheek then walked out the front door. Audrey pulled up a padded folding chair.

“You two are close.”

“We’re main characters in each other’s stories. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”

“I don’t get it. Do you write these stories down?”

“It’s an oral tradition.”

I stared a moment to make sure she was serious. “Why do you do this?”

She matched my stare with one of her own. “Because we like telling stories.”

It took a few rings before I realized someone was calling my cell phone. “Sheila was all over it,” Johnny Bonds said. “Ready?”

“Hang on,” I said then walked outside Taudrey Tats. “Go ahead.”

Johnny gave me Tate’s address in Evanston. The Escalade belonged to a Jacob Mildish who lived on the South Side, and in that moment I recognized my mistake in assuming the “Milly” from Snooky’s notebook was female. With Chance and Milly now accounted for, only Devil and Butch remained. In the Oak Park Victorian lived Daniel Baron. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“And the LJI1158? Your boy would be the scofflaw king if somebody wasn’t voiding his tickets.”

“Parking tickets are for little people,” I said.

“He likes parking in Lakeview.”

“Wrigleyville? Really?”

“I said
Lakeview
. Only yuppie scum call it Wrigleyville.”

“Fine. Which streets?”

“Racine and Addison area,” Johnny said. “He likes to park in loading zones and handicapped-parking-only spaces. Jeez, what an asshole.”

“Weekdays? Weekends?”

“Mostly weekends. There are a ton of restaurants and bars in that area. They’re probably calling in the complaints. Especially Sundays between eight and ten
P.M.
”

“So he parks after eight, which means he leaves his house no earlier than seven-thirty. Johnny, have I told you I love you?”

“I didn’t hear that. And you don’t remember where you got this info.”

“What info?” I said then hung up.

16

My joy wore off an hour later when I saw Kalijero sitting on the stoop to my building.

“Where’s Rent-a-Goon?”

“I’m alone. What the fuck happened to your eye?”

“I got slugged.”

“With what? A fist wouldn’t do that much damage.”

“Of course you wouldn’t know anything about this.”

Kalijero forced himself to speak calmly. “Okay, now let’s take a fucking time-out. I know you think I’m a scumbag, but you’ve got it wrong. You would know if I cracked you one. We’d be face-to-face. None of that ambush crap. And why would I? I got nothing against you. Yeah, you piss me off, but only because you won’t give me a chance. And if you had put
my
old man in the joint, I’d probably hate you, too …” Kalijero wore front-pleated gray slacks and a black oxford cloth shirt with gray pinstripes. His mahogany shoes had braided detailing and tassels. He was really trying to win my love.

“Did you get all dressed up for me?” I said. Kalijero closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re too easy, Jimmy,” I said. “But I’ll make a deal. You tell me the real reason you’re so interested in this case—and I mean no bullshit—and I’ll give you everything I got.” Well, maybe not
everything
.

Kalijero crossed his arms and looked at me. “Upstairs,” he said, and I considered making a crack about having to kiss me first but held back.

Punim greeted us at the door, hissed at my guest, then darted away. Kalijero sat in the recliner and looked around. His struggle not to make a smart-ass comment was obvious. He declined my offer of carrot juice.

“All right, then, Jimmy, spill it,” I said.

Kalijero hesitated and then said, “I was running a little business on the side. All cash. Snooky was helping me hide the money.”

I nodded, waited for more, and when I realized that was it, I said, “Nope. You’re holding back.”

“That’s what I got! I swear that’s all there is.”

“What was the job? How much were you making? And who else are you protecting?”

“What difference does it make—”

“Goddamn it! Either give me everything or get out.”

Kalijero closed his eyes and started rubbing his chin as if enduring excruciating pain. Then he said, “I started moonlighting as a bouncer at a strip club out by the airport. I pulled in an extra 2K a week. Then I had the idea of promoting the place to the high rollers on layovers. I started chauffeuring them from the gate to the club. For one price, they could get all the drinks and tail they wanted in a back room. I got a cut for each trick. One day a deputy superintendent walks in with a few commanders and some other brass—all wearing plainclothes. They’re all looking at me with big grins. Asked me about group rates. I figure they better get a good price or I’ll be working there full-time. So now they’re getting all the ass they want for free in exchange for security. Word gets out there’s a safe place for action. Every cop convention starts coming through Chicago. Then firefighters. The money starts rolling in. I’m getting ten to twelve grand a week. What do I do with it? Stick it in the mattress? I get hold of Snooky, and like magic he’s got the whole trail covered. Then Snooky gets clipped. There’s talk of diaries, ledgers, whatever record-keeping these guys have. The pressure from the top is killing me.”

If Kalijero was acting, he sure had me convinced. I almost felt sorry for the guy.

“There was a book. All nicknames. My dad looked through it and found only four he didn’t know. Snooky never mentioned a cop being a client, and he told me everything.”

He didn’t tell me everything, but so what?

“But you don’t know for sure.”

I shrugged. “Who knows anything for sure? What’s the name of this strip joint?”

With a straight face Kalijero said, “O’Hare’s Tailspin. Okay, Landau, your turn. What do you got?”

“I’ve got Chancellor Tate lying to me—”

“The university chancellor?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

“He was a guest at Tailspin. VIP treatment. I was told to make sure he got the
youngest-looking girl.”

“He lied to me and he lied to his own daughter about knowing Snooky. And I’ve got some guy named Jacob Mildish meeting with Tate. Ever heard of him?”

“Have I heard of him? Seventh district rep. Twenty-five years at least. Connected out the ass. A ruthless, power-hungry son of a bitch.”

“Tate met with Mildish immediately after he lied to me. And then a guy named Baron also joined the meeting. Any idea—”

“Construction big shot. He got the redevelopment contract for Maxwell Street. Mildish worries me. A conspiracy theorist’s wet dream. A real dark-side kind of guy. Who’s Tate’s daughter?”

“The tattoo girl. The one you questioned.”

Kalijero looked as if I had just spoken Swahili. “What tattoo girl? I haven’t questioned anybody.”

I studied Jimmy’s face. “The day you and that goon were following me and you told me I was too cocky. You didn’t stop by Taudrey Tats and question Audrey?”

“Who the fuck is Audrey? And what do you mean
following
you? I hung out and waited till you got back.”

We silently processed this new implication until Kalijero said, “What did that cop look like?”

Audrey answered on the first ring.

“You know it’s rude to get a phone call in the middle of a conversation and just walk away,” she said. “Especially considering you had just asked me to dinner.”

I apologized then asked her to describe the cop who visited her shop. Out loud I repeated, “Short, fat face, fleshy lips, creepy voice,” and watched the blood drain from Kalijero’s face.