Warshawski 01 - Indemnity Only (9 page)

I thought it might be a neighbor, roused by the noise, but it seemed to be a partner, dressed nearly to match the first hood but bigger. He saw his buddy leaning against the wall, moaning, and hurled himself onto me. We rolled and I got both hands under his chin, forcing his neck back. He let go, but clobbered me on the right side of my head. It shook me all the way down my back, but I didn’t give in to it. I kept rolling and leaped up with my back to the wall. I didn’t want to give him time to draw a gun, so I grasped the paneling behind me for leverage and swung my feet at his chest, knocking him off balance, but falling on top of him. He got another good punch in, to my shoulder, just missing the jaw, before I wiggled away. He was stronger, but I was in better shape and more agile, and I was on my feet way in advance of him, kicking him hard over his left kidney. He collapsed at that, and I was hauling back to do it again when his partner recovered himself enough to pick up his gun and clip me under the left ear. My kick
connected at the same time and then I was falling, falling, but remembering to fall rolling, and rolling off the edge of the world.

I wasn’t out long but long enough for them to hustle me downstairs. Good work for two partially disabled men. I guessed any neighbors alerted by the sound had turned up their TVs to drown it out.

I regained a sickly sort of consciousness as they pushed me in the car, fought to hold it, threw up on one of them, and went under again. I came back more slowly the second time. We were still moving. The one with the separated ribs was driving; I’d thrown up on the other one, and the smell was rather strong. His face was very set and I thought he might be close to tears. It’s not nice for two men to go after one woman and only get her after losing a rib and a kidney, and then to have her vomit down your jacket front and not be able to move or clean it off—I wouldn’t have liked it, either. I fumbled in my jacket pocket for some Kleenex. I still felt sick, too sick to talk and not much like cleaning him up, either, so I dropped the tissues on him and leaned back. He gave a little squeal of rage and knocked them to the floor.

When we stopped, we were close to North Michigan Avenue, just off Astor on Division, in the area where rich people live in beautiful old Victorian houses and apartments or enormous high-rise modern condominiums. My right-hand partner flung himself out the door, took off his jacket, and dropped it in the street.

“Your gun’s showing,” I told him. He looked down at it, then at his jacket. His face turned red. “You goddamn
bitch,” he said. He leaned into the car to take another poke at me, but the angle wasn’t good and he couldn’t get much leverage behind his arm.

Ribs spoke up. “Come on, Joe—it’s getting late and Earl don’t like to be kept waiting.” This simple statement worked powerfully on Joe. He stopped swinging and yanked me out of the car, with Ribs pushing me from the side.

We went into one of the stately old houses that I always thought I’d like to own if I ever rescued an oiltanker billionaire from international kidnappers and got set up for life as my reward. It was dull red brick, with elegant wrought-iron railing up the steps and around the front windows. Originally built as a single-family home, it was now a three-flat apartment. A cheerful black-and-white patterned wallpaper covered the entry hall and stairwell. The bannister was carved wood, probably walnut, and beautifully polished. The three of us made an ungainly journey up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Ribs was having trouble moving his arms, and Joe seemed to be limping from his kidney kicks. I wasn’t feeling very well myself.

The second-floor apartment was opened by yet another gun-carrier. His clothes fit him better, but he didn’t really look like the class of person that belonged in this neighborhood. He had a shock of black hair that stood up around his head in a wiry bush. On his right cheek was deep red scar, cut roughly like a Z. It was so dark that it looked as though someone had painted him with lipstick.

“What kept you two so long? Earl’s getting angry,” he demanded, ushering us into a wide hallway. Plush brown carpet on the floor, a nice little Louis Quinze side table, and a few pictures on the walls. Charming.

“Earl warned us this goddamn Warshawski bitch was a wise-ass, but he didn’t say she was a goddamn karate expert.” That was Ribs. He pronounced my name “Worchotsi.” I looked down at my hands modestly.

“Is that Joe and Freddie?” a nasal tenor squeaked from inside. “What the hell took you guys so long?” Its owner appeared in the doorway. Short, pudgy, and bald, he was familiar to me from my early days in Chicago law enforcement.

“Earl Smeissen. How absolutely delightful. But you know, Earl, if you’d called me up and asked to see me, we could have gotten together with a lot less trouble.”

“Yeah, Warchoski, I just bet we would’ve,” he said heavily. Earl had carved himself a nice little niche on the North Side with classy prostitution setups for visiting conventioneers, and a little blackmail and extortion. He had a small piece of the drug business, and the rumor was that he would arrange a killing to oblige a friend if the price was right.

“Earl, this is quite a place you’ve got. Inflation must not be hurting business too much.”

He ignored me. “Where the hell’s your jacket, Joe? You been walking around Chicago showing your gun to every cop on the beat?”

Joe turned red again and started to mutter something,
I intervened. “I’m afraid that’s my fault, Earl. Your friends here jumped me in my own hallway without introducing themselves or saying they had come from you. We had a bit of a fracas, and Freddie’s ribs got separated—but he pulled himself together nicely and knocked me out. When I came to, I was sick on Joe’s jacket. So don’t blame the poor fellow for ditching it.”

Earl turned outraged to Freddie, who shrank back down the hall. “You let a goddamn dame bust your ribs?” he yelled, his voice breaking to a squeak. “The money I pay you and you can’t do a simple little job like fetch a goddamn broad?”

One of the things I hate about my work is the cheap swearing indulged in by cheap crooks. I also hate the word
broad.
“Earl, could you reserve your criticisms of your staff until I’m not here? I have an engagement this evening—I’d appreciate it if you told me why you wanted to see me so badly you sent two hoods to get me, so I can get there on time.”

Earl gave Freddie a vicious look and sent him off to see a doctor. He motioned the rest of us into the living room, and noticed Joe limping. “You need a doctor, too? She beak your leg?” he asked sarcastically.

“Kidneys,” I replied modestly. “It all comes from knowing how.”

“Yeah, I know about you, Warchoski. I know what a wiseass you are, and I heard how you offed Joe Correl. If Freddie knocked you out, I’ll give him a medal. I want you to understand you can’t mess around with me.”

I sank down into a wide armchair. My head was throbbing and it hurt to focus on him. “I’m not messing around with you. Earl,” I said earnestly. “I’m not interested in prostitution or juice loans or—”

He hit me across the mouth. “Shut up.” His voice rose to a squeak and his eyes got smaller in his pudgy face. In a detached way I felt some blood dribbling down my chin—he must have caught me with his ring.

“Is this a general warning, then? Are you hauling in all the private eyes in Chicago and saying ‘Now here this—don’t mess around with Earl Smeissen!’?”

He swung at me again, but I blocked him with my left arm. He looked at his hand in surprise, as if he wondered what had happened to it.

“Don’t clown with me, Warchoski—I can call in plenty of people to wipe that smirk off your face.”

“I don’t think it would take very many,” I said, “but I still don’t have any idea what part of your turf I’m messing in.”

Earl signaled to the doorman, who came and held my shoulders against the chair. Joe was hovering in the background, a lascivious look on his face. My stomach turned slightly.

“Okay, Earl, I’m terrified,” I said.

He hit me again. I was going to look like absolute hell tomorrow, I thought. I hoped I wasn’t shaking; my stomach was knotted with nervousness. I took several deep diaphragm breaths to try to relieve the tension.

The last slap seemed to satisfy Earl. He sat down on a dark couch close to my chair.

“Warchoski,” he squeaked, “I called you down here to tell you to lay off the Thayer case.”

“You kill the boy, Earl?” I asked.

He was on his feet again. “I can mark you good, so good that no one will ever want to look at your face again,” he shouted. “Now just do what I say and keep your mitts outta that.”

I decided not to argue with him—I didn’t feel in any shape to take on both him and the doorman, who continued to hold my shoulders back. I wondered if his scar had turned redder with all the excitement but voted against asking him.

“Suppose you do scare me off? What about the police?” I objected. “Bobby Mallory’s hot on the trail, and whatever his faults, you can’t buy Bobby.”

“I’m not worried about Mallory,” Earl’s voice was back in its normal register, so I concluded the brainstorm was passing. “And I’m not buying you—I’m telling you.”

“Who got you involved, Earl? College kids aren’t part of your turf—unless young Thayer was cutting into your dope territory?”

“I thought I’d just told you not to pry into my affairs,” he said, getting up again. Earl was determined to pound me. Maybe it would be better to get it over with quickly and get out, rather than let him go on for hours. As he came at me, I pulled my foot back and kicked him squarely in the crotch. He howled in anguish and collapsed in a heap on the couch. “Get her, Tony, get her,” he squealed.

I didn’t have a chance against Tony, the doorman.
He was trained in the art of working over loan defaulters without showing a mark. When he finished. Earl came hobbling over from the couch. “This is just a taste, Warchoski,” he hissed. “You lay off the Thayer case. Agreed?”

I looked at him without speaking. He really could kill me and get away with it—he’d done it to others. He had good connections with City Hall and probably in the police department, too. I shrugged and winced. He seemed to accept that as agreement. “Get her out, Tony.”

Tony dumped me unceremoniously outside the front door. I sat for a few minutes on the stairs, shivering in the heat and trying to pull myself together. I was violently ill over the railing, which cleared my headache a bit. A woman walking by with a man said, “Disgusting so early in the evening. The police should keep people like that out of this neighborhood.” I agreed. I got to my feet, rather wobbly, but I could walk. I felt my arms. They were sore, but nothing was broken. I staggered over to the inner drive, parallel to Lake Shore Drive and only a block away, and hailed a taxi home. The first one pulled off after a look at me, but the second one took me. The driver clucked and fussed like a Jewish mother, wanting to know what I’d done to myself and offering to take me to a hospital or the police or both. I thanked him for his concern but assured him I was all right.

I’d dropped my purse by my door when Freddie and I were scuffling, and asked the cabdriver to come upstairs with me to get paid off. Living at the top of the building, I was pretty confident that my bag would still be there. It was, and my keys were still in the door.

The driver tried one last protest. “Thanks,” I said, “but I just need a hot bath and a drink and I’ll be all right.”

“Okay, lady.” He shrugged. “It’s your funeral.” He took his money, looked at me one last time, and went downstairs.

My apartment lacked the splendor of Earl’s. My little hallway had a small rug, not wall-to-wall carpeting, and an umbrella stand rather than a Louis Quinze table. But it also wasn’t filled with thugs.

I was surprised to find it was only seven. It had been only an hour and a half since I had come up the stairs the first time that evening. I felt as though I’d moved into a different time zone. I ran a bath for the
second time that day and poured myself an inch of Scotch. I soaked in water as hot as I could bear it, lying in the dark with a wet towel wrapped around my head. Gradually my headache dissipated. I was very, very tired.

After thirty minutes of soaking and reheating the tub, I felt able to cope with some motion. Wrapping a large towel around me, I walked through the apartment, trying to keep my muscles from freezing on me. All I really wanted to do was sleep, but I knew if I did that now I wouldn’t be able to walk for a week. I did some exercises, gingerly, fortifying myself with Black Label. Suddenly I caught sight of a clock and remembered my date with Devereux. I was already late and wondered if he was still there.

With an effort I found the restaurant’s name in the phone book and dialed their number. The maître d’hotel was very cooperative and offered to look for Mr. Devereux in the bar. A few minutes passed, and I began to think he must have gone home when he came onto the line.

“Hello, Ralph.”

“This had better be good.”

“If I tried explaining it, it would take hours and you still wouldn’t believe me,” I answered. “Will you give me another half hour?”