Windy City Blues (15 page)

On the way home, I called in an order to Tasty Harmony, then relaxed on my recliner while eating a rice-bean-soy burger. Punim sat on my lap, her eyelids heavy from having just devoured two chicken livers.

Elon and Konigson had put together a private-public apparatus where cash flowed simultaneously in all directions. Somewhere in the process the machine spit out a dead parking officer. Rich Jones worked under Elon and with Gelashvili. I assumed his reaction when he saw me in the lobby confirmed his involvement in this mess. But what about his strange confession of having started a deadly rumor?

Beethoven interrupted, followed by Tamar’s voice. “I’m not comfortable with how we left things.” In the background, the murmur of the bakery.

“Me, either.”

“Want to come over later for dessert? About eight?”

“Sounds great.”

Seeing Tamar again pleased me but the thought of going to that grim apartment with the candles, old lady, and weird chanting creeped me out a bit. The things we do for love.

Reading closely some of the blogs discussing Konigson and Elon, I was assaulted by the anti-government theme of libertaria
nism. Also linked to this dogma was a Madame Zinoyevich, a novelist turned philosopher who preached finding freedom in the pursuit of self-interests. Apparently her best-known work,
The Integrity of Egotism,
was the capitalist bible of her followers. In the late 1950s, Konigson met Zinoyevich, who was so impressed with the young plutocrat that he became part of her inner circle. Konigson credited Madame Zinoyevich’s influence with leading him to his early fortune in real estate. Later, he would credit Zinoyevich for his success guiding a young Elon down the same road.

I checked out a few more links discussing Zinoyevich. She saw the “perfect human” as one attaining complete separation from the constraints of society. The world does not exist for this human nor does this human think the world should exist. Therefore, any action is justified since this human cares not the least for anything society cherishes. She actually found her living embodiment of this perfect human in a man who murdered and dismembered a twelve-year-old girl in 1927. I had no doubt Elon, with a guru who idolized psychopathic murderers, and Konigson were involved in Gelashvili’s death.

The phone interrupted. “Yeah, Julie, it’s me.”

Once again, it took a few moments for me to reconcile Frownie’s robust voice, which only yesterday sounded as if it was knocking on death’s door.

“Frownie?”

“What’s going on, kiddo? You talk to them ticket-writin’ stooges? The ones givin’ fake tickets to the nut job?”

“I talked to a couple of them. But I don’t know who wrote what.”

“That newspaper editor—?”

“Safe as kittens.”

Frownie didn’t respond, and I thought maybe I’d been hallucinating the conversation. Then he said, “I been thinkin’ about your family.”

“And?”

“Well, ya know, they were just doin’ the best they could. Your old man especially. He went into the rag business to make an honest livin’. The bookmakin’ and the numbers, that wasn’t what he wanted.”

“He told me all those little towns downstate were already doing it.”

“Absolutely they was! Your old man just showed ’em how to do it better!”

“He must’ve made good money. We lived in the North Shore, remember?”

“He made some dough on the coats, too. But you know they liked him, your old man. The little stores sellin’ the ladies’ things. He showed ’em how to have fun. He should’ve stopped with the whores, though. I remember tellin’ him nobody cared about a little gamblin’ but you start bringin’ in them whores to those little towns and people are gonna notice.”

“You can have fun, but not too much fun.”

Frownie laughed. “That’s right! It’s like gettin’ greedy. He shoulda been satisfied with makin’ a few bucks on the gamblin’ and let it go at that. He wasn’t no pimp, though. Those gals made a lot of cash. Your dad, a few bucks, that’s all.”

“Why are you bringing this up?”

“They did the best they could. Your dad, his father, and his father. You do what you’re good at in these circumstances. Sometimes it ain’t somethin’ you want to brag about, but it ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, neither. Don’t be ashamed of where you come from, Julie.”

“I’m not ashamed.”

“Your old man is proud of you. I know it don’t always look like it, but he is. Even the murder investigatin’. Deep down I think he’s proud of your courage. He just worries, that’s all.”

“He helped me with Snooky’s murder.”

“Damn right he did! He would do anything for you. He missed out on a lot because of prison. That’s where he screwed up, but don’t hold on to anger because of that….”

Frownie rambled on about the importance of family and not to follow his example by staying a bachelor. Somehow he transitioned to tell me for the thousandth time the story of his first girlfriend and how he copped her bare breast in the rumble seat of a 1933 Lincoln KB Convertible Coupe, a model now included in his car collection. Next came the story of falling off his bicycle and having an old man ask if he was hurt. The old man was John D. Rockefeller, the story went, and he gave Frownie a dime. Then a reminiscence of all the different mentors he’d had in life and that he could have done anything he wanted but for some goddamn reason he chose investigat
ions.

As he spoke, my mind wandered to Tamar’s apartment and the ancient woman staring at Jack’s picture while rocking her way to oblivion. When the call dropped, my attention returned. I didn’t know how long the line had been dead and I had a sick feeling the old guy might have gone to sleep for the last time. How could I have blown him off like that? What was the matter with me? His call had been a gift, a chance to be with him as he rid himself of that worn-out body. He had gotten great mileage from it, had kept it long past when one usually traded in for a new model. Just like his antique cars, Frownie was a classic. I had to see him.

A half hour later, I arrived to find the front door wide open and the sound of quiet weeping. Helen, Frownie’s nurse, sat next to his bed, crying into her hands. Frownie lay dead with the phone on his chest.

“I’m not sure why I’m crying,” she said. “It’s my job to help people die. The young ones get to me but not usually the old.”

Frownie’s eyes and mouth were open, giving the appearance of utter disbelief that Death had finally paid a visit. I said, “Once you got to know him, he was hard to let go of. A lot of people will be crying over this old guy.”

A policeman knocked on the door. The ambulance arrived a few minutes later. I watched the paramedics zip Frownie into a bag while Helen signed documents with a cop. I called my father. A caretaker answered and told me he was napping. I asked him to pass on the sad news and then called Kalijero.

“Frownie died.” No response. Police radio traffic in the background. I said, “I thought you might want to know, that’s all.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks. He was a good man. Let me call you back.”

A strange feeling of disappointment came over me, as if I had anticipated commiserating with Kalijero. I talked with Helen awhile and then wandered around the condo examining the various collectibles Frownie had acquired over the years. His impeccable antique car collection reflected the pride he felt in the craftsmanship of bygone eras. Inside his home one felt his appreciation in the meticulous care of the maple drop-leaf dining table, the mahogany console, the Art Deco couch and chair, even the square wooden “High Fidelity” box that looked as if it had just been purchased. I fingered through a fantastic vinyl record collection. The sleeves were hardly worn, the corners barely frayed. Glenn Miller and the like, well dusted and the records in their prime. No scratches.

I opened a beautiful mid-century walnut credenza and found a leather-bound photo album. Most of the photos were groups of men in suits with wide lapels and neckties decorated in bizarre geometric patterns. In his younger days, Frownie cast quite a dashing image in the fashions of the era. A few faces looked vaguely familiar as people I had once called “Uncle,” although one photo in particular with Frownie’s arm around a young man struck me. Stocky, square-headed, jet-black hair. I left a message on Kalijero’s phone asking how a picture of a very young Kalijero had found its way into one of Frownie’s photo albums.

Tamar stood in the doorway to her apartment, wearing silk drawstring pants and a T-shirt. In her arms she held a bag of garbage. I had been standing in the hallway about ten yards away, killing a little time, but began walking toward her as soon as I heard the door open.

“Hi,” I said. “Somebody walking out let me in. Am I early? I guess I should’ve buzzed anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tamar said and dropped the bag down the garbage chute, where it clattered down to the cellar. “Come in.”

At the door, she surprised the hell out of me by taking my hand. She led me into the candlelit residence shared with her elderly aunt, who remained in the rocking chair in front of Jack’s photograph. Tamar directed me to a small sofa on the room’s other side. Two plates with pastries awaited us on a coffee table.

“Those are puff pastries, aren’t they?” I said.

Tamar laughed. “They’re called
taplune,
” she said and watched me take a bite. Its sweet, nutty taste made me forget the world had any problems or that I practiced veganism. We ate while I chattered on mindlessly about the pastry. Tamar politely listened and reciprocated with useless information about traditional Georgian food. Meanwhile, the old lady started mumbling—soft at first and then loud enough for me to recognize a foreign language.

Tamar sighed. “She’s talking to St. Andrew again.”

“What about?”

“She wants him to set her up on a blind date with Peter.” Tamar laughed loudly, startling me. “Sorry. Any idea what it’s like to take care of a crazy old lady? I gotta laugh. Otherwise I’ll end up acting like her. Maybe you should laugh more, Jules.” Tamar put the last of the pastry in her mouth and stared at me.

“I laughed when you referred to the Department of Revenue as being run by gangsters.”

Tamar smiled and nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “Elon the Gangster. Do you know what he looks like?”

“I saw a picture of him taken in the late seventies. Skinny, dark-haired, average looking. Why?”

“I’m not sure. Anyway, I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly that night, but something about you upset me. Suddenly, I felt alone, even though I stood right next to you. I had to leave—I really don’t understand it.”

“This is about me not having a regular family. That upsets you.”

“It’s about you not
caring
whether or not you have a family, or just a true blood connection.”

“Who said I didn’t care?”

Tamar put her plate down and scooted a bit closer. “You don’t have to say it. It’s all over you. I see it in your eyes. You exude
loneliness
.”

The temptation to angrily defend my psyche from her presumptuous attack almost won the moment. “It’s just how things worked out. I’m fine with who I am. Why can’t you accept that?”

Tamar thought about it. “It’s too foreign a concept for me to accept. It contradicts how Georgians are brought up. Families are crucial for survival—”

“Yeah, yeah, all this blood and honor stuff.”

Tamar couldn’t stop staring at me. She must care about me, I thought. Why else would she give a damn what I felt? I extended my arm along the back of the couch, a distance that overlapped Tamar’s position and a statement impossible to misinterpret. She stayed put, showing not the slightest display of discomfort. I knew I had a chance.

“A guy yelled at me today,” Tamar said, looking into my eyes. “He said we had stale pastries and compared us to a terrorist organization.”

“Anyone darker than milk is a suspect nowadays.”

“You are the darkest person I ever met. So you must be the terrorist.”

I moved my hand close enough to play with a lock of her black hair. She did not object and kept her eyes on me. The prattling from the old lady’s conversation with St. Andrew became background noise, like a radio tuned to a foreign broadcast, but then the old broad startled me with a hacking cough that became a desperate struggle for air. I looked over at Tamar, who seemed not to notice the ruckus.