Windy City Blues (3 page)

Leaning against the butcher block island, I re-counted the money Izzy had given me, fully aware that a black and white cat sauntered back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, lashing her tail and meowing every four or five steps. About the time I reached the thirtieth C-note, my ankle erupted in pain. Punim was hungry.

I dropped a pile of livers, kidneys, hearts, and gizzards into her bowl and then prepared a sandwich of raw tofu on rye with sliced tomatoes, fake mayo, and toasted ground sesame seeds. I ate and once again confirmed I had fifty portraits of Ben Franklin in my possession. The phone rang.

“I know how to get in touch with Ross,” Knight said.

“So you’re gonna help me?”

“Only if you promise me exclusive rights to the story behind the murder.”

“There might not be a story behind the murder. What’s Ross’s number?”

“I want it in writing—that only I get the story. I’ve got the papers at Mocha Mouse for you to sign.”

Had I not already come to terms with this bizarre character—
assistance from him would require tolerance, acceptance, and surrender—I might have allowed my anger to ruin what had been a perfectly good morning.

Investigating a murder meant wearing a shoulder harness again. I holstered my .40-caliber and headed to a coffee shop named for a saxophone-playing rodent. Knight himself, in his black horn-rimmed glasses and dark wiry hair piled high, seemed an appropriate caricature for a diner with a Buddy Holly theme. Probably the strangest kid I ever met. A privileged white boy dreaming of the “hood,” oblivious to how idiotic his unconvincing ghetto slang sounded. His toothy grin annoyed me the most. I knew he’d be at his usual table, the one in the back surrounded by ten chairs, nine of which were empty. Knight fantasized of one day leading an Algonquin Round Table of tabloid journalists. He had a long way to go.

“Good to see you again, Jules.” Knight fidgeted with a sheet of paper.

I took a seat three chairs away. “Let’s get this over with.”

Knight pushed the paper at me. “I should’ve told you to bring a lawyer. I’ll give you a couple of days if you need advice.”

I noticed “Gelashvili” was mentioned in the first paragraph. “You saw Ross’s article?”

“I called Peter. A parking officer hunted down; brain scrambled; fifty-eight bucks in his wallet? Credit cards untouched? Apartment ransacked? And you’re going to tell me there’s not a story there? Even the meth heads, whores, and drunks hate those parking Nazis.”

I read through the agreement, three paragraphs stating in no uncertain terms that in exchange for unfettered access to Peter Ross, I would reveal any and all information regarding the murder of Gelashvili to Ellis Knight and only to Ellis Knight. What bullshit.

“Just in case you’re getting ideas, Ross won’t talk to you until I tell him you’ve signed.”

“Yeah? And if you get the big story, you gonna share a byline with him?”

Knight stared at me a moment. “That’s none of your business.”

“Okay, Ellis.” I scratched my name out on the designated line. “You own me. Now give me his number. And he better be cool, or I’ll shove this agreement down your throat and let you void it out your ass.”

I slid the document back to Knight, and he dug out a piece of paper from his pocket. “Here’s his number,” he said and handed it over to me. I grabbed it and walked out.

On the phone, he sounded older than I’d expected; when we met up in person, he looked about mid-fifties. “Peter Ross?” I asked. He sat on a bench at the park near Diversey Harbor.

“That’s me,” he said through whatever he was chewing.

He was skinny and well tanned in a brown, worn-out, leathery kind of way. His face reflected a lifetime of missed deadlines and spiked stories. Every few seconds he turned his head and spit out sunflower seed shells. Gross. I sat at the other end of the bench. “So what do you know about Gelashvili’s murder?”

Ross finished the seed he was working on and ejected it. “Well, I know the cops weren’t eager to figure it out. Considering Gelashvili was one of their own, I thought that was really crummy.”

“I gotta believe your original article was a lot longer than what got published.”

“Hell, yes, it was. I had a whole feature on his family. Georgian immigrants. A real powerful, tragic human interest story. The death of the American dream. But the
Republic
hacked it down to an impotent piece of shit.”

I waited for Ross to expand on the emasculation of his piece, but he offered only more violent evacuations of black shells.

“What did the city editor say about it?” I asked.

Ross spit in disgust and faced me for the first time. “That useless bastard? He’s got his nut sack hiding so far up, he has to spend all his money on a stud service for his wife. At first, he was psyched up, thought we had a real scoop. And then bang! Somebody says ‘boo’ and he shits himself. I asked him what was going on and all he can say is he got a call from the big boss, Konigson.”

“What about the cops? Did they tell you anything?”

“They got a couple of Laurel and Hardys pretending they give a damn. Every time I asked them a question, they’d look at each other and smile. Then one of the morons would give me the ‘it’s an ongoing investigation’ bull crap and laugh.”

His defeatist tone intrigued me. “So you’re just going to roll over? Don’t you want to know why the Gelashvili investigation is being shut down?”

Ross gave me a poisonous look. “You want truth? Is that it? I should be Zola and Gelashvili my Dreyfus? His head reduced to rubble and nobody cares. That’s the only truth that matters anymore. Fuck your truth!”

I liked getting people fired up. “Why did you agree to meet me?”

“Knight’s paying me a hundred bucks. He’s using me to rope you in so you have to give him the inside story. If you showed up, that means you signed his contract.”

“Why didn’t Knight just ask you himself?” A kid on a skateboard flew past us, failed at executing a kick-flip, but still landed on his feet while the board went off the sidewalk.

“Because I hate that little fuck. But I’ll take his money.”

“You’re a true friend.”

“He’s a punk with a rich daddy. Truth or no truth, he’ll never have to worry about making a living.”

“Why does that piss you off?” I knew why, but I couldn’t resist.

“Damn it! I just said why. Truth! You have any idea how I’ve had to compromise myself just to make a buck? You think I want to write meaningless articles about guys no one cares about getting beaten to death? But I gotta make money. I’ve wasted a lot of time. In fact, I’ve wasted my life.”

His dejection was palpable and entirely uninteresting. I placed my business card on the bench and walked away.

As a kid, we always had the
Sun-Times
in the house. The
Republic,
I later learned, was the conservative paper while the
Sun-Times
leaned toward the progressive side. My great-granddad was part of Mayor “Big Bill” Thompson’s political machine during Prohibition. Both the
Sun-Times
and the
Republic
existed in one form or another back then. And both accused Great-Granddad of terrorism. He once shared a headline with Al Capone. I wondered which paper Great-Granddad read.

Despite Republic Tower’s landmark status as a quintessential example of neo-Gothic architecture, I saw only a skeletal monolith of spikes, spires, pointed arches, and gargoyles. Medieval ignorance and suffering peasants with torches and pitchforks also came to mind. It was into this house of pain I walked, seeking answers from the eighth-largest newspaper in the United States. Famous quotations chiseled into the granite walls recalled the divine duty of a free press and created not just a lobby but a “Hall of Inscriptions.” An enormous relief map made of shredded money spoke many column inches about a newspaper baron’s true religion.

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Konigson,” I said to the receptionist, whose only response was to stare at me as if waiting for the punch line.

“You want to talk to Sam Konigson, the CEO of the Republic Media Group?”

It was my turn to wait for the punch line—but I was the joke. “Okay, how about the city editor?”

“I need to see an ID.” I complied, she wrote down some information, then gave me a guest pass to hang around my neck. “Go to the twentieth floor and try your luck. His name is Wilbert Palmer.”

Peter Ross had told me Konigson called his editor directly. It seemed odd a CEO would personally call anyone below upper-level administration just to maim a story. Even I knew a collection of managers, associates, deputies, and assistants dwelled between a CEO and a section editor.

Another receptionist awaited me as I stepped off the elevator. I had had a cult-like love for 1970s television like
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
and
Lou Grant
and old movies from
Citizen Kane
to
All the President’s Men,
and the newsroom appeared exactly as I expected.

The woman behind the counter looked like a college student. An open copy of
Advanced Reporting
confirmed my suspicion.

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Palmer, please.”

“Is he expecting you?”

I smiled. “I doubt it.”

She frowned and picked up the phone. “Someone here to see Wil,” she said and returned to
Advanced Reporting
.

Seconds later a gloomy-looking man—just barely as old as the receptioni
st—rushed up to me. “Yes?”

“Mr. Palmer?”

“I’m Dylan, his assistant.”

“Assistant to what?”

“To the city editor.”

“I’d like to talk to the city editor.”

“Unless he’s expecting you, send him an email.”

In the back, I saw a glass room with a long conference table. At the head of the table a balding man sat alone, staring out the window.

“I want to talk to him about a murder. I’m a private investigator.” I showed him my identifica
tion.

“He’s too busy to see everyone who stops by. Send an email.”

“Busy, my ass. That’s him staring out the window in the conference room, right?”

The man glanced behind and then back to me. “Mr. Palmer communicates only by email unless you have an appointment!”

His non-denial told me I had guessed correctly. I reached for my wallet.

“Here’s twenty bucks,” I said and stuffed the bill into his shirt pocket. “And here’s twenty for you.” I dropped another bill onto
Advanced Reporting
and blew past the assistant to the city editor.

They caught up to me as I opened the glass door of the conference room. The three of us entered together.

“I just want to talk about Gelashvili—” I said but was immediately drowned out by the youngsters begging forgiveness.

Then a woman about my age came in. “What the hell’s going on?” she asked.

“And you are?” I asked.

“I’m Mr. Palmer’s assignment editor.” If Palmer gave a damn, he didn’t show it. I think he barely glanced our way. “Brenda, get back to your desk. Dylan, what’s going on?”

“He just barged in—”

“Now, just wait a goddamn second. Dylan here took twenty bucks to let me come in.” I plucked the bill out of his shirt pocket and dropped it on the floor.

“He’s lying!”

While Dylan voiced his outrage, I sat next to Palmer and introduced myself.

“Why was the Gelashvili execution given about as much space as a standard obit?”

Palmer turned and looked at me. His hairline receded uniformly past the top of his head. From above, I supposed he resembled a half moon. His face had a plump, healthy glow despite his sixty or more years. His eyebrows looked professionally groomed. Gold cuff links matched gold tie clip. Gucci, I guessed. Our eyes momentarily met before he turned back to the window. A large hand fell upon my shoulder. I looked up into the face of a security guard who suggested it was time for me to leave. I was able to fling a business card onto the table before the officer escorted me out the door while demonstrating the arm lock restraining position. A real control freak.