Authors: marshall thornton
“I’ll figure out what happened,” I promised him.
Boystown - 84
“I know. I didn’t say you wouldn’t,” he said. He studied the table for a while, as though it had the answers to some secret test he was taking. “I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can reopen. It’s like opening a whole new bar. I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Take a few days, Davey. Don’t think about anything. Don’t make decisions. Just forget everything.”
“How do I do that?” he wondered.
I didn’t have a good answer for him.
After lunch, I went home. I knew there had to be something productive I could do that afternoon that would help find the arsonist. I needed a list of everyone in the Surfside Neighborhood Association. I could focus on John Bradford, but it was just as likely that someone in his group might have done it and he was covering for them. Rationally, though, I couldn’t investigate every person in the group. So would a list be that valuable? What I really needed was something to make the police look closely at the group. And I had no clue what that might be. I gave up and took a nap.
The phone woke me up just after the sun went down. Before I left the scene of the fire, I’d handed out a half dozen of my business cards to the firemen who were there. My business number was printed on the front and my home number handwritten on the back. Usually, handing out cards is a pointless exercise, but when I picked up the phone it was one of the firemen. He sounded nervous. “Do you have a car?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Pick me up on the corner of Wrightwood and Orchard.” Before I could even say yes, he’d hung up. There wasn’t anything else to do except rush out of my apartment and find my car. About twenty minutes later I cruised down Wrightwood, slowing when I got near Orchard.
I was looking in the other direction when someone opened my passenger door and jumped in. I’d never even completely stopped. I studied the guy sitting in the passenger seat. He was the blue-eyed fireman I’d talked to the day of the fire. He wore a pair of dark blue pants that were part of his uniform and a matching T-shirt that was little too tight. He slouched down in the seat, trying not to be seen.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Hank Withers.”
“Thanks for calling me, Hank.”
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“Drive out of the neighborhood. I don’t want anyone from the station seeing me.” I was pretty sure the station was on Halsted a few blocks in the opposite direction. I kept going on Wrightwood, then took a left and headed north to Diversey.
“Why the cloak and dagger?”
“The arson guys have been putting pressure on us about your friend’s case. They keep asking if the smoke was black. Some of the guys are starting to remember that it was.”
“Is that important?” I asked.
“Black smoke means the fire was started with gasoline. I heard they have your guy charging a lot of gas on his gas card just the day before.”
“He drives a Cadillac. He charges gas every other day.”
“That’s just what I heard.”
“So, the smoke wasn’t black?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
I swung a left on Diversey and headed the car toward the El stop near Sheffield.
“Where are you going?” Hank asked.
“I need a payphone. I’ve got to call Davey.”
El stations pretty reliably have a working payphone. I found a parking spot on Wilton and jumped out. I ran around the corner to the station, dropped in my dime and made the call.
Davey’s answering machine picked up.
“Davey, are you there?” I asked. When he didn’t pick up, I told the machine, “You need to get out of town. They’re probably going to try for an arrest soon. It’ll just be better if you’re not here.” I hung up.
Wilton was dark and quiet. I got back into the car and sat very still for a few moments. It gave me a chance to take a better look at Hank. Even though it was dark, I could see he was the kind of guy people call rugged. His hair was dishwater blond and close cropped, his face was covered in stubble most of the way up his cheeks, he had a dimple in his chin that was almost an exclamation point. His blue eyes caught mine, and I realized he’d been checking me out, too.
Sliding over the bench seat, he reached out and put his huge hand in my crotch. He rubbed my dick through the coarse denim until it was good and hard. Then he unzipped my Levi's. He reached into my pants, through the opening in my boxers, and pulled out my cock.
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“Nice,” he mumbled. He started sucking me off. He had more enthusiasm than skill, but sometimes enthusiasm is plenty. Taking my cock all the way down his throat, he gagged. Instead of making him more hesitant, he chuckled deep in his throat and tried again. This time he got me much further down his throat. Even in the dark, I could see that his face was red with the effort.
I ran my hand across his wide shoulders. His throat was hot, and my cock felt like it was about to burn. He bobbed up and down faster and faster, my breathing increasing with his pace. My cock slipped out of his mouth; quickly he popped it back in.
“Slow down,” I told him. “You’re going to make me come too fast.”
But he just made a noise halfway between a growl and a laugh. I was close. My prick rock hard, my hips lifting off the seat, toes curling in my boots. Hank sat back and pumped me with his big fist. Then I was coming, coming so hard and fast I hit myself in the chin.
Smiling, Hank kissed me, “Great. W and with a couple swipes of his tongue licked the come off my chin. “I have to go,” he said. And with that he was out of my car and gone. I sat there in the sudden silence. If my cock weren't still sticky with semen and saliva, I’d wonder if it had actually happened.
* * *
Unfortunately, it was nearly the end of the day and nothing had shaken loose. The phone rang, and I picked it up, “Nick Nowak.”
“Hey,” said Ross. “I’ve got Edward’s address. Sorry it took so long. I finally had to call Miss Minerva.”
I got a piece of paper and a pen. hat is it?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but Edward Wyznicki lives at The Shore, apartment 1113.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Minerva said that’s how Edward and Bernie met. Bernie started out on the happy hour shift.
Edward kept stopping by after work. Two months later, Bernie moved in with him.”
“What’s this Edward guy do?”
“Works at First Chicago. Some kind of account manager.”
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“Thanks.” I wasn’t sure how important it was. My gut said the arsonist was someone in Bradford’s group.
“Are you going to go see him?” There was too much eagerness in his voice.
“At some point.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
I wasn’t sure. “Go find Bradford, I guess. Try to talk to him again.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“You’re looking for a job, remember.”
“I did that earlier.”
“And tonight you’re spending time with your boyfriend.”
“Maybe later. He’s on his way to a fundraiser for The Lincoln Park Zoo. ‘Socialite Sugar Pilson donates millions to save the Siberian Meerkat.’” It sounded like he was kidding. But I didn’t know enough about Sugar Pilson or Siberian Meerkats to be sure. Of course, I read
The Silver
Spoon
and it sounded like the kind of thing Earl wrote about.
Detective work is ninety-nine percent boring and one percent the kind of excitement no one should ever experience. If this was going to fall into the one percent category, it would be happening soon, and I didn’t want Ross in danger. “Look, I think I should do the rest of this on my own,” I said.
An unpleasant silence fell between us.
“Why?”
“I work better that way.”
“You’re always pushing people away.”
I actually sat back in my chair when he said that. It was overkill, and far too personal for a conversation like this. Reluctantly, I let it pass.
“Why does this matter to you, Ross? You never showed much interest in my work before.”
He was quiet. Then said, “I was supposed to close that night. Bernie was supposed to get off at two. But then Earl came in, and I begged Bernie to switch with me. He shouldn’t have been there at all. It should have been me.”
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“But he didn’t have anywhere to sleep,” I pointed out. “He would have been there no matter what time he finished.”
“That’s not true. Larry was at the bar around one. He wanted to take Bernie home with him. But he lives out in Hinsdale and had to have breakfast in the morning with his parents, so he didn’t want to wait.”
I got that Ross felt guilty, that he wanted to do something. But it didn’t change anything. I said,
“Goodbye,” and hung up.
I took the El up to Fullerton and switched trains so I could get to Diversey. When I got there, I walked the five blocks to the intersection of Diversey and Broadway. It began to drizzle again. I pulled my fleece collar up tight around my chin.
I figured the best way to deal with the Surfside Neighborhood Association was to show up at John Bradford’s door and see if I could rattle him. Sure, he’d probably try to slam his door, but there are ways around that. Fortunately, I was wearing a pretty heavy pair of work boots.
When I got to The Shore, I buzzed Edward and Bernie’s apartment. Even though my gut feeling was Edward didn’t have much to tell me, I didn’t like loose ends. Investigating a crime was about determining facts. Some facts eliminated possibilities. Others made them more likely.
Following a gut feeling wasn’t a bad idea if you followed it toward something. Following a gut feeling away from something was always a mistake. Besides, I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Bradford, and talking to Edward put it off for another twenty minutes.
Edward answered and asked who it was. I told him. After a long pause, the security door finally buzzed. I made my way to the rickety elevator and hit the call button. It clanked and groaned on its way down. The door opened. As the elevator climbed to the eleventh floor, every muscle in my body tensed, and I was sure that just a few feet above me, beyond the laminated ceiling of the car, there was a wire cable quickly unraveling and likely to break. Fortunately, at the eleventh floor, I pulled the metal grate to one side, pushed the door open, and stepped out. Safe.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I set about finding 1113. It was toward the front of the building, on the side I hadn’t canvassed. I knocked on the door. Edward appeared in just a few seconds. He invited me in and offered me a seat.
The apartment was a one bedroom with a view of the courtyard and not much else. Edward and Bernie had decorated in a few quick trips to The Great Ace. Seemingly, they’d bought all the furniture recommended for apartment dwellers and nothing took up more space than it needed to.
Along one living room wall sat a sofa-bed made from a collapsible metal frame and a canvas-covered futon that appeared to be bent onto the frame against its will. There were a couple metal stools, a glass coffee table, a set of gray metal shelves where the TV and stereo were located, and a tiny but functional dinette set with two chairs. There were framed pictures of Edward and Bernie scattered about. One of them had a nasty crack in the glass, possibly from being thrown across the room.
Boystown - 89
“What’s this about?” Edward asked. “Bernie’s okay, isn’t he?”
“I’m sure Bernie’s fine,” I said. “I just have a few questions to clear up.”
“I really don’t know anything. I mean, he’s been too doped up to say much.”
“Where were you when the fire started?” I asked.
Tears began to fall down his face. “Here,” he managed to choke out.
“Do you own a down jacket?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, they’re warm.” They were warm. That’s why half the people in Chicago had them. I wasn’t sure his having one meant anything.
“Do you want to tell me again why the two of you were fighting?” I asked.
“Household chores. I told you.”
“It didn’t bother you that Bernie was fucking around on you with another guy?”
Edward sniffled a few times and went pale. “Of course it bothered me. I love him.”
“That’s what the fight was about, wasn’t it?”
“What difference does it make?” He seemed a little annoyed that I kept asking.
“Obviously it makes a difference. You lied about it.”
“Privacy. Don’t we deserve privacy?”
“I wish I could leave you alone, but the police are trying to blame someone who didn’t do this.
Someone who’s innocent.”
Edward took a big gulp of air and tried to stop crying. “It’s my fault. Don’t you see that?”
For a moment, I thought he might be confessing. “Why is your fault?” I asked.
“It’s my fault Bernie was there when the fire started.”
I nodded. “You threw him out, and he had nowhere else to go.” Not entirely true. He could have gone to his boyfriend's if he’d left the bar earlier.
“It’s my fault.” Then he broke down completely. He was a sobbing, soggy mess. I didn’t know what else to do but put my hand on the guy’s shoulder. That just made him cry harder.
Boystown - 90
I felt bad. Not only was I wasting my time, I was torturing the poor guy. I said my goodbyes and got out of the apartment.
Bradford lived in 304, two floors below Ruthie. I managed to survive the elevator ride down and walked over to his door. I braced myself for the anger I expected when he saw me and knocked.
A few moments later the door flew open. Bradford looked up and focused on me. “Oh no, no way. Screw you.”
He tried to slam the door, but I’d managed to get my foot in between the door and the jam.
Unfortunately, most of my leg was in there, too, and the door slammed on my knee. Ignoring the pain, I forced the door open again.