“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.
“I mean, for a crack detective, you don’t seem to know shit. You’re supposed to be
plugged in,
remember?”
The slightest hint of mirth settling upon Spike’s face was all it took for me to land my fist squarely below his left eye, dropping the little bastard to the sidewalk. I sat on his chest and raised my fist again, only to hold it in check, aware that another blow could turn a fairly harmless black eye into a fractured socket or cheekbone. Instead, I put my hands around his neck knowing full well I wouldn’t strangle him, but would still receive great satisfaction feeling my fingers pressed against his throat.
“Having fun playing gangster?” I said. “Did you know guys like Cooper actually have people beaten to death? Not just one slug to the face, but one after another after another, until your face is a swollen, bloody pulp and your brain is like an overripe peach.”
The apartment window went dark. I dragged Spike around the corner by the back of his jacket and sat him up against the wall.
“What was that for?” he said.
“Don’t you know? In the gangster world, most of us gotta earn respect. We don’t just get it ’cause Daddy says so. You gonna give me some respect now and quit fucking around?”
Spike touched his cheekbone. “You’re a fucking asshole.”
I sat down next to him. “Maybe that old man—his name is Blackstone—and Doug are working together?”
Spike pretended he had to think about it. “Yeah, maybe.”
“We both know Jeremy’s going to call you and tell you he’s found a buyer for the wine. He’s going to try to convince you to tell him where it is. You’re going to play along, set up a meeting with the old man, and then we’re going to find out how he knows Doug. Sound like a plan?”
“You’re still a fucking asshole,” Spike said, which I took as a kind of grudging acknowledgment.
“Yeah, I know. Put some ice on your face.”
—
Punim watched me from her window hammock. The pet trust had to be funded. A caretaker had to be assigned. A trustee had to be designated. I sat staring at the trust papers on the coffee table. A feeling of stagnation spread over me. Waiting for a call after invoking a sublime telegraph service to get the word out only aggravated my awareness. For all I knew, Kalijero hadn’t done a damn thing with his contacts. No doubt he hid information from me. Only Eddie really knew whether Cooper wanted him to find Tanya or not.
I moved the coffee table closer to the couch then lay down with the knuckles of my right hand resting in a bowl of ice. Out the window, I saw a hint of blue in the atmosphere, which meant the sun lurked just under the horizon. As a little boy, I thought the sky reflected blue off Lake Michigan. Back then, I knew as much about the optical phenomenon of scattering sunlight as I knew about Newton’s laws of knuckles colliding with cheekbones.
I couldn’t shake the feeling I had underestimated Spike, perhaps to the point where he had co-opted my investigation. Considering his relationships with Cooper and Doug, what he knew and what he decided to tell me gave him a power difficult to resist. But what was his ultimate goal? To make a lot of money or find Tanya? As my knuckles transitioned from cold to burning, I thought about my surrender to violence, how Frownie would’ve said punching Spike in the face showed weakness, not strength. The fact Spike could influence my behavior revealed who was really in charge. Twenty minutes later, I removed my numbed knuckles from the ice, returned to bed, then drifted off, wondering if Spike was a bona fide hoodlum prodigy.
Chapter 43
The phone rang about nine o’clock, rousing me from an agitated slumber. I anticipated Spike calling to tell me about a meeting with Jeremy and Blackstone. Instead, Amy said, “Do you think Spike is also connected to Eddie’s boss?”
I yawned. “Why would I think that?”
Amy’s irritation transmitted loud and clear. “Eddie came here to check up on the wine scamming biz, remember? Maybe Spike was his contact.”
“Eddie doesn’t care about the wine. He wants to find Tanya, which means we need to find Doug.”
“You keep saying that, but Eddie and Spike have other things in common, so why not broaden the focus?”
“Why are you so invested in this case?”
Amy cursed loudly, startling me. “I told you this days ago! Tanya Maggio’s energy is calling me. And I’m really sick of your attitude—”
“Okay, I’m sorry. Tell me what you think.”
“Eddie and Spike work for the same person. Maybe Eddie was sent here to straighten Spike out. Instead, he gets in touch with you because he wants to find Tanya. His decision to blow off the wine thing is a statement. He’s breaking away from his boss and his old life.”
Amy’s insights into Eddie’s life added to my feeling of insecurity begun by Spike, although it bothered me less since she had the unfair advantage of psychic abilities. Sufficiently deflated, I surrendered.
“The boss is a guy called Cooper who referred Eddie to a cop I know. That’s how Eddie found me. Spike is Cooper’s biological son and was supposed to have been Eddie’s contact. What you said about Eddie breaking away from his old life appears to be true.”
My candidness took her off guard. “Okay,” Amy said pleasantly.
“But I got something else. A Cooper goon named Sergeant Blake is in town to find Tanya.”
“Anything new regarding Doug’s whereabouts?”
“Spike has a possible lead. I’m waiting for a call.”
I could almost hear Amy thinking. Then she said, “Yesterday, I asked you if Tanya could be running away from someone—”
“Cooper is an authentic slimeball. But why wouldn’t Eddie tell me Cooper scared Tanya away?”
“Maybe Eddie doesn’t know.”
Another good point I should’ve already deciphered. Eddie wouldn’t be aware of what took place between Cooper and Tanya during Eddie’s stretch in prison. But a scumbag like Cooper trying to coerce sex from Tanya seemed too easy to be the whole story of why Tanya left town.
I said, “Eddie is sure Cooper
wants
him to find Tanya. That tells me Cooper isn’t afraid of anything Tanya has to say.”
“But
why
would Cooper want him to find Tanya?”
“To make a choice?” I said. “Run away with her or bring her back in?”
“But Eddie’s got to know that bringing Tanya back might be dangerous for her—if they think she’s a security risk.”
Silence. “True. Either way, the little rat loves her. No way he’s taking chances with her life. They’re gonna run.” I shrunk back from our new rapport. Was Amy now a full partner in my investigation? “Tell me about your friend in law enforcement.”
“I want to help you find Tanya! Can’t you just accept that and trust me?”
“Trust is a two-way street, yeah?”
Amy swore loudly again. “He works undercover. Okay? That’s all I can say—and I’m not even supposed to know that!”
My initial reaction was to believe her, then I thought how easy it would be to create a fictional undercover contact. The issue of trust felt tiresome, if not pointless.
“I’ll let you know about a meeting with Doug,” I said.
“I hope so,” Amy said, although I didn’t think she believed me.
—
Sitting on the couch, the idea of an association between Blackstone and Doug nagged me as I watched March’s late morning sunlight traverse the windows overlooking Halsted. Figuring out their connection would be purely guesswork, but thanks to Amy’s influence, I decided to recognize the feeling as intuition and embrace the two being in cahoots as my working theory.
As the noon hour approached without a phone call, my misgivings over Spike intensified. I dialed the Auvergnat Vin Bar. Jeremy answered.
“Yes, I was wondering if you could help me find a bottle of Mouton Rothschild 1945—”
“Who is this?”
“Jules Landau—”
“Oh, god! What do you want?”
“Have you spoken to Spike lately?”
“Why?”
“Believe it or not, I think I found a wine buyer who also might know Doug’s whereabouts. What do you think of that?”
Jeremy hung up. Minutes later, Spike called and said, “What did you say to Jeremy?”
“Why the hell didn’t you call me after Jeremy called you?”
“What do you think I’m doing, douchebag?”
I fought the urge to call this brat every vile blasphemy ever catalogued—and then cultivate a few more. The anger spread through my gut then migrated north, settling around my heart. I always felt my heart was my weak spot, my Achilles’ heel. Anger would destroy my heart.
“Whenever you’re ready, pal,” I said.
Spike gave me a Near North address on Wabash. “Seven o’clock. Wait inside.”
I hung up. If he had more to say, I didn’t care.
—
Chiseled into the archway was a five-pointed star inside a crescent moon. The symbols blended with the building’s ornate domes to emit a flavor of occultism, evoking an era when architecture embraced Islamic imagery. The enormous oak doors opened to a vast corridor of black-and-white square tiles running straight through to the opposite end of the building. The heavy masonry of granite walls and fifteen-foot ceilings struck me with a sense of timelessness. Egyptian pyramids came to mind.
Apart from the faint sound of indistinct voices, the hall was quiet. I strolled along the wall, looking at portraits of aristocrats dressed in elegant nineteenth-century suits, each with a red sash falling across his chest and a gold starburst attached to the collar. All had the title “Supreme Magus” embossed on a plate at the base of the frame. A couple of middle-aged men walked in, both dressed in black cutaway frocks, red waistcoats, and top hats. They nodded at me as they passed then entered the stairwell halfway down the hall. A few more men dressed like the previous two entered and then more arrived until a steady stream of antiquated fellows filed down the corridor and disappeared into the stairwell.
Besides the increased murmuring, the hallway returned to quiet. I looked at my watch. Quarter past seven. I whispered a string of curses. It was likely Spike’s plan that I stand alone and self-conscious in this esteemed hallway of sublime grandiosity. All at once, the murmuring stopped. I walked to the stairwell landing. One floor below, the slightest sounds of human activity came from behind arched double doors. I walked down the flight and listened. A gong sounded.
I put my hand on the latch, pushed down, then slowly opened the door. With its barrel-vaulted white ceiling, the room seemed like a palatial auditorium. Steep stadium seating bordered three sides of a rectangular checkerboard floor. Maybe two-thirds of the seats were filled. At the fourth side, a huge stage of red carpet, red curtains, and a single red upholstered high-back chair drew the attention of the attendees. I stayed in the standing room area behind the last row, and watched. A few men glanced at me. None appeared concerned that an infidel stood in their midst.
A bearded man appeared stage right and walked to a stand-up microphone. Around his waist he wore a white apron with blue trim and embroidered designs. On his head sat a black, high crown fedora with a feather tucked into the trim. Something about him struck me as familiar. The man began waving his hands wildly, as if swatting imaginary flies. Then he shouted, “Off with you! Off with you! Away, away!”
The room erupted as a single voice in an unidentifiable language. I noticed an older man standing about four feet from me. He had a relaxed, pleasant look on his face. I stepped closer to him and whispered, “What did everyone just say?”
The man smiled, then leaned into me like he was an old friend about to share a funny punch line.
“Anna dimgalbi, kia urgalbi.”
He laughed and was about to say something else when the guy onstage started shouting again in the mystery language. I smiled and nodded at my new friend then descended a couple of tiers, just close enough to recognize Blackstone as the man on the stage babbling in a strange tongue.
While once again struggling to reconcile Spike’s mastery over me, another man appeared from stage left. He circled the chair, stopped, then circled the chair again, this time walking backward in the opposite direction, before stopping in front of the chair and facing the audience. Blackstone prompted the man to repeat an oath in which he vowed to devote his lifeblood to the Ancient Craft. His voice didn’t have the nasal aspect I remembered from talking to him in the magic shop. I watched, somewhat disengaged from the symbolism of the ceremony itself, but present enough to remember my original goal to question Blackstone regarding his relationship with Doug. As I made my way down toward the stage, Blackstone crooned on about rings of brilliant light collecting in one’s heart and nourishing one’s soul. A huge banner proclaiming “Magick: The Discipline and Artistry of Inducing Metamorphosis” unfurled across the top of the stage.
The audience stood and cheered the initiate, who smiled broadly and waved like a pageant winner. The celebration continued for several minutes before dissolving into a kind of gentlemen’s reception. Long tables of cakes and sparkling grape juice were set up on the floor. Onstage, several men had joined Blackstone in engaging their new comrade in lively talk. Then Blackstone excused himself and disappeared stage right. Most of the other attendees remained standing at their seats or drifted toward the refreshment tables.
“Thinking about joining?”
I turned and looked into a smiling face standing a bit closer to me than I preferred. “I thought I’d check things out, meet some people. You know the guy on the stage who ran the show?”
“That’s Blackstone. Kind of a weird bird. But likable.”
“What do you mean weird?”
“Oh, nothing really, just takes it more seriously than most. But we need a guy like that.”
“Why is that important?”
The man thought about it. “A connection to childhood innocence, I guess. Once magic gets in your blood, it stays there. That’s just my theory.”
“And Blackstone’s really into the ritual, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. He made sure the ceremonies still use the archaic Coptic Egyptian. You could say he literally lives and breathes the Ancient Craft.” The man laughed. “He made a deal with the Masons who own this place. They let him live here in a little studio apartment in exchange for taking care of the place.”