The Talk Show Murders (8 page)

“Did you?”

He smiled. “Not as much as Big Jon, but a couple of pals and I ponied up enough for a point. It won’t kill me if the thing tanks. And if it turns out as big as the books, I won’t kick myself in the ass for ignoring the opportunity.”

I lost him again to a quartet of young men in business suits. I suppose I should have left him to his hosting duties, but I was curious about the CEO of Instapicks and Onion City Entertainment. He struck me as a potential interview subject.

“What kind of guy is Webber?” I asked, when Dann returned.

“A good guy. None of that I-know-more-than-you bullshit you get from some of the new-money boys. Makes you feel he’s vitally interested in whatever you’re telling him. And I gotta give him props for ‘hiring’ Jonny.”

“How’d that happen?”

“He had a lunch for backers and their families, to show off the studio he’d built out at the Instapicks compound. Jon and I took the boy with, and when Webber made his rounds to welcome each of us, Jonny, in that way of his, said he was a good carpenter and asked if he could help out with the sets. Webber was amused. He said if it was all right with his dad, the job was his.

“I drove him out there and watched while he pounded some nails and got to spend time with the crew and the cast. It was great for him.”

“What turned Jonny against Mrs. Parnelle?”

“She saw him standing around, watching the workers, and began shouting that Webber wasn’t paying him to dog it. When I tried explaining the situation, the bitch began shouting at me, wanting to know what
I
was doing there. Somebody got Webber, who calmed her down. Then he took Jonny and me to lunch and apologized.”

“Webber sounds like an interesting guy,” I said.

“If there were more entrepreneurs like him, the country wouldn’t be so screwed up,” Dann said.

Suddenly his attention was drawn to activity at the entrance. “Well, looky here,” he said with a wide grin. “Heeerrrre’s Big Jon.”

The man who’d just entered was not that big, at least by Dann’s pro football standards. He stood six feet. Medium build. Everything about him looked polished—neatly barbered, his face a healthy tan, his smile exposing straight, gleaming teeth. His dark suit was tailored to emphasize broad shoulders and a thin waist. His black shoes were mirror-shiny. I figured him to be in his fifties. What impressed me most was his style—relaxed, confident, ready for anything. A man totally at home in his skin.

The brothers-in-law embraced. When they pulled apart, Jon Baker saw me, and his face lit up. “Chef Billy Blessing, I’ll be damned.”

He approached with an outstretched hand and gave mine a hearty shake. “I’m Jon Baker, and this is a real pleasure.”

“Likewise,” I said.

“It’s great that you’re featuring Charlie on your cable show,” he said. “I love the show, by the way. Record it. Watch it. Try the recipes. I love to cook. It’s how I unwind.”

“Billy’s morning show is broadcasting from here this week and next,” Dann said.

“Terrific. It’s a great city, Billy. I’ve lived in other parts of the country, but nothing compares.”

“You grow up here?”

“Nooo. I’m … I was a Malibu Beach boy. I met Donna—my late wife—out there when she was working at Cedar’s. She was a Chicagoan through and through, like her big brother Charlie. She hated the West Coast and just about had to put a gun to my head to get me back here, where people have to work for a living. And every day I thank God I listened to her.”

The sound of a digital chirp interrupted him. Both he and Charlie checked their phones. It was Jon’s. “ ’Scuse me a minute,” he said, and walked away from us.

“The guy’s a real dynamo, isn’t he?” Dann said. “And the whole BDI thing, this is all since he and Donna and the boys moved here about ten years ago. Out in California he was what they call a ‘laid-back dude’ who mainly surfed and sunned. Trust-fund baby.”

Jon rejoined us, pocketing his phone. “Gotta grab the boy and run. Pleasure meeting you, Billy.”

“Same here. Good kid you’ve got.”

“You bet. Two of ’em.”

Watching him moving toward his son, Charlie said, “Jon and Donna were braver than I woulda been, having another kid. But Dickie’s as sharp as his dad. He graduated from Northwestern, and he’s working his way up through BDI.”

The bar was going full tilt, and Dann seemed anxious to be about his glad-handing. I thanked him for the interview. He gave me an open invitation for dinner at the restaurant, then limped back into the
lounge that was filling with customers, most of whom hadn’t been alive when he’d played for the Bears.

Out on Clark Street, the after-work traffic was congealing. Not a cab in sight.

I started walking north, past buildings of yellow brick and concrete. In the next block was a BDI construction site with a backhoe resting idly at the curb beside a huge pile of sand. In just the few days I’d been in town, I’d seen considerable building and rebuilding taking place. What Nelson Algren had once famously labeled the City on the Make was now apparently a city on the makeover. Mainly by BDI.

Because the sand was blocking part of the sidewalk, I waited for a break in the traffic and crossed the two-lane street, walking against the flow. Continuing north, I spotted a small black SUV parked just past the backhoe. The darkened side window was open a crack, and cigarette smoke snaked through it, mixing with the traffic exhaust. While I watched, the SUV backed up and darted out into the traffic, barely missing a dusty sedan driven by a Germanic-looking guy, who began pounding on his horn.

I had no reason to think the driver of the SUV had any business with me. But there’s that little twinge you get sometimes from a sixth-sense connection made. Usually it’s the feeling that someone’s watching you. At that moment, it was Pat Patton’s death and my potentially perilous situation.

At the corner, the SUV suddenly attempted a U-turn but was only partially successful. A Lincoln Town Car blocked it. When the Town Car moved on, the Accord behind it stayed where it was and the black SUV made his U.

Coming for me, no doubt.

I ran out into the street, dodged a truck, and continued on past a slow-moving Mercedes sedan to the sidewalk on the other side. Before the SUV’s driver could manage a second U-turn, I ran down an alley and hung a right into another alley. Exiting, I continued on a fast walk east and flagged down the first free taxi I saw.

“Hey, I know you, man,” the black driver said, as I pulled the door shut. “You’re the morning show dude.”

“That’s me,” I said, and gave him the name of my hotel.

As he pulled away from the curb, I twisted in the seat to look out of the rear window. No black SUV. When I faced forward, the driver was staring at me in his rearview.

“You see anything back there I should know about?” he asked.

“Not a blessed thing,” I told him.

Why should both of us be worried?

“Won’t you even consider it, Billy?” Trina Lomax asked.

We were at the tail end of a dinner at Everest in the Chicago Stock Exchange, Trina, Arnie Epps, and myself. I’d been a little surprised to discover I was the only cohost they’d invited. Surprised and wary.

For the better part of an hour and a half, we’d small-talked, observed the view from the fortieth floor, and enjoyed our seven courses that arrived from Chef Jean Joho’s educated kitchen with courtesy and efficiency. We were sipping espresso and nibbling on petits fours when Trina finally got around to the purpose of the dinner.

“Gretchen and I feel that the show should feature special coverage of the Chicago PD’s investigation of the Pat Patton murder.”

My throat closed in on a bite of petit four. Usually happens when a noose tightens. I coughed and grabbed a glass of water. When I could talk, I said, “It’s a local murder. Why would—”

“Patton was almost a regular.”

“Almost,” I said. “He didn’t even appear on the show.”

“What kept him from it, need I remind you, Billy, is that he was murdered,” she said. “It could even
be
the reason he was murdered.”

“I get it. You want to use that very dubious possibility to suggest that our show is more relevant than the other morning shows—not to mention edgy and dangerous.”

“It is a unique situation,” she said. “Not
Today
or
GMA
or
The Early Show
can claim to be that closely tied to a homicide.”

“What about you, Arnie, you old hipster?” I asked. “You on board with using a man’s violent death to put more eyeballs on the screen?”

Our line producer, who was already looking uneasy with his multicolored Hawaiian shirt nearly hidden by an ancient, shiny blue blazer, winced and stammered. “Well, ah … our ratings …”

I turned to Trina. “You think the commander will be happy with this kind of exploitation?”

“Commander Di Voss will be happy if his daughter Gretchen is happy. That’s why he put her in charge. I don’t understand what’s set you off, Billy. We’re a current-events show. This is a current event that’s every bit as interesting and certainly more newsworthy than some idiocy committed by that
Jersey Shore
crew or Lindsay Lohan’s latest legal problems. It’s not like we’re having Patton’s open casket on the show.

“Which reminds me,” she said, turning to Arnie, “we should get some footage of the service and the burial.”

Back to me. “Anyway, I’m stunned by your reaction, Billy. We were hoping you’d be point man on this.”

That possibility was what caused my reaction. There were only a few things I knew as certainty in this life. The one at the top was: The less I had to do with Patton and his murder, the better.

“Won’t you even consider it, Billy?”

“Why me?”

“You need to ask? In just three years you’ve been at the center of two homicidal rampages. You’ve become the show’s murder expert.”

Most people don’t consider that a badge of honor, but this is television. “You flatter me,” I said. “I could challenge your use of the word ‘rampages’ and explain why being involved in two murder cases does
not exactly qualify me as an expert. But I’m too damn tired. So excuse me if I just decline.”

Trina’s handsome face froze. She was used to getting her way. She was annoyed with me and, I suppose, with herself for assuming this would be an easy sale.

“Will you at least explain your reticence?”

The quick answer to that was “no.” But I had to work with these people.

“I’ve had the misfortune to be involved in two murder investigations,” I said. “In spite of what you may think, this was not the kind of publicity I, or any normal person, wants or needs. I’m a chef, not a sleuth. My expertise is in culinary matters, not criminal. And I like it that way. I want customers to come to my restaurant to dine well, not to gawk at the guy who’s in the tabloids.”

“I don’t see how reporting the news—”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Trina. When it comes to reporting the news, you’ve got two anchors and a newswoman on the show. Use one of them for your murder investigation updates. I’ll stick to the recipes and the joke of the day.”

Trina signaled the waiter for the check. Arnie studied the petits fours crumbles on the serving plate. I sat back in my chair and waited for the venison and wild huckleberries dinner I’d eaten to stop doing the Running Man in my stomach.

One of the first things you learn about interviewing is that silence can be a useful tool. You ask a question, and the interview subject answers, expecting another question. If you remain silent, the subject often will try to fill in the conversational hole, and in doing so often will provide you with the best quotes of the session.

Since the three of us were old hands at the silence game, the only words spoken on the taxi ride back to the hotel were Arnie’s, informing the driver of our destination.

The interlude of thought and introspection calmed things down a bit, and in the hotel’s lobby, I thanked Trina for the dinner. She said she’d decided Lance would do the reports on the investigation into Patton’s murder. “I’d appreciate your not telling him he was my second choice.”

“Of course not,” I said.

“I’m going to my room to phone Gretchen,” she said. “I don’t want to delay the bad news. She’ll be as disappointed as I am.”

She remained in place, staring at me. Hoping I’d change my mind?
When I didn’t, she turned on her heel and marched toward the elevator bank, where Arnie waited, peeling off his wilted blazer and exposing one of his trademark Hawaiian shirts, like some six-foot-two mantis shedding a dull layer of skin and emerging as something new and colorful.

I waited to take the next car up.

It’s never a good idea to get in Dutch with your producers, but I didn’t think Trina could fire me. Even if she did, self-preservation would trump employment.

Or so I told myself. The fact of the matter was, if Gio Polvere, or whoever, had sent the men in the SUV to remove me from planet Earth, I might as well have gone along with Trina’s plan. But I preferred to take the optimistic approach. The SUV’s inhabitants gave up rather easily. They hadn’t been waiting outside the hotel when I hailed a cab to go to Everest. They hadn’t been behind us on the drive back to the hotel.

Heading up to my suite, I decided that I’d have to rein in my imagination. As FDR once put it so succinctly, we’ve nothing to fear.…

The red button on the phone in my suite was blinking.

I watched the blinks for what seemed like a full minute, then lifted the receiver.

I was informed: “The following message was left for you at seven-thirteen p.m.”

“Chef Blessing, we met a few days ago.” The recorded voice was male, nasal, and vaguely familiar. “I’m Larry Kelsto. The comic. I know you’re a busy guy, but I’d really appreciate your catching my set tonight at the Komedy Krush on North Wells Street. I’ll be on around ten-thirty. I’ll leave a pass at the door, and we can have a drink after. I think you’ll be interested in hearing my pitch, Chef Blanch … ah, sorry, Chef Blessing.”