Warshawski 09 - Hard Time (23 page)

“I had suggested to Teddy that Global try to make use of your agency, that it would be a good thing to support local talent. But he said you refused to take the assignment.”

My jaw dropped so suddenly that my ears popped. “You were behind that? Mrs. Trant—that was extremely gracious of you. The trouble is, the assignment as it came to me from Alex Fisher was to frame someone, a man named Lucian Frenada who was drowned over the weekend. I couldn’t take it on.”

She sighed. “That’s so typical of Alex. I wish Teddy didn’t rely on her advice so much—I think she often leads him astray.”

What a good wife, letting herself believe her husband was the innocent victim of bad advisers. But I wasn’t going to ride her: she had gone out on a long limb for me with no reason for doing so. I asked her what made her put in a word for me with her husband.

She looked at me for the first time. “Do you know that the only money I’ve ever worked for was exercising horses for people when I was a teenager? I love my life and I love my husband, but I’ve often wondered what I would do if he—and my own family—lost everything. Would I be able to cut my own path, the way you have? Helping you out is like—like—”

“A sacrifice to the gods to keep them from putting you to the test?” I suggested when she fumbled for words.

She flashed a radiant smile. “That’s it exactly. What a beautiful way of phrasing it! But in the meantime, if you hear from Robbie, send him home. Even if he’s not always happy there, his parents really have his best interests at heart. And I don’t think you can win against BB. He’s too big, and he has too many powerful friends.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I hesitated over my words before speaking again, then said, “Mrs. Trant, you’ve gone out of your way to help me. So I don’t like putting you on the spot. But have you noticed whether any of—well, the men you see socially, BB or Poilevy for instance—would you notice if one of them had lost a medallion from a Ferragamo shoe?”

“What a strange question. I suppose that means you must have found one? Where, I wonder? Are you allowed to tell me?”

“In the street near where Nicola Aguinaldo—the Baladines’ old nanny—died.”

She smiled again but without the radiance. “It’s not the kind of thing I notice, I’m afraid. Now—I’d better take off. It’s an hour on the Ike this time of day, and we’re entertaining some studio execs. I’ll certainly pay special attention to everyone’s feet tonight. Don’t forget about Robbie, will you? He should be at home.”

That seemed to be my exit line. I thanked her for her warning. And for trying to help my little agency. Maybe that was why Baladine hadn’t murdered me, I thought as I went back into my office. Maybe Teddy had told him that Abigail would be upset if they killed me. She knew about the shoe, though. I was willing to bet my meager pension plan on it.

29 Help Me, Father, for I Know Not What I’m Doing

At five–thirty I sent the woman from the agency home. I didn’t want to pay overtime on a job that would take at least sixteen or twenty more hours to finish. And I wanted her to leave while enough commuters were filling the sidewalks that no one would shoot at her, thinking it was me.

Tessa was still working in her studio. She put down her mallet and chisel after I’d been standing in her line of sight for six minutes. Artistic geniuses can’t break their concentration, I know. I told her I was worrying about her safety while Baladine was gunning for me.

“I’m going to take my computer home. It’s the only thing I need from my office for the immediate present. And then I’ll get word out that I’m not operating out of here. We could install a small video camera at the entrance concealed in one of your metal pieces; that would provide a record of anyone who broke in. For an extra five hundred or so we could even get little monitors so we could watch the entrance. And we could install a five–digit number pad with a breaker that froze it if someone tried more than three times in ten minutes to open it. With those you should be pretty safe.”

She wiped her face with a used towel, leaving a film of glittery dust on her cheeks. “Oh, damn you for being so noble, Vic. I was all set to chew your ass into tiny pieces. Now what am I supposed to do?”

“If you’d chew up BB Baladine it would be more helpful. I know everyone thinks I’m in this mess because I’m too impulsive, but honestly, all I did was stop to help a woman in the road.”

“That means something to you, I suppose. Get me a video camera installed tomorrow, and a new number pad, and leave your damned computer here. By the way, my daddy is insisting that someone from his staff meet me when I leave here at night.”

“Ah, that would be your mother’s next candidate for the father of her grandchildren?”

She grinned. “She’s hoping. His name’s Jason Goodrich—sounds solid enough, doesn’t it? He’s one of those software whizzes who gurgle in code coming out of the womb.”

“More to the point is whether the boy knows how to disarm a man holding an automatic. But if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

I went back to my office to call Mary Louise. When I asked her if she would have time to take care of the office security, she hemmed and muttered something about her midterms.

“Pete’s sake, Mary Louise. This isn’t asking you to go into the Georgia mud for a month. It would be a big help if you could take care of the setup. I don’t want to discuss what I want on the phone, but I can come over tonight or tomorrow morning and explain it.”

“No!” she snapped. “You’re not to come anywhere near this place.”

“What on earth is going on?” I was hurt more than baffled. “What have I done to you?”

“I—you—Vic, I can’t do any more work for you. You take too many risks.”

“You made it through ten years in the department, but I take so many risks you can’t even go to the Unblinking Eye for me?” I slammed the phone down so hard my palm smarted.

Was I really more dangerous to work for than the Chicago police? I fumed, pacing the room. If she could go down dark alleys after drug dealers, why couldn’t she at least go to the camera store and arrange for a video monitor for me? And all she’d say was she wasn’t going to put the children at risk. As if I were asking her to use them as human shields.

I came to a halt by my desk. Of course. Someone had threatened the children. That was what had happened. My hand hovered over the phone, then I thought better of it. If BB was monitoring my calls, then he’d assume Mary Louise had squealed. Then he might really go after the children. I felt trapped, and horribly alone. I sat with my head in my hands, trying not to cry.

“Vic! What’s wrong?” Tessa was leaning over me, her face lively with concern.

I rubbed a hand through my hair. “Nothing. I’m feeling sorry for myself, which is a disastrous indulgence for a detective. You taking off?”

“My appointed knight has arrived. It’s time for me to go, or have my mother show up with the FBI.”

She gestured toward the door and a man came in. He was tall and dark, almost as dark as Tessa herself, with fine–drawn features and the easy manner you get growing up with a lot of money. I could see why Mrs. Reynolds thought he looked like good husband material.

“Don’t sit here brooding alone,” Tessa said. “We’ll take you down to the Glow or some other place where you can be with friends.”

I pushed myself upright. The soreness in my legs was fading, that was one thing to be thankful for—a tribute to my daily workouts, or maybe just my DNA.

“It’s not such a good idea right now for you to hang out with me.” I tried not to seem melodramatic, and sounded pompous instead. “Anyway, I’m going to see a priest, so I’ll be in good hands.”

“A priest?” Tessa echoed. “Vic! Oh, you’re pulling my leg. Well, don’t stay alone here too late, hear?”

I followed her to the door and watched her and her escort leave. He was driving a navy BMW sedan, an easy car to keep an eye on if you were tailing. Just as well I’d turned down a ride.

I watched the street through the small pane of wire–filled glass for five minutes or so. Who knew if I was under surveillance or not? I walked down to the corner, leaving the Rustmobile in the lot.

Elton was hawking
Streetwise
near the L stop. I stopped to buy a few; his red–streaked blue eyes looked at me with lively curiosity. “I see some dudes hanging around today,” he whispered with hoarse importance. “
Streetwise,
miss,
Streetwise,
sir—read about the mayor and the homeless on Lower Wacker—they was driving some kind of late–model tan car, maybe a Honda. Fact of the matter they’re driving down Leavitt now. Coming up behind you.
Streetwise,
sir, thank you, sir.”

I scuttled up the L stairs, frantically fishing in my wallet for singles to stuff into the ticket machine. Below me the tan Honda stopped. I grabbed a ticket and ran up to the platform, shoving my way through a knot of commuters who swore at me for my rudeness. A southbound train was getting ready to leave. I stuck a hand into the shutting panels, earning another yell—this time from the trainman—and watched the platform with a sick franticness until the doors hissed shut and we were under way.

I rode the train all the way into the Loop, where I got out and walked slowly around Marshall Field’s, admiring the beachwear in the State Street windows and the garden furniture at the north end of the store. The setting sun made a mirror of the glass; I watched the people behind me. No one seemed to be paying me any special attention.

I climbed back up the L stairs and picked up the Blue Line outbound: I’d had a tiny inspiration while I was indulging in misery in my office. It took me to the California stop, in the heart of Humboldt Park. I walked the six blocks to St. Remigio’s.

St. Remigio’s was a Victorian brick monster, dating to the turn of the last century when Humboldt Park had a large Italian population. Whoever Remigio had been, his miraculous powers hadn’t extended to protecting the building: the great arched windows in the sanctuary were boarded over, and the old wooden doors were fastened with massive chains.

Despite the lateness of the hour, small boys were racing after a soccer ball in the heavily fenced schoolyard. A stocky man with sparse white hair punctuated their screams with shouted directions in Spanish. After a minute or two he saw me at the locked gate and came over, asking in Spanish what I wanted.

“Ando buscando a el Padre.”
I stumbled through the phrase in my schoolgirl Spanish.

He waved an arm toward the back of the church and said something so fast that I couldn’t follow it. Before I could ask for a repetition, two little boys ran over to tug at his arm and demand—as far as I could tell—a ruling on some dispute. I was immediately forgotten in the more important business of the moment.

I walked past the front of the church and found a narrow walkway leading to the rear. Chunks of pavement were missing, but someone had made a gallant attempt to spruce up the area. Scraggly rosebushes surrounded a dejected–looking statue that I assumed was St. Remigio himself. I picked an empty bottle of Four Roses from behind him and looked for a garbage bin. Finally, not wanting to present myself to the priest carrying a bottle, I tucked it into my handbag and rang a bell labeled
FATHER LOU.

After a longish wait, when I was thinking the soccer coach might have been explaining that Father Lou was away, a harsh squawk startled me. I hadn’t noticed the intercom to the left of the door.

“This is V. I. Warshawski. I want to talk to the priest about one of his parishioners.” I didn’t think I could explain my errand intelligibly at a shout through a speaker.

After another long wait, the dead bolt snapped back and an old man in a T–shirt and slippers stood in the doorway. His upper body and neck had the thickness of a weight lifter. He looked at me as if assessing whether to pick me up and throw me off the stoop.

“Father Lou?”

“Are you with the police or the press?” He had the gravelly voice of the old Irish South Side.

“No. I’m a private investigator—”

“Whether you’re private or public, I won’t have you digging around in that boy’s past, trying to prove some slander about him.” He turned back inside and started to shut the door.

I put out a hand to brace the door; it took all my strength to keep a big enough crack open for me to cry out, “I’m not slandering Lucian Frenada. I’ve been trying to stop the
Herald–Star
from running their story on him and drugs. I’ve been trying to talk to Lacey Dowell, because she knows something about the true reason he was killed, but she won’t talk to me. I was hoping you might know something.”

The pressure on the other side eased. Father Lou reappeared in the entrance, frowning. “If you aren’t digging up dirt on Lucy, what’s your involvement?”

“Please. Can we sit down? I can explain the whole story to you, but not standing out here in the heat with one foot in the door hoping you won’t shut it on me.”

“This is my rest time,” the priest grumbled. “Everyone around here knows not to bother me from six to seven. It’s the only way an old man like me can keep running a big parish.”

That must have been what the soccer coach was trying to tell me—the priest is back there, but don’t interrupt his nap. I was starting to mutter an apology when he added, “But Lucy’s death—I can’t sleep anyway. I might as well talk to you.”

He led me into a wide dark vestibule. Despite his age he moved easily, his walk a graceful bounce. Dancers’ legs, boxers’ legs.

“Mind your step. I don’t put lights on in the hall—have to save every nickel in a poor parish; don’t want the cardinal shutting us down because we’re too expensive.”

Father Lou unlocked a small side room, furnished with the heavy remains of the previous century. Eight chairs with ornate legs stood primly around a heavy table. A blackened painting of Jesus in a crown of thorns hung over an empty grate.

The priest motioned me to one of the chairs. “I’m going to make tea. Make yourself comfortable.”

I did my best in the wooden chair. The flowers carved into the back dug into my shoulder blades. I shifted forward. On the table a plaster statue of the Virgin smiled at me sadly. Her lips were chipped and the paint had flaked from her left eye, but the right one stared at me patiently. She was wearing a cloak of faded taffeta, painstakingly trimmed in handmade lace.

Father Lou returned with a battered metal tray holding a teapot and two cups as I was fingering the fabric. “A hundred years old, that lace, we have it on the altar, too. What did you say your name was?”

When I repeated it he tried to talk to me in Polish. I had to explain that I knew only a handful of words, gleaned from my father’s mother; my own mother, an Italian immigrant, spoke to me in her language. At that he switched to Italian and grinned with delight at my surprise.

“I’ve been here a long time. Baptized Italians here, married Poles; now I offer the mass in Spanish. Neighborhood’s always been poor; wasn’t always this dangerous. Parish council suggested soccer. Seems to be good for the little kids, lets them run off some of that energy.”

“But you were a boxer?” I was guessing, from his gait.

“Oh, yeah. I boxed for Loyola in the forties, then I found my vocation but kept boxing. I still run a club here. St. Remigio’s remains the school to beat—gives the boys something to be proud of. We can’t play football against those big suburban schools. We can’t get enough equipment for eleven boys, let alone fifty or sixty the way they do. But I can outfit boxers. Lucy was one of my best. I was that proud of him.”

His jaw worked. For a minute he looked like a tired old man, his pale eyes filming over, then he shook himself, an unconscious motion, shaking off one more punch.

He looked at me aggressively, as if to make sure I didn’t try to pity him for his weakness. “The police came around suggesting Lucy was running drugs through his factory. They wanted me to spy on him. I told them what I thought of that. Then the papers and the television. Mexican boy makes good, so he must be selling drugs. All that innuendo—I saw what the
Herald–Star’
s been saying. This boy who drove an old car so he could pay his sister’s children’s fees here at Remigio? They couldn’t leave him alone.”

He stopped to drink some tea. I had some too, to be polite. It was light and flowery and surprisingly refreshing in the heat.

“When did you last talk to him?” I asked.

“He came here to mass once or twice a week. I’m thinking it was last Tuesday. He filled in as a server when he saw that the kid who was supposed to do it hadn’t shown. They used to laugh at him when he was fourteen, when I talked him into coming here, do some training and serve at the mass—little altar boy, that’s what they called him—but then he started winning boxing matches, and the tune they sang on the streets changed in a hurry.

“I’m getting sidetracked. I don’t like to think about him being dead, that’s all. It’s easy to say people are with Jesus when they die, and I even believe it’s true, but we need Lucy here. I need him, anyway. Jesus wept when Lazarus died—He’s not going to condemn me for crying over Lucy.”