"Yup. And I sure wish there had been one on me Thursday night," he said bitterly, and he stomped back to his office.
"Well, then," I said, standing in the middle of his office, "Barry, how did you get hired?"
"You mean did I bribe somebody?"
"Or know somebody."
"The position of manager isn't glamorous. When things work right, nobody even knows the manager's name. But it's the one position that
has
to work right. There's no arguing, like there is about style or color schemes. The elements— equipment, staff, and all— have to be here, and they have to be here on time, and they have to work. You can believe me or not. I got hired on simple reputation. I do this kind of thing all the time. Corporate weekends, fairs, conferences, you name it. I get hired because I'm good at it, I have a track record, which I'm trying to build up, and one more thing."
"What's that?"
"I'm cheap."
21
WAY UP ABOVE THE CHIMNEY TOPS—
In my early days of reporting, some of the other reporters and I would play a game we called "contacts." The idea was that one person would come up with the name of a real person, known to him but not the player, and the player would have to contact him through a friend of a friend of a friend. You got more points the fewer people you needed to use, but we considered anything over four a bad job not worthy of a real reporter. This is a lot like the "six degrees of separation" idea.
As far as getting close to a person in Chicago is concerned, though, if I couldn't achieve it with just two intervening people, I'd be ashamed of myself.
Actually, it took me one call for Taubman, two for Mazzanovich, and three for Pottle, which averages out okay. I could have done it in one for Mazzanovich, because he was an alderman and I know several aldermen, but the point was to get hold of somebody who would know where the guy went and what he did when he got there and who was willing to tell me about it. Somebody, in other words, who didn't love the guy.
That evening I began to shadow the three suspects. My three suspects, that is, which didn't include Barry. My idea was that they would constantly run into me, which should shake them up. When possible, I wanted to get to where they were going even before they got there. It was a desperation move. But if Barry was innocent, as I believed he was, then one of them must have stabbed Plumly. And only one of them had wielded the knife, whether the others had been in on the plan or had been taken by surprise. Among them, there should be one weak link. I wanted him to freak out and talk.
Did that make me a stalker? Yeah, I guess so.
* * *
Larry Mazzanovich's house in Northbrook was impressive. Six two-story pillars ran along the front although they were more for looks than architectural necessity. There was a veranda behind the pillars with several white settees in which no one was sitting and probably no one ever sat.
Large beds of begonias and petunias in sculptured ovals swept down the lawn, flanking the curving front walk. A graceful curving drive led to a three-stall garage.
I drove past, since Mazzanovich wouldn't be home in the middle of the workday. Mainly I had wanted to see where he lived. When he lived here, that is.
His wife spent pretty much all her time here, my informant said. They had two children who were at boarding school someplace. Probably that decision had been made so that they hadn't had to choose between school in Chicago or school out here.
Because Mazzanovich claimed he lived in his aldermanic district. He had a small house there, and he hung around the neighborhood bars. He pretended to live there. He claimed to be a Chicagoan through and through. I guess that was sort of a political fiction.
Well, this certainly was a nice place to visit. But I had to get back to town before dinnertime. I had plans.
* * *
Pinning the men down to a time and place was easiest with Taubman, the lighting designer. I had talked to a friend who works for the Civic Opera Company, helping to hire the supernumeraries. A person like that would certainly have to know the Taubmans, and she did.
* * *
A string quartet wearing evening dress was tuning up. An evening of music in the Gold Coast apartment of Howard Stoddard would begin in twenty minutes. The glittering crowd of perhaps a hundred music lovers milled around, chattering and checking out each other's clothes.
It was a benefit for literacy, which in my profession I could hardly sneer at, although they could have just donated money, including the large amount spent on white wine, hors d'oeuvres, and the staff of at least seven waiters. My informant told me that the minimum donation was one thousand dollars, and many had probably ponied up more than that. Not me, of course. My friend squeaked me in as a reporter. Making this more believable, I asked for the guest list from Mrs. Stoddard and made notes on the food and the names of the musicians and the music— Haydn, Borodin— even before Taubman walked in. My injured left shoulder was so painful that I had to hold my notebook at about waist level, which was awkward for writing, but otherwise I looked official.
Taubman's wife was raven-haired. Her dress was black with spaghetti straps, her jewelry was silver, and she looked like a million dollars. She air-kissed Mrs. Stoddard, who looked like a billion dollars.
Taubman saw me and blinked. But I was on the far side of the room and he toughened right up and waved at a man, ignoring me. The two men moved toward each other, Taubman seizing a glass of wine as he crossed the room. I let them talk for a few minutes while I munched pastry stuffed with crab. Then I meandered over to them. Taubman saw me coming and turned away.
A waiter passed near us carrying a tray full of glasses. Taubman leaned over and put his empty wineglass on the proffered tray, taking up another with scarcely a beat missed. Within a few seconds, other people had gracefully but quickly snatched the other glasses on the tray.
Taubman gave me one of those glance-and-look-away things that meant he'd rather I left. I didn't.
"Boozy crowd, isn't it?" I said.
"And no bad thing," said the slender man Taubman had been chatting with.
"My name is Cat Marsala," I said.
"Sumner Britten," he said, holding out his hand. The one without the wineglass.
"It's Dr. Britten," Taubman said, pointedly. "He's chair of the cardiology department at the University of Chicago."
"And you're going to tell me wine is good for you, right?"
He blinked in astonishment. "How on earth did you know?"
"Wild guess."
"Alcohol in moderation is perfectly healthful," he said. "Quite a tonic, in fact. It tends to lower cholesterol and improve cardiovascular fitness. Reduces the incidence of strokes. Alcohol has some effect in preventing peripheral clots, as well."
"No kidding."
"Moderate drinking produces a twenty to forty percent drop in coronary disease. That's about as much as regular exercise. It's as good as Pepto-Bismol for travelers' digestive upsets. And it seems to reduce memory loss in the elderly."
"Well, why don't you doctors tell people this?"
Taubman broke in. "Ms. Marsala, they couldn't possibly do that. Not everybody is moderate."
Britten said, "Some of our patients would start to drink to excess."
"And you know how people are," Taubman said. "They'd take the recommendation as a license to go out binge drinking. And then when they got into trouble, they'd blame the doctors."
"So you're in favor of leaving everybody misinformed in order to prevent a few from making a mistake? Big Brother has made the decision for us?"
"Well," said Britten, "I'm telling
you
."
"People," I said, "are taking away all my vices."
* * *
I left the party before the music started. This was no time for idle entertainment. My next stop was a local North Side bar called the Bucket of Blood. That's really the name. It's a very old neighborhood place just a bit north of Uptown.
In the Jeep I had wriggled into Levi's and then out of the skirt part of my all-black Gold Coast ensemble, the writhing doing further damage to my shoulder. My black top, when paired with the jeans, looked a whole lot less expensive than it had with the skirt and sling-back heels. It became more honest, because in fact it was a thrift-shop find, like my sofa. A pair of black running shoes and the switch was done. I keep a box of clothes in the car for exactly this kind of blending in.
Much as I had hoped to get to the bar before Mazzanovich, the chance had been small, so it was no surprise to me that he was there already. He was surprised, though, when I walked in.
Making no attempt to approach him, I slid onto a bar stool and said, "Miller," to the bartender. This was not the sort of bar where they stocked a hundred brands of beer.
Mazzanovich was sitting with a group of friends and was now wearing clean clothes, including a pink shirt, navy pants, and black shoes. There was a blond guy in a plaid shirt, a little dark guy with slicked-back black hair, and a Robert De Niro look-alike in a black suit with tan vest, gold tie, and shiny shoes. I had seen pictures of the little guy in an article on purported mob figures. Other than me, the four were the only people in the bar.
Although I was sitting five stools away, Mazzanovich didn't try to ignore me. He elbowed his friends. He pointed at me.
Mazzanovich said, "Hey, guys. Know what? This little lady actually believes that people in Chicago take bribes!"
They all burst into raucous laughter.
"She thinks some people may have
clout
."
They laughed harder. "What? In Chicago?" the De Niro look-alike said. Everybody laughed even harder.
"And see, she thinks people in the
construction industry
might get into shady dealings. And politicians and such just might steer deals. And to get certain jobs, you might have to be
connected
!"
Now they were not only laughing but kicking the bar stools and pounding their beer bottles on the bar top.
"And that I would be so bent outta shape to be connected with any such
malfeasance
that I'd murder people who said so."
Hoots and hollers from the jolly group of guys.
"Gee," I said, very annoyed, "this place sounds just like the cafeteria at Menard when I went there to cover the lock-down." Menard is a maximum security prison in Illinois.
Now there was a lot of silence in the place.
"And you know what," I went on unwisely. "The reason I was there was one of the ringleaders was a guy who got sent up, or sent down, depending on how you look at it, because of an article I wrote on him. Not that I'm planning to write about you, Mr. Mazzanovich."
The little guy took out a cigar.
I said, "Mazzanovich, could you come over here for a minute or two and we'll talk?"
"Ooooh," said the blond. "I think she's gonna in-ter-rogate you."
"She wantsta come home with me, she can interrogate all she wants," De Niro said.
"Sure, hey, why not," Mazzanovich said. He slid four stools south and smiled in my face.
He said, "So?"
"So who told you I was asking about payoffs?"
He shrugged. "General knowledge."
"You know, I think it's kind of funny that when you or Taubman or Pottle tell me what you were all talking with Plumly about, you tell me the same two problems, flammable cooking stuff and the naked lady on the concession stand. And you tell them in the same order, and you use practically the same words."
"Think that's funny, do you?"
"Yeah. Kind of seems rehearsed."
"Well, hey. We discussed it. What, you think we have our daily three P.M. alibi meeting? Morning after Plumly was knifed, we conference-called and remembered to ourselves what we'd been talking about. Because why? Because nosy people like cops and you are gonna ask. Right?"
"Right."
"And you did, and we did, and there you go, huh?"
"I went to see your house in Northbrook."
He stopped grinning. "So what?"
"Well, see, you live there, not in your district."
"Oh, really? It's my summer house. Mayor Daley has a summer place in Michigan. Couple of aldermen have summer places in Door County, Wisconsin. That's sure a lot farther away."
"Yours isn't a summer house."
"So if you're so smart, why hasn't anybody else discovered this?"
"Well, basically because you're not that important for them to go looking."
"Oh, yeah? Well, what about my opponent in the election? How come he hasn't, like they say, 'ridden to victory' by giving me up?"
"Your opponent is a Republican. In this district you could run a gerbil and get more votes."
