Windy City Blues (13 page)

“You’re a dumb-ass cliché. Get it?”

I’m sure he didn’t get it.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” he said.

“Right. I see. You’re on some kind of extra payroll, and you don’t want me ruining it for you. Is that what I’m supposed to get?”

The cop laughed and then waved his arms like he was signaling to someone. “See ya later, pal,” he said and drove off.

I doubled back to Lincoln Avenue and replayed my encounter with Officer Shakedown. He had been contacted by one or both “companies.” The companies provided services to the people who wrote parking tickets. WCM made their money from meter revenue. Parking fines went into the city coffers. Why would they have a cop on their payroll?

A cry for help stopped me in front of a narrow one-way alley where a woman leaned against the wall, doubled over in pain. She had short blond hair and wore a jean jacket over a long dress. Gapers walked past more curious as to
my
next move than the stricken woman. Maybe they assumed someone would call 911. The public’s blatant disregard tempered my impulse to ignore the risk associated with Chicago alleys, and my altruistic naiveté won the day.

“You need an ambulance?” I said.

She straightened up enough to look at me then held out her hand. I let her use me as a crutch while she led me to the other end of the alley, which connected to a circular loading area behind several businesses.

“Over here is my car,” she said in accented English.

“Are you well enough to drive?” I said. She pointed to a Cadillac with blackened rear windows parked in front of the exit driveway.

“Come.” We walked to the driver’s side where she let go of my hand. “Thank you, mister,” she said then opened the door.

I had expected to assist her into the driver’s seat but she moved unaffectedly and closed the door with little effort. The implication of her sudden upgrade materialized just as the door window reflected a figure standing behind me. I flinched in time to deflect a brass-knuckled fist from a husky skinhead in a black jacket and dark orange shirt. My forearm muscle took the brunt of the strike, saving me from a broken radius, but still rocketing painful shock waves through my arm and shoulder.

I stumbled backward holding my arm, looking around for help. The driver’s side rear door was now open. The man approached me slowly, nervously looking around to see if anyone was watching. The plan had been to execute a quick knockout, stuff the body into the backseat, and be off. The woman rolled her window down and frantically yelled something in her Slavic language, whatever that was. The man shouted something back, clearly unhappy. He sprinted toward me. I turned, hoping to reach one of the stairways leading to a business’s back door, but slipped on loose gravel and fell. Pain shot through every cell.

I maneuvered onto my back and waited until he was almost on top of me before shoving the heel of my foot against his pubic bone. He fell on me with a scream but still managed to deliver a glancing punch to my face before rolling off and assuming the fetal position. The Cadillac pulled up, the woman jumped out. She shouted, started pulling at his jacket. She wanted to leave.

I used the downtime to start crawling toward the alley entrance that connected to Lincoln but made it only a few feet before a cop car pulled in and screeched to a halt.

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” he yelled at the couple and I recognized the voice of Officer Shakedown. “Get the hell out of here!”

While the cop helped the woman drag the man to the backseat, I continued my journey to Lincoln Avenue until I felt a foot press down between my shoulder blades. “Where’re you going, shit breath?” the cop said then dropped both knees onto my back and said in my ear, “Just remember. You’re getting off easy.” I heard him unsnap his gun holster then something hard hit me.

A brick wall came into focus, followed by alley stink, and then throbbing pain from my head, right cheekbone, and most of my upper body. Propped against the alley wall, I managed to get to my feet and walk toward the sidewalk. Pedestrians pretended not to notice or simply didn’t care.

Unsteady, filthy, sporting a shiner, I forgave the Lincoln Avenue folks who saw a drunk or dopehead. By the time I staggered home, swallowed 4,000 mg of acetaminophen, and collapsed onto my couch with ice packs on my face, head, and arm, the day had acquired a dreamlike quality. Typically, I spent ten or twenty minutes rehashing events or newfound facts before drifting off. On this afternoon, only shock and pain accompanied me into a semi-slumber, unperturbed by Punim’s occupation of my chest but eventually succumbing to a continuous knocking on the door.

Standing in the doorway, Tamar held two bags of groceries and stared in horror. “Oh, my god!” she said and rushed to the kitchen and dropped the bags on the table. “What happened?”

“I got mugged—sort of.” Tamar gaped as if unsure who I was.

“Should you go to the hospital? Did you report this to the police?”

“Actually, a policeman knows what happened. And bruises always look worse than they really are—especially on the face. Let me get cleaned up, and I promise to tell you everything.”

Tamar nodded but continued staring. “I’ll start dinner.”

By the time I stepped out of the shower, a variety of savory smells temporarily eclipsed any nastiness the day had offered. With an awakened appetite and clean clothes, I felt somewhat human again. Observing Tamar from behind, I watched her create a salad loaded with all things green, purple, yellow, and red. Lightly browned vegetables crowded a baking pan, a pile of dumpling-like things sat in a colander, and a basket held a stack of thick, flat white bread. She wore black leggings and a floral patterned blouse with short sleeves flowing freely over her arms. The combination of the blouse’s deep V-back and her slender legs and thighs pulled me into her orbit.

“It looks like you’ve done this before,” I said.

Tamar smiled, then cringed. “You look like you’re in pain.”

“I’ll heal. Put me to work.”

“I’m done. Sit.”

I obeyed and watched Tamar prepare two plates with a little of everything. Bread was sacred to Georgians, she said, as was the walnut spice of the vegetables and dumplings.

“Food is basic nourishment for our bodies, just as blood is the basic component that unites a family forever. There is no stronger bond than blood.”

Talk of food and blood in the same sentence caught me off guard. I sensed Tamar was trying to tell me something. But my hungry, battered body knew only that the flavors in her food dulled the pain like delicious morphine.

“Tell me what’s going on and start with the internal organs of small animals in the fridge.”

“My cat is observing us from an undisclosed location,” I said.

“Hey! I saw my boss kick people out of a booth,” Tamar said. “A couple came in and sat in a booth. I watched closely. The gray-haired businessman at the next booth walked over to the counter and asked for the boss who then ended up asking the couple to move. Then the boss told me anything the couple ordered was on the house.”

“Maybe those guys are discussing secret recipes?” I said. “Anyway, remember Rich Jones, the guy who set up Jack with Lada? He gave me a tearful confession about spreading rumors that Jack was involved with the Russian mob.”

“That’s insane!” Tamar said. “Why would he say such garbage?”

“Management was twisting Jones’s arm to find cheap immigrant labor to work as parking officers. It angered Jones that Jack worked for half the wage of others. The anger got to him. He wanted to hurt Jack.”

“Jack never said anything to me about working for less than the others did.”

“It gets better. Jones claimed management approached Jack to act as a go-between to get a piece of the action from his alleged mob connections. Then he described how management went as far as showing Jack complicated scenarios of money laundering and allegedly gave Jack an envelope stuffed with cash to demonstrate their sincerity.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Tamar said. “You have to be making this up.”

“Look, I’m not saying any of this is true. It’s just what I’ve been told in the last twenty-four hours by someone who worked with Jack.”

“So when they realized Jack wasn’t a crook, they killed him so he couldn’t reveal any of the information they had already showed him—and you believe this?”

I thought about it. “Plausible but unlikely.”

“And who exactly is behind all this?”

“Well, I’m thinking a guy named Elon, the Department of Revenue boss. And lots of unwitting accomplices working in a fragmented bureaucracy.”

Blank stare. “The Chicago Department of Revenue is run by
Elon the Gangster
?” Something about her tone provoked a simultaneous burst of laughter. Then Tamar said, “And the Russians? Are they part of this or not?”

“I have no evidence Elon has access to the Russian mob.”

“Phew,” Tamar said sarcastically. “I thought for a second we were in trouble.”

“There’s more,” I said. “The tickets written to the guy who lived in your building were from Windy City Meters’ parking enforcement aides. That’s the private company that leases the meter boxes from the city.”

Tamar looked unimpressed. “Let’s keep things simple. Jack was killed to protect this complicated arrangement in which a private company rakes in tons of money from parking revenue.”

“That’s the baseline. I can’t tell you if Windy City’s breaking any laws—which brings us back to what this all has to do with Jack’s murder.”

“He wasn’t the Russian mobster they hoped for.”

“Did they really have to kill a frightened immigrant on the chance he understood what the hell was going on?”

A lot had been said in a small amount of time. We finished eating in silence.

Finally I said, “The months leading up to Jack’s death. Did he act different in any way? Anything you could attribute to Jones’s story?”

Tamar contemplated a few moments and shook her head. “Jones’s story is nonsense. My cousin was depressed about Lada—the girlfriend I told you about—going back to Russia. Although sometimes he would imagine out loud what he could be doing if he had stayed in Moscow instead of taking a teaching job in Tbilisi. I reminded him how much he meant to the family. But he would just stare into the distance and then start mumbling about corrupt politicians and oligarchs ruining the world. Boy, did he hate Putin.”

“How’s your aunt doing?”

Tamar sort of frown-smiled. “I think Jack’s death was the last straw in a hard life. She spends her days talking to St. Andrew.” Tamar grinned. “Jack and Andrew are now good friends, you know.” We both laughed. “Hey, if it brings her peace, that’s fine with me. What about you?”

The question took me by surprise. “What about me?”

Tamar looked as if I had just called her mother an infidel. “Family, of course. You must have family in your life to think about, worry about, deal with.”

“Oh, that,” I said and told an abbreviated version of my forefathers’ dubious reputations. “It seemed the families they married into shunned them once they realized who their daughters had chosen for sons-in-law. I have a lot of cousins out there I’ve never met.”

“But don’t you have someone you’re close to? A sister or brother?”

I told Tamar about Snooky, devoted family friend, genuine big brother, and the tragedy of his becoming my first murder case just a few months ago. Then I told her about my sickly father and described Frownie, what he meant to my family, and that I most likely saw him for the last time a few hours ago.

Tamar looked on the verge of tears. “That’s so sad! Why don’t you get in touch with your cousins? I’m sure nobody is going to hold a grudge against you for whatever happened in the past. I mean, they’re your
blood
.”

“I’m fine, Tamar. I have no complaints with my life.”

“But what else is there besides family? You can only depend on family to help you get through life’s troubles. Only family can make sure your legacy is properly honored.”

I let her words sink in. “I don’t know. I never thought about it that way. Don’t feel sorry for me. I have a lot of freedom.”

Tamar gazed into the tabletop.

I said, “How about some sorbet?”

She looked at her watch. “Let’s clean up first.”

Silence descended upon the kitchen as we wrapped leftovers, washed plates, wiped the counters and table. I could try to guess what pissed her off—something to do with my attitude toward family—but I hated guessing games.

“I give up. What’d I do?”

Tamar acted surprised. “Oh, no, nothing’s wrong. I’m just thinking. I guess it’s just that I’m not used to your type.”

“I gotta ask—”

“Your independence. It intimidates me. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but it’s so different from the culture I grew up in. The idea of being alone in the world. It gave me a chill, but you seem so content. So it’s my problem.”

Punim landed on the table in front of Tamar. She stroked the feline’s back in one motion, starting at her head and ending with her tail.

“I’ve had other guests attempt what you’re doing. They all went home with bloody hands.”

Tamar shrugged. “Cats know who they can trust.”

I suggested tea, hoping to recapture our earlier rapport, but Tamar had to get up early. “Baker’s hours,” she reminded me.

Back on the couch, with ice packs, I thought about my so-called independence. I knew my career choice seemed bizarre compared to my peers who filled the professional ranks expected of a North Shore upbringing. But even Tamar, the Georgian immigrant, sensed a peculiarity about me. I was stranger than I realized. I was the foreigner in our relationship.

After a fitful night’s sleep, the morning introduced me to a universe of aching. I splashed cold water on my face, popped six more acetaminophen, and sat down to reorient my brain.

The usual breakfast of oatmeal with almonds for me and liver and kidneys for Punim. Beethoven’s Fifth rocked my head. I stifled the impulse to smash the phone against the wall. Tamar’s rebuff last night had hurt more than I realized.

“Seroquel,” Kalijero said.

“Screw you.”

“The mental case, Baxter. The lab thinks he took at least six thousand milligrams of Seroquel the day he died. Typical dose is around six hundred.”

“I get it, Kalijero. You can’t accidentally take ten times the normal dosage. Obviously that means he’s irrelevant to the Gelashvili murder,” I said sarcastically.

A pause, then, “Baxter’s shrink never prescribed Seroquel.”

Kalijero’s acknowledgment of what I already suspected shoved aside, at least temporarily, the sting of Tamar’s rejection. “So what’s next?”

“Who said anything was next?”

“Then why are you bothering me with what I already told you?”

Kalijero swore in Greek then said, “I gotta go,” and hung up. At least he said goodbye this time.

Escaping my bright, airy apartment for the stuffy familiarity of an office seemed appropriate. On the way to Old Town, I left a message with Palmer and then called back Kalijero.

“Sorry, Jimmy,” I said. “I didn’t mean to bark at you.” I told him about my trip to the Department of Revenue and the events leading up to getting cracked in the face.

“You want me to go talk to the principal and tell him kids are picking on Detective Jules?”

“Do you want to help me find Gelashvili’s killer or not?”

“Why should I help you?”

“I’ll be at my office in fifteen. Meet me there.” Dead air. “Please!”

Kalijero grumbled something unintelligible with an affirming inflection, then hung up. No goodbye.

She had just stepped off the last stair to the lobby as I opened the outside door to my office building. Tall, fashion-model thin, high cheekbones emphasizing exotic good looks. I guessed early thirties.

“Can I help you?” I said.

She stared a moment and said with a Slavic accent, “I don’t think so.”

“Are you looking for someone?”

She searched my face as if wanting to speak and then rushed out of the building, leaving me to wonder what had just happened.

In my office, a legal pad lay on top of my desk with boxes drawn around names in a sea of empty yellow space. I called Palmer again, and he surprised me by answering.

“I got your message, Jules. Very busy. I should be able to get away in two or three hours—after the budget meeting. Will you still be at your office?”

“If I’m not here, call me. I won’t be far.”

I returned to staring at the yellow legal pad after telling the city editor of the eighth-largest newspaper in the country to call me back. The outside door slammed shut. Bounding footsteps, at least two at a time up to my doorway, where the uniformed mailman stood catching his breath. He was young and plump with a happy disposition that went well with his butterball face and red cheeks. Despite its not being very cold, he wore a postman’s winter hat with faux fur flaps.

“You do exist!” he said joyfully then kind of giggled. He struck me as one of those annoying nice guys who always had a good word for everybody.

“Why don’t you just leave the mail downstairs?”

“Can’t. There have to be mailboxes. When they get the rest of these rooms rented, then we’ll put in a row of locking boxes. Besides, I like running up the stairs. It’s helping me lose some of this fat.” He giggled again. “So whaddya do here anyway?”

“Investiga
tions.”

“Oh, yeah?” The mailman leaned against the door jamb. He looked way too comfortable. “Like a private detective kind of guy?”

“Kind of like that.”

“Is that why you got that purple eye?”

“Have a good day, my friend.” He caught my hint.

Elon and Konigson separated by four inches of yellow space. Department of Revenue and the Republic Media Group. Big responsibi
lities, big egos. These kinds of guys liked to talk about themselves, and the Internet provided the largest possible audience. But numerous searches provided only generic background information and personal opinions on various blogs, as if the world assumed men like Elon and Konigson needed no introduction. Elon had come to the mayor’s team from “the real estate and banking world.” But to show that he was not a one-dimensional billionaire, Elon’s biographers always mentioned his Princeton doctorate in Teutonic literature. I clicked on a link to a photo from the late seventies of a bearded forty-something Konigson shaking hands with a twenty-something Elon. Konigson already had “two decades of success in real estate and investment banking” to share with Elon, then Decatur-Staley’s newest Ivy League wonder boy.
Take our word for it, these guys are good and will look after your best interests. If you have to ask, then you’re probably not worthy of knowing.

The outside door slammed shut again. Heavy, plodding footsteps. Maybe Palmer. Izzy and Knight were both too skinny for such weight. Reaching the top of the landing, then several breaths, Kalijero’s stocky frame filled the doorway. His hair now more salt than pepper, he appeared to have aged significantly in the two months since I had last seen him.

“Greetings, Zorba! I’m flattered you came to see me.”

Kalijero panted for a minute. “You couldn’t have found a building with an elevator, Landau?”

“It’s only four flights, Jimmy. You should quit smoking.”

Kaljero sat. “I did.”

“Your presence here means you’re interested in the case?”

Kalijero started stretching his fingers back one at a time. “Ever since you told me Konigson ordered that editor to kill the story. Got me thinking.”

Silence.

Kalijero continued his appendage calisthenics, now flexing his hands open and closed.

“Jimmy, what’re you doing here?”

Kalijero answered with his own question. “How’s Frownie?”

I shook my head. “Any day.”

“Way back when I popped your dad, before the charges were officially filed, Frownie came to see me. He begged me to convince the DA to plea to a lesser charge and not apply the ongoing racketeering statute. I refused and he started cussing me out. And then he started crying. I didn’t realize how close he was with your family. He kept going back and forth between cussing me out and crying.” Kalijero scratched his head.

“I didn’t know this,” I said.

“I think maybe I should’ve done what he asked. Your dad would’ve done enough time and still gotten out to see you become a man.”

Something about men in their sixties suddenly becoming sentimental annoyed me.

“You were just doing your job, Jimmy. And you don’t know, Dad might have hooked me in. Maybe you saved me from a life of crime.” Kalijero wasn’t buying it. “Why don’t I start from the beginning and tell you everything I got on the Gelashvili case?”

Kalijero stood, smiled. “Nah, this one closed too quickly. I’m already reassigned to
another
last case. I’m doing them a favor, they tell me. A body just washed up downriver.”

He walked to the doorway and told me to be careful. I listened as he clomped down the stairs and heard the door slam shut. I still didn’t know why he had come.