“When was this picture taken?”
“Oh, that was before the war—1940 or 1941, it was.”
He nodded and looked at the faces again. There appeared to be a wide range in ages, from midteens to early twenties. For all these boys life was soon to change in many ways, unfathomable, permanent ways.
“Just a few months before the war.”
“Yes. All those boys served in the war. Herb Gaynor did, and Fritz Pollard and Michael and Tommy—all of them.”
Whelan studied the faces. “Just kids, a couple of these guys. They’re just boys. Did they all go in?”
“Oh, they all went and they all went overseas, except that Chick Landis. He spent the whole war in California, he was some kind of clerk or something, God knows what.” Mrs. O’Mara’s tone left no doubt as to her feeling about Landis. “And Ray Dudek lied about his age but they wouldn’t take him yet, he didn’t get in till it was almost over. And Casey Pollard wasn’t in at all, he was in Korea. ‘Police action,’ they called it. Casey wasn’t old enough for the big war. He was wounded in Korea, the poor boy.”
Whelan looked at the picture and waited for the old woman to help him, but he guessed she was pretty well tapped out. This is nuts, he told himself, shaking his head. He sighed and said, “I’ll be in touch.”
“What are you going to do first, Mr. Whelan?”
“Oh, I’ll make some calls and then…I’ll want to see where Mr. Minogue lived. Talk to his neighbors.”
“Oh. Sure,” she said, as though it made great sense.
I want to start there, Whelan thought, because I haven’t the slightest idea what else to do.
Three
Whelan knew the calls would be a waste of time but made them anyway, to people he knew at the phone company and the gas company, to the VA, to the assistant manager in Sandra’s office at Public Aid, and he found what he’d expected: there was no record of a man in his late sixties named Joseph Colleran.
He didn’t bother to drive over to Michael Minogue’s hotel, opting instead for the short walk over. The residents of the Empire Hotel lived among society’s greatest conveniences: They had both a McDonald’s and a Burger King right across the street. On a fair day they could stroll down Wilson to the lakefront, to the park where young Hispanic guys played killer soccer on Sundays, or out to the beach between Montrose and Wilson. This last was apparently what Michael Minogue had done on his final day.
The manager of the hotel was a short graying man with a pained facial expression and bad color. He was on the phone when Whelan entered, and he held up one hand, telling Whelan not to come inside just yet. Whelan nodded and backed out. The hall had once been the lobby of the hotel, and Whelan could just make out the vestigial remains of that lost grandeur: an amazingly high ceiling hung with great chandeliers, replaced now with a pair of ugly lights, each with a dozen or so globes. There were sconces in the wall where imitation torches had been fixed, and a bricked-up, painted-over niche where there had once been a fireplace.
Now the lobby held a handful of chairs and one sofa. There were two men on the sofa, a tiny man whose sharp bony angles stuck out of a shirt two sizes too big for him and a much taller man with an exaggerated slump to his shoulders. The smaller one had contrived to create an almost solid cloud of blue smoke in the lobby and much of it hung directly over his head. His companion didn’t seem to notice. Whelan looked at the smoker and crossed the room to sit in one of the chairs across from him.
“Don’t sit there,” the man said, and caught Whelan in the act of lowering himself onto the chair. He stared at Whelan and puffed on his cigarette.
“Saving it for somebody?”
“It’s broken.”
“Oh, thanks.”
Whelan indicated another chair and the man nodded once. The taller one smiled. Whelan took the new chair and sat down, pulling a brass standing ashtray toward him. He held up the smokes, waited till the old men shook their heads in unison, then lit one.
The old men studied him for a moment as Whelan allowed himself to listen in on the manager’s conversation. Someone had done the squinty man wrong. Whelan couldn’t follow the whole train of things, but apparently the manager’s grievance was with family. He heard the man say, “I trusted you…one of the family…betrayed my trust…living off us since you got married.”
“You waitin’ to see the Emperor Penguin in there?” The smoker in the lobby leaned slightly to one side to bring himself into Whelan’s line of vision. Whelan studied him for a moment and saw amusement in the small dark eyes. Something in the face told him what it had looked like in boyhood, and he had a strong sense that this had been a troublesome little boy, teacher’s nightmare, the kid who spent long hours with his nose to the chalkboard and never lacked for amusement.
“The Emperor Penguin? Is that what people call him?”
“Why not? This is the Empire. He’s the Emperor Penguin.”
The taller man’s stooped shoulders quaked with his silent laughter.
“Yeah, I’m waiting to see him. Doesn’t sound like I picked the best day, though.”
“Don’t matter. All his days are like this. He’s always whining about something. You tell him you got no heat in your room and he tells you about his corns. You tell him you got roaches the size of rainbow trout in your tub, he ain’t impressed. You tell him you got a rat under your bed that’s bigger than fucking Lassie and he tells you he needs bypass surgery.” The taller man appeared to be going into convulsions at this. The speaker looked to his companion for confirmation, received a shrug, and then looked back to Whelan.
“I’m Dutch Sturdevant,” the old man said. He nodded at the other man on the sofa. “This is Pete Koski.” Pete Koski touched his hand to his forehead in greeting.
“Paul Whelan.” The old man nodded and rooted around in a crushed-looking package of Chesterfields for a fresh one. Whelan waited till he lit it, then asked, “Did you know Mr. Minogue?”
“Sure I knew him. I know everybody on my floor, for Chrissakes. I know everybody’s business, too,” he said with a raspy laugh. “If I didn’t have neighbors to pester, what would I do with myself?” Beside him, Pete Koski affirmed the truth of this with a nod. “No, he was a good guy, Mike. ‘Irish,’ some of us called him. That was a damn shame what happened to him.”
“Do you know much about him? Any family? Things like that?”
The old man nodded. “You’re a cop. I thought so at first, then I thought maybe not.”
“No, I’m not a cop. I’m just trying to get some information that might lead me to somebody who used to know Mr. Minogue in the old days.” One look at Sturdevant told Whelan the old man wasn’t buying it. He got up and crossed the room, holding out his wallet to display his license. The two gray heads leaned in together to study the license. Sturdevant pursed his lips and Koski nodded.
“I’m a private investigator. I’m not looking into Mr. Minogue’s case, because I assume it’s still an open police case.”
Sturdevant chewed on that for a moment and then stared at Whelan for a few seconds before speaking. “So who are you investigating?”
“I don’t investigate people. I find them. I’m looking for an old friend of Minogue’s named Joseph Colleran. They were pretty close in the old days and they left town together back in the fifties, kind of tramped around for fun and then settled in Florida.”
“He talked about that. ‘Joe,’ he said, that’s all. Never said the guy’s last name.” He looked to his companion for confirmation. Pete Koski pursed his lips and shook his long thin head.
“And as far as you know, nobody named Joe Colleran ever came to see him here?”
“Not as far as I know.” Sturdevant looked at Koski.
The thin man shook his head. “Can’t recall the name.”
“Did he have other visitors?”
“Not in a long time. I mean, he had a nephew came to see him once in awhile. Saw ’im yesterday. Guess he’s here to clean out Mike’s stuff. Said he�
��d be back today.”
“Have you seen cops?”
“Shit yeah, they were here. We had uniforms here and we had the other guys—plainclothes. Homicide?”
“Detectives, you mean? Violent Crimes, they call that department now. Did they question you?”
“Yeah, they asked me this and that, did I know of any enemies he might’ve had, how well did I know him. Acted like we were all senile already. The one, he talked like you’d talk to a moron. Young guy, this was. Smelled like a French whore. He left my room, the place smelled like the fucking perfume counter at Woolworth’s.” Old Mr. Koski began shaking again and Sturdevant shot him a glance that mixed tolerance and affection.
“Dark hair, knit shirt, gold chain around his neck?”
“That’s him.”
“Then the other one was big and heavy, rough-looking, red face, crew cut. Big gut, ugly sport coat, smoked little nasty cigar things.”
“You’re good. That’s him. Looked like Johnny Mize. Remember him?”
“Old Tomato Face. Only from pictures, never saw him play.”
“Anyway, the young one asked questions and the fat one just looked around my room like he was bored.”
“He wasn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
“Yeah? Maybe so, but he only asked me one question the whole time they were there. Other guy asked all the questions.”
“What was the question the big one asked?”
“He asked me if Mike ever acted like he was afraid of anybody. That’s all he asked me the whole time.”
“That’s all he wanted to know. And did he? Mr. Minogue, I mean?”
“No. Why would he be afraid of somebody? He was a nice guy, never had a bad word to say about nobody. He didn’t have nothing that nobody would want. No, I never heard him talk about being afraid of anybody. You can ask some of the people on our floor, but I never heard him say anything like that, and me and him, we spent a lot of time together.”
“Did he have any trouble that you know of, disputes or arguments with anyone?”
Sturdevant looked amused. “Disputes? You mean like over land or money? I don’t think so. Seriously, he didn’t have no trouble with nobody. I mean, he had words one time with this wino, but it was nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“It was just this guy, street guy from around here somewheres. I don’t know ’im. Just a guy Mike didn’t like, I guess. They seemed to know each other, and I think this guy was putting the touch on Mike and Mike told him to get lost.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Skinny, like most of us. He wasn’t very big. Pale-lookin’ guy,” Sturdevant said, “sick-lookin’ guy.” Whelan noted Sturdevant’s own pasty skin and hid his amusement. “Wearin’ a baseball cap. He was just a street guy, a wino, and Mike didn’t like him. I asked him about the guy and he said it was just a guy he didn’t like ’cause the guy was always bumming money.”
“He knew him from just around here?”
“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”
“Did you ever see the man again?”
“I think I saw him one time, sitting on a corner up on Clark Street, at a bus stop. Didn’t seem to be bothering nobody that time.”
“Anybody else?”
“No. Mike was a good guy, he didn’t have no enemies. We spent a lot of time together. Us and Pete here. We liked to watch a ball game together, have a couple beers.”
“Where did you drink?”
The old man gave him an amused look. “Where? In a room in this joint, pal. My room or his room or Pete’s. We couldn’t afford to go to a saloon and spend that kinda money. You know, there’s some places askin’ a buck for a beer, and they hand you a can! Beer in a can for a buck.”
“They’ll all go to hell, Mr. Sturdevant.”
“Great, that’s another place I gotta avoid now.”
A few feet away, the Emperor Penguin terminated his phone conversation by slamming the phone down. Whelan looked at Sturdevant and raised his eyebrows. “I guess he’s ready for his ten o’clock appointment.”
“Good luck. You need anything, let me know. I’m in room three oh two.”
“I’ll do that.” He handed a card to Sturdevant. “Give me a call if you think of anything else.”
At the door to the manager’s office, he paused and waited. The manager squinted up at him and indicated a chair with a sharp motion of his hand.
“Come on in. Take a seat.”
Whelan dropped a business card on the man’s desk and lowered himself onto the guest chair. He waited a moment while the manager studied the card with a confused look.
A gray man, Whelan decided. Gray hair, a gray shirt that had once probably been white, pale, washed-out-looking skin that cried out for fifteen minutes in the sun. A gym rat’s complexion: White kids that dreamt of an NBA career looked like this. Gym rats and bartenders and scholars, guys who avoided the light of day and turned into bats at midnight, they all looked like this.
The gray man leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk. “So you’re interested in renting at the Empire?”
“I was told I was too young.”
The man squinted. “No, I meant for your, uh, loved one. You’re not here to rent for your loved one?”
“Nope. I’m here about a resident who was killed recently.”
“Oh, yeah, Minogue. Mr. Minogue. That was terrible. Guy tried to rob me once, right outside my house. I was lucky, though. My neighbor came out and the guy took off. But I coulda been killed.”
“I’m sure. I was wondering if I could take a look at his apartment.”
“I don’t know if I’m supposed to do that.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you were in charge. Who do I see about this?” He started to get up.
The gray man straightened slightly and gave his office a quick look. “I am in charge. It’s just…I don’t get a lot of people dying on me. You know?” He tried to smile but his lips wouldn’t take the unfamiliar position. “Maybe you’re in luck, though. Mr. Minogue lived in three oh seven. His nephew is up there now, goin’ through his stuff. You know, taking care of things.”
“Oh, that’s right. Mr. Sturdevant was telling me that.”
The gray man looked as if he’d bitten into bad meat. “Oh, don’t listen to that old fart. He’s just a goddamn old busybody. Wouldn’t know the truth if he sat on it.”
“Really? He told me you were a good guy.”
The gray man paused, mouth open. “Aw, you know, he’s not so bad. He means well, but you gotta—you can’t believe everything he says. Anyhow, why don’t you go up and see if this nephew’s got any objection to you looking around?”
“I’ll do that. Thanks for your time.” He bit off the impulse to address the man as Emperor and left the office. The lobby was empty now, no sign of Mr. Sturdevant except for the single plume of smoke where his crushed Chesterfield still burned.
A creaking elevator that hadn’t seen soap and water in years took him to the third floor. The doors slid open with an ominous grinding sound and he was assailed by half a dozen odors at once: roach killer, mothballs, mildew, bacon, tobacco, frying food, old plaster. Old people’s smells, the smells of age. There were other smells mixed in but he wasn’t ready to identify them yet.
A few feet from the elevator, he found 307, the door closed. Whelan waited a moment and thought he could hear faint movement within, then knocked.
“Yeah? Who is it?”
“My name is Paul Whelan. I wonder if I could have a word with you about your uncle.”
A silence followed and then Whelan heard footsteps and someone undoing the double lock. The door opened six inches and a thin man with glasses and very little hair stared out at him.
“Yes?”
“You’re Mr. Minogue’s nephew?”
“He was my great-uncle.” The man raised his eyebrows to ask, “What of it?”
“I’m trying to get
some information about—”
“You from the building?”
“No, no, I’m—”
“Oh, police.”
Whelan waited and the man swung the door open. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to make some sense of his stuff and people keep coming by. The building manager was up here and one of the neighbors was just here and…it’s hard to get any of it done. And I’d really like to get done with it.”
“I know. It’s depressing work. Mr.…?”
“Riordan. Ted Riordan.”
“Paul Whelan.” He held out his hand, and as Riordan took it, he added, “I’m not a police officer, though. I’m a private detective.”
Riordan nodded. “Building security, right?”
“No. I’m working for someone who knew your uncle. My client is interested in finding a family member and thought that since your uncle knew the missing man, he might have said something to someone.”
“Nice timing, huh? I mean, why did they hire you now?”
“Apparently these folks all lost track of one another. The person who hired me didn’t know Mr. Minogue had returned to Chicago until this story appeared in the news.”
“Oh, we’re talking about the real old days. Before he went down to Florida, right?”
“Right.”
“Your client wants to find somebody from those days?”
“Yes.”
Riordan blinked and looked as though he was fighting to look serious. “That’s crazy. But I guess it’s no crazier than anything else, is it?”
“I’ve been asked to do more bizarre things than find an old friend for somebody.”
Riordan nodded once and then looked around at the room behind him. “Well…” He indicated the little room. “Come on in. I’m not sure how I can help, but it sure couldn’t hurt. Sit down anywhere—there’s a lot of chairs. It’s about all he had, chairs. That and a black-and-white TV. Not much of a life, was it?”
Whelan shrugged. “Not much space, not many possessions, but I’ve known people to be happier with less.”
“Well, he always seemed happy enough. As long as he could fish, he was happy. He liked to go down there to the lake and sit on the breakwater and fish. I guess he knew all the other old-timers down there and they’d chat, maybe pass a bottle of wine around sometimes. Still, you’d think a man who worked hard all his life would have a little more to show for it. Doesn’t seem fair.”
The Riverview Murders Page 4