“No, sometimes it doesn’t, although, if he was happy, then maybe it was fair enough.”
Riordan shrugged and sat down on the edge of a chair and Whelan found one directly across from him. “I guess, but if he was happy, you sure couldn’t prove it from what he had. Couple bucks in a drawer, a wallet full of old lottery tickets. Old lottery tickets and holy cards. Look at his place, look at what he had. And then somebody goes and kills him. They didn’t even get anything, the cops told me. Still had his money and his watch. Somebody spooked ’em, I guess. Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Whelan?”
“Well, for starters, can you tell me if your uncle was still in touch with a man named Joe Colleran?”
“I don’t know who he was in touch with, to be honest with you. I didn’t see him all that much. I don’t think I know that name, though.”
“I think Joe Colleran was with him in Florida.”
“Oh. Oh, maybe that’s the guy he was partners with down there. Jeez, I wouldn’t know that for sure. That was like, oh, has to be twenty years ago. That’s really goin’ back.”
“How long had your uncle been back up here?”
“I don’t know, maybe ten years, something like that.”
“Do you know who his friends were?”
Riordan winced. “Jesus, I don’t know. I…we didn’t talk about that much. See, he was my grandmother’s brother, but half the time he was living down south or some other place. And she’s long gone now. My parents are dead, too. So I kind of inherited Uncle Michael. I looked in on him sometimes, but just for a cup of coffee, like that. He mentioned people sometimes. I heard him talk about maybe half a dozen other old guys, but just first names.” He looked embarrassed.
“That’s more than I have right now.”
“Okay, I know he talked to a couple of neighbor guys on this floor. A guy named Pete and another guy named Dutch. Dutch lives right down the hall.”
“I met them.”
“Okay. And then I heard him talk about this old black guy he went fishing with all the time down by the beach there. Where they found him. This guy’s name was Franklin.”
“Any idea where I can find him?”
“No. I guess he must live in the neighborhood somewhere, but where, I don’t know.”
“Who else?”
“Couple of guys at a tavern he liked. It’s not around here. Over by the ballpark. On Southport, I think.”
“Got a name for it?”
Riordan shook his head. “I know it’s a liquor store, the old-fashioned kind, with a saloon attached. I never went there, so I can’t tell you much about it. I don’t drink myself.”
Whelan thought for a moment and then said, “Crown? Was that it, Crown Liquors?”
“I don’t know. Coulda been. Is it near a movie theater?”
“Sure. Right up the street from the Music Box.”
“That’s it, then. I know one guy’s name from the tavern was Archie. I think the other guy’s name was Fred.”
“Well, thanks. Is that about it?”
“Yeah. Not much, is it?” Riordan squinted at him and seemed to be struggling with another question.
“It’s not bad. You gave me some names, I’ve got his fishing partner and his favorite saloon. Not a bad start. Well, thanks. And I’m sorry about your uncle.” He hesitated, then said, “I think you’ve got one more question. What is it?”
Riordan shrugged. “I don’t know squat about private detectives, but here’s what I’m thinking. I’m thinking somebody kills my uncle and this guy comes to his apartment before I’ve even had time to take care of his stuff and asks about some other person that my uncle knew. I’m thinking you’re not here about that at all.”
“Makes sense. But it’s not true. I never knew your uncle. His name appeared in the paper and a person who used to know him thought maybe a good investigator might be able to retrace some of your uncle’s steps, run down some of the people he hung out with, maybe come up with her missing relative. That’s all there is to it. If my client had known that your uncle was here, I would have been here just the same, only I would have been talking to him instead of you.”
Riordan stared at him for a moment. “Maybe you’ll find out something else.” He nodded toward the sofa, as though his uncle were dozing on it. “About the old man.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll let somebody know.”
“Like who, me? If I give you my number, will—”
“Like a cop I know at Area Six who I think is already on this. He’s good at what he does, better than anybody I can think of. If I find something, I’ll let him know, and he’ll handle it. Believe me, if I could pick a cop to work on a problem of mine, it would be this guy.”
Riordan looked around the room for a moment, then nodded. He held out his hand and smiled. “Fair enough. And if you need any information, you call me. Anytime.” He reached into his back pocket and came up with a wallet, stuck two fingers into it, and handed Whelan a business card.
It read “T.C. Riordan, Certified Public Accountant.”
“Thanks.”
Whelan tucked the card away in his pocket and left the dead man’s room. Behind him, the door to Michael Minogue’s room clicked shut, and Whelan heard matching clicks farther down the hall. One, he was sure, came from the door to 302.
Four
Down at the lake, he parked in the big lot where kids came to practice driving and teenagers came to get lucky. He got out and made the short walk to the beach. The breakwater was empty. A man had been shot to death—it would take awhile for the old fishermen to start putting their lines in again.
Fifty yards or so to the south, the lakefront made a long sweep back toward the shore, like a thumb meeting a finger, and created a little harbor. At the very end of the hook, Whelan saw a single figure fishing. He had several lines in, and he looked over his shoulder several times as Whelan approached and then half-turned when Whelan was a few feet away.
“Are you Franklin?”
The fisherman made a shrug and his eyes studied Whelan’s. Whelan scrambled down the rocks and sat a couple of feet away.
Up close, the man was bigger than he’d looked, Whelan’s height and much heavier. He sat with one hand holding a pole and the other flat against the rock. It was one of the biggest hands Whelan had ever seen.
Whelan held up a card. “This is who I am.” He held the card out and the big hand took it. The fisherman studied it for a moment and then looked at Whelan from the corner of his eye.
“Now I know who you are. What you want with me?”
Whelan realized how far his original notion had been from reality: this old fisherman hadn’t moved from the breakwater because he was afraid. He was looking in the eyes of a man who’d seen it all and decided there wasn’t much he was afraid of.
“I want to ask you some questions. But probably not the kind you expect.”
“I don’t expect nothing. Except to be left alone.” The big head turned to study his lines again.
Whelan hunched his shoulders against the stiff wind off the water. “Well, I’ll leave you alone as soon as I can. I’m freezing to death here.”
Franklin quickly scanned Whelan’s lightweight ski vest and made an amused shake of his head. “Come out here dressed like that, you deserve to freeze to death. Leave the world a smarter place,” he muttered, looking back at his lines.
“Nice to meet you, too. I want to ask you about Michael Minogue’s friends.”
Franklin studied him with new interest. “What for? Think one of them know who killed him?”
“No. I’m not looking for his killer. So you think his friends would know who killed Mike?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you talk to the police about it?”
“I talked to ’em. They ast me some things, I told ’em what I thought. Now, what is it you want?”
“I’m trying to find somebody Michael Minogue used to
know.”
Franklin gave him an amused look and then glanced at his lines. “Mister, you late.”
“I’ve always been a step too slow. This fellow is somebody he grew up with, an old friend I think Michael traveled with. This man’s name was Joe. Joe Colleran. That do anything for you?”
Franklin held Whelan’s gaze for a moment, then looked back at the water. “I heard the name. That was his old partner. They ran a saloon together someplace down south.”
“And you never met him?”
“No. And Michael talked about him like somebody he never saw anymore. Like he’s dead.” Franklin squinted at him. “I think this man’s dead, mister.”
“That’s kind of what I think, too.” He climbed to his feet and brushed off his pants. “Catching anything?”
“Only just got here. I got all day to catch fish. Why you looking for this man?”
“His sister hired me. It’s what I do.”
Franklin nodded, frowned at one of his lines, picked up the pole, reeled in his hook, and recast it, tossing the line in a fine gentle arc that ended in a silver splash thirty yards out.
“Cops seem to know anything?”
Franklin shook his head.
“How about you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he did, though.”
“Did what? Knew the killer?”
“Maybe. He acted like he knew somebody was lookin’ for him.”
“Did he talk about it?”
“Naw. Just acted jumpy. I saw him lookin’ around when we were fishing. Wouldn’t say what was wrong and I didn’t want to push it.”
“Did he ever actually say he was afraid?”
“Just acted kinda jumpy. That’s all. He’d sit out there on the breakwater and be lookin’ up and down the beach like he thought somebody was watchin’ us. Things bothered him that you wouldn’t normally notice.”
“Such as?”
“Like this one day, it seemed like Mike couldn’t stop watching this one fella. Told me there wasn’t nothing wrong, but he be looking over his shoulder at this man till the man went away.”
“You got a look at him?”
“Well, we was all the way out at the end of the breakwater, and this man was back there on the shore, by the sidewalk there. You can’t make out faces that far.”
“Young man?”
“Couldn’t tell. Didn’t look old. Looked maybe fifty.”
“You’re pretty sure this man wasn’t as old as Michael?”
“Oh, no. I could see this man still had dark hair. He mighta been fifty-five, even sixty, but he wasn’t nowhere near our age.”
“Do you remember anything else about the man?”
The old man thought for a moment and then nodded. “Had a bent kinda walk.”
“Like he was injured?”
“Like he was injured a long time ago and learned to live with it. He moved pretty fast when he walked away.”
“Anything else?”
“Dressed shabby.”
“Like somebody living on the street?”
“Yeah. And look like he was wearing some kinda windbreaker, no coat. A little bitty jacket out here on a cold day.”
“What color?”
Franklin thought for a moment. “Blue. Had on a baseball cap, too. Couldn’t say what kind. Just wasn’t Sox or Cubs. It was red.”
“When was this?”
“About a month ago. Maybe less.”
“And that’s the only time you saw him?”
“Only time I saw him. That’s all I can tell you.”
Whelan watched the wind whip the green water to a thick froth. Overhead a pair of gulls circled and whined at one another. “I was afraid I wouldn’t find you. I thought maybe you’d just find some other part of the lake to fish.”
Franklin looked at his lines. “I don’t know about sitting out there and putting my lines in where Michael got killed. Have to think on that some. But I ain’t about to start fishin’ on the South Side, if that’s what you mean.”
“You pretty sure nobody’s going to bother you?”
The older man gave Whelan a long look. “What’s that old thing, that good-luck thing? ‘May you outlive your enemies’? I outlived the only ones I know about.”
“Maybe there’s a new one out here. Maybe he picks people at random.”
Franklin shrugged and squinted out at his bobber. “He come for me, I be here. I’m too old to let crazy people scare me. He come for me, I’ll take him with me.” He held Whelan’s card out in his thick fingers.
Whelan shook his head. “No. Keep it in case you see something I should know about.” He got to his feet. “Well, thanks. See you, Franklin. And watch your back door.”
“Good luck, man,” Franklin said without turning.
This time there was mail, an audaciously high bill from the electric company and a solicitation from De Paul University, his alma mater. He tossed the mail on his couch and told himself there might be something in tomorrow’s mail—after all, he’d get mail both at home and at the office. The prospect of dinner beckoned, but a quick scan of the contents of his refrigerator told him dinner would best be found somewhere else.
I have no dinner, I have no girl.
Slamming the door to the house, he went out in search of dinner and a new attitude.
He was still a block away when he saw the new sign. In truth, he could have seen it from Evanston. He thought he’d probably be able to see it from the space shuttle. It was bold, gaudy, oversized, and in poor taste; it used enough bulbs to light up the North Side and its message flickered constantly, maddeningly, like some fiendish attempt to induce petit mal seizures in the population. It was ugly and inappropriate. It said HOUSE OF ZEUS.
After the blinding light of the sign, the interior of the House of Zeus was dark, cavelike. Whelan thought he could make out other life-forms, but he paused just inside the door to allow his eyes to adjust. Gradually, he could see again. There were half a dozen diners, if you included the guy sleeping in the back booth. There was always someone in a state of reduced consciousness at the House of Zeus.
At the counter, a dapper-looking man seemed to be talking to the owners, Rashid and Gus, who were both smiling. A few feet away, a taller man squinted around at the bloody murals adorning the walls. He wore a wrinkled black trench coat, his hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he appeared to be carrying a camera bag.
Rashid looked at Whelan and grinned, showing Whelan all his teeth at once. Rashid’s smile had given Whelan the unshakable notion that Iranian people had two to three times as many teeth as other people.
“Hello, my friend the detective.” He waved and beamed exaggerated happiness at Whelan, and the dapper man turned to look at him. The man was short, middle-aged, and trim-looking, a man for health clubs and tennis courts. He wore a tapered blue shirt open at the collar and a dark sport coat. His silver hair was styled so tightly, it looked painted on. In his left hand he held a leatherbound notebook, and in his right, an expensive-looking pen.
“This man,” Rashid said, “is typical customer of House of Zeus. He is officer of private detectives.”
The dapper man frowned. “Your typical customer is a detective?”
“There is no typical customer at the House of Zeus,” Whelan said. “There’s no typical day at the House of Zeus. There’s no typical anything here. Hello, boys.”
Rashid flashed teeth again and Gus shot him an uncharacteristic smile. Smiles from Gus were rare and hard-earned, and Whelan wondered if this dapper man was from the Illinois Lottery office.
“This fine gentleman is great and famous journalist from Chicago Sun-Times newspaper.”
Oh God, Whelan thought, the newspapers. Jail can’t be far away, boys. To the dapper man, he extended a hand. “Paul Whelan.”
The other man took Whelan’s hand in a tight grip meant to show manliness and a stout heart and said, “Kermit Noyes” in a voice that showed how tickled he was to be Kermit Noyes.
“Oh
,” Whelan said. He looked from Rashid to Gus and said, “This is your big chance, boys. A famous restaurant reviewer at the House of Zeus.”
Somewhere the Gods are laughing, he thought.
Rashid nodded at Noyes. “My father was journalist in Iran. Very brave man. He spoke out against crimes of Shah. He was political prisoner.”
“I thought he was an engineer,” Whelan said.
“Yes, yes, engineer, but before, he was journalist, like this man.”
“And before that, cleaner of streets!” Gus said, then burst out laughing.
“And yours? Your father was cleaner of toilets.” Rashid’s hand groped the countertop for a weapon.
“I will put you in toilet.” Gus took a step toward his cousin.
Mr. Noyes blinked in alarm, then looked at Whelan. “Are we going to have trouble here?”
“No, but I’d get my food order in early.”
The cousins stared at each other for a moment and breathed heavily, but the danger had clearly passed. Rashid was the first to collect himself.
“We have distinguished guest. You, too. Detective Whelan.”
“Do you want to wait on Mr. Whelan?” Kermit Noyes asked.
“Oh, uh, yes, sure.” Rashid feigned interest in Whelan’s direction.
“I’m in no hurry, Rashid.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Go ahead, then, Mr. Abazi, you were talking about your California days.”
Rashid shot Whelan a guilty look and cleared his throat before launching into the interrupted narrative. Whelan was soon sorry he’d missed the beginning, for the California part of Rashid’s story was a roaring wonder of a tale, a fanciful stew of Mark Twain, Jack London, and Bret Harte, featuring two hardworking and indomitable immigrants fighting poverty, the corruption of local politicians, and the prejudice of all the one thousand and one ethnic groups living in the Golden State, just to obtain a toehold in American society. And when the heartless government of the state of California closed them down on “one little technicality,” these two dreamy-eyed capitalists moved back to Chicago, where they met with even more resistance, more petty corruption, more prejudice, and a brief brush with the American legal system. In Rashid’s expurgated version of events, the boys had overcome the forces of evil by hiring the greatest legal mind in America. It was not mentioned that the legal mind belonged to another cousin, Reza, or that they’d overcome evil at least in part by paying people off.
The Riverview Murders Page 5