“No,” Rashid said. “Not chess. Not the backgammon, no.”
“It’s arguing, isn’t it.”
With his back to Whelan, Rashid laughed, putting together a bright red A&W basket of Shalimar kabob with its spicy sauce, a few fries, and a handful of onion rings, a meal, Rashid told him, “fit for the kings.”
He got nothing from a couple of old-timers he knew, and he was driving up Broadway when he saw Bauman talking to a couple of men outside the schoolyard at Broadway and Sunnyside. He pulled over and parked for a moment, till Bauman got into the Caprice. When Bauman went on up Broadway, Whelan pulled out and followed him.
He was delighted with himself. There was no certainty that Bauman would do any better on the street than Whelan had been doing, but there was a certain undeniable satisfaction in tailing the detective, and it might end up saving him some energy.
Five times in the next hour he parked and watched Detective Bauman at work. It was plain that Bauman was getting nowhere, but Whelan was mildly surprised to watch him go through his drill. The hostile detective was obviously at ease among the winos and old men, and surprisingly patient in his questioning. It seemed to bother him not at all when several of the men refused to talk to him, looking away or even walking in the other direction when Bauman asked questions. A couple even began walking away when Bauman approached, and Whelan laughed: Bauman might as well have been wearing a sign. He was wearing his green horse-blanket jacket and had that 1957 haircut, and on a street filled with tiny Asians and cadaverous winos and street people, he stood out like Lady Di. And had no idea.
Whelan had seen this lack of self-awareness before. In his early days as a police officer, he’d become friendly with an undercover officer named Shealy. Most of the time Shealy did well in camouflaging himself: he dressed plainly, in dull colors, usually wearing a hat. It was the summer that was Shealy’s undoing. Pink-skinned and scrupulously well groomed, as well as twenty pounds overweight, Shealy chose gaudy T-shirts for his summer costume, often with trendy slogans. And when he walked down the street, people gave him a wide berth and he never knew why. He was simply the type of man who would never be seen in public in a T-shirt, like the cardinal or the mayor.
In front of the bank Bauman buttonholed a tall thin man with pale blond hair and Whelan parked up the street. He got out and went into the Subway Donut Shop under the tracks on Broadway, got a cup of coffee and took a window seat. He could see Bauman perfectly. The conversation took several minutes. After a while Bauman seemed to tense up, leaning forward in more aggressive body language and the thin man took a step back, shuffled a bit, shrugged, shook his head and said something. Bauman nodded, said something, then turned and walked back to the Caprice, which was parked in a bus stop. Whelan was about to get up when he realized that the thin man was headed for the donut shop.
Hot damn. Great detective work.
A black man lounging near the door said, “Hey, Woody,” as the thin man entered. A fat white man standing at the counter nodded and said “Woodrow.” The thin man nodded to them and went over to the glass donut case. He ordered coffee and a day-old donut from the young Greek behind the counter, who paused while turning ham steaks on the grill, poured the coffee, picked a donut out with a piece of wax paper, took Woody’s money and spun around back to the grill, where he began spreading a handful of hash-browns. An artist at work.
Woody was a little older than he’d looked, perhaps fifty-five. He brought his donut and coffee over to the window and took a stool near Whelan. He sat hunched over the coffee, holding it in both hands as though warming himself on the cup. He poked around in the ashtray with a shaking finger and muttered to himself. Whelan took out a smoke, made a production of lighting it, blew out the match, took a deep drag and exhaled noisily. He looked at Woody, did a double take, then slid the pack along the four feet of empty space between them.
“Help yourself, babe.” He tossed the matches after the pack.
Woody nodded and reached for the pack but did not look up. Whelan sipped his coffee and studied the foot traffic on Broadway. A pretty young Vietnamese girl walked by and he pretended to watch her as Woody fished a couple of extra smokes from the pack.
Woody puffed away, still shaking, and Whelan went fishing. “Little cold in here, huh?”
Woody nodded. “Shit, yeah. I’m cold. Dunno what they need air conditioning for. It ain’t that hot out. You can get sick from too much air conditioning.”
“I’ve heard that, too.” It was a clammy seventy-five inside the donut shop and this man was chilled to his bones. Woody had shaved within the past few days and still had the nicks in his cheeks to prove it. The day-old donut lay untouched as he sucked at the cigarette. His skin was pale and there was some sort of rash across the backs of his hands. A strand of the thinning blond hair fell across his forehead and Whelan was reminded briefly of Artie. Time to stop jerking this guy around.
“How well do you know Bauman?”
“Who?”
“The cop with the crewcut. Name’s Bauman.”
Woody shrugged and looked away. “I seen ’im around.”
“He ask you about that guy they found in the alley over the other side of Broadway?”
“What’s that to you?” Woody gave him a belligerent look.
“I’m investigating the same thing he is. It’s a little more personal with me, though. That guy who was killed was a friend of mine and I want to find out who killed him. It was probably somebody out here on the street.” Woody shrugged indifferently but there was a look of intelligence in his eyes now.
“He was asking you about that. About my friend.”
“Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. I talked to him already, I don’t see no reason to talk to you.” He looked sullenly out the window.
“I’m not a cop. I’m a private investigator and I’m gonna find out who killed my friend. I think I can do some things the cops can’t do. Also…I don’t know that they give a good shit what happened.”
“It don’t make me no never mind.”
“Come on, Woody. He was a friend of mine. He never hurt anybody. He was a writer, he was interviewing people for a book he was—”
Woody turned, nodding. “Yep, asking a lot of stupid goddamn questions, goddamn fool, sticking his nose in people’s business. Ain’t no great wonder he got hisself killed.”
Whelan leaned over and grabbed the cigarette pack. “Listen to me, asshole. I’m trying to find out who killed my friend because I don’t think anybody else will. The police think he was just a drunk and got killed for no particular reason. I think different. So I’m here trying to find things out and I’m willing to pay for information, and I’ll listen to a man that’s got something to say but that doesn’t mean I’ve got to sit here and inhale shit from some old clown that just wants to tell me what an asshole the guy was. Tell you what, Woodrow…maybe when you die, some other guy’ll sit here and tell folks what an asshole you were. Get your own smokes.” He got up and left. He turned up Broadway and lit another cigarette and it was a block before Woody caught him.
“Hey, mister.” Whelan stopped and looked at him. Woody was wheezing and huffing.
“Yeah? Got some more free personality analysis for me?”
“I’m sorry, mister. I’m sick, and I get tired of people asking me about all this shit. Your friend asked me all kinda questions, never even gave me a smoke. He didn’t belong down here. Didn’t know nothing ’bout living down here. I’m sorry ’bout your friend, mister. I sure don’t wish nobody dead. He didn’t do nothing deserved killin’, far as I can see.”
“Take a walk with me, Woodrow.” He handed Woody his cigarettes. “Keep ’em.”
“Thanks, mister.” Woody tucked the pack inside his shirt and seemed to squeeze it into a small space under his arm.
“You’re gonna bust ’em all up, Woody.”
“Nah. I flatten ’em up a little, but they’s still smokes.”
They began walking up Broadway and soon the
y were just fifty yards from the alley where Art Shears had died.
“Woody, I need to know who he was talking to. I don’t really have a place to start, just hunches.” Woody nodded. “He told me he was talking to one guy in particular, just a day before he was killed. He seemed to think this guy was, I don’t know, a little different from the other ones he talked to. Said he thought this fella was on the run or something like that.”
Woody shook his head. “Don’t know nobody that’s on the run. Not down here.”
“Something else, then. He said the guy was a little different. Maybe…I don’t know, better educated or something. Did you see him actually talking to anybody? Was he talking to anyone that you know of, anyone that was an educated man?”
Woody nodded. “I saw ’im talking to Sharkey. Sharkey’s an educated man. Hear him tell it, he was important once, but people will tell you all kinda bullshit. But he seems like an educated man to me. And he never bragged on it, said it like he was ashamed. Said he made some money, big money. Had a good job, bank job, something like that. I think he took to the drink and just run away. Had a family and a house, too. So he said.”
“Seen him lately?”
“Nope. Hector, neither.”
“Who’s Hector?”
“Sharkey and Hector stay together. Hector kinda looks after Sharkey. Shark’s kinda small. Hector ain’t. People don’t bother Hector much. He’s Indian, Hector, half Indian and half Tex-Mex.”
“When’s the last time you saw them?”
“Four, five days ago.”
“Can you give me a description? What am I looking for?”
Woody smiled. “Won’t have no trouble pickin’ ’em out if you come across ’em. Sharkey’s kinda small, like I said. Wears a blue raincoat kinda thing. Hector’s a little bigger than you and he’s pretty good built. He’s got a busted nose and one of them lips that sticks up like this.” He pushed a finger into the center of his upper lip.
“He’s got a harelip.”
“I dunno what you call ’em.”
“But you’re pretty sure I’ll find ’em together?”
“Yes sir. Sharkey don’t like to be on the street by hisself. He’s like that, and Hector, he needs the company. Can’t read. Not a word,” Woody pronounced gravely.
“Where would I find them? Where do they do their drinking?”
“Up around here mostly. No taverns, though. No money for it.” Woody shrugged and laughed. “Who the hell has money?”
“You don’t know where they flopped?”
“Nope.” Woody shivered.
“Seen a doctor lately?”
“Been over to that place up the street. That health center place. Stood in lines, sat in a chair, waited. Nothin’ wrong with me. I just ain’t been eating right lately. And I drink some.”
“What do you live on, Woodrow?”
“I got a little pension from the Illinois Central Railroad. And sometimes I stand out there in front of that Allhelp place. They always find something for me, they know I’ll give ’em a day’s work, no matter what. I ain’t no bum, mister. I stay on the street ’cause that’s how it’s worked out for me, but I ain’t no bum.” Woody looked him in the eye and nodded.
“No, you’re sure not. You probably have a steadier income than I do. Got a place?”
Woody nodded. “Got me a little room over a tavern. Ain’t much, but it’s somethin’.” He gave Whelan an odd look. “What kinda money can a fella make in your line of work?”
“Not much.” He laughed. “Not much at all. I do some work for some lawyers and I do a few things on my own, but it just barely keeps me afloat.”
“You seem like a smart young fella. There’s gotta be other work you could do.”
“I’m sure there is but this is the only thing I’ve come across where I don’t answer to anybody.”
Woody seemed to reflect on this for a moment and then nodded. “I can see that, all right.”
A thought occurred to Whelan. “Woody, do you ever eat at the Salvation Army place up here on Sunnyside?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Ever see these guys there?”
Woody smiled. “Sooner or later, you see everybody there. Yes sir, they eat there sometimes. You might try there.”
“Thanks, Woodrow. Take care of yourself.”
“You do the same, son.”
He walked back up Broadway, bought a new pack of cigarettes from the convenience shop inside the el station, then stopped at the corner and bought a Tribune from the genial Pakistani who ran the newsstand. The man took his money, folded his paper carefully, grinned at him and wished him a good day, head bobbing all the while. Whelan had been buying his paper at the stand for fifteen years, most of those years from an old white-haired man named Dutch, an inexhaustible source of trivia, gossip, street rumor and tips on the ponies; his specialty was the trotters. They were easier races to fix and he seemed to have excellent sources, and until the racing commission cleaned up harness racing Dutch was making a good buck on the side. Dutch was dead now and Whelan had no illusions about the little Pakistani man ever becoming a source.
His forehead was wet and he could feel the perspiration on his scalp. The sun seemed to be stuck overhead. On the corner across from the Salvation Army Center was a schoolyard, and here, despite the heat and their barren surroundings, a group of children, perhaps twenty of them, were playing baseball with a heavily taped ball and a ragged collection of gloves and bats.
He stopped to watch for a moment. There was no shade anywhere, and the sun glinted off shards of broken glass on the asphalt surface, and Whelan thought it was the most unpleasant place a kid could find to play ball. But no one had told the kids, who seemed to be having a wonderful, sweaty good time.
To his left, Whelan heard a familiar jingling, and he turned to see a Mexican in a green baseball cap pedaling a little white cart into the schoolyard. The hand-painted sign on the cart proclaimed him to be the representative of Azteca Paleteria somewhere on the south side. Below the lettering, there were gaudy, primitive little paintings of the paletas themselves, the homemade popsicles that were found nowhere else. A paleta might be strawberry, it might be watermelon or mango or guava or lime, but whatever the flavor, a paleta was an experience, sweet and juicy, often thick with pieces of fruit, and Whelan’s mouth was watering. The Mexican grinned at the children, jingled his little bells at them and nodded.
At that moment, from the other entrance to the schoolyard, different jingling sounded, and the vendor turned suddenly, as did the children, to see another vendor pedaling in. This one was an Anglo, a skinny, blond, hard-looking man in a visor, and the sign on his cart proclaimed him to be Mr. Popsicle. Mr. Popsicle yelled something to the kids and pedaled toward them. Mr. Azteca hopped on his seat and began motoring over to get there first. Mr. Popsicle pulled up a few feet away from the Mexican and called to the kids, then yelled something Whelan couldn’t hear at the Mexican. Mr. Azteca then dismounted and said something back. Mr. Popsicle gave Mr. Azteca the finger and got off his little three-wheeler and Mr. Azteca grabbed his crotch in response and began to yell at Mr. Popsicle. They walked toward one another, pointing fingers and screaming, a couple of hot, sweaty men trying to scratch a few bucks out of the city and having a bad time of it. The children were no longer playing baseball but standing in a tightly packed, excited group and watching two businessmen compete for a market.
The two vendors were almost nose to nose now digging deep into the wells of profanity to come up with insults so vile that the moment became a learning experience for all who witnessed it. Whelan couldn’t hear it all but was able to make out a few words. The gist of it seemed to be that Mr. Popsicle was a puta and that his mother slept with dogs in the alley, and that Mr. Azteca had relations with all the women in his family for several generations, and in no time at all the two were exchanging wild roundhouse punches. Like most street fighters, they weren’t very good at it, and after several misses on each side and an occa
sional accidental success, they grappled, got somehow into twin headlocks and hit the pavement. There they rolled and swatted at each other and gouged, to the delight of the children. They screamed and cursed and rolled over and over on the pavement, covering themselves with dirt and broken glass. Finally Whelan decided to stop the fight, but someone else did it for him.
As he started to walk across the schoolyard toward the belligerents, he became aware of another tinny jingling in the distance. The children turned and Whelan looked up to see a third vendor entering the schoolyard. This one was much older than the other two, a sunbrowned old man with shaggy white hair and a toothless smile, and he pushed his rickety cart rather than rode it, and as he looked at the warring vendors rolling on the ground, he nodded and began to laugh. He looked at the children, wiggled his eyebrows at them and pointed to the gleaming rows of bottles on his wooden cart, then at the pristine mound of ice: a snow-cone salesman. The children looked at the lovely line of syrup bottles and imagined themselves slurping at little cones of colored ice, and the two men rolling in the dirt were forgotten forever.
The fighters seemed to realize they were no longer the center of focus, and they rose to a seated position and watched their ancient competitor dish out a dozen and a half snowcones. Whelan watched for a moment and then walked away, laughing.
Across the street outside the Salvation Army Center, they were lined up halfway down the block waiting for a meal. Most were men but there were several dozen women, of all ages, and some had small children. All of God’s races seemed to be accounted for.
Near the door to the center, a tiny man in a blue uniform was struggling to pull a man twice his size off the curb. The big man seemed to be talking to him but his eyes were closed. A couple of the men stepped out of line to help the Sal Army officer but they weren’t much help, and after a moment, the officer gave up and stood, hands on his knees and panting. It was a few seconds before he noticed Whelan watching him.
He was a blond fair-skinned man in his thirties with a scholarly face, a short goatee and wire-rims that framed a pair of remarkably candid blue eyes. The body of a twelve-year-old was tucked into the blue uniform. He was a good deal smaller than any of his “flock,” and Whelan wondered how anyone so obviously overmatched had drawn Uptown as his assignment. Somebody down at Sal Army headquarters had a sense of humor.
Death in Uptown Page 7