Death in Uptown

by Michael Raleigh

  “It’s good, Bauman. Something different, at least. Lunch ought to be interesting.”

  “What’s that green pasty shit? Some kinda sauce?”

  “Yeah.” He bit into the felafel, chewed, wiggled his eyebrows and winked at Rashid. “Good, Rashid.” The Middle East meets Mexico.

  Rashid grinned confidently. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Bauman. “How ’bout you, mister? You want to try Persian food?”

  “Anybody ever die here?”

  “Not yet,” Rashid said happily.

  Bauman looked at the pictures of A&W’s more traditional food, shrugged, looked again at Whelan’s lunch and said, “I’ll have what he’s having. A root beer, too.”

  Bauman looked around the room and then leaned against the counter and watched Whelan eat. Whelan stopped in midchew and looked at him.

  “You always stare at people when they eat?”

  Bauman gave him a little half smile. “I like to jerk your chain, Whelan.” Then he chuckled to himself. “Actually I can’t help it. I’m starving.”

  “Where’s Rooney?”

  He waved irritably in the approximate direction of Area 6 headquarters. “Ah, he brings his lunch. He eats in the cafeteria out of a brown bag. This guy gonna take long?”

  “He doesn’t have to send out to Iran for it.”

  Rashid came over with a basket and put it on the counter in front of Bauman.

  “Here you go, mister.”

  Bauman looked at his food, then at Whelan. “You sure I’m not gonna die if I eat this stuff?”

  Whelan looked at Bauman’s stomach, resting atop the counter. “They don’t have microbes in Iran that can handle anything that big.”

  Bauman sat heavily on the stool next to him and stared for a moment. “You keep making smart-ass remarks, Whelan. You think I’m in lousy shape? You wanna run around the block with me a few times? You wanna box, babe? You wanna—”

  “Aw, eat your food. It was a joke.”

  Bauman bit into the felafel sandwich. “Hey, this is good,” he said through a mouthful. “Hot, though. Supposed to be this hot?”

  “No. The chef gets creative sometimes. Don’t talk with your mouth full, all right?”

  “Aw, fuck you, Whelan.” He picked up his Shalimar kabob, bit into it and said, “Hey, all right.” He turned and winked at Whelan. “Hey, Whelan, aren’t you afraid these guys’ll take you hostage? Ain’t that their, uh, tradition?”

  He looked back quickly to see if Rashid had heard but the Iranian continued to work.

  “Not enough money in hostages, Bauman. These guys are entrepeneurs.”

  Bauman snorted and went back to eating. They ate in silence for a while, listened to the bustle around them, watched in amusement as Rashid got into it with a pair of young blond boys in dago T’s who were apparently trying to convince him they’d already paid for their food. Rashid’s manner grew more agitated, his speech more rapid, and then he began cursing in an impressive mixture of Farsi and English. Gus emerged from the back room with a cleaver and Rashid looked at Whelan.

  “Detective? Mr. Detective Paul? We got troubles here.”

  “Aw, fuck me,” one of the young guys said, and tugged at the other’s arm. The second one threw four singles on the counter and grabbed his A&W bag and they left, mumbling and tossing hostile looks over their shoulders at Whelan, Rashid and Gus. Whelan noticed that neither one looked at Bauman. At the door, one of them called the Iranians “Camel jockeys.”

  Gus came over to Whelan and Bauman. “You know something? There’s no camels in Iran, not one. Okay, maybe in the zoo, but otherwise, no. No camels. The Arabs ride camels, not us. We ride…what do we ride, Rashid?”

  “Fords,” Rashid said, and they both laughed.

  “I like this joint,” Bauman said.

  “It’s an interesting place.”

  “You go to places like this all the time?”

  “Whenever I can. I look for little out-of-the-way places all over the city. What kind of food turns you on, Bauman?”

  Bauman thought for a moment and shrugged. “All kinds. I like hot food. I don’t…I don’t know much about the different kinds but if it’s, you know, if it’s got a little bite to it, I’ll like it.”

  “Thai food?” Bauman shrugged and shook his head. “Try that. Or Korean. They’re both pretty spicy and they’re both cheap.”

  “I don’t give a shit about that. I got nothing else to do with my money.”

  Whelan finished his food and had a cigarette. Eventually Bauman finished and took out one of his little cheap cigars, and Whelan waited for him to light it and take a couple of puffs before speaking.

  “So. Why are we here, Detective Bauman?”

  Bauman gave him his sly smile. “Thought we’d compare notes, see what we got.”

  “You mean, you thought you’d come around and put the arm on me, see if I had anything to give you.”

  “Is that what I meant?”

  “What’s the matter, didn’t you find out all kinds of great stuff following me around yesterday?”

  Bauman blew out smoke and gave him a long slow look, and Whelan decided it wasn’t a look he’d like to see in an alley.

  Bauman sighed. “I just tailed you for a couple blocks, is all. I wasn’t followin’ you. Didn’t look like you were doing any good so I took off.”

  “You don’t take Sundays off, huh?”

  “What’s that to you?”

  Whelan let it go. “I’m getting shut out, Bauman. I’m looking for these guys and I’m going in circles. I flush Hector and Sharkey but I lose ’em right away. I don’t believe how this is going for me. I thought…I thought you guys would come up with something.”

  Bauman flicked ash into his A&W basket. “I got every uniform in Uptown lookin’ for these guys, I got a car cruisin’ that building where Hector kicked your ass—”

  “He didn’t kick my ass. He took a narrow and disputed decision.”

  Bauman laughed. “He kicked your ass. You didn’t see your face, Whelan. I did. It was the face of a guy that just got the shit kicked out of him.”

  “Fine. I prefer my own version. And I’ve seen your guys.”

  “They ain’t come up with nothin’ yet. And we got guys looking on foot, the whole shot.” He shook his head and a look of tired frustration crossed his face briefly.

  “And we still got what we started with, couple of guys, a little wino and a guy a little down on his luck, and both of ’em wind up dead in alleys a couple blocks apart.”

  Whelan caught the softened reference to Artie Shears and allowed himself a smile. “Theories, Bauman?”

  “Well, both of these guys…the killer wanted it to look like something else. Stuck a knife in Shinny, turned a couple pockets inside out. Took your friend’s tape recorder.”

  “Fine, but if it’s not the obvious thing, then you’ve got to supply the motive.”

  “Sharkey’s the connection, Whelan.”

  “That’s a connection, not a motive. Where’s your motive?”

  “Okay, smart guy. You tell me.”

  “I don’t know. Somebody wanted…I don’t know. To keep them away from Sharkey, it seems to me.”

  Bauman thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Nah. Something else. I got an edge here, Whelan, ’cause you didn’t see Shinny. Guy that killed Shinny hit ’im in a lot of places you wouldn’t hit somebody if you were trying to kill ’im.” He held up his big red hand, knuckles toward Whelan, and patted his ring.

  “Ring marks, lotta ring marks. Got hit backhanded a bunch of times. Ring marks and cuts all over his face. Why would you hit a guy backhand, huh?”

  Whelan took a last puff of his cigarette and ground it out in a little aluminum ashtray, then thought for a moment. “To frighten him. No. To get something out of him.”

  Bauman made a little shooting motion at him with his thumb and forefinger. “There you go. Not bad. Least, that’s what I’m thinking. I think somebody was trying to get some
thing out of Shinny. Information. See, everything I got says Hector and Sharkey went under a few days before Shinny got it. I think this guy was looking for Sharkey and Hector, probably just Sharkey, and tried to get Shinny to tell him about it.”

  “And Artie Shears had been talking to them.”

  “That’s right, whoever killed Shinny thought your pal could give him something. Also, takin’ the tape recorder was a nice touch, ’cause he probably listened to the tape, to see if the tape would give ’im anything.” He grinned and Whelan wanted to laugh.

  “Pretty pleased with yourself, huh?”

  Bauman pursed his lips. “I’m gonna get this prick, Whelan. And if I get to him before anybody else. I’m gonna kick the shit out of him.” The color rose in Bauman’s cheeks and he nodded repeatedly and took a nervous puff at the stub of the cigar.

  “Watch your blood pressure, Wild Bill. I’ll buy you another sandwich.”

  Bauman blew out the smoke and coughed. He picked tobacco from his lip and seemed to be lost in his thoughts for a moment. Then he turned very slowly and looked at Whelan.

  “You figure me for a weirdo, right? Or what? Rogue cop? Bum cop, is that it, Whelan?”

  “I don’t quite know what to make of you, Bauman. To tell you the truth.”

  “I’ll make it simple for you. Twenty-four hours a day, I’m a cop. Nothin’ else. And anything comes my way, I jump into it. And some things…some things make me a little crazy. You see, you didn’t get a look at Shinny or your friend, right? The body?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You wouldn’t have liked it.”

  “I bet.”

  “I don’t like any of it. Once you see the body, Whelan, they’re not just cases anymore, at least that’s how I see it. Other guys, they think I’m a little strange about it, but I don’t think so. I think I get closer to the thing, I got a better shot than they do at closing it. And these poor schmucks on the street, they got no protection from anything, and when somebody takes one of ’em out, something senseless like this—”

  “I know. You explained how you feel about them, and I think you’re right.”

  “But the guy that killed Shinny and your friend, he thinks he’s just about home free by now. He took out a couple bums and nobody gives a shit. Doesn’t know me, though. I never let go, Whelan. Remember that guy they found on South Wacker back at the start of winter?”

  Whelan thought for a moment, then gave him a surprised look. “The crossbow thing?”

  Bauman nodded and puffed at his cigar. Whelan had no trouble remembering the killing: it had been just bizarre enough to make the evening news on all channels and in both papers. A derelict had been found in the dark tunnel of Lower South Wacker Drive with a crossbow bolt in his chest. He appeared to have been killed in his sleep, and there had been the suggestion of random selection, of thrill killing.

  “Well, I looked for that fucker, Whelan. I’m still looking and you know that ain’t anywhere near my beat. It wasn’t my case but I went down there at night, had a few pops at Billy Goat’s and then just kinda wandered around, hoping some asshole would aim a crossbow at me so’s I could break his arms before givin’ him Miranda. And you know what? We got leads on that one now’, and one of ’em came from me, just from me walkin’ around down there where I got no official business, from me standing on corners and beatin’ my meat and waiting for somebody to tell me something.”

  The detective puffed at the now tiny stub of the cigar, shook his head, seemed to mumble something to himself and looked around the room.

  “Bauman, I’ve got something for you. Not much, but it’s something. An old guy I talked to said he saw Billy the Kid down at the park last night.”

  “Which park. Clarendon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would this guy know?”

  “Yeah. He described him to me.”

  “Where in the park? He say where?”

  “By the softball field. Well, in the parking area. Going through the cars.”

  Bauman gave him a slow smile. He closed his eyes and gave his head a little shake. His cheeks puffed up and his face looked even rounder than usual, and for just a second Bauman looked positively jovial, the Oliver Hardy of the police.

  “And you were gonna go down to the park and—what? Make the collar, right?”

  “I was going to look for him. That’s all.”

  “And then what?” A wide grin, the pro interviewing the amateurs.

  “Who knows?”

  “You were gonna strut your stuff and let me read about it in the papers.”

  “Look, you’ve told me from the beginning, you guys don’t know anything about this officially. You told me they’ve even got you working on something else.”

  Bauman shrugged. “We got a couple homicides we’re looking at. Couple druggies got popped, we got a good shot at it, so we’re spending some time on ’em. But I’m busting my ass up here on this one, Whelan. And you know that.” He crushed the cigar butt into the basket. “So you better not keep anything to yourself, ’cause I’ll fucking have you in a lockup faster than you can piss, Jack.”

  “I love your simple but direct use of the language. And you didn’t threaten to yank my license.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your license. I’ll kick your ass if you screw this up.” He expelled breath and stretched. The paper in his basket was on fire. “But thanks for the tip.” He smiled and winked. “And you’re still gonna go down there and look, right?”

  “I like to go down and watch softball once in a while.” He poured the watered remnants of his A&W root beer into Bauman’s A&W conflagration. A little cloud of smoke and steam hovered over the counter. Rashid came over and gave them a puzzled look.

  “You blow this and I’ll stomp on you.”

  “He’ll make you from five hundred yards, Bauman, you or any other cop.”

  Bauman laughed, got to his feet and pointed at his smoking basket.

  “This is good stuff.” He looked at Rashid and reached into a pants pocket. “Good stuff, babe.”

  “Here, Rashid. The gentleman is my guest.” He handed Rashid a ten and looked at Bauman. “Next time, you can buy.”

  “No problem.”

  “And we’ll go someplace expensive.”

  He took his change, nodded to Bauman and left.

  At the office he called the Estes once more and was told by an irritated switchboard operator that she was out, that Miss Agee had been out all day. He hung up and stared out the window and told himself he would hear from her again because she’d need his report. And then it occurred to him that she could quite easily get it over the phone. He sighed and turned slightly in his chair, and then noticed the two shapes outside his door.

  “It’s open. Don’t be shy.”

  The door opened slowly and he whispered, “Oh, Lord.”

  Don Ewald and Tom Waters shuffled in a few steps and stopped. Ewald seemed to be bothered by the open door and tried to push it shut, but they weren’t far enough inside and the door hit Waters, who then took a nervous couple of steps to one side and stepped on Ewald’s foot.

  “Sorry, Don.”

  “No problem, Tom.” Ewald finally managed to get the door closed and they stood there like children taking punishment, hands at their sides. They moved from one foot to the other, stuck their hands in their pockets and looked at one another.

  “Hi, fellas,” Whelan said, and smiled to ease their load. “Come on in and make yourselves at home.” He indicated the two chairs in the room. Waters moved the extra one from the wall and put it beside the client chair and they sat down almost simultaneously. Whelan wondered if they drilled together in the morning.

  “So. To what do I owe this rare privilege?”

  Don Ewald rubbed his nose and smiled and Tom Waters made a little noise in his throat that could have been a giggle. They looked at one another again and Ewald leaned forward.

  “We…we wanted to offer you our help.”

&n
bsp; “Oh. Well, you guys have been pretty helpful already.”

  Tom Waters shook his head. “No, we mean…we could do some actual work for you. You’ve asked us to keep an eye out, but…you know, Don and I, we cover a lot of ground each day, in the course of our work—”

  “A lot of ground.” Ewald said, nodding.

  “Oh, I bet you do. I can imagine.”

  “And we thought, you know, we thought we could do some leg work for you. You just tell us where to go and we’ll go.”

  He looked from one to the other and held his breath and prayed that he wouldn’t laugh. He nodded slowly and glanced out the window as if thinking it over. Was this how Nixon felt when Elvis offered his services as a government agent? He could send them to the farthest corner of the neighborhood and get them truly out of his hair—maybe send them up to Argyle Street and have them look for a Vietnamese woman with one blue eye. Better yet, have them follow Bauman and Rooney. Good clean fun for everyone. He looked at the open, honest faces and felt a twinge of guilt.

  “What did you have in mind, exactly?”

  Don Ewald opened his mouth, said “Well…” and looked to Waters for help.

  “We thought you could give us the…the boundaries, you know, the…uh…” Waters shrugged.

  “Parameters,” Ewald suggested.

  “That’s the word, parameters. The parameters of your investigation, and we could work those streets into our work. The Reverend Roberts doesn’t care where we go to do our work as long as we give—”

  “Full measure. That’s the term he uses,” Ewald said. “Full measure.”

  Whelan nodded. “Well, it seems to me that the mark of a good investigator is to know how to deploy what he’s got. And I think—I’ll be honest with you guys. I’ve been using you already. It’s no coincidence that I keep running into you, or that I stopped in to see you at the Way. I knew you’d be familiar with the streets I’m working. So I guess what I’m saying is, you’re already working where I most need a couple extra pairs of eyes and ears.”

  They both bought it. Don Ewald blinked once and Tom Waters nodded.

  “You expect to find these men…up around this part of the neighborhood?” Waters asked.

  “Sure, it’s where everything happened.”