“Vic!” Her face flushed. “Brian isn’t like that! Why do you have to be so negative and cynical?”
“I’m not,” I said. “Just when I think about Arnie and some of his cuter tricks… Mind your step, we’ve got company.”
I’d been watching a cluster of young men in my rearview mirror. They’d been milling around the north end of the block, trading insults and cat-calling passing women while they ostensibly worked on a rusted-out Dodge pickup. A boom-box belting out rap was on the sidewalk. I shouldn’t have spent so much time reminiscing. They’d started our way while I was lost in memories of my childhood.
The gang looked in the Mustang’s windows, saw that we were both women and that Petra was young, and began rocking the car. “Wha choo doing here?” the one nearest me shouted.
I put all my weight on my right side, shifted, and flung open my door so fast that it caught him in the chin. I got out quickly. Blood was oozing from his lower lip.
“Bitch!” he screamed. “Why you do that?”
I ignored him and looked at his friends. “Hello, boys. Why don’t you go back to your own car. I think those little kids up there are messing with your stereo.”
They looked up the street, where two small boys were darting glances between the gang and the boom-box. Two of the gang took off to deal with the kids, but the one I’d injured and his other two friends stayed near me. Petra was still inside the Mustang, but when her door was clear she uncoiled herself from the passenger’s seat and hopped out to the pavement. They turned to look at her, even the one whose lip was bleeding.
“Any of you boys know Señora Andarra?” I’d done a Lexis search last night for the names of the current occupants.
“Who wants to know?” one of them, who sported Latin Kings tattoos, asked.
“Because I want to talk to her. And I’d hate to have to tell her someone in her family was acting like a punk out on the street in broad daylight.”
They started muttering among themselves, and finally backed a few steps away from us. “We watch you. You bother her, we take care of you.” It was the Latin King again.
“You her grandson? That’s good. We grannies like to know the little ones are looking out for us.” I put my arm around Petra’s shoulder and pushed her onto the sidewalk and up the short walk to the front door.
It felt queer to ring a bell at a place I’d gone in and out of freely for twenty-six years. We listened to the sound die away in the house. After a time, while the Latin King moved up the walk behind us, the door opened the length of a short thick chain and a short old woman peered through the crack at us.
“Your turn,” I said to Petra.
My cousin explained in Spanish what our mission was, but Señora Andarra was adamant. We could not come in, no. Perhaps we meant well, but how could she tell? And with only Geraldo out there on the walk… no. If her son were home, it would be another story. But too many people wanted to rob you, and told you stories. Petra pleaded and wheedled as best she could in her classroom Spanish, but we couldn’t budge the woman.
We turned around.
“Keep your head up, look confident. You own this sidewalk.”
“What do we do if they attack us?” Petra whispered.
“Say our prayers,” I said, then called out, “Geraldo! Your abuelita is worried about you. She doesn’t like to see you just hanging around, nothing to do with your time. She wants to see you with a good job, not ending up in the morgue like your buddies!”
Geraldo looked from the house to us. I’d been talking to his granny, we knew his name. Of course I was just guessing about what she might have said, but it wasn’t hard to imagine what she might say about a kid like him. Geraldo bit his lip, backed away from us. We got into the Mustang without any other trouble from the gang, although they struck a defiant pose until we turned the corner at the end of the street and were out of sight.
“Gosh, Vic! I was so scared I thought I was going to pee back there. When you hurt that one guy, I was sure the others were going to attack us.”
“Yeah, I wondered about that, too. But in broad daylight… And once a bully’s taken a hit, he’s more uncertain of his ground. At night, in an unlit alley, I’d be rat’s meat by now.”
“Could you have beaten them if they’d jumped us?”
“Nope. I could have done some serious damage, but me against five young men, not great odds-not unless you’re a street fighter yourself?”
“Are you kidding? I can use my elbows in beach volleyball, but that’s about it. Could you teach me some moves? If we get in a jam again, I don’t want to be the helpless damsel while you do all the fun stuff.”
I laughed a little ruefully. “I’ve spent my share of time in the hospital after doing the ‘fun stuff,’ but I’d be glad to show you some moves. Every woman needs to know what to do in a tight spot. Eighty percent of it’s mental, not physical. Like just now. I was betting that Geraldo was too afraid of his granny to attack us right in front of her house.”
We drove north in a peaceful silence. I suddenly realized I hadn’t heard my cousin’s phone ring all day.
“I switched it off because I figured it would annoy you if I kept talking, but I’ve been texting here while you drive.” She paused, and then said, “Not to piss you off about something else, but did you ever look at your dad’s stuff?”
“All I found were rubies, his false teeth, and the secret plans for the invasion of Canada.”
“Canada? Why would he want to invade Canada? Why not Mexico, so we could be warm in the winter? Seriously, Vic, did you find, like, diaries or anything?”
“No, darling. Just his old softballs and a White Sox baseball. That might be worth something. It was signed by Nellie Fox.”
“Nellie? A woman played for the White Sox? Daddy never-”
“Alas, sweet P., Nellie was short for ‘Nelson,’ not ‘Eleanor.’ He was a Gold Glove second baseman for the White Sox. Anyway, the ball is so beat-up, it’s full of holes. I have no idea why Tony even had it. Maybe he picked it up for your dad and forgot to give it to him. Peter’s a White Sox fan, isn’t he?”
“We live in KC, so it’s the Royals for us. Poor us. But Daddy keeps a soft spot for the Sox.”
We talked baseball the rest of the way north. As I was dropping Petra off, she reverted to our little encounter with the punks outside my South Chicago home.
“Please don’t tell Daddy about it, okay? He already thinks I’m, like, six years old, without enough sense to keep out of harm’s way. And he thinks you’re this mega-feminist trouble-maker. If he knew I’d waltzed right into danger at your side, he’d skin you for supper and put me in a convent.”
“He’d have to catch me first. And, fear not, you’re safe from the convents: your dad and I never talk.”
23
VISIT A CLIENT… AND TALK
I DROVE OVER TO LIONSGATE MANOR SUNDAY AFTERNOON to meet Miss Claudia. I was tired of getting the runaround from her sister, and even from Karen Lennon, on when she would be fit enough to talk to me.
The building receptionist sent me to the skilled-nursing floor, where the head nurse told me that they’d taken Miss Claudia up to the rooftop garden. The nurse warned me that Miss Claudia was noticeably weaker and vaguer. She hadn’t been able to go to church this morning, and she had slept most of the day.
“On Sundays, when there’s no therapy, I like our stroke and dementia patients to have a chance to be outside. Even if she doesn’t seem responsive to you, she probably understands more than you’d think when you talk to her. Are you from the social welfare office?”
“No. I’m trying to find her nephew, Lamont, for her.”
The head nurse patted my hand. “That’s good of you. Real good. She talks about him all the time… at least as much as I can make out from what she’s saying.”
The “garden” turned out to be a dozen or so trees in pots enclosed by a low wooden fence. The manor had done what they could within their budget limits: window
boxes with flowers and some vegetables hanging from the fence, big umbrellas making the space look almost gay, a place to get drinks, and, in one corner and under a canopy, a television set tuned to the White Sox game.
A couple of women were working over the tomatoes and peppers in one of the window boxes. Another group was clustered around a kitten, each trying to get the animal to come to her. The aide who was escorting me to Miss Claudia explained that they brought in different animals for therapy.
“The kitten will live here, but we have to be careful. These old ladies, they’re all so lonely, they get in terrible fights over whose turn it is to have Kitty in her room at night, so we have to say Kitty lives with Pastor Karen. It’s easier to bring in the therapy dogs, because they understand that the dogs have to live on the outside.”
Miss Claudia was in a shady corner, dozing in a wheelchair, with her sister knitting nearby. Even allowing for Claudia’s poor health, the two women looked as unalike as two sisters could: Miss Ella, tall, narrow, pressed and ironed; the younger sister, rounder, softer. Although she was wasted by illness, Miss Claudia’s face was still plump beneath her gray Afro, and you could see smile creases at her left eye, her good eye.
When the aide bent to gently shake Miss Claudia awake, Miss Ella frowned at me in awful majesty.
“My sister is very poorly today. You should have called before coming along like this to bother her.”
“I know she’s doing poorly,” I said, trying to remember not to give way to my quick temper. “I don’t want to lose the chance to talk to her altogether, that’s all.”
The aide was speaking loudly and brightly to Miss Claudia, as one might offer a treat to a toddler, telling her she had a visitor, let’s wake up from our nice nap. A big Bible, its red leather faded to russet along the edges where she’d held it all these years, dropped from Miss Claudia’s lap to the ground. Cardboard markers, inscribed with verses, scattered around her chair.
“ ’ Ible,” Miss Claudia cried. “Fall… no.”
I bent to pick it all up for her, and I tucked the markers into the front of the Bible. The covers were thick and lumpy, as if the book had suffered from the damp.
“You’re always dropping that big thing,” Miss Ella said roughly. “Why don’t you leave it in the apartment and keep a small one with you that you can hang on to.”
“No.” Tears oozed out of Miss Claudia’s left eye. “Keep with me always.”
I pulled a chair up next to her left side and placed the Bible in her lap, where she could touch it. “Miss Claudia, I’m V. I. Warshawski…Vic. I’m the detective who’s looking for Lamont.”
“ ’ Tive?” she said, turning her head to me and getting the syllable out with difficulty.
“Yes, she’s the detective,” Miss Ella said loudly. “She’s the lady that’s taking our money and not finding Lamont for us. So maybe if she tells you why she can’t find him, you’ll let go of this idea.”
I took Claudia’s left hand and held it lightly between my own two. As slowly and clearly as I could, I explained who I’d talked to and what I’d learned, or hadn’t learned, about her nephew. She seemed to be following me, at least following some of it, interjecting a syllable here and there that sounded like the names I was reciting.
“I’ve been looking for Steve Sawyer,” I said. “He was Lamont’s friend. They were together the night Lamont left your home.”
Miss Claudia frowned. “Not ’Teve.”
“You don’t want a detective? You’d like me to stop looking?”
She shook her head. “No, no! You look, find ’Mont. Talk bad. ’Teve… S-s-s-t-uh-eve… not name.”
Miss Ella smiled grimly at my confusion. “She thinks his name isn’t Steve. But of course it is.”
“What is it?” I asked Miss Claudia.
“No ’member. Not ’Teve.”
The aide brought over a glass of apple juice, and I held it for Miss Claudia to drink. “Will Rose know his name?”
Miss Claudia smiled gratefully on the left side of her face. “As’ ’Ose. Love ’Mont.”
Yes, Rose Hebert had loved Lamont. “Do you know any of Lamont’s other friends?”
Claudia slowly shook her head.
I let her rest for a minute or two, then asked if she remembered Harmony Newsome. Claudia’s good eye brightened, and she struggled to tell me about Harmony and the neighborhood. I couldn’t make out much of her garbled syllables except that Harmony’s father had been a lawyer. I think Miss Claudia was telling me he had money, he could afford to send Harmony to college, but I wasn’t sure.
When I got to Harmony’s death and reminded Miss Claudia that Steve Sawyer had been convicted of her murder, I brought up what George Dornick had said. “Do you think Lamont told the police that Steve Sawyer killed Harmony Newsome?”
“Not ’Mont, no. ’Teve friend, baby, school, friend. ’Mont good boy. Not hell, good boy.” Tears leaked from her good eye again.
“See what you’ve done?” Miss Ella said with a kind of grim satisfaction. “My sister can’t help you. You need to leave, Miss Detective, and stop bothering us.”
Before I could voice my anger-she hired me, it wasn’t my idea to ride out to Stateville or get insulted by Curtis Rivers in the last few weeks-Miss Claudia said, “No, Ella. Find ’Mont, you.” She tapped my hand with her own good one. “’Mont ’Conda not. Friend Johnny, yes, ’Conda not. Leave, give-” She stumbled over the word and finally picked up the Bible and showed it to me. The markers fell out again.
“ ’ Mont… Ella give ’Mont ’Ible, he give me. Leave, see Johnny, he say, ‘Keep, keep safe, keep safe.’” She squeezed her eyes shut and struggled to speak. “I keep. ’Mont come, I give.”
“The night he left home, he told you he was going to see Johnny?”
“ ’ Es,” she managed to say.
“Then he gave you his Bible and told you to keep it safe for him, that he would take it back from you when he came home again,” I translated.
She smiled in relief that I had understood her but didn’t try to speak again. I picked up the markers and tucked them into the Bible. Before I gave it back, I turned the well-worn pages, looking to see if Lamont had left anything.
“I’ll do my best for you, Miss Claudia,” I promised.
She squeezed my fingers again with her weak left hand. When she smiled, I could see what a beautiful woman she’d been before her stroke. Miss Ella was frowning more deeply than ever, but I felt better about the case when I left. Not because I had any better ideas, but because I understood now how much it meant to Miss Claudia that I find her nephew.
I felt a little less optimistic after talking to Rose Hebert that night. She didn’t know what Miss Claudia meant, that Steve Sawyer wasn’t Lamont’s friend’s name. “Of course his name was Steve. Maybe he called himself Steven to be formal, but I don’t know what else Miss Claudia had in mind.”
24
FIRE IN THE NUNNERY
AT SIX MONDAY EVENING, I RANG THE BELL TO SISTER Frankie’s apartment on the fringes of Uptown. She lived in a square box, the kind of characterless building that went up in the sixties, with metal-framed windows set level against the tan brick walls so that you didn’t even have a ledge to hold a window box. The Mighty Waters Freedom Center had offices on the ground floor. The rest of the building seemed to be private apartments, some with nuns; F. Kerrigan, OP, and C. Zabinska, BVM, for instance. From the other names, and the discarded toys I could see in the entryway, it seemed that a number of families lived here, too.
The building sat flush with the walk, without even a token patch of grass in front. No one looking at the cracks in the bricks or the open windows where fans tried to stir an evening breeze to life would accuse the sisters of violating any vows of poverty.
After a minute, I rang the bell again. The lock would have been easy to undo with a credit card, but I leaned against the door and watched the street while I waited. Someone had opened a hydrant on the far corner, and kids, most
ly boys, were racing in and out of the jet of water. Couples embraced, at bus stops or in alcoves. A woman whose matchstick legs stuck out in front of her like Raggedy Ann’s was sitting on the bus stop bench beating her thigh with a shaky fist, muttering, “You can’t tell me that, you can’t tell me that.” In the alley, kids were lighting firecrackers: the Fourth was only a week away.
It had been a full day, and if I hadn’t been so impatient to hear what Sister Frances could remember of her day in Marquette Park forty years ago I would have gone home for an early supper and bed.
Karen Lennon had called around noon to thank me for visiting Miss Claudia. “Miss Ella is angry, but I’m glad you didn’t wait for me to give the green light. Miss Claudia feels much more at peace now. I think she’s ready to die, knowing that you are committed to finding her nephew.”
That statement had alarmed me: I realized Miss Claudia was frail when I saw her, but I hadn’t been imagining her as close to death.
Lennon tried to reassure me. “The doctor says she’s stable, but, with strokes, that can change rapidly, too. But after meeting you, and feeling reassured that you’re taking her seriously, that could make her feel less stress, so it could help her get stronger.”
When we hung up, I felt a renewed stab of urgency in the search for Lamont, but I didn’t know what I could be doing. With a sort of helplessness, I put in a second request to see Johnny Merton out in Stateville. Perhaps by the time the visit came through, I could think of some quid pro quo that would make the head snake speak to me. “Parseltongue, that’s what I need,” I murmured out loud as I brushed my teeth. A language for communicating with snakes.
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