Skeef walked round to his side of the desk and sat down. In front of him on our side were a couple of chairs, the same kind as from the reception area. I took a look. These ones were cleaner. Dykes and Jackson sat down. Dykes popped a Lifesaver in his mouth, offered all of us. All of us declined, including Skeef.
"I'm just finishing my lunch. Yous don't mind?"
It wasn't really a question. He popped the last bite of hotdog into his mouth and washed it down with a long drink from his Big Gulp. Then he took a white napkin and wiped his mouth and tossed that and the hotdog tray into the basket. He picked up his packet of Black and Milds and put one in his mouth. I took this as an invitation and put a cigarette in mine. He lit a match, fired up his cigarillo and offered the match to me. I leaned in for the spark. He turned around and opened a window behind him about a foot. It opened up to the back alley.
"Sorry about the mess," he said. "AC's on the fritz. Called the guy but you know how these monkeys get things done. Amiright?'
He smiled at us and took a puff from his cigarillo.
"So what can I do yous for?"
"We're here about Ensor," said Dykes.
Skeef shook his head slowly and sadly.
"Man, I can't believe it. Who'd wanna kill him?" he asked, looking at the three of us.
"That's what we'd like to know. Mr. Frederic Salisbury tells us that you were helping Ensor out with something."
Skeef sucked on his cigarillo and blew smoke up to the ceiling, chasing it with o-rings.
"Yup. Jimmy wanted me to tail his wife. Thought summin' was up with hers. He was right."
"What was she up to?" asked Dykes.
I sucked on my cigarette and leaned in to tap its ash into his ashtray. I didn't see any others. Skeef pushed it towards me. It was now towards the end of the desk. That was nice of him. I appreciated the consideration.
"He reckoned she was screwing around on him. And he was right. She was giving it to this nig..."
Skeef realized Jackson was with us. He cleared his throat.
"I meant to say she was screwing this African American team mate of his. Guy's name is Gibb."
Skeef didn't look at Jackson. Jackson was looking at him. I looked at Jackson and then I wanted to clean Skeef's clock. But we needed some information from him. Fuck it. I stuck the cigarette in my mouth and walked round the side of the desk and clocked him on the beak. He bounced back against his cheap leather chair, his cigarillo fell out of his hand. I grabbed him by his tie and pulled him in real close.
"What the fuck were you gonna say?" I asked.
My blood was boiling. Maybe I was tired and cranky. Most likely I was sick and tired of the racists in this country. Blood started trickling from his nose. His eyes were wide, watery and scared. He held up both his hands in submission. Smoke from my cigarette was curling into my left eye. I squinted it half shut.
"Geez man, I..I..I'm sorry," he said.
"You owe your apology to the detective you insulted, you piece of white shit."
Skeef looked over at Jackson.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't means nothing by it."
Jackson nodded. I slowly released my grip on him. He put his left shoulder to his nose and dabbed the blood off with his shirt. He leaned down and picked up his cigarillo. I didn't look at anybody. I didn't want to deal with Dykes being pissed off or pleased. Made no difference to me. I was in a mood. And the white trash needed taking out. Besides, I figured it might have loosened Skeef up a bit. He might be more talkative now. Skeef licked the top of his lip where blood was trickling down. He stuck his cigarillo into his mouth and pulled on a drawer on the side of his desk. He pulled out a couple of tissues and dabbed at his nose. He didn't look at me.
"You got any pictures from your surveillance?" asked Dykes, after giving Skeef a few moments to collect himself. Skeef nodded, looking down at the clump of red and white tissues in his hand. He tenderly put the tissues to his nose again. The blood was slowly staring to clot. Despite what it looked like, I hadn't hit him hard enough to break his nose. As if reading my mind.
"Shit, man, I thinks its busted," he said.
"I didn't hit you hard enough," I said, my voice clotted with anger and hatred. He still didn't look at me. He put the tissues into the trash can and pulled out a couple more. Then he got up and walked over to his right where two stacks of metal filing cabinets sat against the wall. He shuffled through some files and then pulled out a blue folder. He put it on his desk and sat down behind it. He opened it up. There were a bunch of photos. He took a stack of them and rifled through them. Then he pushed them towards the end of the table towards Dykes. I had seen them when he shuffled through them from my vantage point.
Dykes looked at them. There were half a dozen or so he'd shown us. Pics of Gibb and Celia by a nice house. Probably Gibb's but I couldn't be sure. There were three pics of Gibb and Celia outside. Kissing, hugging and holding hands. The next three were the interesting ones. You could see the two of them through a window in an upstairs room of the house. Both of them were naked in the first one. The second shot showed her on her knees giving him head. The third shot had her facing the camera with Gibb giving it to her from behind. There was no doubt what was going on.
"You took these with a telephoto?" asked Dykes, looking up at Skeef. Skeef dabbed at his nose. Not much new blood was leaking out. He sucked on his cigarillo and still didn't look at me or Jackson. The two of us didn't feel much like talking to him so that was on Dykes.
"Yes sir, I musta been a couple hundred feet away in my car."
"And you showed these to Ensor?"
"Yes sir. He was real pissed off. Said he was gonna kill her. But I reckon that was just the anger talking. He wasn't like that. Asked me to hold onta them. Said he was gonna divorce her and that he needed them for the lawyer."
"And did you speak to the lawyer?" asked Dykes.
"No sir. Jimmy said he was gonna do that."
"Did he?"
"I dunno. I thinks so, but he never told me for real. I just guessed."
"Where was this taken?" asked Dykes.
"At Gibb's place in Forest Glen."
"How long did you tail her for?"
"Just a coupla weeks. I got lots of stuff on her in that time," said Skeef, dabbing at the crusting blood on his upper lip. He took a sip on his Big Gulp. Then he took a drag on his cigarillo. I tapped ash out into the ashtray.
"Did you see her with anyone else?" asked Dykes.
"Yes sir, there was this other guy."
"Did you catch them in intimate settings like this?"
"No sir, but I gots pictures of them two."
Skeef got up and went back to the filing cabinet. He pulled out another blue folder and put it on this desk. He sat down in front of it and put his cigarillo in his mouth. He opened it up. The insides were the same as the first folder. A scattering of photos and a sheet of paper on the inside with times and places and such.
Skeef looked over the photos and handed four of them to Dykes.
"These all of them?"
"No sir, I just prints out the best ones. I've got a whole memory card here. Probably a few dozen I reckon of both sets."
At the bottom of the folder on both inside sides was a sleeve. In the first one, Skeef pulled out a small manila envelope. There was a hard, square item inside. He pulled it out and showed it to us. It was a memory card. Sixty-four gigabytes. He put it back in the envelope and put the envelope back in the sleeve. Dykes looked at the photos and shared them Jackson. I'd seen them from my vantage point close to Skeef's desk.
They were good photos in that you could see the people in them clearly. Also taken from a distance with a telephoto. It was of Celia with a long, scraggly haired Jesus-looking guy. If Jesus had the look of a heroin addict who hadn't eaten in a few weeks or shaved for that long. He had stubble on his face and his hair looked greasy or wet. It was slightly curly and hung to his shoulders. He was gaunt-looking with beady, crazy eyes and a hooked nose. They w
ere sitting at a coffee shop by a window. Two drinks were on the table. One of the photos had Jesus addict looking at the photographer, at least that was the impression. The other three were similar shots but not giving such clean lines of sight. The best shot of Celia was a three quarter profile pic. She didn't look happy.
"Who is this guy?" asked Dykes.
Skeef shrugged.
"I dunno. I followed him for a while to this motel not far from here in Pullman. He's a rough looking character, but theys were never intimate."
"What were they doing together?"
Skeef shrugged again.
"I dunno. Never heard what they talked about. But she gave him some money. Quite a lot of money. I took pictures of it but I hadn't developed them yet. A big envelope probably an inch thick. He seemed pretty agitated. She looked scared though."
"You just have them meeting this one time?"
Skeef nodded and finished up his cigarillo and squashed it out into the ashtray. I did the same with my cigarette. He still didn't look at me.
"Yes sir, just this one time. Like I said, I followed him to this motel. A real rundown place. Called Nite Owl Motel in Pullman likes I said. I took this all to Jimmy and he said he'd handle it from there."
"When was this?"
"Last Friday," said Skeef, looking at his notes in the folder. "This meeting here at that coffee shop was on Friday morning. I followed this guy to the motel that afternoon and went to see Jimmy in the evening."
"Was he driving?"
"Yes sir, was an old Crown Vic. Bad shape it was. Had a whole bunch of primer all over it, round the wheel wells and such. Otherwise it was maroon and probably a ninety-two model."
"Did you go back to the motel to tail him some more?"
"No sir, Jimmy said that was all he wanted. I gave him copies of the photos I took and he paid me and said that's all he needed. Said he'd take it from here."
"You happen to get the guy's name?"
"No sir."
"You didn't head into the motel to ask?"
"Geez, no sir, I never did think of that."
Skeef sucked on his Big Gulp like he'd just come out of the Sahara. He still didn't look at me.
"I don't like the look of those photos," I said, looking at Dykes. "Something's going on here. She's paying this guy off for something."
Jackson looked up at me.
"You thinking murder for hire?" he asked.
Skeef looked up at us.
"I don't reckon she'd do anything like that," he said.
We ignored him. I tilted my head to one side and then shrugged.
"Maybe, but I'm not sold on it. She didn't seem like a woman who'd just hired a guy to murder her husband when we interviewed her."
Jackson nodded.
"Looks like we've got someone we need to talk to."
Dykes returned three of the photos to Skeef. Skeef looked at the last one still in Dykes hand like he was longing for it.
"We'll hold onto this one," said Dykes.
Skeef nodded.
"Ok," he said. "I can print more."
"Tell me something," I said, looking at Skeef still trying to figure out his relationship with the deceased. "Why'd Ensor hire a bum like you."
Skeef was over getting angry at me. He looked at me with distaste in his eyes.
"Me and Jimmy, we's go ways back. I've known Jimmy ever since we were on the high school football team back in Lexington, South Carolina. Jimmy's a loyal friend. Something you don't unnerstand."
It was his best attempt at a barb. I just left it.
"So that's your high school ring?" I asked, nodding at the championship ring. He looked at me again and nodded.
"State champions we were. Jimmy played baseball and football. He was real good athlete."
I nodded.
"You never got to the NFL then?"
He looked away and shook his head.
"Didn't pick me. But Jimmy always remembered his friends. He helped me set up my business here after I finished my criminology course."
I nodded. Skeef didn't look at me.
"You getting any money from his will?"
Skeef shrugged.
"Dunno," he said. "I never did kill 'im if that's what you're suggesting."
"You have a gun?"
Skeef nodded.
"In my drawer here," he said, looking at the drawer where his tissues were.
"What type?"
"Beretta Px4 Storm with forty Smith and Wessons."
"Show me," I said.
Skeef opened up the drawer and slowly pulled out his gun which was in a clip on holster. He left it in the holster and passed it over to me. I had a look at it. It was as he said. I slid it back.
"Registered?"
He looked up at me with a sulky face.
"Of course."
"Any others?"
He shook his head.
"If you're lying," I said. "Detective Jackson is gonna be back like a ton of bricks."
Skeef looked over at Jackson and then back at me.
"I ain't lying."
I nodded. I then looked over at Dykes and Jackson.
"Alright," said Dykes, standing up. "You've been helpful. If we need anything else we'll see you soon."
Skeef nodded but didn't say anything. We walked out and I could feel Skeef's eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. Outside by the car, Jackson turned towards me.
"You didn't have to do that," he said. "I could've handled it myself."
I nodded and looked over his shoulder at a shawarma joint.
"Guess I was just in a pissy mood," I said. "I'm hangry, so that probably didn't help. Besides, nothing pisses me off more than racist assholes taking cheap shots."
Jackson grinned at me.
"Still, shit man, did you see his face after you popped him?"
I nodded and grinned.
"That was worth the price of admission," he said.
Dykes was smiling off to the side, enjoying our conversation. He popped a Lifesaver in his mouth.
"Must be nice not to be encumbered by a badge," he said.
I looked at him.
"It helps," I said. "Though a badge never stopped me from straightening out ignorance."
"Good to know," said Dykes, "because we've been on our best behavior trying to figure you out."
"And now we understand each other, right?" I asked.
Dykes nodded and turned to open his door.
"Listen," I said, "I am seriously hangry. Can you smell that meat? I just wanna grab a quick bite."
Dykes turned and looked at the shawarma place. He nodded his head.
"Yeah, I could put something down."
"Damn right," said Jackson.
We walked over to Shicago Shawarma. It was a stand up restaurant, with a counter to order from and a tall thin counter up against the window to eat at without seats. But the shawarma was one of the best I'd had in my life. That, or I was just really, really hangry.
SEVENTEEN
Nite Owl Motel
PULLMAN was one of those communities that had let middle age beat him down. He'd grown a paunch, sat on his porch, unshaven, hair scraggly, drinking beer and wagging his fingers at the kids walking home from school. But something had been happening to him in the last decade or so. Seems he was working out, eating his veggies and shaving. Hell, he was even wearing nicer clothes, not new, but new for him, and he was wearing cologne. Might be cheap drugstore cologne, but still, I reckon nobody would have recognized him from the man he was twenty years ago. Old age had given him a new lease on life.
I was expecting Pullman to be a ramshackle place full of hoodlums and gangsters on every corner. That wasn't the case. It was a community of hard working folk coming together to reinvigorate their place in the greater Chicago area. Sure, its age was showing. Sidewalks were cracked, infrastructure needed some work, but folks' homes were their pride and joy. You could see them spending real money on them to bring them back into the twenty-first century.<
br />
We'd taken a detour off of South Cottage Grove Avenue and driven past Hotel Florence. Dykes had explained to me that this hotel was as old as the hills. Built by George Pullman, famous for the Pullman train sleeping car, he named it after his daughter. It was the only place in Pullman, which he'd also designed as the first planned community in America, which offered liquor. Pullman was a dry town back in his day. We're talking the early eighteen eighties.
It was a fine looking hotel but no longer available for sleepovers. The Illinois Historic Preservation Agency owns it now and uses it for tours and special functions.
That was our only brief stop. We carried on towards the Nite Owl Motel. It was barely inside Pullman as I understood it, and you can tell. This is where old man Pullman after a long day's work loosened his belt and let his smaller paunch stick out under his wife beater. We were on East 115th Street not far from the Bishop Ford Freeway. This was a mixed area of town. Some commercial, industrial and run down motels.
Nite Owl Motel was probably from the fifties. It was a two story strip style motel with blue trim that needed a new coat of paint. As we drove up into the driveway, the office was on our left and the two floors of the motel sprawled out to the right. The sign was on a tall white pole. The sign itself was oblong and blue with similar lettering to Skeef's only it was in white. You couldn't tell if there was vacancy because the vacancy light wasn't on in the bright sun, but we figured a place like this always had a room to rent. Dykes pulled us up right out front the office. There were three cars in the parking slots right up against the rooms. Old beaters of American sort. Nothing newer than ten years.
We all got out. The sun was bright and watery, the sky pale blue in contrast to the Dodger blue of the motel's trim. It wasn't cold, but I was grateful to be wearing my windbreaker. It was my hat that I missed. I followed Dykes and Jackson into the office. It smelt of stale cigarettes and eggs. I couldn't figure out the eggs until we moseyed up to the front desk and I saw a paper plate that once had a couple of fried eggs on it just off to the side of the man behind the counter.
He was a guy in his thirties with stubble and a natural tan. He wore a polyester mesh baseball cap with a logo of an engine on the front and a name I didn't recognize. He wore two round black nuts as earrings. At least that's what they looked like to me. I coulda stuck my finger through them. He had two metal horns sticking out each nostril about a half an inch. I figured that was another sort of piercing. Around his neck was a black leather string with a crystal ring hanging from it over his camo green T-shirt. Both his arms had full sleeves. Nothing literal, mostly some sort of tribal art without color. His pants were black cargo, combat pants, similar to the kinds that SWAT and others might wear. His left front pocket showed a clip that was attached to a knife inside his pocket. He was skinny but looked tall. He was reading a tattoo magazine. He looked up at us and I could see the walls go up.
Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 67