26 If You Can’t Swim, Keep Away from Sharks
I had called Lotty from a pay phone on my way home to tell her I was still alive and to ask her to phone me with only the most innocuous questions. She wasn’t best pleased at being awakened—it was past eleven—and took in my request with a terse wish for me to stop being so melodramatic. Melodramatic and foolhardy. Those were hard words to take to bed.
When I left Mr. Contreras, he sent Peppy up with me for comfort. I hoped she brought enough that I could keep at bay my nervous fantasies about someone scaling the side of the building to break into my bedroom.
As I switched off the light the phone rang. I sucked in a breath, wondering what new threat might lie at the other end of the line, but I answered. “Warshawski’s twenty–four–hour detective service.”
“Miss Warshawski?”
It was a child’s voice, high–pitched with its own nervousness. “Yes, this is V. I. Warshawski. What is it, Robbie?”
“I’ve been calling you and calling you tonight. I thought you’d never answer. First I was just going to tell you about BB’s shoes—you know, you asked if any of them had horseshoe buckles or something, and I don’t think so—but this is worse, it’s about that man, that man they showed on the news. He was—” I heard a click and the line went dead.
I squinted at my caller–ID pad and dialed the number on it. It rang fifteen times without an answer. I hung up and tried again, making sure I’d entered the right numbers. After twenty rings I gave up.
One of his parents must have heard him talking to me and cut off the phone. I pictured the mad swimming Eleanor standing over the phone, listening to it ring when I called back. Or they turned off the sound and watched a light flashing red until I hung up, while Robbie protested, crying, his father mocking him for his tears and making him cry harder.
A week ago I might have driven out to the Baladine home, middle of the night or not. But only someone who had daring without judgment would do that. Or someone whose hamstrings weren’t so sore that she couldn’t run if she had to. Anyway, before leaping into action I should find out what man Robbie had seen on the news. There wasn’t any local television coverage this time of night, but if it was important—or grisly—the radio would carry the story.
“It’s midnight and hazy in Chicago, seventy–nine at O’Hare, eighty–one at the lakefront, going down to a low of seventy, with another muggy scorcher in store for us tomorrow. Sammy Sosa capped a sparkling June with his twentieth home run, the most in a month in major league history, but the Cubs dropped another one at Wrigley today, going two and eight over their last ten games.”
I drummed my fingers impatiently through another update of the Starr chamber’s slow grind; through the pious hypocrisies of the House Speaker and the President’s sincere bombast, through more mass murders in ex–Yugoslavia and riots in Indonesia.
“In local news, the drowning victim found late yesterday at Belmont Harbor has been identified as local Hispanic entrepreneur Lucian Frenada. It is not known when or how Frenada came to be in the water; the sister with whom he lived had reported him missing Saturday morning. Mrs. Celia Caliente says she does not know what would have taken her brother to Belmont Harbor, but that he was unable to swim. In other local news, accused killer—”
I snapped off the set. Lucian Frenada was dead. That’s why he hadn’t been answering his phone. I wondered how you got a man who didn’t know how to swim into the lake. I wondered how long it would be before I joined him.
I pulled on a shirt and tiptoed into the living room. If Baladine had one of those fancy listening devices tuned on my building, could it pick up the faint tap of Peppy’s toenails as she followed me? I slipped a finger between two slats of the blind and squinted at the street.
This part of Racine is close to the trendy bars of Wrigleyville, which means we get a lot of people trying to find parking. Even late on a Monday night, occasional knots of young men, made loudly cheerful by beer, swayed up the street. I stood for twenty minutes but didn’t see the same people pass twice.
If I boldly went out the front door, collected my car, and drove to Oak Brook, would I be followed? And more to the point, what would I do when I got there? Climb the security fence on my quivering legs, get arrested for trespassing, try to claim I was responding to an SOS from a twelve–year–old boy whom his successful and beautiful parents would paint as emotionally unstable. Prone to self–dramatization. And maybe they were right. Maybe it was only my animus to Eleanor and BB that made me take their child seriously.
I tried the Baladine mansion one more time, but the phone still rang unanswered. I climbed back into bed, lying rigidly, waiting for the sounds of traffic, of crickets, of drinkers laughing their way up the street, to resolve themselves into menace. There is no worse feeling than not knowing if you are truly alone in your own home. To my surprise, when Peppy pawed at my arm to rouse me, it was eight–thirty.
I rolled over and looked into her amber eyes. “Woof. Sorry, old girl. Bruises and too much of whatever anti–inflammatory Lotty gave me, and I even sleep through fear. Let’s get you out and fetch the paper.”
Ever since Peppy and Mitch learned that bringing in the paper netted a dog biscuit, they like to collect them for the whole building. This morning we were up so late that only my own Herald–Star was still on the sidewalk. Mr. Contreras sent Mitch out to join us, but Peppy drove him off with a serious growl and presented the paper to me, golden plume waving grandly. The encounter made me laugh out loud—a good thing, since the rest of the day was singularly lacking in humor.
I unfolded the paper in the vestibule outside Mr. Contreras’s door. The Herald–Star put Frenada’s death on the front page, under the headline DRUG LORD DROWNS.
Late yesterday, police identified the man pulled out of Belmont Harbor early Sunday morning as Lucian Frenada, owner of Special–T Uniforms in Humboldt Park. Frenada had become the subject of intense investigation by Herald–Star reporter Murray Ryerson, who taped an exposé on the use of Frenada’s small business as a cover for a drug smuggling ring. This story will air tonight at nine on GTV, Channel Thirteen.
Police who raided Special–T late Saturday night discovered five kilos of cocaine inside the cardboard rolls used for shipping uncut fabric. While Frenada hotly denied any connection to the Mexican drug cartels, his bank accounts told a different story. Police speculate that he may have committed suicide to avoid arrest. Frenada grew up in the same Humboldt Park building as movie star Lacey Dowell, widely known by her fans as the Mad Virgin for her role in those movies. Dowell couldn’t be reached for a comment on her old playmate’s death, but studio representative Alex Fisher says the star is devastated by the news. (Murray Ryerson and Julia Esteban contributed to this report.)
The story ended with a tearful denial by Frenada’s sister, Celia Caliente, who said her brother had no money and that it was a struggle for him to meet his share of the mortgage on the two–flat they jointly owned. The story ran with a photo of Lacey Dowell as the Mad Virgin next to a picture of her at her First Communion. Their irrelevance to Frenada’s death underscored the titillative purpose of using them. Buy this paper and get an intimate look at Lacey Dowell. I thrust it from me with so much irritation that Peppy backed away in alarm.
“What’s up, doll?” My neighbor had been watching me read.
I showed him the story and tried to explain why it bothered me so much. The one thing Mr. Contreras picked up from my incoherent rant was that Murray was framing Frenada. He didn’t care whether it was because Global was feeding Murray the story or not—Mr. Contreras has always disliked Murray, even more than the men I date. I’ve never been sure why, and now, to my own exasperation, I found myself feebly defending Murray to the old man.
Mr. Contreras was pardonably incensed. “Either he’s acting like a scumbag, no matter what the reason for it, or he’s not. Don’t go being his ma or his scoutmaster, telling me he’s a good boy at heart, because someone with principles
don’t carry on this way, and you know that as well as me, cookie. He wants the limelight, he wants that TV show they got him doing, and he’s looking the other way. Period.”
Period indeed. I knew all those things were true, but Murray and I had been friends for so many years it hurt like any other loss to see him move away from me. Away from truth. I made a sour face at my own arrogance: I was hardly the avatar of truth.
Mr. Contreras was still fuming, hands on hips. “So whatcha going to do about it?”
“I’m going to work out and eat breakfast.” I felt too defensive to share the rest of my morning’s agenda.
I assured Mr. Contreras I wouldn’t go to the park alone: Mitch and Peppy were happy to be my guardians. I did my stretches, then tested my legs with a modest run. I stuck my Smith & Wesson in a fanny pack. It bounced uncomfortably against my abdomen as I jogged, but the bruise in my side was still too tender for me to carry a shoulder holster.
I could only manage three very slow miles, but I was happy to be in motion again. While I jogged, I kept the dogs closely leashed, much to their annoyance. They kept tugging at me, testing the muscles in my side. I turned around frequently to see who was coming up on me, but we did a little circuit of the harbor where the cops had found Lucian Frenada without anyone trying to shove me off the rocks.
On the way back to the car I called Morrell from a pay phone. I started to ask him about the LifeStory report, but he cut me short.
“You’re calling from a pay phone, but I’m on my home phone. I don’t think you can take any chances with these people. There’s a coffee shop two blocks north of where we ate last night. East side of the road. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Cops and robbers,” I muttered to the dogs. “Or paranoids and orderlies. This is ludicrous.”
Yesterday I’d accused Alex–Sandy of getting a Hollywood scriptwriter to devise the plot to frame me with cocaine in my office, but today I felt I was acting out a B movie myself, playing at spies, with a guy so nuts he wouldn’t use his first name. I drove up to Edgewater and cadged a container of water for the dogs while I waited for Morrell. When he arrived, he looked more worried than wild, but who knows what face paranoia turns to the world. I asked if this charade was really necessary.
“You’re the one who called me last night worried about eavesdroppers. As to whether it’s necessary—that’s the misery of this kind of situation. You don’t know if you’re being watched or making it up. The psychological toll rises so high that you almost welcome a chance to give in, just to have the uncertainty end. Which is why it’s important that teammates keep each other’s morale up.”
I felt chastened and took the manila envelope he was carrying with a mumbled thanks. “I know I came to you first, but it seems nuts to be playing James Bond in my own hometown.”
He bent over to greet the dogs, who were whining for attention. “That’s quite a collection of bruises you’ve got. They from your jump on Saturday?”
I hadn’t had time to change out of running shorts and top. They revealed large patches of greeny purple on my legs and torso, as if Jackson Pollock had been spray–painting me.
“Well, you weren’t running away from a phantom.” He straightened up and looked at me, brown eyes somber. “I know living in Central America has distorted my judgment, and I try to correct for it when I come home. But you see how easily the lines between police and power get blurred, especially in a country like America, where we’re always on full alert against enemies. After fifty years of the Cold War, we’ve gotten into such a reflexive posture of belligerence that we start to chew up our own citizens. When I come home I like to relax, but it’s hard to put aside the habits that help me survive nine months out of twelve. And in this case—well, you did find drugs in your office. And Lucian Frenada is very dead.”
Robbie Baladine’s late–night call came back to me with a jolt. “There’s something odd about that death. Can you call Vishnikov, ask him to do the autopsy himself? Just in case SMERSH did use some poison known only to Papua natives before putting Frenada into Belmont Harbor.”
He grinned. “You’ll be okay, Vic, as long as you can joke about it.” He looked a little embarrassed, then added, “You have beautiful legs, even with all those bruises on them.”
He turned hurriedly toward his car, as if paying a compliment might leave him open to a hand grenade. When I called out a thanks, he smiled and sketched a wave, then suddenly beckoned me over to the car.
“I forgot. Since we’re playing at James Bond we need a more efficient way to keep in touch. Are you free for dinner tonight? Do you know a restaurant where we could meet?”
I suggested Cockatrice, part of the restaurant explosion in Wicker Park. It was walking distance from my office, where I hoped to spend the afternoon cleaning up files. First, though, I needed to run some errands.
27 Hounding a Newshound
Murray wasn’t at the Herald–Star, but he rated a personal assistant now, so I got to speak to a human voice instead of a machine. When I told her I had important information on the Frenada story—and gave her enough details to convince her I wasn’t one of the horde of nutcases who always have important information on breaking stories—she said Murray was working at home.
“If you leave your number, I’ll give it to him when he calls in for his messages,” she promised.
I told her I’d call back later and didn’t leave a name.
I pulled on clean jeans and a scarlet top and took the Smith & Wesson out of the fanny pack. I balanced it on my palm, trying to decide whether to take it or not. In my present mood I might use it on Murray, but that was a risk he’d have to take: I felt more secure with the weapon. I put it in a leg holster, where I could get to it if I acted like a contortionist. The straps dug into my calf.
No one stopped me on my way to the Rustmobile. I kept checking my mirror on the way to Lake Shore Drive, but if I was being tailed it was expertly done. I detoured downtown to my bank and left a copy of the report on Frenada in my safe deposit box. Heading back north, I swung by Tessa’s mother’s palace on the Gold Coast long enough to leave spare padlock keys with the doorman so that Tessa could get into our building.
I didn’t bother to look for parking on the streets near Murray, since there never is any. I left the Skylark in the alley behind his building, underneath a sign that said: warning, WE CALL THE POLICE TO TOW UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES. Let them.
Murray lives in one of those six–flats with wood–burning fireplaces, tessellated marble floors in the entryways, and all the other stuff you get if you can afford a Mercedes convertible. The bells were brightly polished brass set into cherry paneling.
When Murray’s voice came through the intercom, I pinched my nose and said, “Florist. Delivery for Ryerson.”
We all imagine we’re so special that an unexpected gift of flowers doesn’t seem surprising. Murray released the lock and waited for me in his doorway. Sinéad O’Connor was wafting out from the living room behind him when I got to the second floor. The surprise in his face when he saw me did not seem to include delight.
“What the hell are you—”
“Hi, Murray. We need to talk. Is Alex–Sandy here?”
He didn’t move from the doorway. “What do you think this is? A public library with regular visiting hours?”
“That’s very good. I’ll have to use that. Like the next time you come around unannounced with Alex Fisher–Fishbein to con me into framing someone for you. What did you say to her: “Let’s sprinkle some crumbs from the Global table in front of Warshawski, she’s so perennially hard up she’ll jump on them like a carp on live bait?’“
His face darkened. “I tried to do you a favor. Just because you’re in some twenty–year–old catfight with Alex—”
“Darling Murray, when I’m in a catfight you see the gashes a jaguar leaves. But it’s hard for even a jungle cat to do much against a shark. Are you her partner or her patsy?”
“I’ve listened to
you mouth off a lot of bull to a lot of people over the years, but this is the most offensive thing I’ve heard you say yet.”
“Did she tell you Global planned to toss my place? And did she mention whether they were sowing or reaping?”
His scowl got uglier, but he moved out of the doorway. “You’d better come in and tell me what happened before you go off half–cocked to Alex.”
I followed him into the living room and sat uninvited on one of the couches. He picked up a remote gadget and shut off his stereo, a cute system about as thick as my finger, with silvery speakers like rockets tucked into the corners of the room.
He leaned against the wall: this wasn’t a social visit and he wasn’t going to sit. “Okay. What happened to your place?”
I eyed him narrowly, even though I know you can’t read the truth in most faces. “Someone planted three—large—bags of coke in it while I was out of town last week.”
“Don’t bring it to me. Call the cops.”
“I did that very thing. A specimen named Lemour, who apparently freelances for BB Baladine, or maybe Jean Claude Poilevy, beat me and tried to have me arrested. That was when he couldn’t find the stuff. And he knew exactly where it was supposed to be.” I smiled unpleasantly and cut off Murray as he started to speak. “I ran a secret camera during the search.”
His scowl didn’t lighten, but a shade of doubt came into his eyes. “I’d like to see the film.”
“So you shall. I’m having your very own copy made for you. And today, because we’ve been pals for a long time and I hate to see you turn into a fawning sycophant for the studio, I am hand–delivering to you the LifeStory report I ran on Lucian Frenada two days before Global decided he needed to be discredited.”
Murray’s eyes blazed with fury at my studied insult, but he snatched the envelope out of my hand and sat down opposite me. While he examined the report I looked at the mess of papers on the glass–topped table. He’d been fine–tuning his script for tonight when I arrived: even upside down it was easy to make out Frenada’s name.
Hard Time Page 22