Windy City Knights

by Michael A. Black

  She recoiled in horror, her hands shooting up in front of her like a boxer.

  “Allergic!” she said, cowering away from me.

  “Oh,” I said, stroking the cat and sticking it back into my overcoat pocket. “Sorry.”

  As I walked into Mr. Russell’s office I was impressed at the decor. He had a large wooden bookcase along one wall, containing a comprehensive selection of leather-bound volumes of all the state statutes. There were more pictures and certificates on the wall behind him, including photos of him shaking hands with the mayor and the former and present governors. His polished mahogany desk looked large and foreboding. Russell himself resembled a college professor. Or at least what I’d imagine a college professor should look like. He appeared to be in his late fifties with medium brown hair sporting an artful streak of gray in the front. His suit was brown tweed, obviously tailored to accommodate his heavy build, and his tie was a set of horizontal stripes. The kind they call a power tie in those Dress for Success books.

  “Mr. Shade, Tom Russell,” he said, standing and extending his hand.

  I gripped it, keeping my left hand in my overcoat pocket.

  “Sit down,” Russell said, holding his palm out toward the chair in front of the big desk. “You can hang your coat up over there if you like.”

  I pretended I hadn’t heard him and just grinned as I sat down, keeping my hand clamped on the pocket. The kitten arched its back slightly, but then seemed to curl into a passive position.

  Russell reclined slightly in a padded swivel chair and spun a humidor on his desk top, extracting a pipe. But like most pipe smokers, rather than lighting it, he just played with it for a while first. “George Grieves has told me a lot about you,” he said, twisting the stem of the pipe in his fingers. “And I must admit, I was impressed at the notoriety you’ve achieved with some of your cases.” He licked his lips. “That was you I read about with that illegal dumping thing last year, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I got lucky on that one.” I felt my tiny buddy getting restless.

  Russell smiled. “Don’t be modest. I read the account in the papers. That was good work. I like a man who can get the job done.” He took out a tobacco pouch and began to pack the bowl of the pipe. “So how long have you and George had this little security firm of yours?” he asked. He seemed to put emphasis on the word “little.” Zipping the pouch closed, Russell took out a silver pipe-lighter and held the flame over the bowl.

  “Well, we more or less just started it up,” I said. “I’ve been in business for myself for a few years, and George and Doug are still working at the police department.” The kitten began to try and squirm out of the pocket. I adjusted my grip.

  “Yes, I know,” Russell said. He flipped open a tan file folder on his desk. “I see by your résumé that you’re a former police officer, too.” The pipe was going strong now, the smell not too unpleasant, but it still caused my throat to tighten up. “Former military, combat experience, SWAT training…Quite impressive.” He closed the folder and stared at me rather intently. “Now, Mr. Shade, I’d be interested in hearing just how you could be an asset to Securitec. As you’re probably aware, we are the largest, and most prestigious organization of our kind in the Chicagoland area.”

  I was set to go into the spiel that I’d practiced about our security company when the cat began clawing and meowing its way out of my pocket again.

  “Well,” I said, trying to cover the sounds of the cat. But Russell was already looking at me a little strangely. “As you mentioned, I’ve got quite an extensive network of contacts around the city myself.” Another tiny meow. I tried to use my fingers to soothe the little beast, but it just dug its claws into my hand. I grimaced suddenly. Russell sat back in the chair, his mouth puckering slightly, holding the pipe in front of him like some sort of weapon.

  “Is something the matter, Mr. Shade?”

  I forced a grin.

  “Well,” I began. Just then the little cat managed to scramble out of my grasp, and it dashed up the lining of my coat, down my leg, and onto the floor. I stood abruptly. Russell seemed to jump back in his chair.

  “What was that?” he yelled.

  “Ummm…it’s just a little kitten I picked up on the way over here,” I said, stooping and trying to grab it. But the little bastard shot under Russell’s desk and made a hissing sound. “I tried to get your secretary to hold it while I was in here, but she’s allergic.”

  “You idiot,” he said, pushing back his chair and stepping gingerly toward the bookcase. He leaned over and peered under his desk. “What the hell’s it doing under there?”

  George was nowhere near as big as his partner, Doug, but he was still a good-sized man. Rugged looking, almost handsome, I always told him he reminded me of a young Robert Mitchum. And he did. Well, maybe not exactly young…perhaps Mitchum at fifty. His once-black hair was now streaked with gray, and he had deep-set lines framing his mouth and fanning out from his dark eyes. Those same dark eyes glanced at me with anxious anticipation as he slid into the booth across from me in a greasy spoon called Cassidy’s on Wabash. He leaned forward, resting his large arms on the table, and seemed just about to speak when the waitress set two cups on the table in front of us and filled each with hot, steaming coffee.

  “You guys need menus?” she asked.

  “Eggs over easy for me,” George said. “And I’ll need catsup.”

  “You want meat with that?”

  “Yeah,” he grunted as he ran his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. “Sausage. And orange juice.”

  She turned to me.

  “I’ll have mine scrambled, no meat, rye or whole wheat toast, and…” She scribbled dutifully, then looked at me. I smiled. “A glass of milk, too. And may I have a saucer for my coffee, please?”

  The waitress nodded without batting an eye, then was off.

  “You look like you had a rough night,” I said. I was hedging, but sooner or later I knew I’d have to tell him about the Securitec disaster. I felt the kitten stirring in my pocket again.

  George shrugged. “I just need some coffee real quick.” He raised the steaming cup to his lips and took a long sip.

  “Hey, guess who I bumped into the other night at the hotel?” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Paula Kittermann.”

  He squinted momentarily, then smiled. “Oh, Paula. Jeez, talk about a real blast from the past, huh? What’s she been up to?”

  “Modeling I guess. She’s a blonde now.”

  “She is?”

  “Well,” I said, “not completely.”

  He flashed a grin. “Yeah, Doug told me you left with some sharp-looking babe. But I figured that it was just standard operating procedure for you. So tell me, how did it go?” George asked.

  “You mean with Paula?” I said, still trying to stall.

  “No,” he said, setting down his now empty cup. “I got more things on my mind than your sex life. How did it go with that guy Russell at Securitec?”

  I heaved a sigh. It was now or never.

  “Well, it could’ve been better.”

  “Huh?” His smile started to fade. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” I said slowly, “that I blew it.”

  “What? How?”

  The waitress came streaking back with the milk and a saucer. She set them down without missing a step. When she’d gone, I poured some of the milk into the saucer, took the little cat out of my pocket, and set him on the table. Closer inspection revealed the kitten to be male.

  “What the hell is that?” George asked.

  “A kitten. I rescued him on Michigan on the way to the interview.” The pink tongue repeatedly darted into the puddle of milk. George’s eyes narrowed as he looked at me.

  “What the hell are you trying to tell me, Ron?”

  “Well, I was running a bit late, and I found the cat…” I paused. “There was no place to put him during the intervi
ew. I tried to give it to that damn secretary, but she said she was allergic.”

  George’s jaw muscles tightened as he listened and his head began to rock slowly.

  “So, I had him in my pocket and, the cat sort of got out during the interview,” I said. The kitten drank some more milk, then hissed as my hand got too close.

  “Aww, Christ,” he said. “You ain’t telling me that you took some damn alley cat to the interview, are ya?”

  “Shhh,” I said, looking at the kitten. “Don’t say that. You’ll hurt his feelings.”

  “Aww, shit, Ron,” he groaned. “What did Russell say? Was he pissed?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” I said trying to repress a grin.

  George stared at me intently.

  “How much?”

  I shrugged again. “Him and me just didn’t hit it off.”

  George’s eyes shifted to the tiny cat again.

  “It was a personality conflict,” I said quickly. “And then, the kitten sort of got loose in the office and…”

  “And?” he asked.

  “And Russell sort of got kind of upset.”

  George frowned.

  “You’re holding out on me,” he said. “Come on. Give me the rest of it.”

  “The cat peed under his desk.” I looked down again. “But that guy Russell’s an asshole. Trust me, it wouldn’t have worked out anyway.”

  He gave me a baleful stare.

  “Maybe not for you, but Doug and me are trying to start something up here.”

  “Well, like I said, the guy’s an asshole.”

  I saw the waitress coming back with our orders and cupped my hand over the little cat. He hissed again. She set the plates down and scrutinized me.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “But we have a policy against bringing pets into the restaurant.”

  I smiled up at her. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  She turned abruptly and strode away.

  “She must not want a tip,” I said.

  George shook his head as he began dipping his toast into the yellow egg yolks. I’d just taken a bite when I noticed the waitress talking to some slender, swarthy-looking guy in a suit. She pointed toward us, and the guy walked over and stood by our table. The ends of his mustache turned downward as he spoke to me.

  “Sir, we have a strict policy against people bringing animals into this establishment,” he said. His speech was laced with a foreign-sounding accent. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

  “Aww, come on,” I said. “You allow Seeing Eye dogs, don’t you?”

  “That is not the point.”

  “Well,” I said. “I’ll just keep him in my pocket till we’ve finished. How about that?”

  “Maybe you do not understand,” he said more forcefully. “You’re both leaving. Now.”

  “Both?” George said. “What did I do?”

  “You,” the manager said, turning his gaze slightly, “are with him.”

  “Look,” George said. “I just want to eat my eggs.” He dipped a piece of toast into a yolk. “I’ve been having a rough morning, and these eggs are the only thing that’s gone right for me.” He popped the crust into his mouth.

  “No,” the manager said. “You both get out now, or I’ll have you thrown out.”

  “Well,” I said. “I wouldn’t advise you trying to throw my buddy here out. Not only is he big enough and bad enough to kick anybody’s ass in this whole joint, but he gets in a real foul mood if anybody gets between him and his egg yolks.” I shoveled some more of the eggs into my mouth.

  The manager seemed to consider George’s size, then mine.

  “You’ll both leave at once or I’ll call the police,” he said, his voice rising a few octaves.

  “We’ll be out of here in just a couple more minutes,” George said.

  “I said now.”

  George sighed heavily, then pulled out his badge case and flipped it open, showing his Chicago star.

  “Take it from me,” he said without looking up. “The best way to handle this is to just turn around and forget you ever saw any god damned cat. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “What’s your badge number?” the manager said, leaning down to stare at the star.

  “Hey,” George growled suddenly. His voice twisted into a harsh whisper. “Maybe I’ll just have my friends in the building and health departments come over here and go over everything with a fine-tooth comb. You’ll be closed up till next Christmas making all the necessary code corrections. Comprende, asshole?”

  The guy’s face flushed and his lips drew together. Then he turned and walked slowly away.

  “Pretty impressive,” I said. “I didn’t know you were bilingual.”

  “Ha, ha,” he said with slow deliberation. “That bastard ain’t the only one that wishes he never saw that damn cat today.”

  “You shouldn’t talk that way about little George here,” I said, stroking the kitten’s back.

  “Oh, Christ. You’re not gonna name another one of them fucking things after me, are ya?”

  I grinned. “Actually, I haven’t decided yet. You got any suggestions? I’ll make you an honorary uncle.”

  He frowned.

  “You know what your problem is, Ron?” he said.

  “No, but I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

  “You’re a goddamn crusader,” he said. “You know, when I was in ’Nam, every time a bunch of us used to get into the village to get laid, there was this half-breed gook kid that used to stand on the corner trying to sell us flowers.”

  “So?”

  “So,” he said, “I used to feel sorry for him. Even bought some from him once to give to one of the whores. But that was it.” He picked up his cup and drank down a large swallow of coffee. “I felt sorry for him, but I didn’t try to adopt him or anything.”

  “I think there’s a moral lurking in this story somewhere,” I said, finishing off the last of my eggs.

  “Yeah, there is,” he said.

  “So tell me.”

  “When I stopped to buy the flowers, a bunch of the little bastards came running along and one of ’em ripped my watch off.” He chomped down hard on a piece of toast, then used the rest of it to point at me as he talked. “Like I said, it don’t pay to be a crusader. And you got a crusader complex. You’re always picking up strays. You just don’t know when to leave things lay, even for your own good.”

  “Say, that was very professorial,” I said. “Forget the security business. Become a pop psychologist instead. Maybe we could get you on Oprah.”

  He grunted and popped the rest of the toast into his mouth.

  “Hey, I just thought of something, Dr. Grieves,” I said.

  “Wasn’t there some kind of cartoon show you and Tom used to tell me about when I was a kid? You guys used to make me pretend I was a rabbit or something…a rabbit who thought he was some kind of a knight.”

  The space between his eyebrows creased.

  “You mean Crusader Rabbit?” he asked, his jaws bulging with the food.

  “Right,” I said. “Didn’t he have a big tiger for a partner?”

  “Rags,” he said. “The tiger’s name was Rags.”

  “So is this one’s,” I said, picking up the kitten. “What do you think?”

  He snorted and shoved the last piece of toast into his mouth.

  “I guess it’s better than another George,” he said.

  CHAPTER 5

  On the way back to my car I stopped and got a box from a sympathetic bookstore own er on south Michigan. Rags was so small I didn’t want to let him loose on the floor of The Beater in case he wound up hiding behind the brake pedal or something. Nor did I want to leave him in my pocket, lest I risk him repeating the gesture he made on Russell’s carpet. The box was plenty big enough for him, and he even seemed to like it. The wind had kicked up real bad. I folded my scarf in the bottom so he’d have something to lie on and proceeded to my car. By the time I got to t
he underground entrance tiny slivers of snow were stinging my face.

  Grant Park Underground Parking was a massive parking area beneath the streets and sidewalks of the Loop run by the Chicago Park District. I went down the hooded entrance that sprang up on Michigan at Monroe. The cement stairs ran parallel to the up escalator. I moved down them gingerly, not wanting to disturb my little buddy, and handed my parking stub to the woman behind the thick bulletproof glass and she rang me up. Things looked pale and dingy down here in the artificial light. It smelled like a musty urinal.

  I went down another set of stairs, this one an escalator, and walked into the underground parking area with the box containing Rags tucked safely under my arm. Huge mercury vapor lights hung from the cement ceiling, casting a yellowish light. The ceiling itself appeared dangerously close to collapsing in various places where the cement had eroded away, leaving a skeletal metallic net embedded in the stone. I managed to find my car after only about five minutes of searching. Turning in my receipt at the exit, I headed up the ramp and back into the open air. The day had started out sort of overcast and cold, but despite the snow, the sun seemed to be peeping out from behind some gray clouds overhead. As I headed across Congress and back to Lake Shore Drive, it was almost sunny.

  Perhaps it’s an omen, I thought. Better times are coming. But the interlude with Paula, which I was already starting to regret, and letting George down continued to gnaw at me.

  The ride back went rather quickly. I got off at 111th Street and headed for the veterinarian’s office, figuring it would be wise to get Rags checked out before I put him in “general population” with my other cats. As I pulled up to the animal hospital, my beeper went off. I checked the number, figuring it was George asking me to work at the hotel to night, but it was the number of my answering service. I took my cellular phone and the box inside. After signing in and settling down on the “cats only” side, I unlocked the cellular and dialed the number. The receptionist answered promptly.

  “This is Ron Shade. You beeped me.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Shade,” she said. “I have a message from a Mr. Webber. He requested you call him as soon as possible.” She gave me the number.