Windy City Knights

by Michael A. Black

  “He say what he wanted?”

  “He asked if you were the private detective, and mentioned your name specifically. He said it was, what was the word he used?” I could almost sense her straining her memory. “Imperative. He said it was ‘imperative’ that he speak with you right away.”

  I thanked her and hung up. The number looked unfamiliar, but it did have a Chicago area code. I glanced over at the lady sitting across from me, holding a very fat white and black cat on her lap. The beast’s green eyes roamed over me languidly. Ah, the life of a pampered cat, I thought. I’ve often wondered what goes through their minds as they seem to benignly tolerate our ownership of them.

  The pretty veterinarian opened the door and smiled knowingly at me, which wasn’t surprising. When you’ve got more than one cat, people remember you. The woman with the fat cat stood and went in. I dialed the number to check the name and address, and punched in the number the answering service had given me when the computer-voice instructed me to do so. The voice repeated the number and told me it was not listed. I hit the END button, but didn’t immediately re-lock the phone. I usually kept it locked. There were too many pirates out there scanning for frequencies to clone to leave it turned on.

  Rags scratched intermittently at the box. I opened it and rubbed his head. He closed his eyes and began to purr. The area behind the receptionist was an open corridor, and I could hear dogs barking. Not the best background noise for a prospective client to hear, but maybe he’d think I owned a guard dog service as well. I shrugged and dialed the number. It was answered after three rings with a quick hello.

  “May I speak to Mr. Webber please,” I said.

  “This is he,” the voice said.

  Hmm, proper grammar, I thought. Obviously someone with some education.

  “Ron Shade here, returning your call.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Shade. How good of you to call me back so quickly.” The voice had a distinctive, clipped inflection to the words. Short, abbreviated tones. Possibly a British accent.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Webber?”

  “Well,” I heard a sigh. “I’m in a pickle. How about I cut directly to the chase? I own a company on the north shore, and I believe one of my employees is pulling a bit of a game with me. He claims to have been injured on the job, so that he can’t work. But I’ve been getting reports to the contrary. Tell me, do you do that type of investigation?”

  “Sounds like it’s right up my alley.”

  “Good. Could we meet this morning and discuss it?”

  “Sure. Where are you located?”

  “My company is in Wilmette. But I’m heading to my office right now. It’s in Winnetka. I expect to be tied up there most of the day.”

  I glanced at my watch. Eleven thirty-five.

  “I could be up there around one, or so,” I said, trying to anticipate how long the drive would be. “I’m with another client at the moment.”

  “That would be fine. I am interested in getting this matter attended to as quickly as possible. What ever your standard fee is, it will be no problem. I’d even be willing to discuss a bonus if it could be handled expeditiously.”

  “All right.” It was refreshing to have a prospective client bring up money with a positive note. “I’ll see you at one then. What’s your address?”

  “I’m a bit concerned about meeting you where my other employees might see you. I believe the culprit may have several confederates.” He paused. “There’s a restaurant on Green Bay Road called Saravan’s. Could we possibly meet there?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Excellent.” He gave me the address. “I’ll reserve a table for us, and leave your name with the maitre d’.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you hear about my agency?”

  He paused again, then said, “From an associate of mine. I prefer not to mention whom over the phone, but I will say you came with the highest recommendation.”

  That piqued my curiosity.

  After he hung up, I glanced down at little Rags. He’d settled back to sleep curled up on my scarf again. A paying client, I thought. Maybe this cat would bring me some luck after all.

  My fourth refill of Saravan’s coffee was tasting bitter and cold. After leaving Rags at the vet’s, and fighting the burgeoning expressway traffic for a solid hour, I’d sat on my ass waiting for another sixty minutes hoping against hope that the prospective client would show up. The maitre d’ had told me that Mr. Webber had called to say he was running late, but he begged my indulgence and expected to be there shortly. I’d called the phone number several more times, but all I got was the computer-voice telling me that the cellular customer was unavailable or had traveled beyond the service area. A cell phone…Not that unusual for a businessman to give out that number, but, hell, why’d he force the quick meeting in the first place if keeping the appointment wasn’t that urgent?

  Maybe he’d gotten cold feet thinking about the bonus he’d promised, I thought. I mentally kicked myself for not getting more information—like the name of his business— but I’d been thinking about my own cellular bill as I’d been talking to him. And that possible bonus. But getting stiffed occasionally by prospective clients was just an unfortunate fact of life when you owned your own business. I glanced at my watch and decided enough was enough. I still had my pride. If this guy Webber re-contacted me, I’d charge him extra for standing me up.

  After paying for my coffee, I went outside, fired up The Beater, and headed down to Willow Road. It was the fastest route back to the South Side, but at this hour I knew that any way I went was going to be hell. To make it worse, a light snow had fallen and the big plows were starting to circulate. When I got to the expressway it was smooth sailing heading south until I got to the outskirts of the Loop. The rush hour was just beginning, and people were moving slower than normal because of the snow. I crept from one traffic jam to the next, swearing at the gawkers who slowed to get a good look at the numerous accidents. By the time I got home it was close to five thirty, and already dark.

  I parked in front, undoing my tie as I walked. The temperature felt like it was dropping so I knew that I’d have to fill the tank on my way back from my evening workout. God, I hated winter. A thin dusting of white covered my previously shoveled walk, and I noticed some strange tracks leading up to and back from my front door.

  Could have been the mailman, I thought, until I saw them branch out and cut across the lawn. The footprints went along the walk toward my back door. Since both the electric and water meters are outside, I still didn’t think too much of them. But as I opened the gate, I saw the tracks continued all the way to my back porch. That was when I pulled out my gun.

  Pausing at the corner, I studied the imprints in the snow. A wide shoe with a slick sole. Standard heel. Not the gym shoe of your typical teenage burglar. No, these were tracks of an older individual. And they went right up my back steps. The stride seemed to be less than mine, but that really didn’t mean much unless you were Sherlock Holmes or the FBI.

  Walking gingerly, so I didn’t mess anything up, I took out my keys. Holding my gun in my right hand, I pulled open the screen door and tried the knob. It was locked. My rear door was solid, with just a peephole set at eye level for my six-foot-one. But I noticed some heavy-duty gouges in the wooden jamb next to the knob. Like somebody had used a pry-tool there. I slipped the key in the lock and twisted. Closing the door behind me, I stepped over to the one between the porch and the house. In the summertime I normally left this door open when I was out, but I always kept it closed in the winter to conserve heat. Dropping my keys in my pocket, I twisted the knob. The back door opened and I rushed in, keeping the Beretta leveled in front of me. I saw a quick darting movement on the floor—one of the cats startled by my quick entrance.

  I moved through the kitchen, scanning as I went. The place was a shambles. Papers and drawers dumped everywhere. I methodically checked each room, but found no one. Then I did the base
ment and the upstairs. All empty, but definitely messed up. The room I’d been using for an office had been completely ransacked. My files lay scattered about on the floor. The drawers of my desk were all hanging open, their contents strewn about. My dresser drawers had been emptied out too. But nothing of obvious value seemed to be missing. My TV and VCR were still there, as were my check book and micro wave. The place had been given a complete, but selective, going over. But not by some junkie from the neighborhood, that was for sure.

  After satisfying myself that I was alone in the house, I went around calling and coaxing for the cats. I wanted to make sure they were okay. I knew at least one of them was, from the speedy retreat before, but I wasn’t sure which one that had been. I looked behind the couch, then under the bed. My mattress had been up-ended, too. Whoever had done this had been thorough and expedient. The open drawers told me that.

  A professional burglar will go through a house looking for valuables in such a way that he wastes no movement. Going through a series of drawers, you save time by starting at the bottom, then leaving the drawer open and searching the next one above it. You don’t have to waste time closing them. And the back door had been pried open and not just kicked in. Less noticeable. The same way I would have done it. Little things, but they told me it was a pro. Or someone who moved like a pro.

  But what the hell had he been after?

  Something else was obvious too. The search had been slow and methodical, like somebody was taking his sweet-ass time, certain that I wouldn’t be back for a while….

  Like somebody who knew I’d be on a wild-goose chase up to the north shore? The red light was still flashing on my caller ID. Two calls since I’d left. One at eight forty-five a.m. from a pay phone with a Lincoln Estates exchange. The second was at twelve forty-five p.m. and listed a cell phone with a number that hit me like a kick to the head. It should have. I’d dialed it at least half-a-dozen times when I’d been sitting in the north shore restaurant trying to get a hold of “Mr. Webber.”

  And that was why he wasn’t worried about me coming home unexpectedly and catching him. I sat on the couch and thought of all the burglary reports I’d taken as a cop, and how the victims had all seemed to share that same sense of frustrated outrage. Now I understood that feeling. It was as if I’d been violated in some way, by some unknown force. A feeling of anger and despair, made more severe by the anonymity of the perpetrator. But this guy wasn’t totally anonymous. At least I knew he sometimes used a British accent.

  I looked over and noticed that the red light on my answering machine was blinking. I pressed the button to replay the last two messages. The twelve forty-five p.m. message just had blank tape. I played the eight forty-five a.m. call.

  “Hi, Ron, it’s Paula,” the voice said. “Sorry I left while you were running, but I had to go get my car.” She paused. “Ron, I’m in kind of a jam. Would it be okay if I stayed at your place again to night?” Her voice suddenly sounded more hurried. “I’ll call you back later. Bye.”

  I rechecked the caller ID box. No other calls besides those two.

  Maybe she changed her mind, I thought, feeling silently relieved. The chapter of my life with Paula in it was ancient history now, and after the miserable day I’d had, I didn’t feel like trying for a rewrite.

  I finally found Georgio hiding in an upstairs closet, and Shasha under one of the living room chairs. At least they were okay. I petted each of them in turn as I dialed the police.

  “I guess I should have invested in a dog,” I said to Georgio as he rubbed up against my leg. But even a big guard dog wouldn’t have prevented me from falling for the old wild-goose chase ruse. My own stupidity was to blame for that. I sat down on the couch and picked him up as I waited for the cops.

  CHAPTER 6

  “So what’d they take?” Chappie asked me as he helped me on with my gloves.

  “Just a gun and some money from my dresser drawer,” I said. “But it wasn’t my stash. Only about a hundred dollars.”

  His brown brow furrowed slightly. “It wasn’t that gun that your friend Paul left you, was it?”

  “No, but it was just as valuable to me. It was a two-shot .22 derringer that my Uncle Gordon gave me.”

  Chappie shook his head. “You can kiss that one good-bye. The police find any fingerprints?”

  “Are you kidding? They hardly checked.”

  He shook his head.

  “I had to rush them out of there so I could make it over here for my workout.” I grinned. He didn’t. The overhead lights reflected off of his dark, shaved head.

  “And you was still late,” he said, standing up. He’d finished tying the glove. He was a bit shorter than me, and technically past his prime, but the corded muscles of his forearms still bulged with each movement. Chappie had been a perennial middleweight contender when he was young, but he never got the big break. He had made enough to buy this building in the Beverly section of Chicago and open the best boxing, karate, weightlifting gym in the city. He called it simply, The Beverly Gym.

  Beside being my manager/trainer since I got back into kick-boxing, he also managed and trained several boxers, and was always on the lookout for new talent. He had a couple of youngsters set for the Golden Gloves, and numerous journeymen boxers regularly trained there. Beside me, the only other kickboxer of consequence at the gym was Raul Sanchez, who’d won a cruiserweight title. Chappie’d put a sign up in the window advertising that he had a world champion fighter at his gym. Unfortunately, Raul had lost his title in a big-money fight in Las Vegas about six months later and it had broken his heart to see that sign come down. Almost as much as giving up the belt. I hoped that in a couple more months Chappie might put up another one saying: Ron Shade, Heavyweight Full-contact Karate Champion, Trains Here.

  But first I had to beat Elijah Day, and the way to that was to get through to night’s workout. I knew before we started that it was going to be a ballbuster. We were in that phase of the training.

  I did a quick warm-up on the heavybag, then shadow-boxed for a round.

  “You ready?” Chappie asked, walking up the steps to the ring apron.

  I nodded and stepped up into the ring that occupied most of the floor in the boxing section of the gym. There was an electric lighting system on one wall with three bulbs: one for each minute of the round. That way you learned to pace yourself to work hard that last minute. And even though the kick-boxing rounds were only two minutes long, Chappie always made me go the standard boxing three minutes.

  Chappie brought out the focus pads and we worked all the combinations we’d discussed. He’d watched the tapes of Day’s last few fights and had come up with a plan to beat him. It was based on endurance and counters. Day was bigger than I was, and even though I’d managed to knock him out the last time we’d fought, it was obvious that he’d taken me lightly and hadn’t trained.

  “This time he gonna be in shape,” Chappie said as he held up the focus mitt for me to do a three-punch combination followed by a hook kick. “I want you stickin’ and movin’ these first rounds. Make him reach. Make him miss. Don’t trade punches.”

  The round bell rang and I leaned forward with my hands on my knees.

  “You tired already?” he said.

  “A little.”

  Chappie shook his head. “You better get with it.”

  As I waited through the minute’s rest, I suddenly wondered if Paula had tried to call me back like she’d said.

  Put it out of your head, I thought. Concentrate on the fight.

  Chappie’d lined up two sparring partners for me and they alternated rounds. The first one was a lumbering white guy named Jack Pater. He was big, and he packed a lot of power. The second one was a younger, quicker black kid named Lucander. He was about the same size as Elijah Day, but I’d sparred with both of them so much in the last few weeks that I practically knew all their moves.

  Big Jack climbed in the ring after me, slipping in his mouthpiece. I bit down on mine, and Cha
ppie came over and smeared Vaseline on my face. Then he did the same to Jack. The Vaseline helped deflect the blows, making you less susceptible to cuts. Plus, we both wore headgear in training. Chappie stepped over, activated the timer, and rang the bell.

  Jack and I waltzed for a quick three minutes, with him trying to load up with his looping power shots, and me dancing and peppering him with punches and kicks.

  Between rounds Chappie gave me a quick critique of my work.

  “What the fuck’s the matter with you?” he asked.

  I shrugged as he attended to me. Lucander stepped in the ring and we slapped gloves. This round went faster, and Lucander seemed to sense my incipient fatigue and picked up the pace a bit.

  Midway through the round I began to feel the lack of sleep from my misspent night. Paula’s face suddenly loomed large in my memory as we clinched and spun. Then Lucander caught me with a left hook to the abdomen, and followed up nicely with a right that made my head ring. Luckily it erased her face from my mind’s eye, too. The bell sounded, ending the round. Chappie tore into me again.

  “What the fuck you doin’ gettin’ caught with a shot like that,” he said, grabbing the edges of my headgear. “You do that with Elijah Day and he gonna take your head off.”

  He smeared some more Vaseline over my face and then went over and tended to Lucander. I wished I had a stool to sit down on, but we seldom used them in training. When the bell rang again I was mad. But as Chappie always said, don’t get mad, get even.

  It was Big Jack’s turn again. Even he was chasing me now, smelling blood. I continued dancing, circling, letting him move forward, then peppered him from long range with the jab and snapped a couple of kicks in on his gut. That backed him off slightly, and I began timing his punches. He was dropping his guard slightly after throwing a right. Like I said, I knew their moves like the back of my hand. I let Jack push me, timed his next punch, and then sent a counter right smashing into his face. The punch stunned him. I followed and trapped him against the ropes. Now it was my turn to work his body. He covered up real well, but I dug several good hooks into his liver.