Windy City Knights

by Michael A. Black

“Ron, you must forgive me if I seem to take advantage of our acquaintance,” he said slowly, “but Allyosha speaks very highly of you and Mr. Oliver.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” I canted my head to steal a glimpse at my watch.

  “Well, I’m rather worried about him.” Boris took another sip of coffee and seemed to weigh his next words carefully. “You have met Smershkevich, Allyosha’s sponsor?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you have seen the problem.” He sighed and drank some more coffee. “That is not his real name, of course. The man is very bad. He is, for lack of a better term, a gangster. In my country before, he did many terrible things.”

  “He sort of gave me the creeps,” I said.

  “He is not even a true Russian,” Boris said, the cords in his neck starting to bulge out. “He’s half Georgian and half Chechen. A vory v zakone…a professional criminal.” He paused and sort of composed himself. “You must pardon me. We Russians are an emotional people.”

  “I guess that’s why you write such great operas,” I said.

  He smiled slightly.

  “Can’t Allyosha dump him?” I asked.

  “It is not possible,” he said. “In order for Allyosha to come to this country, he had to borrow money. A lot of money. Smershkevich provided the passage and sponsorship, but in exchange…It was like making a deal with the dev il.”

  “Yeah, Chappie told me that the kid wants to fight again this month. Before his eye has had a chance to heal.”

  Boris nodded emphatically. “Yes, yes, that is Smershkevich. He’s pressuring Allyosha. Every week that goes by, the interest on the debt grows. Soon it will be impossible for Allyosha to ever pay it off.”

  “That sounds like some kind of extortion,” Laurie said. Although she hadn’t said much, she’d been listening intently to the conversation.

  I took a sip from my own cup and looked down at my watch. One forty-five.

  “Father…Boris,” I said. “I feel badly for Allyosha, but…”

  “I know, I know, Mr. Shade,” the big priest said, starting to become more animated again. “There is little either you or I can do. We are not wealthy men, nor would I ask you anything of the sort even if we were.” He glanced around, then leaned closer over the table. When he spoke his voice was barely above a whisper. “My concerns are of a different nature. I have been told that you are a private detective.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Perhaps you would consider looking into the affairs on Mr. Smershkevich.” The dark eyes shot around the room. “In a professional capacity. I would pay you, of course.”

  Coming from a guy who rode the bus and wore rag tag mittens and a jacket that had patches on both elbows, I figured on how much he could pay.

  “I’m involved in another case right now, Father,” I said slowly. “I’d like to help, but I’m not sure exactly what I could do.”

  “But this man is involved in many criminal activities,” he said. “If enough evidence could be collected, perhaps the authorities could intercede.”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “Why don’t I talk to a friend of mine on the police force and see what I can find out?”

  “You will need a retainer, of course,” he said, leaning and pulling out a long cloth change purse from his jacket pocket.

  “Let’s just hold off on that for now,” I said. “Like I mentioned, I’m pretty much booked up at the moment. But I can make a few discreet inquiries.”

  He nodded, but set the purse on the table.

  “In the meantime,” I said, taking out my pocket notebook, “you can give me what ever information you know about Mr. Smershkevich.”

  After lunch we drove Father Boris to the 95th Street bus stop. Despite a new round of stinging flurries, he insisted that he would be fine, and thanked me profusely for my help. As we were driving away, I noticed Laurie looking back toward the bus shelter.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Your case is still my top priority.”

  “Oh I’m not worried about that. I just felt so sorry for him, that’s all. He seemed like such a nice man.”

  She has a lot to learn if she wanted to be a lawyer, I thought. But the reality checks were coming fast and quick, the longer she stuck with me oh this case. I glanced at my watch again.

  “Are we late for something?” she asked. “You keep looking at your watch.”

  “I’ve got to pick up some test results,” I said. “Prefight stuff.”

  “Oh, okay. You looked so tired that I thought you’d want to go home and rest,” she said. “I was going to offer to fix dinner for you.”

  “That sounds good.”

  Laurie smiled and watched as we cruised past some workers trying to clear the rapidly falling snow from in front of a restaurant. It looked like they were fighting an unwinnable battle.

  The nurse turned out to be pretty much as I’d pictured her on the phone. Middle-aged, with stiff brown hair and hefty shoulders. Two stern lines descended from either side of her nose to the scarlet-coated border of her lips. Dark eyes peered out at me through thickish lenses encased in old-fashioned plastic frames. Holding the envelope in her right hand as we sat in the small office, she looked like the malevolent nurse who tortured Jack Nicholson in that old movie about the cuckoo’s nest. Slipping the edge of a razor blade letter opener under the flap, she deftly sliced open the top, unfolded the paper, drew her lips into a tight line, and looked at me.

  “The test was negative,” she said, turning the sheet so I could see a bunch of writing, at the bottom of which read: sample non-reactive.

  “What’s that mean exactly?” I pointed to the capital letters, resisting the urge to address her as Nurse Ratchet.

  “It means that at this time, there is no trace of the virus in your blood.” She flipped open the folder, punched two holes in the top of the paper, and fastened it into the metal-pronged clips. “Your tests were also negative for STDs and any of the hepatitis viruses.”

  I felt a surge of relief. Even though I had been relatively confident of this, it was still good to hear it.

  “Why couldn’t you have told me that over the phone?” I asked. “I’ve been on pins and needles all day.”

  “Well, Mr. Shade,” Nurse Ratchet said. “Just whose fault is that?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “But actually, it’s the law,” she continued. “We’re not allowed, for reasons of privacy, to open the envelopes without the subject being present. And the news is so potentially serious that we have to be ready to deal with extreme reactions if necessary.”

  I nodded, and stood to leave. She gave me a stern look that froze me in place and said, “Just a moment, sir. I’m not finished yet.”

  I sat back down in the chair. Behind her a life-sized plastic version of a cutaway human head with half its face removed stared back at me from a shelf.

  “I have to give you several admonishments,” she said. “First, even though this test was negative, there is still a chance that you may have contracted the virus through your last unprotected sexual contact.”

  “Huh? I thought you said it came back negative?”

  She took a deep breath and raised her eyebrows, as if she were rebuking a rebellious child.

  “Let me finish. Basically, that means that you were free of the virus at the time of the contact,” she said. “It can take as long as six months to establish a traceable presence in your system. Which is why you’re going to have to continue taking precautions. Condoms, refraining from donating blood, proper disposal of all bodily fluids. And you’ll have to be tested again in six months to be absolutely sure.”

  Great, I thought. Six more months of living on the edge.

  “Do you understand the instructions, sir?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Shade,” she said. “Is that young lady waiting out there with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, will you discuss the proper procedures that
I’ve outlined with her?”

  Oh, right, I thought. Tell her that we’re concerned Paula might have given me…

  “Perhaps we should make an appointment to test her also?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “She’s just a friend.” And a client, too, I thought.

  She stared at me with the same kind of doubting, scornful look that Chappie had given me at the gym.

  “Very well, Mr. Shade. You can make your next appointment at the information desk if you wish.”

  I didn’t wish, but if I did, it would be not to have to come back here. I grabbed my jacket and stood up.

  “Just remember to take the proper precautions,” she said, flipping the file closed. She focused the dark eyes on me again and added, “There’s no substitute for responsible behavior.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Responsible behavior were the buzzwords that kept running through my mind on the drive home. Traffic was slower than normal from the storm, but luckily the clinic wasn’t that far from my house. I felt totally spent. Worn out, but whether from the ball busting workout or the stern lecture from Nurse Ratchet, I wasn’t sure. The build-up of salt glazed the windshield with a film of white, so I pushed the washer switch and watched as the wipers and solvent cleared everything off.

  If it were only as simple to clean the slate in life, I thought.

  Laurie seemed to be taking the lousy weather in stride and just sort of glanced over at me and smiled wearily. I tried to make sense of what everything meant so far. The fight with Red at the hotel, Paula not wanting to go home, her abrupt exit from my house early that next morning by cab, the 8AM number scrawled on my pad, her death, the drugs, Red having old Mr. Turner call him, the clone phone, Peeps…It seemed like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle with all the pieces spread out in front of me on a table. But I was missing an overall picture to know how to put them together.

  A car braked hard in front of me and we skidded slightly, almost rear-ending him. Laurie snapped to alertness, reaching out and grabbing the dashboard.

  “Oh, my God, I thought we were going to hit him,” she said.

  “Yeah, me too.” I decided to give the puzzle-solving a rest and concentrate on just getting home safely. I was doubly glad that George had told me to wait until tomorrow to return the pick-up’s keys.

  The snow in the alley wasn’t too deep, but I still had to spend a couple of minutes with the shovel clearing off the cement apron in front of my garage. By the time I backed The Beater into the second car spot next to Laurie’s little Nissan I felt stiff and tired.

  It must have showed. As soon as we were inside, she looked at me and said, “You look exhausted.”

  “I am kind of beat.” I rotated my arms and shoulders a little. “That workout this morning was a real killer. I feel like soaking in a hot tub.”

  “Why don’t you relax and let me fix something to eat,” she said. “What do you have?”

  “There’s some chicken breasts in the freezer,” I said. “And maybe a baked potato, or something.” All three of the cats had come out of hiding and were walking in little circles on the kitchen floor. Georgio let out a mournful-sounding cry.

  “Say no more.” She placed her hands on my chest and pushed me toward the bathroom. “You just go in and take a nice hot, relaxing bath, and I’ll have this fixed up for you in a flash. I’ll feed them too.” She motioned toward the cats.

  I grinned at her.

  “That sounds real good, Laurie,” I said. “We can watch Casablanca together, if you want.”

  She began to busy herself in the kitchen while I got some clothes. Before going into the bathroom, I took out one of Kathy Daniel’s CDs and put it in my stereo.

  “This is my friend,” I said. “She sings at the hotel where I work.”

  I closed the door and stripped down while the water got hot. When the tub was half-full, I settled down in it and let it wash over me. The only problem with being six-one is you have to fold your legs into a yoga-like position in the tub if you want to submerse yourself, but I managed. When the water was nearing the top, and good and hot, I used my foot to press the faucet closed. I lay back, with just my face and the tops of my knees sticking out of the water, and tried to relax. But the pieces of the puzzle kept swarming back to me. Finally, I told myself that I’d just have to wait to see what George came up with and I listened to Kathy sing. I’d missed most the songs on the disk mulling things over, and I knew that this was the last song in the collection. It was another of my favorites that she did: “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

  The water had turned cold and I sat up and pulled the stopper. Standing, I grabbed a towel just as Laurie knocked gently on the door and said that dinner was ready. When I came out after toweling off and dressing, she had both places set on the kitchen table. It was dark outside and a crust of snow had adhered to the storm window.

  “Your friend can really sing,” she said. The CD had gone back to the beginning.

  “Yeah, she’s pretty good,” I said, sitting down. “Makes working at the hotel bearable sometimes.”

  “Are you two seeing each other?” she asked as she sat down.

  “Kathy? No,” I said. “She’s married. We’re just friends.”

  “All I could find in the way of drinks was this cranberry juice.”

  “That’s pretty much it until I get to the store to buy more.” I took a bite. “Mmmmm, you’re a great cook.”

  She smiled and began to eat as well. We talked and laughed, and Laurie kept jumping up to get me more to drink, or some more butter. Finally I told her just to relax and eat. Afterward we each took a cup of hot tea and moved into the living room, and I put Casablanca into the VCR.

  “Too bad you don’t have any wine,” she said. “I always enjoy a glass after dinner.”

  “I think I do have a bottle somewhere, but it’s not chilled,” I said. I started to get up. “I’ll see if I can find it.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” she said, holding up her mug of tea. “This is fine.”

  We started watching the movie, but after a while I found myself dozing. When I’d snapped awake a few times, she smiled at me and suggested that I hit the sack.

  “Like I said, you looked exhausted before.” She leaned forward and gently brushed her hand over my forehead. “You’re so sweet, always helping everybody. Me, your friend Alley, that Russian priest…”

  “I’ll have to change into my Superman costume in a minute.” As I sat up, I groaned and rotated my head to try and unkink my back.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, I must have been sitting funny, or something,” I said. “My back feels a little stiff, that’s all.”

  “Here, lie down on the floor and I’ll give you a massage.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “No really, I’m pretty good at it,” she said. “Come on.” She stood and pulled off my sweatshirt, then practically guided me to the rug. I lay on my stomach, folding my hands under my chin. Laurie knelt beside me and began working her fingers along my shoulders and back, like she was kneading bread.

  “Feel good?”

  “Yeah, great,” I said. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

  “I worked in a massage parlor part-time,” she said with her musical giggle. Then quickly added, “Not really. When I graduated from college my aunt and uncle sent me to the Alps skiing as a reward. They had this masseuse there, and every morning I’d get a steam and massage. I loved it.”

  “I can see why,” I said.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” She straddled me, concentrating on my neck and upper back. “Here, straighten out your arms a little,” she said, making the adjustment. The feeling of the warmth of her hips on me was starting to affect me.

  “I don’t know about this,” I said.

  “Shhh.” Her touch had become more gentle now, almost as if she was just running her fingertips along my skin. She traced her nails over my arms, then along my neck, and over my face, all the while pressing do
wn with her hips, her legs snug on each side of me. I felt myself on that slippery slope once again, and knew that this time there was nothing to hold onto. On the TV Laszlo had just gotten Rick’s orchestra to play “La Marseillaise” to drown out the Nazis’ “Die Wacht am Rhein,” and I knew that later on that night Ingrid would brave the curfew to come and see Bogey.

  “Laurie,” I started to say. But she leaned down and kissed the back of my neck, and I felt a white-hot shiver go down my spine and settle in my groin.

  “Turn over,” she whispered, and as I did, our mouths met. Still straddling me, she touched my face, my head, her fingers running through my hair, around my neck, down to my chest. I ran my hands over the solid sleekness of her hips, up to her back, pulling at her blouse. Fumbling with the buttons, she arched to give me better access. Then the blouse was open and I felt the soft smooth skin of her upper body, exploring its softness and fine texture. My fingers moved up her back, searching for the clasp of her bra. But all I felt was the expanse of elastic and cotton. Her mouth broke apart from mine slightly, and she raised up, her hands moving away from me.

  “It’s in front,” she whispered, undoing the hooks.

  Sleep kept eluding me the rest of the night. We lay together, our bodies entwined, Laurie’s thigh resting on mine, the skin-to-skin contact feeling warm and wonderful under the thick blankets. Her head was cradled on my shoulder, her breathing slow and regular. I knew she was asleep, so I tried not to move. Or feel bad about what had happened.

  After things got so hot on the living room floor that I began to worry about rug burns, I’d picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. I remembered the lush beauty of her body as it had looked in the soft glow of the moon and streetlights streaming through the window. The wetness of her anticipation as I explored her, the flash of a triangular patch of pubic hair, her lack of reaction as I slipped on the condom. Afterward, as we’d cuddled, she thanked me for being so sweet, so considerate.

  “It’s always best to be safe,” she said. “Even with people you feel you’ve known all your life.”

  An awkward subject approached very forthrightly, I thought. Safe, considerate…that was me. Lucky she didn’t meet the Ron Shade of last week. When Paula had.