A momentary look of annoyance crossed her face. Then she gave a cold smile and said of course we could.
We talked for another half hour, trying various remembrances. Prentice claimed he knew very little about his sister’s life. I confronted him with the fact that he knew of their secret hiding place. His response was that as far as he knew the place wasn’t a secret. He never knew any of their last names or anything of their backgrounds. “They didn’t plot revolution while I was around,” he claimed.
Scott, Monica, and I shared a cab to the Gay Tribune offices. Night breezes stirred the air as we rode over. Instead of the usual clearing after a winter storm, it’d turned close and clammy. As we drove we could see the tops of the taller Loop buildings obscured by low-hanging clouds that had moved in with the sunset. The weatherman on the cab’s radio said we were between two jet streams. If one moved north, it would probably snow. If the other moved south, it would turn bitter cold.
Priscilla’s apartment proved to be as spartan as she herself was. She had basically two rooms plus a minuscule bath. The bedroom contained a twin bed that had a bright red-checked bedspread. The bed, a simple chair, and barren nightstand were the only furniture. A two-foot-by-two-foot charcoal sketch of a nude woman seen from the side hung on the wall.
The kitchen—living room had a worn old couch and three mismatched faded chairs grouped to face the kitchen table. There was a two-burner stove and a half refrigerator. A door next to the refrigerator led to a tiny washroom. A person could barely turn around in the shower space. We stood in the kitchen area talking.
“What does she do for money?” I asked.
Monica said, “I don’t know about her personal finances. She never goes out to eat.” She pointed to the row of health food cereal boxes. “She eats here or not at all. A couple of the others used to tease her that she subsisted on gruel.” She smiled bleakly. “Priscilla cares about causes and not much else,” she said.
“I’m not sure I disagree about the causes, just the methods,” I said. I inspected kitchen cupboards and drawers as we spoke. I found three or four soup spoons, a few forks, three plastic dishes, a cereal bowl, one pot, and one pan. “What’s she doing for money?” I reasked.
“As I said, she never spends for food beyond the basics. She buys inexpensive clothes. Her salary from the paper isn’t great, but she could’ve afforded more than this. She may have stashed away a great deal. The police didn’t find any bankbooks or shoe boxes stuffed with money when they searched.” Stuffing money in shoe boxes is an old Illinois political tradition.
The phone rang. We stared at it and then at each other.
Monica glided to the receiver and picked it up. Her hello sounded sultry enough to put half a dozen madams out of business. She listened a moment, then said, “You’re sure?” and waited. She replaced the receiver. “Clayton. He’s seen Priscilla.”
Clayton had gotten off the el at the Loyola stop. He lived in the building next to the el tracks. In the alley between he’d seen Priscilla.
“He said he’d follow her as best he could and call us as soon as she stopped somewhere,” Monica said.
“Where could she be headed?” I asked.
Monica shrugged. “I have no idea.”
We settled in the Gay Tribune offices one floor down and waited for a call from Clayton. Monica sat at a desk, her feet up, smoking cigarettes. Scott sat on a couch in an open waiting area, leafing through back issues of the paper. I paced the room, willing the light on the phone to begin flicking.
Monica spent some of the time filling us in on Prentice and Priscilla. They were actually half-brother and -sister. Their mother remarried when Priscilla was eight. They’d grown up in Oak Park in a pleasantly upper-middle-class home. With mother and dad working, Priscilla often found herself caring for her little brother. From age twelve to sixteen her social life revolved around her parents’ schedule of evening meetings. Instead of resenting the kid, she’d grown quite fond of him. She told Monica the only one she missed on leaving home for college was Prentice. Brother and sister had a falling out about his hustling but had achieved a reconciliation sufficient to the point that they made a joint coming-out presentation to their mother. This had been three years ago. It had gone badly. Monica wasn’t sure if they’d spoken to the mother since.
The three of us talked about parents and coming out. Two days from now, Scott’s mom and dad were due.
At periodic intervals we tried calling Clayton’s home. I soon began to dread the opening words of his phone message. At midnight we started phoning hospitals. The newspaper had five outside lines. We each took a separate area directory and began dialing. This left open lines for him to get through on. I had just opened the second directory, which was for the western suburbs, when the phone rang. Monica and Scott were in the middle of calls. I jammed down the flashing button.
Clayton sounded terrifically out of breath.
“Where are you?” I demanded.
“The Wilmette el station. The end of the line.”
“She’s there?”
“I lost her.”
She’d led him a merry chase. They’d ridden the el from Evanston to the Loop, transferred to go down to 95th Street to the end of the line on the south side, then back again. He’d kept her in sight and a car behind, but he thought she’d spotted him the last time they’d transferred. She’d been talking to a woman he didn’t recognize on the el platform. Usually he’d had to wait and make a mad dash just before the doors of the train closed so she wouldn’t notice him on the platform. All he’d heard was she was meeting Prentice. She’d gotten off at the Willmette end of the line and stepped into a cab. He hadn’t gotten the number of the vehicle.
I hung up and told the others. I finished, “That shit Prentice knew all along.” We got his home number from directory assistance. No answer. We tried Bruce’s. He wasn’t on duty. I knew he worked for Neil at times. I tried calling him. I slammed the phone down on Neil’s supercilious message. If Prentice had a trick, Neil might know where he’d take him. Monica decided she’d sleep in Priscilla’s apartment instead of going home. She could catch any calls that might come in.
Outside, the mist had changed to a light snow with occasional gusts of wind.
“Following Prentice and torturing him for answers based on a slightly overheard conversation isn’t much,” Scott said as we walked up Halsted toward Fullerton.
“I’m sure that little bastard’s the key,” I said. “I’m surprised you’re not eager to track him down.”
“I’ve been hit in the nuts with a line drive. I know what kind of pain I inflicted on him. He told all he knew.”
I still wanted to check with Neil. The best place to find him was among the reigning queens of Chicago gaydom who held court nightly at the Melrose Restaurant from one until until three or four in the morning.
We found Neil just settling in. He grumbled when we told him we needed to talk. He excused himself and lumbered onto the sidewalk. The snow was deep enough now to show outlines of footprints.
“I want Prentice. Now. Where is he?”
“He only works for me part time. He doesn’t check in every instant.”
“Where is he?” I demanded.
“With a trick, I suppose. I have no idea where.”
“Is he with a rich businessman in a fancy hotel or in a fancy suburban mansion or at an after-hours club?”
“I can’t have my clients disturbed,” Neil said.
“You can have your face rubbed in fresh snow,” Scott said.
Neil drew himself up to his full fairyed fury height. “Listen, you ignorant hick!”
“Neil, please. Remember my nephew. We promise not to bother them. We’ll wait until he’s done. I promise.”
“I got you into this.” He shook his head. “I don’t think he knows anything. I asked him myself. He told me he knew nothing.” I felt flakes of snow melting on my forehead and forming minor rivulets down my cheeks. I swiped at them with a glo
ved hand. I repeated my plea.
Neil sighed. “Try the Conrad Hilton. It shouldn’t be an all-nighter. You’re probably too late as it is.”
We raced off. We found a cab and took it to Scott’s. There we transferred to my truck. With the gathering snow I wanted four-wheel drive and not cabdrivers to rely on. We took Michigan Avenue. The few cars on the deserted streets swayed and swerved in the deepening snow. We saw no plows or salt trucks. With oversized tires and four-wheel drive, my truck purred through the streets easily.
Neil wouldn’t give us the client’s name. He said it wouldn’t make any difference. The guy would be registered under a fake one.
We parked on Michigan Avenue in such a way that we could see the side and front entrances. I kept the motor running. I put the wipers on intermittent and left the defroster on. We waited less than ten minutes. Neil was right. Prentice had been almost through. The kid sauntered out the front door, leather jacket open. One of the doormen tried to flag down a cab. I thought of driving up and trying to grab him, but didn’t like the prospects with so many witnesses around.
It took longer for us to wait for him to get a cab than it did for him to come out. Besides the fact that it was late, the weather kept every cab busy. Finally one pulled up to disgorge passengers. Prentice hopped in after dropping a tip into the doorman’s hand.
We followed the cab. They swung out Balbo to Lake Shore Drive, then turned north. At first I feared he might simply be going home. When we passed the Fullerton exit I breathed easier. I knew he lived near Fullerton and Clark. If he was going home, they’d have exited there. We swept north into a gathering wind which now slanted in from the northeast off Lake Michigan. We could see waves crashing on the beaches. In Chicago a northeast wind in winter often means a rising storm and possibly tons of snow. It had been sixty-three degrees the day before the great storm of 1967 dropped twenty-three inches of snow on the city.
The slow going had even the light traffic moving at a crawl. Following was easy. At the end of the Drive they turned north on Sheridan Road. Minutes later the cab stopped under the Loyola Avenue el tracks. I hoped we weren’t in for a protracted chase around the city on the el. Prentice eased out of the cab, crossed the street, and walked northwest next to the el wall. Several cars behind us beeped as we waited for the traffic to clear. I didn’t want to pass or lose Prentice. I pulled into the parking lot for the first apartment house on the south side of the street. Numerous signs warned of towing and fines for illegal parking. I ignored them. We had more important problems. Besides, with the storm, tow trucks would be busy removing cars from snow routes, I hoped. The last thing we heard before turning the truck off was the weather forecast predicting six inches or more of snow.
From the cab of the truck we watched Prentice enter the alley that ran along the concrete barrier of the el tracks. We hurried out of the truck and ran to the shadows of the building on the north side of the street. The wind and snow stung my face as I peered around the corner. Prentice trudged on, keeping to the far side of the alley near the el wall, which afforded some relief from the wind.
We slipped from shadow to shadow behind him. He glanced around occasionally but most often kept his head hunched between his shoulders in his leather jacket. For three blocks we followed the alley. The damn thing was far too well lit. What I wouldn’t have given for a dark, threatening urban alley with scurrying rats! Several times we had to wait until he rounded a curve before we could move. At Morse Avenue he turned west. With the wind behind him, he moved more quickly. We encountered few pedestrians, but of these a few eyed us suspiciously as we waited in doorways.
Up the hill to Clark Street and then north again. Cars swished slowly by. Snow scrunched under our feet. The steps of those who had passed before us filled rapidly with falling snow.
A half block past Morse, the street offered no more hiding places, and we had to stay hidden longer than usual. We watched Prentice cross Lunt Street at the light. He began to turn to look back and we pushed farther into the doorway. When we looked out, he was gone. No cars passed at the moment so he hadn’t jumped into one. Both sides of the street were empty of pedestrians.
We hurried forward. At the intersection I began a dash across, but Scott grabbed me as a car I hadn’t noticed scrunched toward us from the west.
“Thanks,” I said. “Was he in that car?”
“Only if he had the time to slip into seventy-year-old grandmother drag.”
A few brave souls hurried along the sidewalks. None of them looked remotely like Prentice. We hurried back to Lunt Street and checked it for a half a block in either direction. No luck. On our way back to Clark Street I even opened the top of a dark green dumpster. Empty of garbage and Prentice. We raced carefully up and down both sides of Clark Street, gradually becoming less cautious, staring in the windows of silent businesses as we realized we might have lost him.
We returned to the intersection where he had disappeared. We sheltered on the northwest corner of the street under the overhang of a deserted savings and loan building. It’d gone belly up a few years before. A larger concern bought them out and moved the operation a block north to a modern facility. They hadn’t been able to rent the place since.
“Where’d he go?” Scott said.
“Here,” I said jerking a thumb at the looming gray mass behind us.
Scott looked at me.
“He couldn’t have gone down the streets or we’d have seen him. We looked in the businesses. Every storefront is occupied and looks legitimate. He couldn’t have reached the next cross street. We weren’t that far behind. It’s the only deserted place around.”
“We’re not breaking into this one unless we’re absolutely sure. Remember what Turner said. No lawbreaking. I’ll go along if, for sure, somebody’s in here.”
I agreed. We made a slow, careful search around the perimeter.
“Look.” Scott pointed to the ground.
I observed two sets of rapidly filing footprints behind us. “That’s us. So?” It dawned on me. Ours were the only prints around the back and side of building. The two sidewalks in front had enough smeared footprints that figuring out which were Prentice’s was impossible.
“The place is shut tight. He’s not in there,” Scott said disgustedly.
A few doors down on Clark Street, across from the Dunkin Donuts, sat a small diner from which I thought we could observe any activity in the bank building. From the pay phone in front I called the Twenty-third District to talk to Turner. He told us not to bother Prentice. He might be a suspect, but he wasn’t guilty of anything yet. After listening to a final warning to leave him alone, I hung up. I joined Scott at a booth next to the front windows. The panes had several layers of encrusted grease and dirt on them. I tried making a hole in the grime-covered pane. After using six napkins from the holder on the table, I got a streaky view of the driving storm and the black mass of the three-story bank building.
“They’re in there. I know it,” I said.
“What’d he do, fly in?”
I realize Scott is gorgeous, wonderful, tall, handsome, fabulously rich, and very sexy, but at times he’s annoying as hell. This was one of those times. I made the only rational response to his sarcasm. I stuck my tongue out at him.
The waiter, a dwarf, arrived to see this example of modern open communication. He noticed the gap I made in the window.
“Storm’s getting worse.” He spoke in a refined British accent. “What can I get you gentlemen?”
I ordered coffee and a burger. The dwarf turned to Scott. “And for you, Mr. Carpenter?” We got the autograph and handshakes out of the way. As he waddled off to place our order, I took a more careful look around. The only other customer was a guy in a trenchcoat slumped over some coffee at the counter. In good weather he looked like he’d be the neighborhood flasher. The dwarf didn’t reappear, but I heard banging and clattering in the kitchen.
Minutes later he showed up with surprisingly good food. He noticed me p
eering out the window. I’d had to clear it several more times.
He pointed to the pile of napkins. “Something wrong?” he asked.
I nodded my head across at the bank. “You know anything about that place?”
“Closed a year ago. Had my savings there. Good thing it was insured. They indicted the former president last week.” He snorted contemptuously. “He defrauded the place of tens of millions. He’ll get fined a little, do a short term in jail, and live like a king for the rest of his life. I’d like a try at that.”
“I mean more recently. People hanging around. Lights that shouldn’t be on.”
He moved closer to the table. He stared at me. “You a cop?”
I admitted I wasn’t.
“What’s your interest?”
I explained briefly. He nodded several times. He turned and brought a chair over, which he clambered onto. We saw him at eye level. He wore a dirty apron over white pants and a T-shirt. He wiped his hands on a towel he had hooked in his belt. His shrewd blue eyes examined each of us in turn.
“This is a closed-mouth neighborhood,” he said. “People mind their own business. We’ve got a cosmopolitan mix here. People get sensitive very quickly. We leave each other alone. I have my little kingdom here and live upstairs.” The other customer got up and staggered to the cash register. With deft movements he climbed down, strode to the register, took the man’s money, and returned.
He told us his name was Fred Brown. We listened to a great deal of his family history, which included an uncle who was one of the Munchkins in the Wizard of Oz. In three years he planned to retire and move to some low-tax island in the Caribbean. It took forever, but he finally got back to the topic of the bank. He leaned closer, spreading his hands flat on the tabletop. “Something is screwy over there. Once or twice I thought I saw lights around two, after I closed up here. I almost called the cops once, but …” He shook his head. “I thought it was a trick of the streetlights.” He shrugged. “I even went over one morning about nine. The place is nailed shut from top to bottom and all around.” He’d noticed a couple of pleasant young women new in the neighborhood. He didn’t get many customers besides his regulars. Most people didn’t like the looks of his restaurant from the outside. We described the women from the other night, especially Priscilla and Stephanie. He didn’t remember seeing them.
The Only Good Priest Page 15