Gold Coast Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  “Eddie doesn’t care about the wine. He wants to find Tanya, which means we need to find Doug.”

  “You keep saying that, but Eddie and Spike have other things in common, so why not broaden the focus?”

  “Why are you so invested in this case?”

  Amy cursed loudly, startling me. “I told you this days ago! Tanya Maggio’s energy is calling me. And I’m really sick of your attitude—”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. Tell me what you think.”

  “Eddie and Spike work for the same person. Maybe Eddie was sent here to straighten Spike out. Instead, he gets in touch with you because he wants to find Tanya. His decision to blow off the wine thing is a statement. He’s breaking away from his boss and his old life.”

  Amy’s insights into Eddie’s life added to my feeling of insecurity begun by Spike, although it bothered me less since she had the unfair advantage of psychic abilities. Sufficiently deflated, I surrendered.

  “The boss is a guy called Cooper who referred Eddie to a cop I know. That’s how Eddie found me. Spike is Cooper’s biological son and was supposed to have been Eddie’s contact. What you said about Eddie breaking away from his old life appears to be true.”

  My candidness took her off guard. “Okay,” Amy said pleasantly.

  “But I got something else. A Cooper goon named Sergeant Blake is in town to find Tanya.”

  “Anything new regarding Doug’s whereabouts?”

  “Spike has a possible lead. I’m waiting for a call.”

  I could almost hear Amy thinking. Then she said, “Yesterday, I asked you if Tanya could be running away from someone—”

  “Cooper is an authentic slimeball. But why wouldn’t Eddie tell me Cooper scared Tanya away?”

  “Maybe Eddie doesn’t know.”

  Another good point I should’ve already deciphered. Eddie wouldn’t be aware of what took place between Cooper and Tanya during Eddie’s stretch in prison. But a scumbag like Cooper trying to coerce sex from Tanya seemed too easy to be the whole story of why Tanya left town.

  I said, “Eddie is sure Cooper wants him to find Tanya. That tells me Cooper isn’t afraid of anything Tanya has to say.”

  “But why would Cooper want him to find Tanya?”

  “To make a choice?” I said. “Run away with her or bring her back in?”

  “But Eddie’s got to know that bringing Tanya back might be dangerous for her—if they think she’s a security risk.”

  Silence. “True. Either way, the little rat loves her. No way he’s taking chances with her life. They’re gonna run.” I shrunk back from our new rapport. Was Amy now a full partner in my investigation? “Tell me about your friend in law enforcement.”

  “I want to help you find Tanya! Can’t you just accept that and trust me?”

  “Trust is a two-way street, yeah?”

  Amy swore loudly again. “He works undercover. Okay? That’s all I can say—and I’m not even supposed to know that!”

  My initial reaction was to believe her, then I thought how easy it would be to create a fictional undercover contact. The issue of trust felt tiresome, if not pointless.

  “I’ll let you know about a meeting with Doug,” I said.

  “I hope so,” Amy said, although I didn’t think she believed me.

  —

  Sitting on the couch, the idea of an association between Blackstone and Doug nagged me as I watched March’s late morning sunlight traverse the windows overlooking Halsted. Figuring out their connection would be purely guesswork, but thanks to Amy’s influence, I decided to recognize the feeling as intuition and embrace the two being in cahoots as my working theory.

  As the noon hour approached without a phone call, my misgivings over Spike intensified. I dialed the Auvergnat Vin Bar. Jeremy answered.

  “Yes, I was wondering if you could help me find a bottle of Mouton Rothschild 1945—”

  “Who is this?”

  “Jules Landau—”

  “Oh, god! What do you want?”

  “Have you spoken to Spike lately?”

  “Why?”

  “Believe it or not, I think I found a wine buyer who also might know Doug’s whereabouts. What do you think of that?”

  Jeremy hung up. Minutes later, Spike called and said, “What did you say to Jeremy?”

  “Why the hell didn’t you call me after Jeremy called you?”

  “What do you think I’m doing, douchebag?”

  I fought the urge to call this brat every vile blasphemy ever catalogued—and then cultivate a few more. The anger spread through my gut then migrated north, settling around my heart. I always felt my heart was my weak spot, my Achilles’ heel. Anger would destroy my heart.

  “Whenever you’re ready, pal,” I said.

  Spike gave me a Near North address on Wabash. “Seven o’clock. Wait inside.”

  I hung up. If he had more to say, I didn’t care.

  —

  Chiseled into the archway was a five-pointed star inside a crescent moon. The symbols blended with the building’s ornate domes to emit a flavor of occultism, evoking an era when architecture embraced Islamic imagery. The enormous oak doors opened to a vast corridor of black-and-white square tiles running straight through to the opposite end of the building. The heavy masonry of granite walls and fifteen-foot ceilings struck me with a sense of timelessness. Egyptian pyramids came to mind.

  Apart from the faint sound of indistinct voices, the hall was quiet. I strolled along the wall, looking at portraits of aristocrats dressed in elegant nineteenth-century suits, each with a red sash falling across his chest and a gold starburst attached to the collar. All had the title “Supreme Magus” embossed on a plate at the base of the frame. A couple of middle-aged men walked in, both dressed in black cutaway frocks, red waistcoats, and top hats. They nodded at me as they passed then entered the stairwell halfway down the hall. A few more men dressed like the previous two entered and then more arrived until a steady stream of antiquated fellows filed down the corridor and disappeared into the stairwell.

  Besides the increased murmuring, the hallway returned to quiet. I looked at my watch. Quarter past seven. I whispered a string of curses. It was likely Spike’s plan that I stand alone and self-conscious in this esteemed hallway of sublime grandiosity. All at once, the murmuring stopped. I walked to the stairwell landing. One floor below, the slightest sounds of human activity came from behind arched double doors. I walked down the flight and listened. A gong sounded.

  I put my hand on the latch, pushed down, then slowly opened the door. With its barrel-vaulted white ceiling, the room seemed like a palatial auditorium. Steep stadium seating bordered three sides of a rectangular checkerboard floor. Maybe two-thirds of the seats were filled. At the fourth side, a huge stage of red carpet, red curtains, and a single red upholstered high-back chair drew the attention of the attendees. I stayed in the standing room area behind the last row, and watched. A few men glanced at me. None appeared concerned that an infidel stood in their midst.

  A bearded man appeared stage right and walked to a stand-up microphone. Around his waist he wore a white apron with blue trim and embroidered designs. On his head sat a black, high crown fedora with a feather tucked into the trim. Something about him struck me as familiar. The man began waving his hands wildly, as if swatting imaginary flies. Then he shouted, “Off with you! Off with you! Away, away!”

  The room erupted as a single voice in an unidentifiable language. I noticed an older man standing about four feet from me. He had a relaxed, pleasant look on his face. I stepped closer to him and whispered, “What did everyone just say?”

  The man smiled, then leaned into me like he was an old friend about to share a funny punch line. “Anna dimgalbi, kia urgalbi.” He laughed and was about to say something else when the guy onstage started shouting again in the mystery language. I smiled and nodded at my new friend then descended a couple of tiers, just close enough to recognize Blackstone as the man on the stage babbling in a
strange tongue.

  While once again struggling to reconcile Spike’s mastery over me, another man appeared from stage left. He circled the chair, stopped, then circled the chair again, this time walking backward in the opposite direction, before stopping in front of the chair and facing the audience. Blackstone prompted the man to repeat an oath in which he vowed to devote his lifeblood to the Ancient Craft. His voice didn’t have the nasal aspect I remembered from talking to him in the magic shop. I watched, somewhat disengaged from the symbolism of the ceremony itself, but present enough to remember my original goal to question Blackstone regarding his relationship with Doug. As I made my way down toward the stage, Blackstone crooned on about rings of brilliant light collecting in one’s heart and nourishing one’s soul. A huge banner proclaiming “Magick: The Discipline and Artistry of Inducing Metamorphosis” unfurled across the top of the stage.

  The audience stood and cheered the initiate, who smiled broadly and waved like a pageant winner. The celebration continued for several minutes before dissolving into a kind of gentlemen’s reception. Long tables of cakes and sparkling grape juice were set up on the floor. Onstage, several men had joined Blackstone in engaging their new comrade in lively talk. Then Blackstone excused himself and disappeared stage right. Most of the other attendees remained standing at their seats or drifted toward the refreshment tables.

  “Thinking about joining?”

  I turned and looked into a smiling face standing a bit closer to me than I preferred. “I thought I’d check things out, meet some people. You know the guy on the stage who ran the show?”

  “That’s Blackstone. Kind of a weird bird. But likable.”

  “What do you mean weird?”

  “Oh, nothing really, just takes it more seriously than most. But we need a guy like that.”

  “Why is that important?”

  The man thought about it. “A connection to childhood innocence, I guess. Once magic gets in your blood, it stays there. That’s just my theory.”

  “And Blackstone’s really into the ritual, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah. He made sure the ceremonies still use the archaic Coptic Egyptian. You could say he literally lives and breathes the Ancient Craft.” The man laughed. “He made a deal with the Masons who own this place. They let him live here in a little studio apartment in exchange for taking care of the place.”

  “Really? I guess you’re probably not supposed to know that.”

  The man frowned. “Everyone knows. It’s the door at the end of the hall when you go back out. It’s where the Venerable Sovereign lived in the old days, like a priest’s rectory.”

  The ease with which this fortuitous gift arrived almost made me suspicious. I asked my new acquaintance what sort of magic he practiced and he gave me an enthusiastic, detailed description of his birthday party performance. I pretended to be interested until I looked at my watch and excused myself.

  Chapter 44

  I milled around awhile, observing the scene near Blackstone’s apartment. The only real threat of discovery seemed to come from the occasional guest crossing the hall after exiting the auditorium. I put my hand on the knob and rattled the door, surprised it was just a hollow wood veneer with no dead bolt. It appeared almost comical surrounded by the granite and brick wall.

  The space between the jamb and door gave my credit card easy access to the latch assembly. Typical of cheap locks, the bolt was slanted inward, allowing me to easily force it back. Once inside, I relocked the door, turned on the light, and immediately understood why security was of little concern. Despite the belief Blackstone lived in the studio, there was little evidence to suggest it was anybody’s actual home. The mattress on the twin bed was bare, the fridge contained only a pizza box, and there was nothing in the way of cooking utensils to be found. A phone-booth-sized closet devoid of clothes had a curtain for a door. The only signs of human activity were basic toiletries in the bathroom. There was, however, a rather large dresser.

  I opened the top drawer and saw what looked like a pile of tiny firecrackers, several boxes of condoms, a bottle of black powder, a roll of electrical tape, and strands of copper wire connected to tiny pipes. I opened the second drawer and caught a whiff of nail polish remover. Scattered about were a few small plastic bottles of clear liquid, several quart-sized bottles of red liquid, and what appeared to be a .38 revolver. I picked up the pistol. It felt lighter than expected and looked like it had been painted black. The hammer wouldn’t move. When I pushed the cylinder release, nothing happened. It was a very safe gun.

  —

  An exuberant voice assaulted me as I stepped out of the building. “Did you see that? Wasn’t that some crazy initiation shit?”

  It took a moment for Spike’s appearance to break through the chaos clogging my neural pathways. The shiner I gave him that morning was at its peak of ripeness.

  “What do you really know about Blackstone’s relationship with Doug?” I said.

  “Did you see all those old fucks dressed up like—”

  “How much do you know?” I shouted.

  “Whaddya getting all pissed off for? I just wanted you to see him dressed up, playing wizard. It’s good to know the kind of guy you’re dealing with. Now let’s go to the meeting.”

  “So there is a meeting?”

  “Yeah, dude, nine o’clock at Jeremy’s office. It’s eight-fifteen now.”

  “Hang on. How much does Jeremy know about Blackstone?”

  Spike lit up. “Only that he wants to buy some expensive wine!” His sudden giddiness bordered on bizarre. He stared at me, anticipating a reaction to match his delirious glee.

  “Okay,” I said. “But I’ve gotta make a call first.”

  Spike ran to his car then, for some reason, waited for me to pull the Honda behind him. I left a message at Margot’s apartment, then followed Spike into the left lane on busy Wabash. I called Amy.

  “I’m on my way to the Auvergnat Vin Bar,” I said. “An old man wants to buy Margot’s wine.”

  “Buy it from whom?”

  “Jeremy, the owner of the bar.”

  “Listen, there are things you need to know.”

  “Hang on.” I pulled onto a side street. “I should know you’re a Fed, right?”

  Amy forced a laugh. “Why would you say that?” That she could have been so genuinely caught off guard surprised me.

  Spike’s number vibrated on my phone. “When you came over the night before I went to Irvington. That was just to cover your FBI ass, to make sure I would’ve gone to Irvington without your suggestion. You didn’t care about my safety—”

  “I did care—”

  “Calm down, I get it! I was already warned by a cop friend that the Feds were all over Cooper and that whatever happened to some puny private investigator was irrelevant.”

  “You’re not irrelevant—”

  “And all that psychic stuff? Just bullshit?”

  “I’ll explain later. Who’s this old man?”

  “He has some kind of relationship to Doug,” I said.

  “Fine. Go to the meeting. I’ll explain more later.”

  Chapter 45

  Once in Auvergnat’s parking lot I called Margot again and left another message. Spike waited for me next to his car.

  “Where the hell did you go?” Spike said.

  “Bathroom.”

  Spike didn’t appreciate my response and turned to his Mr. Mobster-Tough-Guy attitude—which pissed me off. “You got somethin’ you wanna tell me?” Spike said.

  I threw it back at him. “Listen, sonny boy. I don’t gotta tell you nuttin’ about nobody.”

  I walked into the Auvergnat Vin Bar without checking to see if Spike followed. Business was brisk. A few couples waited on benches for a table to open. I waved at Bruce the bartender as I breezed past, and didn’t bother knocking before I entered Jeremy’s office. Blackstone sat on the end of the couch, leaning forward with both hands on the handle of his cane. Jeremy had been sitting behind the
desk but stood when I appeared.

  “What are you doing here?” Jeremy said. The old man looked at me but didn’t move.

  “I’m sorry. Isn’t this where the Sacred Order of Fermentology meets?”

  Spike walked in and sat at the opposite end of the couch. “Hi, Merlin,” he said.

  “What is Landau doing here?” Jeremy said.

  “Landau is still looking for Tanya,” I said.

  “This is a private meeting that has nothing to do with a missing woman,” Jeremy said.

  “I have a theory,” I said, leaning against the wall, “that the missing wine is related to the missing Doug, which is related to the missing woman.”

  Jeremy looked at Blackstone then at Spike. “What’s he talking about?”

  Spike got up from the couch and walked to the front of the desk. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “Merlin here tells us how to find Doug, then maybe we sell him some wine.” Blackstone stared at the floor.

  “How would Blackstone know anything about Doug?” Jeremy said.

  “You slimy rat-bastard,” Spike said, sounding effectively unhinged. “First, you try to sell the wine behind my back? Now you insult my intelligence?”

  I thought Jeremy might faint. “I found an investor in Mr. Blackstone,” he said, his voice wavering. “For my wine trust. I swear that’s all. I don’t know anything about Doug.”

  I said, “You mean not since you and Spike ripped off the wine Doug wanted to steal from Margot, and that you’re now trying to sell behind Spike’s back.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Jeremy said to Blackstone. “Everything is legitimate.”

  “What do you say, Merlin?” Spike said. “You know where Dougie is?” It seemed Blackstone moved just enough to glance at Spike, but I wasn’t sure. “Don’t feel like talking, huh?”

  “He doesn’t know Doug!” Jeremy said.

  “Doug Daley was a customer at the magic shop,” I said. “Tanya used to accompany him.”

  “That doesn’t mean he knew him,” Jeremy said.

  “Well, Merlin?” Spike said. “Did you know Doug?”

  Blackstone straightened himself up on the couch and said through his nose, “He was a customer.”