by Jim Stevens
“He’s been living off his mother since he graduated from college, and he’s got a daughter that’s worse than him.”
“Boo.”
“My sentiments exactly. Even his condo is in his mother’s name.” Herman pulls a sheet of paper out of the pile and hands it to me. “Here’s a little something else. Kennard used to own a bar.”
“He did?” I quickly read a copy of an old city tax assessment.
“His mother fronted him the money.”
“So, he owned a bar.”
“Which means he knows how to steal,” Herman says.
Everybody in the bar business knows how to steal: waitresses, bartenders, managers, bar-backs, and especially the owners, who steal from the government. It’s the way you make your living in the bar biz.
“Or, maybe he didn’t know how to steal,” Herman continues. “And that’s why the bar went bust.”
“Or, maybe he drank whatever profits were left after everybody had their hand in the till?”
“It’s possible. Anyway, after three years of losses, the old lady shuts the place down, and sells the property for a seven-hundred grand profit.”
“Somebody knew what they were doing.” I conclude.
“Evidently, not Kennard.”
“Anybody can be a thief, but it can be tough to be a good one.” I lean back on the couch, but my butt slips on the magazines and I almost slide off and land on the floor. I regain my balance before I ask, “How about his girlfriend, Schnooks?”
“On paper, she’s dumber than dog shit. How is she in person?”
“I’m not sure I’d rank her that high.” I hesitate to wonder how long Herman’s chair can take the pressure it’s under. “How about Safari?”
“He started out strong, but he’s faded in the stretch. Back in the nineties, he must have got some good tips, because he sunk a lot of his cash into Cisco, Microsoft and some other high-flying techs of the time. Pets.com never made the big bucks, but his winners far outdistanced his losers. The lucky bastard bailed out before the 2000 crash. After that, Safari disappeared for a while, came back to count his money, then disappeared again.”
“He was on safari.” I fill in the blank.
“I would have never guessed.”
“He have anything left?” I ask.
“IRS got their share and keeps coming back for more, but Safari might be the type to have stuffed some in his mattress.”
Herman gets up, waddles to the fridge, and opens the door. “Sure you don’t want any cheese?”
“Positive.”
Herman puts a hunk in his mouth and returns to torture the poor chair. “Elmhurst, now at least he’s got a job, although teaching at one of those Internet campuses is hardly the pinnacle of academia.”
“Venus?”
“There’s always one screwball in a set of ball bearings.” Herman burps. “She’s generous to causes like bumble bee breeding, sperm whale conservation, and protecting the snail darter. While her half-brothers lose their money, she gives hers away.”
I immediately wonder if she’d be interested in donating to a college education fund for the daughters of private detectives who have lousy incomes and no pensions?
“Venus is loonier than a psycho on LSD.”
“Which one would you pick as the thief, Herman?”
“All of them. There’s no way any of them could have made it day to day without cash infusions from the old lady.”
“Five grand a month isn’t bad, Herman.”
“Maybe for you, Sherlock, but these kids are used to the better life. Even Venus drives a Mercedes.”
Herman hands me a stack of papers. “It’s all here in black and white. IRS problems, liens on property, civil lawsuits, unpaid parking tickets; everybody’s got their fair share.”
I rifle through the pages and wonder how he gets this information, but don’t ask.
Herman chews away. His breath smells like month-old sour milk. “I thought you were working on a kidnapping?”
“I was, but from the little acorn grew the mighty oak.”
“Lucky you.”
“Tell me about Moomah.”
Herman has to lift his oversized belly with both hands to change positions in the squeaky chair. “There’s a reason she’s got so much money. She seldom lets any of it out of her sight.”
“Then how do the kids dip into the funds?”
Herman’s belly rests on the top of his thighs. “I’m sure there are lots of ways of tapping into Moomah’s chunk of change. When the feedbag is full, it shouldn’t be too hard to nibble away at the edges.” Herman has to take a breath. This is his idea of exercise. “Sure you don’t want some cheese?”
I’ve heard enough, and suspect Herman’s last movement in the chair is a precursor of emissions to come. I give him instructions on what I want him to do next.
“I can’t do all that. I got things to do, places to go, and people to see.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I would, if you didn’t treat me like slave labor.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Sherlock…”
“Get on it and I might just bring Tiffany with me next time.”
Herman’s eyes light up and his cheeks puff out. “I’ll put a rush on it.”
_____
I go home. I have a lot of getting ready to do. Tiffany, Kelly, and Care arrive soon after I do.
“Dad,” Kelly asks. “Can I talk to you?”
“Sure, what about?”
“One-five-seven-six-seven-eight.”
“Is that code for something like LOL in your text messages?” I ask.
“No, it’s the license number of the car Kennard got into after the fireworks.”
“You’re kidding!”
“It’s always been in my brain, I just couldn’t seem to get it out.”
I give her a big kiss, and call Oland immediately.
“Guess what I have for you.”
“You found the kidnappers, the million dollars, and the case is closed?” Oland asks.
“Not quite.”
CHAPTER 18
I haven’t been on a date in so long, it’s hard to remember what to do. Tiffany, where are you when I need you?
I lay out my best suit, which would be any other man’s worst, and attempt to iron out its wrinkles. I fail miserably, making permanent wrinkles instead of eradicating the old ones. A good housewife I will never be. Thankfully, I have one dress shirt still wrapped in plastic. By the time I subtract all the neckwear with a stain, dried gunk, or ones thinner than a half dollar; I have three from which to choose.
I pull a pair of old black Wingtips out from the back of the closet and use a towel to wipe off the dust. It doesn’t work. The shoes look like they’ve got a case of white rabies. I use the inside of a banana peel to polish them. The oil from the skin gives the leather a sheen that would make a shoeshine guy proud. A trick I learned reading Hints from Heloise. I search for a pair of black socks with no see-through cross-stitches on the back heel, and can’t find any. I consider painting the back of my heels with a black magic marker, but instead decide to wear the best two pair I own. I shower, shave, dress, and off I go.
Watch out women, Richard Sherlock is on the town.
_____
Anthea Andrews lives in an end unit of a complex made up of three sets of eight, three-story townhouses, located in the hip, new Near West Side. Not so many years ago, the only reason to come into this neighborhood was to buy fresh fish early in the morning or heroin after dark. Now there is a Starbucks on every corner and three-wheel baby strollers on every sidewalk. It’s a prime example of Chicago’s success at urban renewal.
Of course there’s no parking close to her building, so I drive around and around until I finally find a parking space that is only slightly in the red. By the time I walk the three blocks to her door, the shirt under my suit coat is well past the moist stage; don’t you just love humidity. I knock on her door and wait
nervously.
One second after she opens the door, the first thought that leaps into my mind is: What is woman like this, doing with a guy like me? She’s gorgeous, beautiful, astounding, stunning. I’m totally enamored by this woman. My heart starts to thump like a metronome in overdrive.
Anthea is out of her Eastern Establishment, conservative, business attire and into a sleek, low-cut, black dress that hugs her curves like snakeskin. I lose a breath as I take her all in. “Wow,” is the smoothest phrase I’m able to muster.
Her hair and make-up are perfect. Diamond stud earrings, a gold watch, and a string of pearls on a gold chain, complete the elegance. “Wow,” I double down on my inability to come up with something clever and unique.
“Come in.”
I step inside the townhouse’s first floor, which was undoubtedly labeled the Living Room in the brochure to sell this upper-end palace. “Nice.” As soon as I utter the word, I silently admonish myself for not yet coming up with a sentence of more than one syllable.
“It’s wasted space,” she says. “I seldom use the room.”
We walk up a short flight of stairs to the middle floor, consisting of a den, the kitchen, and the dining area. One bedroom and bath are tucked into the back corner. She doesn’t offer a tour of the third floor, at least not yet. “Would you like a drink?”
“Sure.” I did it again. I must sound like a fresh off the boat DP (that stands for displaced person).
“Vodka?”
I’m not much of a drinker, and even less of a vodka drinker, but don’t want to appear un-cool. “Great.”
“Grey Goose or Absolute?”
I have no clue what she’s referring to. “Oh, Grey Goose, absolutely.”
She fills two cut-glass glasses with ice from the dispenser on the front of the refrigerator, pours a couple of fingers worth of vodka into each, and hands me one. We clink Waterford’s as she remarks, “Welcome.”
“Salud.”
She drinks, I sip. She clinks again. “I’m glad we could do this.”
“Salud.” Not only am I back to one word sentences, I’m repeating myself.
“Let’s sit.”
We’re on her soft leather couch. I sink in, balancing my drink in hand. I’m horribly uncomfortable. Anthea is close, her knees together, pointing slightly towards me; her dress riding up to the base of her thighs. I’m staring.
“See the light yet?” she asks.
“Light? What light?” I ask, quickly averting my view of her knees.
“The case,” she says.
“What case?”
“Mrs. Richmond’s.”
“Oh, that case.” I pause. “No.”
“I would think a detective of your caliber would have it figured out, locked up, and stored in a drawer by now.”
“Not even close,” I say. “The case has more holes than paper used to make confetti.”
“Well, that should make it more fun.”
“It doesn’t.”
Anthea glances at her watch. “We should be going.” She quickly finishes her vodka and rises. I hand her my un-drunk drink and get up after she passes by. I stand with nothing to do as she places the glasses on the marble countertop. If it was me, I’d pull out the ice cubes, come back later, and pour the vodka back into the bottle.
“Would you mind if we took your car?” I ask. “Mine tends to challenge me at the most inopportune times.”
“No problem.”
_____
The restaurant Tiffany chose was Café Spiaggia, located on the corner of Oak Street and Michigan Avenue.
“Good choice,” was Anthea’s comment, as she came around the corner and parked in the underground lot.
The valet alone was going to cost me over twenty, which was equal to a night out with my girls to get pizza.
Café Spiaggia is on the second floor of red marbled office building and looks out over Chicago’s famous Oak Street Park and Beach. A Café it isn’t. An expensive five-star restaurant is what it is. The lighting is perfectly subdued. The carpet is plush. The tables arranged for enough privacy to talk, but open enough to allow you to see and be seen. The tablecloths are fine linen. The silverware sparkles next to plates of fine bone china. Café Spiaggia is a place you go to propose – marriage or anything else on your mind.
The maitre d’ seats us in a booth, dead center in the restaurant. The Queen of England would get this table if she were in town. We sit next to each other, not across, which makes for somewhat difficult, side-by-side conversing, but puts us in close range for those gentle touches, when one wants to make a point. “Thank you so much,” she says. “I never expected such savoir-faire.”
“Neither did I.”
Anthea has another Grey Goose. I have an imported light beer. The conversation moves from our past to my kids, her lack of kids, the twilight of my mediocre Police career, and her desire to kiss the banking business farewell and start a hedge fund.
I’m not sure what a hedge fund is, but I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with landscaping.
I take a gander at the wine list and see an extra zero after every bottle. The menu isn’t much better. A bowl of soup at this place is equal to a weekly stop at my neighborhood Jewel-Osco.
We order. Anthea has a salad I can’t pronounce. I have a pasta dish I can pronounce, but I can’t understand how any noodles could cost twenty-eight dollars a serving. She excuses herself to use the powder room.
I sit alone, totally out of my element and comfort zone. From over my left shoulder, I hear: “Pssst, pssst.”
I turn around. “Tiffany, what are you doing here?”
“I thought you might need a little help.”
Over her shoulder, I see Kelly and Care seated in a booth across the room waving at me.
“Tiffany!”
“Mr. Sherlock, you’re doing it all wrong. Don’t back away from her. Lean in, take her hand, get your nose in there, and smell her perfume.”
“Tiffany, would you leave me alone? I know what I’m doing.”
“No, you don’t. We’ve been watching. You’re about as smooth as a defoliating stone.” Tiffany looks over to see if Anthea is returning.
“Tiffany, go away.”
“You said you weren’t good with women. And boy, are you proving it tonight.”
I can see Anthea heading our way. “Tiffany, leave now!” I say as quietly as possible. Thankfully, she makes a hasty retreat, unseen by Anthea, I hope.
A few seconds later Anthea slides back into the booth. “Miss me?” she asks.
The food arrives. Three waiters to serve one salad and one bowl of pasta is overkill in my opinion. We eat, chat, sip, and chat some more. When the bill comes, I cleverly place both my credit cards on top of each other, so they will seem like one, hand them to the waiter and say, “Whatever works.”
Always the gentleman, I let Anthea walk ahead of me as we leave the restaurant. This also allows me to see Kelly, Care, and Tiffany give me a wave and a big thumbs up. It’s not every day you get your own fan base while you’re on a date. Lucky me.
_____
I need a woman in my life. I’d love to meet someone. The problem is finding one. When the majority of women you come in contact with on a daily basis are Bunco artists, thieves, insurance scammers, or repeat offenders of all crimes and misdemeanors, the dating pool is fraught with peril. I’ve thought about going on one of those Internet dating sites, but I’m afraid I’d pick one of the aforementioned delinquents. When it comes to dating, my karma needs work.
I’m a better man when I have a partner. Although, my ex-wife would dispute my opinion, I’d love to have someone to love.
I want Kelly and Care to see me in a relationship, a good relationship. What they have seen so far, with their mother and me, isn’t what I would consider a great template for understanding of how two people should share their lives. If we weren’t fighting, we weren’t speaking. If we weren’t speaking, we weren’t even a couple; just two people sharing
a house and two kids. That’s no way to live and not what any child should see when they’re growing up. Kids learn life by example and I owe it to Kelly and Care to set a good one. Plus, I want to be able to talk to someone I can trust. Tell her about my miserable day, how I feel, what I want, and what I need. I’ll do the same for her. I’m a good listener. I know how to share. I know how to have a relationship. I just can’t seem to find one to have.
Anthea is the first woman in a long time that is attractive, smart, cultured, and has looked at me with a sparkle in her eye (if Tiffany’s assessment is correct). I really want this night to go well. I don’t want to screw it up. This could be the start of something really good.
_____
The Feed the Needy charity event is at the Four Seasons Hotel, walking distance from Café Spiaggia. At least I won’t have to pay for two valets. The main ballroom is packed with Chicagoland’s finest “One Percenters.” Under crystal chandeliers, the rich and mighty, the movers and the shakers, the presidents and CEO’s, regale each other with tales of business triumphs, deals in the making, and recent acquisitions. Anthea seems to know each and every person. She stops and talks, and stops and talks, and stops and talks. She speaks their language. I don’t. I mostly stand at her side, smile, and wonder how much money these people actually have. I only speak when spoken to, which isn’t very often.
The highlight of the evening is a parade of this year’s honorees of the charity’s Hike Up Your Bootstraps program. Six people, three men and three women, are escorted onto the stage. The men are dressed in suits, which may be ill-fitting, but better than the one I currently wear. The women are in long, formal dresses with lots of lace, layers, and folds; all to disguise the extra pounds each carries. None of the honorees look as if they have missed many meals. I wouldn’t call them fat, but that’s because I’m nice. Let’s just say they’re “calorically challenged.”
Some guy in a tuxedo grabs a microphone and speaks of the incredible strides each of the winners has made in their lives. The guests in the audience whisper to each other. They haven’t the slightest bit of interest in what the guy is saying. A profound level of boredom descends over them like a dark gray rain cloud. Twenty minutes later, a gold medal is draped over each honoree’s chest, as if they were standing atop an Olympic podium. There’s a round of gentle applause and the six honorees are escorted through the kitchen door, never to be seen again for the remainder of the evening.