“If you could see them, you’d know how my eyes were rolling. Have I not impressed upon you sufficiently the odds of being deprived of your wallet—or worse—if you roam around certain areas on foot?”
“Yeah, well. Why don’t you tell that to the guys who decided to build a courthouse on the outer edges of Timbuktu.”
“I’ll thank you to remember the vital role patronage jobs play in our local economy. Can I interest you in a ride in my chariot instead? We can take the scenic route.”
“Sure,” I said. “If you’re going my way, I’ll take an armor-plated vehicle over an exposed ‘L’ car any day. And there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
On the way back to the Loop in O’Leary’s car I explained what it was.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” O’Leary said when I was through. “You want to file a missing person report on a homeless man?”
“Mike’s a person and he’s missing,” I pointed out. “Can I do it even if we’re not related?”
O’Leary thought about this. “You can if you’re familiar with his ordinary schedule and activities, though it’s not going to get much play unless you can point to some unusual circumstances surrounding the so-called disappearance. You probably aren’t aware of it, but the statistic is that someone in Chicago disappears every thirty minutes. I can report him for you, but the missing-person unit has its hands full just searching for folks with fixed abodes. Do you know what he looks like?”
I pulled up a mental picture from my warehouse of stored faces. “African American, around five-eleven, maybe a hundred and eighty pounds. Lighter-skinned. Wears dreadlocks—or used to, anyway—and has a gold-plated left incisor.”
“Well, that will certainly help him stand out among the city’s homeless population,” O’Leary said, rounding a corner in a squeal of brakes. “Where does he usually hang out?”
“I’m not sure exactly. I know he moves around a lot. In the summer, by the mouth of the river. But now that the nights are getting chilly, he’s probably moved over to lower Wacker Drive. I may be able to get a photo from the newspaper he works for. I think they did a profile on him a few months back.”
“E-mail it to me then. I’ll get it into Clearpath—that’s the neighborhood community-policing database—and ask a few of the guys I know in the First District to keep an eye out for him. But don’t expect anything too soon. And stop worrying. Chances are he’s just sleeping off a bender and will turn up in a day or two.”
I didn’t think so, but there was no sense in arguing with O’Leary about it.
The following few days passed uneventfully.
I dutifully took my pills three times a day with meals, and even worked up the energy to cook a few dishes on my own. On Saturday, I caught up with my journal reading and rewarded myself with a long afternoon walk along the Lake. It was a balmy Indian summer day with no hint of the cold fronts that would soon start barreling down from Canada, apart from the geese of the same name honking overhead en route to wherever it was they spent the winter. (There always seemed to be enough of them around leaving greasy piles for my shoes in all seasons.) Every so often I lifted my sunglasses to see if I could catch a glimpse of something concrete, but it was always the same pea soup. I reminded myself for about the thousandth time to be patient.
That night, I took in a Batman movie at the AMC outlet on Grand, and on Sunday morning, I joined a spin class at my health club. I’d started taking the class after deciding it wasn’t healthy to be spending all of my exercise hours alone in my apartment and convincing a doubtful instructor that I could not only mount a bike with my eyes closed but out-pedal just about everyone in the class. That day’s soundtrack drew heavily on the sixties, and we finished up with a heart-pounding, four-minute sprint to the ever-intensifying beat of Sympathy for the Devil, leaving me at the end satisfyingly winded and with thigh muscles begging for mercy. I spent another half-hour in the weight room, topped off the workout with a steam shower, and arrived home, scrubbed and sore, just in time for my weekly Skype session with Louis.
The idea, surprisingly, had been my ex-wife’s. While my person was still pretty much anathema to her, I gave Annie credit for wanting Louis and me to build a relationship of sorts. Skyping didn’t do much for me, but it allowed Louis to “show” me his nursery-school output and other things he was excited about, and kept my face in the forefront of his mind. I would have eagerly hopped a plane every weekend to be with him, but I was afraid of pushing my luck—under the divorce decree I had almost no visitation rights to speak of—or overwhelming Louis with my company. It seemed better to take things slowly, letting our intimacy develop gradually and making the best of extreme-distance parenting.
This week’s offerings were several finger paintings, a Lego truck Louis had built by himself, and a new Snow White coloring book. Annie had taken him to see a digitalized and restored version of the Disney film, and he seemed quite taken by the story, chatting away happily about the “bad queen” and the beautiful princess and all the funny little dwarves.
“Which one was your favorite?” I asked.
“I liked the baby one because he couldn’t get the soap and then he ate it and he burped and bubbles came out of his mouth,” Louis said in a rush that ended in a mirthful giggle. “Soap tastes bad,” he added in a more serious vein.
“Yes it does. And so do rotten apples,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” he agreed. “Mom says I can’t have any apples on Halloween. I’m going to be a prince and have a sword. But I’m not going to kiss any girls, even if they’re asleep. Why didn’t the queen like Snow White?”
I thought about how to answer this. How do you explain poisonous envy to a three-year-old? “Well, probably because when the queen was young she was very beautiful, just like Snow White, and as she got older she wasn’t as pretty anymore.”
“And that made her sad?”
“That’s right. And angry. Sometimes when we’re sad or angry we try to get rid of the thing that’s making us feel that way so we don’t have to think about it anymore.”
“Like taking out the garbage?”
“Ri-ight,” I said slowly. The analogy wasn’t perfect, but it was always startling to me how easily small children picked up on psychological nuance. “So you don’t like kissing girls?” I teased.
“No, it’s nasty. Except for mom. I like kissing mom, but not too much. Did you like kissing your mom?”
Another hard question. “I’m afraid I was a little like Snow White. My mom died when I was very young—even younger than you are now.”
“That’s sad, too,” Louis said with the utmost gravity.
“It is, but it was OK. My father took good care of me and loved me very much.” Too much, if you wanted to know the truth, but it wasn’t something I ever planned on telling Louis.
“Like you love me?” were his next words.
“Yes, Louis,” I said, trying not to tear up. “Like I love you.”
On Monday morning, Mike was still gone, and again on Tuesday. True to his word, Richard had asked around, but no one had seen Mike for days, and when I called Streetwise again they had all but given up on his coming back. “It happens sometimes,” the staffer said. “They wander off or get sick, and you never hear from them again. On the other hand, winter is coming. Maybe your friend decided to head south for the cold months. A lot of them do.”
I didn’t buy that Mike would have taken an extended vacation without saying good-bye, and as far as I knew, the paper was his only livelihood. I phoned O’Leary several times to find out if there were any leads, but so far there were none. “Have patience,” O’Leary said, “though I know that’s like asking a dog to give up its bone. And if you’re right about his being ill, chances are good he’ll show up in an emergency room somewhere.”
Which was hardly reassuring.
By the close of business on Tuesday when Hallie called to update me on Jane’s case, I was nearly frantic with worry about my homeless fri
end.
“Bjorn’s done it again,” she said dreamily when I picked up.
“What? Led his cricket team to victory?”
She ignored this. “Come through with the goods. Guess who stood to gain the most from Gallagher’s death?”
“His undertaker?”
“No. I was talking about estate planning. Bjorn gave me the full rundown last night over dinner at Alinea. He checked the probate court records, and it turns out the nephew gets everything.”
I didn’t want to know how they had ended up at one of Chicago’s chicest restaurants on a weeknight. “It doesn’t take an Einstein to figure that out,” I said spitefully. “From what came out at the hearing, Urquhart was Gallagher’s only living relative.”
“You’re right,” Hallie said. “But get this. Bjorn did a credit check on Urquhart’s business, and it’s in trouble. His receivables are financed to the hilt, and he’s behind on his bank loans. And they’re building a new Best Buy down the road from his main sales outlet. Urquhart hired a lawyer to try to stop it before the local planning board—as if anyone does urban planning in the south suburbs—and they turned him down flat. Bjorn figures it’s only a matter of time before Urquhart has to file for bankruptcy.”
“How much is in the estate?”
“It’s not clear yet. They’ll have to liquidate some of Gallagher’s stock holdings and put the townhome on the market, but we’re talking at least a million, not counting life insurance. Which is the other juicy bit Bjorn dug up. The policy had a double-indemnity clause.”
I couldn’t remember any of the details from the old Fred MacMurray movie, so I was forced to seek an explanation.
“It’s a provision in the policy that says the insurance company has to pay double if the policyholder dies accidentally instead of by natural causes. Gallagher’s ordinary benefit was $750,000, so we’re talking quite a chunk of change. ‘Accidentally’ includes being the victim of a homicide.”
This was interesting, but I needed to ask her a favor.
“Isn’t he the guy who saved your life last spring?” Hallie asked when I was through with my petition.
“That’s the one. And I can’t stand the thought that he’s alone and sick out there without me lifting a finger about it.”
“You did something. You talked to the police.”
“I doubt he’s anywhere near the top of their priority list, even with O’Leary’s influence. I don’t think I can sleep another night worrying about him, and I know Mike would be moving mountains to find me if our positions were reversed. Will you come? We can make a date out of it.”
Hallie laughed. “You have an amusing concept of what constitutes a date. But why not? I’ve been sitting in an office all day. I could use the fresh air. But only if you promise to make time for dinner afterward. There’s something else I want to run by you about Jane’s case. Something I just thought of this afternoon.”
A little while later found me waiting for Hallie where we’d arranged to meet, in Millennium Park next to the Cloud Gate, a giant, polished steel sculpture shaped like a lima bean and nicknamed—you guessed it—the Bean. Tourists never seemed to tire of its funhouse reflections, and as usual, the surrounding plaza was host to a big crowd of people snapping pictures and knocking at the artwork’s hollow sides. I listened to the commotion from a park bench nearby, thinking about what I had planned for the evening and hoping it would turn up a sign of Mike.
Hallie arrived on schedule just before six. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of taking to the streets, too,” she said, referring to the mountain of plastic bags by my feet. It looks like you’ve brought everything but a Bunsen burner.”
On my way over to the park I’d stopped by a Walgreens and bought out its entire supply of candy bars, tube socks, batteries, Wet Ones, and other small items I thought might come in handy for someone living without a roof over their head, along with a flashlight for Hallie and a roll of masking tape.
“It’s the old Boy Scout in me. You know, be prepared.”
“I’m surprised they let you into the Boy Scouts. Don’t they have a rule about being cheerful?”
“They allowed me to get by on thrifty, reverent, and clean. I thought care packages might earn us some goodwill. Here, what do you think of these?”
I showed her the eight-by-twelve flyers I’d bribed Yelena into making for me by offering her yet another afternoon off. It included a physical description, Mike’s picture from the Streetwise website, my contact information, and the offer of a hundred-dollar reward for any information leading to his whereabouts.
Hallie agreed that the likeness was good and asked which way I wanted to go.
“I thought we’d start on Lower Randolph and head west from there.”
Hallie took half the bags, and I took the other. They were heavy and flapped back and forth while I swung my cane, making for slow progress as we hiked through the Pritzker Pavilion and onto the BP Bridge, another steel-plated attraction that rose like a serpent’s tail over Columbus Drive.
“Stop and rest for a minute?” I said to Hallie when we reached the bridge’s pinnacle, which offered magnificent views of the Lake and the entire length of Grant Park.
“I won’t say no to that,” Hallie replied, panting a bit from the exertion.
We unloaded our booty and leaned over the railing into the soft wind. The setting sun warmed the side of my face and sent sparkles into the corner of my right eye, where my vision was strongest. I knew better than to think it signaled an improvement. My eyes were still photosensitive, and sometimes painfully so. But in the waning light of day it was a pleasant sensation, and with Hallie so close by, sent a trill of contentment down my spine. Now if we could just find Mike . . .
I asked if the trees were turning color yet.
“A little,” Hallie said. “Some splashes of gold and orange. And there’s a maple over there that will be fully red in a week.” She sighed and added wistfully, “It’s beautiful out here tonight.”
“That it certainly is,” I agreed without a trace of irony.
Resuming our mission, we descended the bridge and began journeying along the subterranean passages that led to Lower Wacker, familiar to non-Chicagoans as the place where Jake and Elwood incapacitated two-thirds of the Chicago police force, and to natives as the “Emerald City,” a reference to the era when it was lit by garish green lights. Even in a car, it’s not for the faint of heart. Filled with short entrance ramps, blind turns, and trucks going the unofficial minimum of seventy, it’s always an accident waiting to happen. The first time I’d ventured down there in my old Toyota—which I still hadn’t worked up the resolve to sell—had left me mopping the sweat from my brow and vowing thereafter to stick to the clogged avenues overhead. But if you were without a place of your own, it offered shelter from rain and snow, the warmth of skyscraper heating vents, and relative peace. Apart from the occasional halfhearted sweep, the authorities were by and large content to leave its occupants to themselves, underground and out of the sight of tourists and conventioneers.
We trudged all the way to Congress Parkway and back, through a pungent atmosphere of exhaust fumes, rotting foodstuffs, and body odor, taking care not to come up by surprise on the bundles stretched out along the walks or hidden away in one of the myriad nooks and crannies created by the massive concrete supports of the roadway overhead. There were easily hundreds of makeshift homes. Some of them were remarkably clean and well organized, with designated areas for eating, washing, and sleeping. In others, we had to pick our way through mounds of trash and haphazardly placed bedrolls. Despite the grinding poverty and poor lighting, I felt no sense of menace. Almost everyone who wasn’t sleeping soundly responded politely, and even with friendliness, to our inquiries. Judging by their speech and topics of conversation, the majority were mentally ill or elderly, though I was shocked several times to hear the voices of children above the constant din of traffic. There were also veterans aplenty, some of whom amusingly asked
if I’d lost my sight in combat, along with the usual sad complement of drunks begging for change.
We handed out supplies to all who would take them and taped flyers on walls wherever the layers of grime permitted it, but it was always the same story—at least from those lucid enough to tell it. Yes, many people knew Mike, who, though he mostly kept to himself, was regarded as a courteous brother who shared food and cigarettes and did not wake his neighbors with unnecessary fits of loud cursing and screaming. No, nobody knew where he was staying these days. Yes, he hadn’t been seen around in several weeks. No, he hadn’t told anyone he was going away or where he might have been headed. Some of our informants offered the possibility he had simply cleared out for the winter; others that he had permanently relocated to the more hospitable climes of Miami or LA. If you had the coin and were fit to travel, you’d have to be a right crazy motherfucker to stay in Chicago during cold season.
“I’m sorry,” Hallie said with genuine sympathy when we’d retraced our steps back to Columbus and were standing at the foot of the stairway leading up to ground level. “Try not to assume the worst.”
I responded by balling up my share of the now-empty shopping bags and flinging them into the street, not the most environmentally friendly gesture, but a good way to vent some of my frustration.
She reached down and squeezed my hand. “Stop worrying. He’ll turn up. I’m sure of it.”
I bit my lip and nodded. I wanted to keep going, but we’d been at it for nearly two hours and night was setting in.
“Are you still up for something to eat?” Hallie asked.
I wasn’t at all hungry, but I’d promised. And maybe the evening didn’t have to be a complete waste. “What would you say to picking something up and bringing it back to my place? We’re only a few blocks away, and I’d . . . I’d like to continue the conversation we were having just before Jane was arrested.”
“Really? You’re inviting me over? I was beginning to wonder what you were hiding up there. I will if you promise there aren’t any dead babies in the closet.”
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