“They found him in the lake, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, and we think you killed him.”
The waiter went white under his summer tan and almost dropped a dish.
No sense of humor, Whelan thought. “Only kidding. Did you know him?”
“I only waited on him.”
“Let me guess: he always ordered something that wasn’t on the menu, sent it back a couple of times, tipped heavy. How am I doing?”
The waiter tried on a small smile. “That’s right on. You a friend of his?”
“No, and nobody’s admitting to that these days, anyway. Did you ever see him meet people here?”
“A lot of times. I think he was dealing here. Everybody thought he was dealing here. That’s so stupid—I mean, hundreds of people coming and going, and all the street traffic, it’s no wonder somebody killed him.”
“Well, there’s a particular breed of guy that wants very badly to project that image, and Harry was a classic. You know what a ‘wannabe’ is, right?” The waiter nodded and smiled. “Well, old Harry was a hoodlum wannabe. It was what he lived for, near as I can make out. And it got him killed. There’s a lesson there for us all, kid. Let me try a description on you. Young man, tan, handsome, blond, around five nine, drives a yellow Lotus.”
The waiter chuckled. “A Lotus? No, man, I don’t know anybody that drives a Lotus.”
He tried again. “I’ve got descriptions of three more customers. A small, dark-haired guy with one arm.” The waiter shook his head. “Skinny black guy with an attitude.” Another shake of the head, but this time the waiter looked uneasy.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”
“Let me try one more. A big man, either heavyset or muscular, I’m not sure which. Bald or shaved head, green eyes. Funny green eyes, I’m told.”
The waiter’s eyes opened wide. Bingo.
“Oh, him I remember. Yes, he met Palm here a couple of times.”
“Anything you remember about their meetings?”
The waiter made a little shrug.
“Overhear anything?”
“No.”
“What do you think they were meeting about?”
The waiter made an exaggerated sniffing sound. “Oh, a little blow, I guess.”
“Harry was selling to this man.”
A shrug and a nod.
“What can you tell me about the man who met Palm?”
“I can tell you he was a nasty prick. He stared at everybody—waiters, customers, people walking by. Just stared at them with this little superior smile on his face, like he was just daring somebody to start some trouble with him. He acted like he was hip to something nobody else was.”
“Did you ever speak to him yourself?”
“If you can call it that. You get people who won’t look at a waiter or waitress when they order, like we’re beneath them. People who love to look down on service staff.”
“I know the type. They’re everywhere. He was one of those?”
“Yes, he was. He’d order while looking around at the crowd.” The waiter gave an imitation of a man watching the room. “It was fine with me, though. He wasn’t someone you wanted looking at you, if you ask me.”
“I’ve had several people describe this man. Why don’t you take a shot at it.”
“Well, big, like you say. Very muscular but not a bodybuilder type. There was a lot of fat there, he had a gut on him. This boy liked to eat, I’ll tell you that. And his head was shaved, very clean job, like he did it every day, like he was fussy about it. And he had a reddish brown mustache and a little Van Dyck beard, just a little bit of a beard on the point of his chin. Green eyes, funny color, real bright. And he was dark, like a guy who spends all his time in the sun, every day on the golf course, you know?”
“He drink much?”
The waiter nodded. “Oh, yeah. Martini drinker, this guy.”
“Anything else you can tell me? Has he been in lately, or did you ever see him here alone or with someone other than Harry Palm?”
“Nope. I only saw him with Palm. I guess that’s all I can tell you.”
“You’ve been very helpful.” Whelan pulled a five out of his shirt pocket and flicked it on the table. “Why don’t you give me a little more coffee and put that in your pocket.”
The waiter brightened. “Thank you, sir.”
“My pleasure.” He waited while the young man poured him another cup of coffee and then lit up a cigarette and sat back, watching the traffic and the other diners. A strong breeze had come up off the lake, whisking napkins and menus off tables, and perfectly combed hair no longer preserved its intended shape. Dust and dirt blew in off the street and hung over the tables, settling onto people’s hamburgers and omelets. Flies hovered at every table.
Some fun, he thought and finished his coffee. He was on the verge of ordering another cup when a cab pulled up in front of the restaurant and deposited a full load of middle-aged men in dark suits and name tags. Pharmacists. Red-faced and laughing and chortling over a joke, the conventioneers haggled with the cabdriver for a moment and eventually paid what they seemed to think was an unspeakable fare, then turned toward the restaurant. It was just past two and they were sweaty and giddy and probably hammered already. Whelan predicted that by eight or nine this evening they would be passed out in a bar somewhere. And if they could remember any of this day, or any of this convention, for that matter, it would become part of a legend that they’d talk about for years to come, embellishing and amending and editing and interweaving till things they’d heard about or seen on TV became events they actually thought they had witnessed or taken part in.
Time to go.
He’d left the window open in the office and the room smelled of tar from the roofing job next door. High summer and the whole world smells of hot tar, he thought. Could be worse, though—I could be a roofer. He sat down at his desk and pulled out the Yellow Pages. The name of the mortgage banker Mrs. Fairs had mentioned was Victor Tabor. He found Tabor listed under “Mortgages.” He had an office on Wabash, in the Loop. He called and made an appointment to see Tabor on Wednesday afternoon. Then he called his service.
“Hello, good morning,” chirped the male voice on the other end, a voice unmistakably foreign, exotic, a melodious voice, a voice that would be in its element if lifted in song with dozens of other voices just like it. Whelan had never seen the owner of this voice but had talked to him many times: Abraham Chacko, recently of India and currently working for Whelan’s answering service.
“Hello, Abraham.” You’re supposed to be working evenings, he thought.
“Hello, sir. Good morning.”
“It’s not morning anymore.”
There was a pause, rich in doubt, and Whelan knew exactly how Abraham would fill it.
“Hello, good morning, Mr. Paul Whelan’s offices.”
“And this is Paul Whelan.”
“No, this is answering sarvice.”
Whelan sighed, outflanked. “Abraham, my name is Paul Whelan. I am in. Do I have any calls?”
There was another pause and now heavy breathing. Great, I’ve overloaded his circuits.
“Mr. Whelan is not…Mr. Whelan has two calls.”
“What calls, Abraham?”
Pause.
“Two calls, sir,” Abraham said confidently.
Whelan waited, listening to the excited breathing on the other end. “Are you going to tell me who called, Abraham?”
“Sar-tainly, sir. Mrs. Janice Fairs, she called at 9:14. And the second caller, he is a policeman, a Constable Bowman. He is calling at 10:41.”
“Any messages from either of them?”
“Mrs. Fairs would like Mr. Whelan to call her. Constable Bowman…” Abraham paused and made gurgling sounds.
“What did he say, Abraham?”
“I am not understanding all of his English. He is speaking very fast, he is in a big hurry.”
“Was your conversation with the constable…uh,
a pleasant one, Abraham?”
Abraham Chacko giggled. “No, sir, he is a very angry policeman. His language is not so nice, that one.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s like that with everybody. Did he leave a number?”
“No, sir, he is telling you not to call him anymore.”
Whelan laughed softly. “Abraham, you’ve done a fine job. Your English is improving.”
“I am studying English at the Truman College.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said.
“I am studying English composition.”
“What are you learning this week?”
“We are studying the adverbial clauses.”
“Excellent. I use adverbial clauses constantly, Abraham. Adverbial clauses are your friend. Take it easy, Abraham.”
He called the number Janice Fairs had given him. She answered on the third ring.
“Hello?” Her voice was low, tentative.
“Paul Whelan returning your call, Mrs. Fairs.”
“Thank you for getting back to me so quickly, Mr. Whelan. I was wondering if you had learned anything yet. I realize you have only been working a couple of days…” She let her voice trail off.
He restrained himself from laughing into the phone. No, I don’t think that’s why you called at all, lady.
“I haven’t uncovered anything major but I’m working on a couple of angles that may turn something up.” He heard a low sucking sound and realized she was puffing away at the other end. He heard her exhale smoke.
“Mr. Whelan, you are being evasive.”
“It’s what I’m best at.”
There was silence on the other end and then he thought he heard a faint sigh.
“Mrs. Fairs…was there another reason you called? Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Have you had an occasion to interview…have you met Rich Vosic, Mr. Whelan?”
“Yes, I certainly have. And isn’t he a package.”
“Do you like him, Mr. Whelan?”
“No, ma’am, I’m kind of choosy that way. No, I haven’t found much to like about Rich Vosic.”
“Interesting.”
“Why is it interesting?”
“Men usually like Rich. He’s handsome and personable and he oozes that aggressive sincerity.”
“He oozes a lot of other things, too.”
“I’m gratified to hear you say that.”
Whelan was silent for a moment and then he saw. “So you’re worried that I’ll fall under his spell, huh?”
She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Most people do, Mr. Whelan. I know Phil did, and he was always a very shrewd judge of character. It’s just that…you can’t accept anything he says at face value, Mr. Whelan. He’s a very deceitful man, a very manipulative man. Please weigh anything he tells you carefully.”
“Mrs. Fairs, I’ve been in the business of weighing what people tell me for many years now and I haven’t fallen under the spell of too many men. I’ve had a few difficult moments with women, however.”
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Whelan?” Her voice was sharper, suspicious, and it took him by surprise.
“Nothing. It was a simple statement of fact. I was half joking, anyway.”
Mrs. Fairs waited for more, then gave up. “Very well. Call me at my home when you have anything to report.”
“Will do. It might be a while.”
“That’s fine. Just remember what I said about Rich Vosic.”
“I’ll do that.”
Mrs. Fairs thanked him in a voice like an answering machine and hung up. Whelan leaned back in his chair and wondered what Janice Fairs was afraid Vosic would tell him. Something about her husband, obviously. No, that wasn’t it, or she would have warned him of that first. No, she was afraid Vosic would tell him something about her.
Nervous bunch of people, he thought.
He drove to the Southport address he’d taken from Brister’s personnel file. The building was an old frame house, three stories and a basement apartment—“garden apartment” in realtor parlance. It had a dull tan tar paper siding intended to convey the impression of brick solidity and the banister was missing on one side of the front porch. In the third-floor windows he could see sun-stained shades; on the second floor all the windows were thrown open in concession to the heat, the curtains knotted to keep them back. A fan turned in the middle window on the first floor.
He got out of the car and looked around. There were a number of similar houses on both sides of Southport, and at the north end of the block there was a bricked-up gas station.
Gentrification was on its way here, but the new money and walking papers hadn’t reached this little pocket of what had once been a solid German neighborhood. Now a mixture of working-class whites and Latinos, the neighborhood was living on borrowed time, and the faces that stared at him from the windows seemed to know it. The great Gothic monument of St. Alphonsus Church dominated the south end of the neighborhood, and told passersby that, like many other dog-eared Chicago neighborhoods, this one had once known prosperity.
A thin, gray-haired man watched him from the first-floor window as Whelan walked slowly up the stairs and rang the bell marked “Majewski.” Whelan rang the bell again and saw the man turn his head and say something to someone else. In a moment Whelan heard footsteps and then the door swung open. A frank-faced woman as thin as the man in the window stood there for a moment, looking Whelan up and down.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so. Are you the landlady?” She nodded.
He took out a business card and handed it to her. “I’m a private investigator and I’m looking into some things involving a man who lived here a couple of years ago. George Brister. Remember him?”
“Sure I remember him. He’s another one owed us money and just took off.”
“Well, who’s there?” came a complaining voice from within. Whelan turned and looked at the man in the living room window. The man stared back but didn’t smile or blink or show other signs of life.
“You shut up,” the woman snapped, still peering at Whelan.
“I wanna know who’s there,” the man snarled. “Who’s he?” The man nodded toward Whelan through the window.
“And I said shut up, you!”
She lifted her chin toward Whelan and then made a little shake of her head, and the man in the living room was dismissed. “Don’t pay no attention to that one,” she said. “Gotta have his nose in everybody’s business ’cause he’s got nothing to do all day.”
“Retirement can be tough on people.”
She snorted. “He ain’t retired. He’s on disability. Been on disability half the time we been married. If we didn’t have this building we’d be on the streets.” She handed Whelan his card back. “You’re a private detective? I only seen them on TV.” A faint smile tried to take hold on her long face. She watched him openmouthed and one hand absently brushed a tuft of gray hair back from her face. Something different had come into her life, something had broken up the routine of her house and the man in the living room window, who looked as if he’d be a millstone in any life.
“Nobody like that ever came to talk to me,” she said.
He smiled at her. “You’re exactly the kind of person a detective needs to talk to. Most people wouldn’t remember George Brister right away, and you did. I’m trying to find whatever information I can about him.” She nodded.
“Come in and have a cup of coffee or something.” She stepped aside and held the door for him. Whelan entered and shot a fast glance at the sour old man in the living room. The old man sat in a gray cloud of cigarette smoke, watching Whelan through a squint.
“Come on, mister.” The woman led him out through a dining room filled with furniture beneath plastic covers and into the kitchen. The living room was dark and stale, the dining room looked as though it had been retired forever, but the kitchen was obviously where Mrs. Majewski lived, her refuge. It was a bright, cluttered room, spotlessly clean a
nd actually cool. Back and side windows were open wide and the pale yellow curtains flicked in the cross breeze.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“I’d love some,” he said.
She pulled out a chair and then bustled about and came back with a cup and saucer for him. Bone china, so old that the floral pattern on the saucer had faded and the border on the cup was gone in places. She poured him coffee from a tall, green plastic electric pot, refilled the cup sitting on the other side of the table, and took her seat. Perhaps it was the brighter light in her crowded little kitchen, but Mrs. Majewski no longer looked quite as pale and even looked a little younger than Whelan had taken her for. She sipped her coffee and gave him a shy smile. He wondered when the last time had been that this woman had had company.
Whelan sipped at his coffee. It wasn’t particularly strong, but it was fresh.
“Coffee okay?”
“Yeah, it’s good.”
“What do you want to know about that one, that Brister?”
“Well, for starters, was there anything unusual about him? Did you notice anything odd about his habits or his hours? Anything like that?”
She made a sour face. “I rented to him because we needed the money, but I didn’t like him, not a bit. He was a strange one.”
“In what way?”
“Always smelled of liquor, for one. Even in the morning. And I don’t mean like from the night before, I mean he smelled like he just had a drink with his breakfast.”
“From what I’ve heard about him, it’s just possible he did have a cocktail with his cornflakes.”
She smiled a little at that. For a moment she sat looking into her cup, frowning with concentration. Then she shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it, but he was…he had strange eyes, you could tell he was odd. He had…dead eyes.” She looked at Whelan to see if he was following and he nodded to encourage her. “He wouldn’t even look at you when you talked to him, just looked around like he wasn’t all there, like he was thinking about something else. Sometimes I’d say something to him and he wouldn’t even answer me, like I wasn’t speaking English to him.”
“Ever see him with anybody?”
A Body in Belmont Harbor Page 10