Ribs spoke up. “Come on, Joe-it’s getting late and Earl don’t like to be kept waiting.” This simple statement worked powerfully on Joe. He stopped swinging and yanked me out of the car, with Ribs pushing me from the side.
We went into one of the stately old houses that I always thought I’d like to own if I ever rescued an oiltanker billionaire from international kidnappers and got set up for life as my reward. It was dull red brick, with elegant wrought-iron railing up the steps and around the front windows. Originally built as a single-family home, it was now a three-flat apartment. A cheerful black-and-white patterned wallpaper covered the entry hall and stairwell. The bannister was carved wood, probably walnut, and beautifully polished. The three of us made an ungainly journey up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Ribs was having trouble moving his arms, and Joe seemed to be limping from his kidney kicks. I wasn’t feeling very well myself.
The second-floor apartment was opened by yet another gun-carrier. His clothes fit him better, but he didn’t really look like the class of person that belonged in this neighborhood. He had a shock of black hair that stood up around his head in a wiry bush. On his right cheek was deep red scar, cut roughly like a Z. It was so dark that it looked as though someone had painted him with lipstick.
“What kept you two so long? Earl’s getting angry,” he demanded, ushering us into a wide hallway. Plush brown carpet on the floor, a nice little Louis Quinze side table, and a few pictures on the walls. Charming.
“Earl warned us this goddamn Warshawski bitch was a wise-ass, but he didn’t say she was a goddamn karate expert.” That was Ribs. He pronounced my name “Worchotsi.” I looked down at my hands modestly.
“Is that Joe and Freddie?” a nasal tenor squeaked from inside. “What the hell took you guys so long?” Its owner appeared in the doorway. Short, pudgy, and bald, he was familiar to me from my early days in Chicago law enforcement.
“Earl Smeissen. How absolutely delightful. But you know, Earl, if you’d called me up and asked to see me, we could have gotten together with a lot less trouble.”
“Yeah, Warchoski, I just bet we would’ve,” he said heavily. Earl had carved himself a nice little niche on the North Side with classy prostitution setups for visiting conventioneers, and a little blackmail and extortion. He had a small piece of the drug business, and the rumor was that he would arrange a killing to oblige a friend if the price was right.
“Earl, this is quite a place you’ve got. Inflation must not be hurting business too much.”
He ignored me. “Where the hell’s your jacket, Joe? You been walking around Chicago showing your gun to every cop on the beat?”
Joe turned red again and started to mutter something, I intervened. “I’m afraid that’s my fault, Earl. Your friends here jumped me in my own hallway without introducing themselves or saying they had come from you. We had a bit of a fracas, and Freddie’s ribs got separated-but he pulled himself together nicely and knocked me out. When I came to, I was sick on Joe’s jacket. So don’t blame the poor fellow for ditching it.”
Earl turned outraged to Freddie, who shrank back down the hall. “You let a goddamn dame bust your ribs?” he yelled, his voice breaking to a squeak. “The money I pay you and you can’t do a simple little job like fetch a goddamn broad?”
One of the things I hate about my work is the cheap swearing indulged in by cheap crooks. I also hate the word broad. “Earl, could you reserve your criticisms of your staff until I’m not here? I have an engagement this evening-I’d appreciate it if you told me why you wanted to see me so badly you sent two hoods to get me, so I can get there on time.”
Earl gave Freddie a vicious look and sent him off to see a doctor. He motioned the rest of us into the living room, and noticed Joe limping. “You need a doctor, too? She beak your leg?” he asked sarcastically.
“Kidneys,” I replied modestly. “It all comes from knowing how.”
“Yeah, I know about you, Warchoski. I know what a wiseass you are, and I heard how you offed Joe Correl. If Freddie knocked you out, I’ll give him a medal. I want you to understand you can’t mess around with me.”
I sank down into a wide armchair. My head was throbbing and it hurt to focus on him. “I’m not messing around with you. Earl,” I said earnestly. “I’m not interested in prostitution or juice loans or-”
He hit me across the mouth. “Shut up.” His voice rose to a squeak and his eyes got smaller in his pudgy face. In a detached way I felt some blood dribbling down my chin-he must have caught me with his ring.
“Is this a general warning, then? Are you hauling in all the private eyes in Chicago and saying ‘Now here this-don’t mess around with Earl Smeissen!’?”
He swung at me again, but I blocked him with my left arm. He looked at his hand in surprise, as if he wondered what had happened to it.
“Don’t clown with me, Warchoski-I can call in plenty of people to wipe that smirk off your face.”
“I don’t think it would take very many,” I said, “but I still don’t have any idea what part of your turf I’m messing in.”
Earl signaled to the doorman, who came and held my shoulders against the chair. Joe was hovering in the background, a lascivious look on his face. My stomach turned slightly.
“Okay, Earl, I’m terrified,” I said.
He hit me again. I was going to look like absolute hell tomorrow, I thought. I hoped I wasn’t shaking; my stomach was knotted with nervousness. I took several deep diaphragm breaths to try to relieve the tension.
The last slap seemed to satisfy Earl. He sat down on a dark couch close to my chair.
“Warchoski,” he squeaked, “I called you down here to tell you to lay off the Thayer case.”
“You kill the boy, Earl?” I asked.
He was on his feet again. “I can mark you good, so good that no one will ever want to look at your face again,” he shouted. “Now just do what I say and keep your mitts outta that.”
I decided not to argue with him-I didn’t feel in any shape to take on both him and the doorman, who continued to hold my shoulders back. I wondered if his scar had turned redder with all the excitement but voted against asking him.
“Suppose you do scare me off? What about the police?” I objected. “Bobby Mallory’s hot on the trail, and whatever his faults, you can’t buy Bobby.”
“I’m not worried about Mallory,” Earl’s voice was back in its normal register, so I concluded the brainstorm was passing. “And I’m not buying you-I’m telling you.”
“Who got you involved, Earl? College kids aren’t part of your turf-unless young Thayer was cutting into your dope territory?”
“I thought I’d just told you not to pry into my affairs,” he said, getting up again. Earl was determined to pound me. Maybe it would be better to get it over with quickly and get out, rather than let him go on for hours. As he came at me, I pulled my foot back and kicked him squarely in the crotch. He howled in anguish and collapsed in a heap on the couch. “Get her, Tony, get her,” he squealed.
I didn’t have a chance against Tony, the doorman. He was trained in the art of working over loan defaulters without showing a mark. When he finished. Earl came hobbling over from the couch. “This is just a taste, Warchoski,” he hissed. “You lay off the Thayer case. Agreed?”
I looked at him without speaking. He really could kill me and get away with it-he’d done it to others. He had good connections with City Hall and probably in the police department, too. I shrugged and winced. He seemed to accept that as agreement. “Get her out, Tony.”
Tony dumped me unceremoniously outside the front door. I sat for a few minutes on the stairs, shivering in the heat and trying to pull myself together. I was violently ill over the railing, which cleared my headache a bit. A woman walking by with a man said, “Disgusting so early in the evening. The police should keep people like that out of this neighborhood.” I agreed. I got to my feet, rather wobbly, but I could walk. I felt my arms. They were sore, but no
thing was broken. I staggered over to the inner drive, parallel to Lake Shore Drive and only a block away, and hailed a taxi home. The first one pulled off after a look at me, but the second one took me. The driver clucked and fussed like a Jewish mother, wanting to know what I’d done to myself and offering to take me to a hospital or the police or both. I thanked him for his concern but assured him I was all right.
6
In the Cool of the Night
I’d dropped my purse by my door when Freddie and I were scuffling, and asked the cabdriver to come upstairs with me to get paid off. Living at the top of the building, I was pretty confident that my bag would still be there. It was, and my keys were still in the door.
The driver tried one last protest. “Thanks,” I said, “but I just need a hot bath and a drink and I’ll be all right.”
“Okay, lady.” He shrugged. “It’s your funeral.” He took his money, looked at me one last time, and went downstairs.
My apartment lacked the splendor of Earl’s. My little hallway had a small rug, not wall-to-wall carpeting, and an umbrella stand rather than a Louis Quinze table. But it also wasn’t filled with thugs.
I was surprised to find it was only seven. It had been only an hour and a half since I had come up the stairs the first time that evening. I felt as though I’d moved into a different time zone. I ran a bath for the second time that day and poured myself an inch of Scotch. I soaked in water as hot as I could bear it, lying in the dark with a wet towel wrapped around my head. Gradually my headache dissipated. I was very, very tired.
After thirty minutes of soaking and reheating the tub, I felt able to cope with some motion. Wrapping a large towel around me, I walked through the apartment, trying to keep my muscles from freezing on me. All I really wanted to do was sleep, but I knew if I did that now I wouldn’t be able to walk for a week. I did some exercises, gingerly, fortifying myself with Black Label. Suddenly I caught sight of a clock and remembered my date with Devereux. I was already late and wondered if he was still there.
With an effort I found the restaurant’s name in the phone book and dialed their number. The maître d’hotel was very cooperative and offered to look for Mr. Devereux in the bar. A few minutes passed, and I began to think he must have gone home when he came onto the line.
“Hello, Ralph.”
“This had better be good.”
“If I tried explaining it, it would take hours and you still wouldn’t believe me,” I answered. “Will you give me another half hour?”
He hesitated; I guessed he was looking for the pride to say no-good-looking guys aren’t used to being stood up. “Sure,” he said finally. “But if you’re not here by eight thirty, you can find your own way home.”
“Ralph,” I said, controlling my voice carefully, “this has been one absolute zero of a day. I’d like to have a pleasant evening, learn a little bit about insurance, and try to forget what’s gone before. Can we do that?”
He was embarrassed. “Sure, Vicki-I mean Vic. See you in the bar.”
We hung up and I looked through my wardrobe for something elegant enough for the Cartwheel, but loose and flowing, and found a string-colored Mexican dress that I’d forgotten about. It was two-piece, with a long full skirt and a woven, square-necked top that tied at the waist and bloused out below. The long sleeves covered my puffy arms and I didn’t have to wear pantyhose or a slip. Cork sandals completed the costume.
Surveying my face under the bathroom light made me want to reconsider going out in public, My lower lip was swollen where Earl’s pinky ring had sliced it, and a purple smudge was showing on my left jaw, extending veinous red lines like a cracked egg along my cheek to the eye.
I tried some makeup; my base wasn’t very heavy and didn’t conceal the worst of the purple but did cover the spidery red marks. Heavy shadow took the focus from an incipient black eye, and dark lipstick, applied more strongly than my usual style, made the swollen lip look pouty and sexy-or might if the lights were dim enough.
My legs were stiffening up, but my daily runs seemed to be paying off-I negotiated the stairs without more than minor tremors. A taxi was going by on Halsted; it dropped me in front of the Hanover House Hotel on Oak Street at 8:25.
This was my first visit to the Cartwheel. To me it typified the sterile place where bright, empty North Siders with more money than sense liked to eat. The bar, to the left of the entrance, was dark, with a piano amplified too loudly, playing songs that bring tears to the eyes of Yale graduates. The place was crowded, Friday night in Chicago. Ralph sat at the end of the bar with a drink. He looked up as I came in, smiled, sketched a wave, but didn’t get up. I concentrated on walking smoothly, and made it to where he sat. He looked at his watch. “You just made it.”
In more ways than one, I thought. “Oh, you’d never have left without finishing your drink.” There weren’t any empty stools. “How about proving you’re a more generous soul than I and letting me have that seat and a Scotch?”
He grinned and grabbed me, intending to pull me onto his lap. A spasm of pain shot through my ribs. “Oh, Jesus, Ralph! don’t!”
He let go of me at once, got up stiffly and quietly, and offered me the barstool. I stood, feeling awkward. I don’t like scenes, and I didn’t feel like using the energy to calm Ralph down. He’d seemed like a guy made for sunshine; maybe his divorce had made him insecure with women. I saw I’d have to tell him the truth and put up with his sympathy. And I didn’t want to reveal how badly Smeissen had shown me up that afternoon. It was no comfort that he would limp in pain for a day or two.
I dragged my attention back to Ralph. “Would you like me to take you home?” he was asking.
“Ralph, I’d like a chance to explain some things to you. I know it must look as though I don’t want to be here, showing up an hour late and all. Are you too upset for me to tell you about it?”
“Not at all,” he said politely.
“Well, could we go someplace and sit down? It’s a little confusing and hard to do standing up.”
“I’ll check on our table.” When he went off, I sank gratefully onto the barstool and ordered a Johnnie Walker Black. How many could I drink before they combined with my tired muscles and put me to sleep?
Ralph came back with the news that our table was a good ten-minute wait away. The ten stretched into twenty, while I sat with my uninjured cheek propped on my hand and he stood stiffly behind me. I sipped my Scotch. The bar was over-air-conditioned. Normally the heavy cotton of the dress would have kept me plenty warm, but now I started to shiver slightly.
“Cold?” Ralph asked.
“A little,” I admitted.
“I could put my arms around you,” he offered tentatively.
I looked up at him and smiled. “That would be very nice,” I said. “Just do it gently, please.”
He crossed his arms around my chest. I winced a little at first, but the warmth and the pressure felt good. I leaned back against him. He looked down at my face, and his eyes narrowed.
“Vic, what wrong with your face?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“No, really,” he said, bending closer, “you’ve gotten cut-and that looks like a bruise and swelling on your cheek.”
“Is it really bad?” I asked. “I thought the makeup covered it pretty well.”
“Well, they’re not going to put you on the cover of Vogue this week, but it’s not too awful. It’s just that as an old claims man I’ve seen lots of accident victims. And you look like one.”
“I feel like one too,” I agreed, “but really, this wasn’t-”
“Have you been to a doctor about this?” he interrupted.
“You sound just like the cabbie who took me home this afternoon. He wanted to rush me to Passavant-I practically expected him to come in with me and start making me chicken soup.”
“Was your car badly damaged?” he asked.
“My car is not damaged at all.” I was beginning to lose my temper
-irrationally, I knew-but the probing made me feel defensive.
“Not damaged,” he echoed, “then how-”
At that moment our table was announced in the bar. I got up and went over to the headwaiter, leaving Ralph to pay for drinks. The headwaiter led me off without waiting for Ralph, who caught up with us just as I was being seated. My spurt of temper had infected him; he said, “I hate waiters who haul off ladies without waiting for their escorts.” He was just loud enough for the maitre d’ to hear. “ I’m sorry, sir-I didn’t realize you were with madame,” he said with great dignity before moving off.
“Hey, Ralph, take it easy,” I said gently. “A little too much ego-jockeying is going on-my fault as much as yours. Let’s stop and get some facts and start over again.”
A waiter materialized. “Would you care for a drink before dinner?”
Ralph looked up in irritation. “Do you know how many hours We’ve spent in the bar waiting for this table? No, we don’t want a drink-at least, I don’t.” He turned to me. “Do you?”
“No, thanks,” I agreed. “Any more and I’ll fall asleep-which will probably ruin forever any chance I have of making you believe that I’m not trying to get out of an evening with you.”
Were we ready to order? the waiter persisted. Ralph told him roundly to go away for five minutes. My last remark had started to restore his native good humor, however. “Okay, V. I. Warshawski-convince me that you really aren’t trying to make this evening so awful that I’ll never ask you out again.”
“Ralph,” I said, watching him carefully, “do you know Earl Smeissen?”
“Who?” he asked uncomprehendingly. “Is this some kind of detective guessing game?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I answered. “Between yesterday afternoon and this afternoon I’ve talked to a whole lot of different people who either knew Peter Thayer or his girl friend-the gal who’s vanished. You and your boss, among others.
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