The girl crushed her cigarette and strode in the mayor’s direction. Just as she came within speaking distance, Pennyroyal sidelined Moore and said something meant for the mayor’s ears only. The girl veered away and disappeared into the terminal.
The hatch of the DC-7 opened. A parade of passengers blinded by sunlight descended the gangplank. Brown-suited businessmen and bespectacled ladies passed in review. Stewardesses congregated near the portal, giggling behind cupped hands.
I was beginning to worry that my hick singer hadn’t made his flight, but like an epiphany, a striking male specimen appeared in the doorway. He stood out in loose-fitting trousers, a beige sports coat, shoulder pads up to his earlobes, and a starched white shirt with the collar turned out. His nose was strong, straight, and flared at the nostrils. A permanent snarl made for kissable lips. Wicked sideburns went with the cruel expression. Dirty blond hair slopped over his forehead. Once he smiled and revealed a row of perfect white teeth, my heart soared. “My, oh my. I have a gut feeling that’s my hayseed.” He traveled light, carrying a guitar case and a BOAC flight bag. Accustomed to late-night gigs, he blinked into the sun.
“The yokel’s name?” Starr asked.
Three buddies wearing pegged jeans, white T-shirts, and leather jackets accompanied him. One of them carried a guitar case, and another lugged a bass fiddle case.
“Jazz band?”
“You fracture me, Starr.”
Tom Stacy elbowed his way between Starr and me. “Hard work. Remember that, Grenadine. Leads, tips, and sources, not a complicated formula for a top-notch investigative reporter. The Byrnes story? Mine. Nobody else’s. Remember that, too.” He skated thumbs beneath the lapels of his sports coat and beamed. Out of the blue, he doubled over, wheezing for breath.
“Say again, Stacy. Which story? Remember what?” Leaving groans behind, I stepped onto the tarmac. Starr nipped at my heels. The closer I neared the dreamboat, the more he lived up to the promise. He was raw meat, a troglodyte straight out of the cave, a Greek god disguised as mortal man. If I were a Southern lady raised on mint juleps and hot summer nights, an attack of the vapors and an elegant swoon would have been in order. But I was a career woman with a reputation to protect and a story to get out. Thrusting forth a hand, I introduced myself. “Iris Grenadine, Daily Standard.”
“Elvis Presley, ma’am.” Instead of shaking, he locked his bedroom eyes onto mine and lifted my hand to his puckering mouth. His face was simon-pure, his manners impeccable, and his mouth sweet country molasses and eminently kissable. Still bent over my hand, he teased me with an irrepressible smile. Sweat slathered the base of his throat and trickled towards a hairless chest. Opening his fine fingers, he released me from their grip. The unexpected slackness prompted my knees to buckle. He caught me on the way down. As a natural consequence of Newton’s Laws of Gravity, my face angled up for a kiss. He suffered a sigh of regret, set me back on my feet, and motioned his companions forward. “Meet the boys, ma’am. This is my bassist, Bill. Scotty here plays guitar. And my drummer, D.J.”
They were grinning at my expense, but ridicule hardly ever fazes me, not when I’m in the presence of a god. Reinstating a professional attitude, I tugged at my suit jacket and cleared my throat. “If you’ll follow me ... boys.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Monica standing off to the side, arms crossed and eagle eyes watching my every move. She was drooling. Covering parades and grand openings, I decided, had its upside.
We sashayed past Starr. Jealousy stuck to his face like a cellophane wrapper. He stared at us until we escaped into the coolness of the terminal. The boys prattled among themselves and urged their leader with entreaties.
Elvis stuttered and hesitated but finally came out with it. “We were hoping, ma’am, if you could give us a few pointers.” His speaking voice was as mellow as a bass fiddle. If his singing voice measured up, he just might have a career ahead of him. And if his self-effacing manner and raw sexiness counted for anything, he’d be the next Frank Sinatra.
“Such as?” I asked.
“We hear tell Chicago’s a hip town. Places to go, people to see, music to hear.” His brow pinched with discomfort. He wanted to be more direct, but being a Southern gentleman, said no more. He didn’t have to. His eyes said it all.
“Fast girls and slow nights?”
“No offense, ma’am, but we’re just country boys looking to have a good time in the big city.”
“Easy change and quick fixes?”
“You do have a way with words.” His own words fair dripped with corn pone and maple syrup.
Chicago may be the only completely corrupt American city, but it knows how to swing. In its heyday, it flaunted a string of bright lights from Howard Street to 138th and State. And though sexual perversion and other edifying delights could be found on every other street corner, the fact was kept quiet from outsiders lest our reputation grow any more sullied than it already was.
“We were hoping, ma’am, you could recommend a few juke joints.”
From the speakeasy days until the modern era, Chicago has been celebrated for one commodity: music. Jazz and blues were the city’s ticket to heaven. Canaries, lip-splitters, ivory ticklers, and string whangers warmed us on cold winter nights, chilled us on hot summer days, and filled our hungry bellies with infinite possibilities.
“Then you’ll want to ease on over to Maxwell Street.”
“Maxwell Street?”
“You’re in Chicago, honey. In Chicago, Maxwell Street is the only street on the map.”
“Iris Grenadine,” Elvis said, sliding my name over his tongue like marzipan. “Where did you get a name like Iris Grenadine?”
“Family tradition.” I wrote down a quick list of the swingiest blues clubs, the toniest restaurants, and the most trustworthy sources for reefer. I also added a phone number where he could leave me a message. I tore the sheet from my notebook, folded it into fourths, and tucked it into the V of his shirt. “From here on out, you’re on your own, honey, but if I were you,” I said, lowering my voice, “I’d head on over to the Charleston Club. Sometimes they book special guest stars, headliners trying out new acts but without advance publicity.”
Starr sideswiped me with a jostling elbow, throwing me headlong against Elvis, who caught me in his arms and set me aright. Without missing a beat, Starr strolled off, fedora raked over a calculating eye and chuckling under his breath. Monica trailed in his wake, cackling.
When we stepped outside, I hailed a taxi, and slipped the cabbie a ten-dollar bill. “When you get to the hotel,” I told Elvis, “ask for Damian Kane. He’ll set you up in a suite. On the house.”
After they piled into the taxicab, Elvis cranked down the window. “Just curious, ma’am. How’d you pick us out of the crowd?”
“You’re pulling my leg, right?”
The taxi drove off, leaving behind a wind tunnel and an empty heart. Some women bury their sorrows in a gin bottle. Others take a bubble bath. Still others soothe themselves in the night as best they can. None of these distractions works for me. Not counting the tears of self-pity and regret, a glass of wine, a midnight movie, or a walk on the beach is the best I can manage. And work. Work takes the place of meaningful relationships. Work keeps me from thinking, regretting, worrying. Work is the aphrodisiac for the troubled mind.
I folded a stick of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum into my mouth. Celebrants began emptying out of the terminal, talkative and in high spirits. In no time at all, the road became choked with traffic. Members of the high school band filed onto buses, instruments in tow. Reporters poured onto the street, barking farewells and rushing off to make deadlines.
Kirk roamed outside and stomped on a cigar butt. He crossed to the other side of the roadway, where a forest-green Ford Woody with Wisconsin plates was parked in a barricaded area reserved for dignitaries. After giving the valet a two-bit tip, he tucked himself behind the steering wheel, lit up a fresh cigar, and pulled away.
St
arr exited next and made a beeline for his ragtop. When he slid behind the wheel and reached for the door handle, he saw me standing on the pavement with feet braced apart and hands hitched on hips. A smirk of gamesmanship leapt to his grinning lips. He acknowledged me with a tap to the rim of his fedora, slammed the door shut, and roared away, tires squealing and rear bumper fishtailing.
Monica emerged, tottering on high-heeled shoes, squinting into the noonday sun, and flushing pink as a carnation. I deduced that she had just engaged in a little afternoon delight against a whitewashed wall in an abandoned walkway. She answered my glare with a loathsome look and strutted toward the parking lot.
Surrounded by hangers-on, the mayor exited the terminal. I saw my chance to grab a quote or two, but before I could get close enough, Pennyroyal grabbed me around the waist and hustled around to the shady side of the building, where he backed me against the wall and delivered a rude kiss. Within seconds, my squeals and squawks turned into satisfied groans and heavy breathing. He had me exactly where he wanted me, submissive and loving it. Damn the man.
He lifted his lips away but left his body pressed against mine. From the corner of my eye, I saw the mayor’s limo cruise away. Pennyroyal stroked a finger along my jaw. “Forget it, Grenadine. You’ll have to wait on line like the rest of your kind.”
“By ‘rest of your kind,’ you mean old family friends?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, remembering. “You went to school with the mayor’s daughter.”
“It’s not what you know, Pennyroyal. It’s who you know.”
He tipped his hat and strolled toward a ’54 Pontiac Star Chief. An outstanding automobile with a coral-red paint job, white hardtop, and white interior, it was loaded with all the options including a Straight 8 flathead engine, wire wheels, four-speed automatic transmission, spare tire holder hanging off the rear deck, and chrome trim. As homicide detectives went, he was rolling in more dough than Betty Crocker. He lit up a Lucky Strike before taking off. He hadn’t looked back to see my one-fingered salute, but he must’ve seen it in the rearview mirror because I heard a loud honk of amusement.
When he was gone, I sashayed across the street and climbed into the Bel Air, the classiest chassis for miles around. The coupé had been purchased from a Chevy dealership on Western Avenue, a gift from Daddy on graduation day. The top-of-the-line model was loaded with a Blue-Flame 115 horsepower valve-in-head engine, Powerglide automatic transmission, power steering, and all the options known to woman. Other girls my age doted on their spoiled brats. I doted on my Bel Air.
I switched on the radio. Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White filled the airwaves with its wailing horns and mambo rhythm. I swept into traffic just as the fake brunette hurried out from the terminal and waved in my direction. She could have been flagging down any vehicle, but her eyes connected with mine. Hemmed in by traffic front and rear, I had no choice but to keep going. By the time I circled around, the terminal was deserted and the girl was gone.
Chapter 9
THE SUN WAS setting as I cruised down a busy north side street. Diesel-powered CTA buses lumbered along assigned routes, picking up and dropping off passengers at every corner. The elevated train station disgorged commuters coming home from a long day at the office.
I turned onto a side street. Idle men congregated on sidewalks or lounged on front porches, drinking beer and guffawing at off-color jokes. Seeking relief from the heat, grandmothers sat on their front stoops and made small talk with neighbors. School-age girls played hopscotch and jump rope, their voices harmonizing to childish rhymes. Boys formed up teams and played street ball, designating home plate as an oil patch and first base as the family car. For mothers, there was always dinner to put on the table and clean up afterwards, but they left the front windows open to keep an eye on their children. It felt safe in this neighborhood, where nobody locked doors and everybody looked out for everybody else.
I drove past a gray two-story Cape Cod with two dormers, roof overhang, wide porch, grey roof, black shutters, and red front door. An unobtrusive sign filled one of the porch windows:
LILITH
Psychic ~ Medium ~ Palm Reader
Walk-ins welcome
To accommodate early-morning workers, the proprietress opened at seven in the morning. At eleven, she flipped the sign around, locked up for a three-hour break, fit in a light lunch, and ran errands that usually took her to the butcher, the delicatessen, the bakery, and the corner grocery store. She often visited a special friend who operated a shoe-repair shop, their relationship strictly platonic according to Lilith. I knew better. It was her habit to make house calls to the sick and elderly before reopening her business at two in the afternoon and staying open until six in the evening.
I parked around the corner, threaded my way down a narrow alley, and entered the property through a waist-high gate secured by a rusty latch. The chain-link fence enclosing the back yard was obscured on one side by hedges of four o’clocks and on the other by rosebushes lovingly cultivated. The number of blades of grass beneath the fifty-year-old Dutch elm could be counted on two hands.
I climbed the wooden staircase to a gray-painted landing. Just as I was about to let myself inside, the woman of the house threw open the door. Of average height, her slim build made her appear taller. Wavy brown hair was parted on the side. Her eyebrows had been plucked into symmetry. High cheekbones imparted a glamorous air. The wide mouth didn’t need lipstick. A few lines surrounded her mouth, several more fanned out from the outer corners of her eyes, and two worry lines marked the bridge of her nose. Her strong nose was downturned at the tip. Her chin was small but firm. Her graceful neck descended into the V-neckline of a tan-and-white striped blouse, sleeves rolled to elbows and front tails knotted over white pedal-pusher shorts. Most people would guess she was ten years younger than her true age, somewhere shy of fifty.
“Your sisters can’t make it,” my mother said to me.
“Thank God. I wasn’t up to listening to their whiny brats.”
After reprimanding me with an unhappy look, she pushed open the screen door and delivered a gentle cheek-kiss. Her cats—Isis and Osiris—mewed, hissed, and scampered upstairs. I abhorred cats, always have, always will, and they knew it.
Once inside, I was greeted with the heady scents of my adolescence: a vanilla-lemony concoction that also included candle wax and exotic incenses. The day was losing light. It was close to eight in the evening, when my mother’s energy level only increased and mine invariably flagged. I made myself comfortable at her kitchen table while she put dinner together by the light of countless candles.
Having kicked off my shoes, I nursed a goblet of wine and lost myself in thought.
When I was almost five, Mommy left Daddy and ran away with an Argentinean polo player. I blamed myself. If only I had eaten my peas, hadn’t sassed her, and didn’t pick fights with my sisters, she might have stayed. Eventually, the blame pointed toward Daddy for being emotionally distant and preoccupied with work, and then at my mother for being weak and easily misled. Nobody was at fault. It was just the way things were after one turn in the road led to another and then to another, and disenchantment and bitter feelings couldn’t be dismissed. Since I was at an impressionable age when she left and our separation stretched into years interspersed with occasional visits, the event left a scar on my psyche.
At least ten minutes had gone by since my arrival, but Lilith reacted to my snarky comment as if no time at all had passed. “Your sisters’ brats may be whiny, but I wish you were more like Rose and Violet.”
“Boring?” I asked.
“Normal.”
After she left the polo player and came back home, it wasn’t to our house. It was a long time before we reestablished a mother-daughter relationship, and as much as I wanted us to be a family again, it would never happen. The wheel had been broken. Each of us had to divide the load and carry it on our backs, limping along the way. To compensate for those missing years, I’ve had to nurs
e honeyed memories back to life, when my mother and father playacted at being a loving husband and wife, and my sisters and I pretended our family was just like every other family on the block.
“Normal? Really? Hell, they’re so blissfully happy in abject poverty, they don’t know how really miserable they are.”
“They’re everything you’re not. Wives, mothers, and dipsomaniacs. Instead of a ...” She scratched quotation marks into the air. “... career woman. Running around town like a lunatic. Sneaking in and out of dark shadows. You could have gotten killed on that last story.”
I had no idea what she was talking about.
“The one with the clown.”
“He didn’t mean to run me down with his tricycle.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Nobody’s ever gotten killed by a tricycle.”
“Except when the tricycle pushes the person under a parade float.”
“It was an accident. I only had a sprained ankle. The driver was sweet. The clown apologized.”
“It could’ve been worse. The float could’ve been a city bus, the one your cousin drives. Imagine the embarrassment. Your father’s family wouldn’t have stopped laughing until 1960.” She pointed a finger at me. “Never trust a clown. They’re all wacky.”
“They’re not wacky,” I said. “They make children laugh.”
She flashed her ‘mother eye’, the same one she used when I was three. “Grown men don’t wear polka dots and big shoes unless they’re screwy.” She set the table with plates, spoons, knives, forks, and chopsticks. I topped off my glass while she scooped out the contents of several takeout boxes. “What story are you working on now? No, don’t tell me. I have a bad feeling about this one. Take my advice and pack a gun.”
The Green-Eyed Dick Page 7