I squatted on the dusty floor under the lamp so that we could see each other’s faces more clearly. “The guy who came by, told you he was Mitch’s son—he about my height? Clean-shaven, short brown hair brushed straight back from his forehead?”
She eyed me warily. “Could be. But that could be a whole lot of guys.”
I agreed. It’s hard to think of something about a corporate manager’s appearance that makes him really stand out in a crowd. “Tell you what, Mrs. Polter. I’d be willing to bet a good sum, say a hundred bucks, that the person who said he was Mitch’s son is really Milt Chamfers, the plant manager over at Diamond Head. You know—the engine factory over at Thirty-first by the canal. Would you be willing to drive over with me in the morning and take a look at him? Prove me right or wrong?”
Her black button eyes gleamed greedily for a minute, but as she thought it over the glint died away. “Say you’re right. Not that I’m believing you, but just say you are. Why’d he do it?”
I took a deep breath and picked my words carefully. “You didn’t know Mitch Kruger, Mrs. Polter, but I’m sure you’ve met lots of guys like him over the years. Always looking for an easy buck, never willing to work to get ahead.”
“Yeah, I’ve met me a few like that,” she said grudgingly.
“He thought he was on to something at Diamond Head. Don’t ask me what, because I don’t know. All I can say is, he hung out over there, hinted to folks that he was on to a scam, and died. Chamfers probably thought Mitch really had some proof about something illegal. So as soon as his body was discovered, Chamfers came over here pretending to be Mitch’s son so he could go through his papers.”
It didn’t seem likely that Mitch would have come on any written proof of a theft ring involving the copper. Although who knows—maybe he went pawing through dumpsters looking for documents that might give him blackmail material. It sounded like more work than I could picture him doing, but I’d only met the guy a few times.
“So say I did phone him Friday.” Mrs. Polter interrupted my thoughts. “Not that I did—just supposing. What of it?”
“I’ve been trying to talk to the boy about Mitch Kruger for two weeks and he won’t see me. I went over to the plant Friday night, hoping to find some way of making him talk to me. He had seven people lying in wait for me. We fought, but they were too much for me, and as I said, when they tried to run me over I dove into the canal.”
I didn’t think I had to tell Mrs. Polter about the copper spools. After all, if she started blackmailing Chamfers about the theft ring, hers might be the next body to go floating down to Stickney.
“Seven guys against you, huh? You have your gun with you?”
I smiled to myself. She really did want the Technicolor version. I gave her a graphic description, including the sneeze that led to my uncovering. And including the comments about “the boss” having warned them that I was coming around. I glossed over the part about the trucks and the copper, just let her believe they started the crane when I jumped out on it.
She sighed noisily. “You really climb down that crane scaffolding? Wish there’d been someone there with a camera. ’Course, I was young once. But I don’t think I ever could have jumped off a ledge onto a crane. It’s my head—I’m scared of heights.”
She brooded in silence for a few minutes. “He sure had me fooled, that guy, claiming to be Mitch Kruger’s son. I should’ve known when he offered me so much money.…” She eyed me uncertainly, but relaxed when I didn’t shriek at her.
“It’s my one weakness,” she said with dignity. “We were too poor growing up. Used to carry lard sandwiches to school. The good days were when we had two slices of bread to put around it. But I’m good at sizing up men and I should’ve known he was too slick, that he had my number.”
She pondered some more, then abruptly began heaving herself from the chair. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
I got to my feet. My knees ached from kneeling on the linoleum so long. While she held a whispered colloquy in the hall with Sam, I sat on her footstool and did quad raises. I’d managed fifty with each leg before she came back.
“I took these out of Mitch’s room when his son or whoever he is came by. You might as well know the worst about me. I could see he was itching to get his fingers on his old man’s papers, and I thought maybe they were worth something. But I’ve been through them a million times and I don’t for the life of me see what was so important about them that he wanted to lug them all over the South Side with him. You can have ’em.” She thrust a packet wrapped in newspaper into my hands.
37
A Chicken for Mr. Contreras
It was close to eight-thirty when I turned off the Kennedy at Belmont. Mrs. Polter had wanted to share a beer or two before I left, to show there were no hard feelings over my dip in the canal. Although I’m not much of a beer-drinker I thought it politic to keep up the better feeling she had for me.
Sam had brought a six-pack and two glasses and hovered anxiously in the doorway to make sure I wasn’t going to attack her. By the time I extricated myself from her highly colored flood of reminiscence she was slapping me on the thigh and telling me I wasn’t nearly as stuck-up as I’d seemed at first.
I stopped at a pay phone near Ashland to call Mr. Contreras, partly to let him know I was still alive even though late. I also wanted some assurance that the building wasn’t under siege. He was voluble with relief at hearing from me; I cut him short with a promise to tell him all about it over dinner.
I figured there wasn’t any point trying to hide the Impala. By now anyone who wanted to know where I was must have a pretty clear fix on every move I was making. I certainly wasn’t convinced that Mrs. Polter wouldn’t call Milt Chamfers the minute I left her house. I sat across from my apartment for several minutes, scanning the street for anyone who looked out of place.
Finally I slid across the seat and out the passenger door, my gun in my hand. As I got to the front door a squad car cruised slowly by, its spot ostentatiously playing on the entrance. I put down my suitcase and waved with my left hand, hoping the shadows concealed the Smith & Wesson. Sergeant Rawlings on the case. I didn’t know if I liked the little flicker of warmth the idea gave me: it’s a mistake to get too dependent on someone else for your own well-being.
Mr. Contreras surged out to meet me in the lobby. He insisted on taking the suitcase from me and carrying it upstairs. I offered him a choice between wine and whisky, but he’d brought a bottle of his own grappa. He settled down at the kitchen table with a glass while I changed into dry shoes and a clean pair of jeans.
I hadn’t looked at Mrs. Polter’s newsprint package—just stuck it into the band of my sweatpants when she handed it to me. I didn’t want to seem too eager in front of her. Besides, I was afraid to unwrap it—afraid that the collection of papers would mean as little to me as to her. I’d put the bundle on my dresser while I changed, but I kept eyeing it. When I went back to the kitchen I took a deep breath and carried it with me.
I dumped it casually in front of Mr. Contreras. “These are Mitch’s private papers. Mrs. Polter had filched them from his room after he died, but she decided to turn them over to me. Want to see if there’s anything hot in them while I start dinner?”
I bustled around with a skillet and olive oil, chopping mushrooms and olives as if the little bundle held no interest for me. Behind me I could hear the newspaper rattle as Mr. Contreras peeled it off, and then his laborious picking apart of the contents. I dusted the chicken with flour and dropped it in the pan. The sound of frying drowned the noise of the paper.
Finally, after flaming some brandy over the chicken and covering the pan, washing my hands with the deliberation of a surgeon, and pouring a large whisky to cover the thin beer that kept making me burp, I sat down next to Mr. Contreras.
He looked at me doubtfully. “I sure hope this isn’t what you almost got yourself killed for, doll. It looks like a whole bunch of nothing. ’Course, it meant somet
hing to Mitch, and some of it’s got sentimental value, his union card and stuff, but the rest … It’s not much, and it don’t mean sh—Well, anyway, see for yourself.”
I felt a sinking in my diaphragm. I’d been expecting too much. I picked up the stack of documents, grimy from the intense handling they’d had lately, and went through them one at a time.
Mitch’s union card. His social security card. A form to send the feds showing his change of address, so he could continue to collect social security. Another for the local. The Sun-Times story on Diamond Head’s change of ownership, so worn it was barely legible. A newspaper photo of a white-haired man, smiling widely enough to show his back molars, shaking hands with a well-fed man of perhaps fifty. The inscription to this had been thumbed over to the point it was also illegible. Picking it up by one of its top corners, I showed it to Mr. Contreras.
“Any idea who either of these gents is?”
“Oh, the guy on the left is the old president of our local, Eddie Mohr.”
“Eddie Mohr?” A prickle ran up the back of my neck. “The man whose car was used to attack Lotty?”
“Yeah … What’re you getting at, doll?” He stirred uneasily in his chair.
“Why did Mitch carry his picture around with his most cherished possessions?”
Mr. Contreras shrugged. “Probably he wasn’t used to seeing people he knew in the paper. Sentimentality, you know.”
“Mitch didn’t strike me as sentimental. He lost track of his son and his wife. He didn’t have one scrap of paper that showed he cared about a soul anywhere on earth. And here, along with the article about Jason Felitti buying Diamond Head, is a photo of Diamond Head’s old local president. But if Mohr was photographed for a newspaper, he couldn’t possibly be doing something he didn’t want known,” I added, more to myself than to the old man.
“That’s just it, doll. You want it to mean something. Heck, I do too. We’ve been scratching around for the better part of two weeks without finding anything—I know how bad you want this to be important.”
I swallowed my whisky and pushed myself away from the table. “Let’s have dinner. Then I’m going to take this down to my office. If I make a copy, the text may show up more clearly: it does sometimes.”
He patted me awkwardly on the shoulder, trying to show sympathy for my desire to chase after wild geese. He helped me serve up the chicken and carry it to the dining room. I brought Mitch’s little stash to the table and laid the papers out in a circle between Mr. Contreras and me.
“He needed his social security card. I guess he needed his union card, too, for his pension. Or maybe it was the one thing he’d achieved in life that he felt he could cling to. Why keep track of who owned Diamond Head?”
I wasn’t expecting an answer, but Mr. Contreras popped up with one unexpectedly. “When did that Felitti fellow buy the company? A year ago? Two years? By then Mitch knew he couldn’t make ends meet on his pension. Maybe he thought he could go to him for work.”
I nodded to myself. That made sense. “And Eddie Mohr? He could help Mitch too?”
“Doubt it.” Mr. Contreras wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Wonderful chicken, doll. You put olives in it? Never would have occurred to me. No, being as how Eddie’s retired, he wouldn’t have any input into who the firm hired. Of course, he could make his recommendations—they’d carry more weight than just someone walking in cold off the street—but him and Mitch wasn’t especially friendly. I can’t see him going out on a limb for a fellow who didn’t have too much going for him to begin with.”
“Who’s that shaking hands with Eddie?”
Mr. Contreras took his glasses out of his shirt pocket and scrutinized the picture again. “Search me. Doesn’t look like anyone I ever saw before.… I can see you’re champing at the bit to get out of here, go see what you can make of this sucker. We can wait to have coffee when we get back.”
I grinned at him. “Didn’t know I was so transparent. You coming?”
“Oh, sure. You going on wild-goose chases, I want to see how they come out. Even if I can’t jump off a ledge onto a moving crane anymore. Bet I could, though,” he muttered under his breath as I carefully did up all three locks. “Bet I’ve got more left in me than you imagine.”
I decided our friendship would last longer if I pretended I hadn’t heard.
We had a quick run downtown. Now that the office workers were gone for the day I found a place big enough for the Impala only a few doors from the Pulteney.
I wondered if the people who’d ransacked my place last night had gone tearing through my office as well, but the door was intact. Amateurs. Despite what Rawlings said, these were people who didn’t know me. If they were really looking for something they thought only I had, they would have tried my office too.
My desktop Xerox sprang smartly into life. By enlarging the photo and increasing its contrast I was able in a few minutes to get enough of the inscription back to see what Eddie Mohr had been up to. The South Side retiree, as the paper labeled him, was accepting an award from a blurry name that I thought was probably Hector Beauregard. Hector, the blurry secretary of Chicago Settlement, was thrilled at the contribution Eddie had made to his favorite charity.
Mr. Contreras, following along with a horny finger as I deciphered, whistled under his breath. “I never figured Eddie for the charity type. Knights of Columbus, maybe, but not some downtown outfit, which I guess Chicago Settlement is.”
I sat on the end of my desk, hard. “It’s not just a downtown charity, it’s a pet of my good old ex-husband, Dick Yarborough. Max Loewenthal’s son, Michael, played at a benefit for them two weeks ago and I saw Dick there, leading the charge at a feeding frenzy. This is not just curious, it’s downright creepy. I think I need to talk to Mr. Mohr. Can you bring me along? Make the introductions?”
Mr. Contreras removed his glasses again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why do you want to talk to him? You don’t think he’s doing something, well, underhanded with this Chicago Settlement outfit, do you? They wouldn’t put it in the papers if there was something fishy to it.”
“I don’t know what I think. That’s why I want to talk to him. It’s just too—too much of a coincidence. Mitch carries his picture around along with a story about Diamond Head. My old husband Dick is really pimping Chicago Settlement. Meanwhile Dick’s father-in-law has a brother who owns Diamond Head. Eddie and Dick and Jason Felitti all know each other. I’ve got to find out why Mitch thought that was valuable.”
“I don’t like it, doll.”
“I don’t like it either.” I spread my hands in appeal. “But it’s all I’ve got, so it’s what I have to use.”
“It makes me feel, I don’t know, like a sneak. A scab.”
My mouth twisted in unhappiness. “Detective work is like that; it isn’t usually glamor and excitement. It’s often drudgery, and sometimes it feels like betrayal. I won’t ask you to come along if it really makes you feel like a scab. But I’m going to have to talk to Eddie Mohr, whether you’re there or not.”
“Oh, I’ll come if you’re set on it,” he said slowly. “I can see I kind of don’t have a choice.”
38
An Old Husband Surfaces
Rawlings called shortly after I got home. “Just wanted to hear your sweet voice, Ms. W. Make sure you hadn’t fallen under a semi or something. I tried reaching you yesterday, but didn’t put out an APB—figured if you were dead your corpse would keep another day.”
“I went out of town,” I said, annoyed to find myself offering an explanation. “It’s been almost three days since anyone tried to kill me. Life is getting dull. I kind of like the squad cars, though. I never thought the sight of a blue-and-white would cheer me so much.”
“I figure a classy dame like you expects presents, Ms. W., and since I can’t afford diamonds I gotta offer you what I have. How about dinner tomorrow?”
I laughed a little. “How about Wednesday? I’m going to be working late tomorrow.�
��
He was busy Wednesday. We settled on Friday, at Costa del Sol, a Mexican place on Belmont just west of the yuppie fringe. “If your work tomorrow involves taking on armed punks and you’re not telling me about it, I’m going to be just a little peeved,” he added.
I felt an unexpected spurt of anger, but tried to speak temperately. “I appreciate the squad cars and the concern, Sergeant, but I’m not turning my life over to you. If that’s the exchange, I’d rather take my chances on the street.” Temperateness and I apparently don’t mix too well.
“Is that how it looks to you, Vic?” He sounded surprised. “I’m a cop. And however much I like you, I don’t want civilians in the line of fire—it makes police work ten times harder. I also get cold chills when I think about someone climbing a ladder to your window and breaking in as cool as ice.”
“It gives me cold chills, too, but I’m taking care of the situation. Anyway, I’m a civilian—I don’t like cops telling me how to do my job. Besides, for a week you guys wouldn’t believe there was a line of fire out there. Now I’ve proved it to you, you want me to pack up and go home. Maybe cops and PI’s shouldn’t get so friendly together.” I regretted the last sentence as soon as it left my mouth.
“Unh. Low blow, Ms. W. Low blow. I don’t see that our work has to be in conflict, but maybe you do.”
“Conrad, I know there are good cops; my dad was one. But cops are like any other group of people—when they get together they act clannish. They like to show their collective muscle to people outside their clique. And society gives you guys a lot of power to bulk up your muscle. Sometimes I think my whole job consists of standing outside different cliques—of cops or businessmen or whoever—with a yellow flag to remind you that your outlook isn’t the only one.”
He was quiet a minute. “You still want to have dinner with me Friday?”
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