Maxwell Street Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  I watched the limo disappear into traffic and wondered how long an old guy in Dad’s physical shape could live. My cell phone rang.

  “You’re in luck,” Kalijero said. “Piantowski’s phone had GPS technology. Her call to someone named Linda Conway connected before she left Tate’s street.”

  30

  According to cell phone records, the majority of Anna Piantowski’s calls originated from a location on Pulaski Avenue in the Polish Village neighborhood. Driving down the street, you were challenged to find a sign that didn’t include “Polski,” “Waclawowo,” or “Jackowo.” Piantowski lived above the Zapraszamy Bakery. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  Behind the counter, a girl about sixteen wore a bright red dress under an embroidered white vest covered in sequins and pearls. Partially covering her golden blond hair was a matching headscarf. She smiled sweetly, and I smiled back. I was thinking she might not speak English when she said, “We got free samples.”

  She offered me a large platter of bite-sized pastries full of fruit. I asked if they sold anything similar to a burrito. She thought for a moment, then pointed to a list of ingredients on a chalkboard and said, “We can make a giant pierogi and put anything you want in it.”

  “Perfect,” I said, having no idea what a pierogi was, but from the list picked potatoes, onions, and cabbage. She disappeared into the back and then returned to take care of someone else. When the customer left, I asked her if she knew the lady who lived upstairs.

  “Nope. I don’t know nobody up there.”

  “Who owns this place?”

  “I dunno.” She smiled again.

  A few minutes later, a man emerged from the back holding a large fan-shaped dumpling and handed it to the girl. I paid for my pierogi and walked around to the alley where the stairway to Piantowski’s apartment was located. I loitered in the area while eating and keeping an eye out for a blue Subaru. It was about two o’clock when I finished the potato pie. By two-fifteen, my eyelids weighed ten pounds each. I found a small park in an adjacent neighborhood of brick two-flats and spent a drowsy hour waiting for my blood sugar to stabilize before walking back to the bakery and climbing the steps to Piantowski’s apartment. There was no answer to my repeated knocking, so I sat on the landing and waited. One hour later she appeared in the alley holding a bag of groceries. Apparently preoccupied, she kept her gaze downward as she climbed the steps and practically stepped on me.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

  “Really?” She stepped over me to open the door. “You try to come in and I’ll knock your skinny ass down the stairs.”

  I needed a different approach. “Look, I’m sorry for being abrupt. I just want to talk a little more. I’ll give you twenty bucks, and I’ll stay right here and talk through the door.” I took out a twenty from my pocket and held it up.

  Anna Piantowski looked at the money. “Wait here.” She returned empty-handed, grabbed the twenty from my hand, and jammed it in her pocket. Then she took out a cigarette and leaned against the door. “Okay, what do you want?”

  She was about to flick her lighter when I said, “You called Linda Conway after driving off this morning.”

  Her arms dropped. “You’re a cop! You’re supposed to tell me that!”

  “I’m working with a cop trying to find out who killed Charles Snook, a man who knew Linda Conway and Jerry Tate. Along the way I’ve come across drugs, money laundering, and dead people. That combination gives cops lots of snooping power.”

  Anna Piantowski lit her cigarette then took a deep drag. “You said the druggie that called the house is dead. Finding his killer will help you?”

  “I know who killed the junkie. Why was Tate’s home phone number on his cell phone?”

  “No idea. Tate’s not into drugs, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “How do you know Linda Conway?”

  “She’s a client.”

  “Why did you call her as soon as you drove off this morning?”

  “I had a question.”

  “About one of Tate’s errands?”

  “I said she’s also a client. I shop for both at the same time. I’d forgotten if she liked onions in her chili.”

  “You forgot if she liked onions. It’s so simple and logical. But I just can’t shake the feeling you and Conway aren’t telling me everything. Conway told you I might be stopping by, didn’t she?”

  “So what if she did, and who cares anyway? I don’t know anything. I run errands for rich people. That’s it.”

  “What’s Tate blackmailing her with?”

  Piantowski took another long drag, exhaled, and flicked the butt. I watched it sail over the railing and land in the alley. “You’re crazy,” she said.

  “C’mon, Anna, I gave you twenty bucks, give me something. These people don’t give a damn about you, and all I care about is finding Snook’s killer.”

  “How the hell would you know who cares about me? You don’t know anything about these people. They happen to be my friends, and you’re asking me to talk behind their backs.”

  “Maybe you can tell your friends that as long as they’re hiding information, people like me are going to keep asking questions.”

  Anna Piantowski giggled and shook her head. She saw me as a ten-year-old playing Dick Tracy. Without another word, she opened the door to her apartment and closed it behind her.

  * * *

  I got lucky and found a parking place in front of my apartment. Good thing, too, because I was dead tired. So tired I didn’t think much of hearing the ball game on my television from halfway up the stairs. When I opened the door, I saw Kalijero sitting on the recliner with his feet on the coffee table. On his lap sat a bowl of tortilla chip crumbs. “What the fuck, Jimmy, you got a warrant?” I asked.

  “You know how friggin’ easy it was to break in? At least put on a dead bolt.”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I did a little more snooping into Piantowski’s and Conway’s phone records.” Kalijero pointed to a printout on the coffee table. “Look closely and you’ll see a definite pattern with the same four phone numbers going back many months. Three of the numbers we know about. The other I’ll let you figure out. I just got a double homicide dumped on my desk.”

  I picked up the papers. “This almost seems too easy.”

  Kalijero shrugged. “It’s the times. Technology makes snooping damn simple. Especially when you got a drug dealer in the mix. Tate’s number on that meth-head’s phone is like a golden ticket to legal spying. Hell, you could buy the info online if you wanted.”

  With technology, the government could find out anything they wanted about anyone they wanted. I’d never felt so safe.

  31

  Wednesday, August 1, the eighth day of my investigation. Sunlight hitting the glass elephant on the window glared brightly, momentarily blinding me. There was no spectrum reflecting off the wall. Maybe that was a good sign. Although some cultures saw rainbows as symbols of hope and prosperity, other cultures saw them as harbingers of death and destruction.

  Three people clearly benefited from Snooky’s murder: Tate and Mildish, whose kickbacks would go undetected, and Baron Construction, whose multimillion-dollar contract would go unquestioned. But were they killers? Could one or all of them kill another human being, someone they knew, liked, and respected, and then live with it forever? There was also Linda Conway. Her opposition to the redevelopment of Maxwell Street threatened to derail the Tate-Mildish plan—until someone changed her mind.

  I studied Piantowski’s phone records while eating my morning oatmeal. The pattern of phone numbers Kalijero mentioned began last November, continued through December and into January, right up to the university’s final vote. Piantowski’s first conversation with Caller X lasted seventy-six seconds. She then called Conway, who, four minutes and twenty-two seconds later, called Tate. She probably left a message, since that
call lasted only twelve seconds. Then she called Piantowski back and the two spoke for twenty-eight minutes. This flurry of exchanges took place at least once a week, then ceased in mid-January. Caller X was never heard from again. I dialed Caller X’s number. A female voice announced the name of a law firm. I hung up.

  Flesch, Bozik, and Wigdor, LLC, was the top criminal defense firm in the city. Sixty-two-year-old Alan Flesch never turned down a client who could afford his one-grand-per-hour rate. And when he received his quarter-million-dollar retainer, he was yours, as if he were the one in danger of being sentenced as Bubba’s shower mate. It was said the worst you could do with Alan Flesch was a few years in Club Fed. His most recent high-profile case involved a dying infant brought to the emergency room with twenty-eight broken bones and a fractured skull. Despite the testimony of numerous bone specialists affirming that the trauma was not accidental, Flesch produced his own experts claiming the presence of a rare bone disease. His closing statement evoked images of grieving parents already given a life sentence in the guilt-ridden flames of hell for not recognizing their son’s illness. What could be a worse punishment? The parents were found guilty of neglect and given three years in a minimum-security prison.

  Carrying a nearly empty briefcase and wearing my only suit—a brilliant Gucci knockoff, charcoal gray with silver pinstripes purchased from the basement of an old friend of Frownie’s—I entered the Monadnock Building and took the elevator to the tenth floor. I loved the Monadnock Building for its blend of historical beauty and modern technology. Flesch’s office was full of natural light coming through the original huge windows of pre-air-conditioned Chicago.

  Since nobody sat in the reception area I walked toward a woman seated at a desk outside a corner office. “Are you Mr. Flesch’s secretary?” The woman was sixtyish with kind eyes. “Chancellor Tate gave me Mr. Flesch’s name. I just wanted to drop off a card.” From the briefcase I produced one of my business cards and handed it to her.

  “Private investigator?”

  “I’m just starting out. If I could get a shot with Flesch, it would really help my career. I wouldn’t even take a fee unless I actually got results.” There was an advantage to having a baby face.

  She put the card down. “We use the Altshaw agency but I’m sure Dr. Tate wouldn’t mind if you used his name over there. Ask Mr. Altshaw for an informational interview. These guys love talking about themselves.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said and thanked her for her kindness.

  32

  “Eddie Altshaw’s scum of the lowest kind,” Frownie said over the phone. “Flesch and him go way back. What makes you think he’s gonna give you anything?”

  “Cash.”

  “You think you got enough cash for that bastard?”

  “Why not? I just want to know what Tate used to blackmail Conway. For me it’s a game changer, and it’s no skin off Altshaw’s nose.”

  “You’re not seeing the big picture, Julie. Tate’s Flesch’s client. Flesch is Altshaw’s client. If Tate gets in trouble, the money stops flowing.”

  “Let’s just say he goes for it. How many thousands will it cost?”

  “I’ve been away too long. More than one, less than a hundred.”

  I was out of my league, but I thought it was worth a try. Thanks to my father’s last donation, I had money to play with. It was painful to think of parting with it so soon, but this piece of the puzzle was too big to ignore.

  The ease with which I was allowed to see private investigator Eddie Altshaw surprised me. When I arrived at his office, it was as if he expected me. And if he was scum, he was the best-dressed scum I had seen in this business, although the long unlit cigar bouncing up and down between thin, sharp-edged lips on an egg-shaped head was distracting. Think Humpty Dumpty in an Italian suit.

  “What do you want?” Altshaw said.

  “Linda Conway.”

  Altshaw looked around the room and threw up his arms. “I give. Who the fuck is Linda Conway?”

  “A job for Flesch’s law firm late last year.”

  Altshaw’s face glazed over and froze in my direction. Then his lips started manipulating the cigar again, and he grinned broadly. “Why do you care?”

  “I want to know what you got on her.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “It may be relevant to a murder case I’m working on.”

  “Why do you care?”

  I pulled a pile of cash from my briefcase and put it on his desk. “That’s three grand.”

  Altshaw started laughing. “Keeping the family business alive. I bet I don’t have to count it, either!” Still laughing, he shouted for someone named Irv, and a short, clean-cut guy appeared. Altshaw scribbled something on a Post-it note and handed it to him. “You ever think about changing your name, Landau? Or maybe move to a different city where your name doesn’t give you away?”

  “Why should I? I’m not the only Landau in the phone book.”

  “No? Well, I’ll bet you’re the only one in this business. Irv, take this gutsy little prick to the vault and give him a peek at what’s in that box number.”

  Irv smiled and motioned for me to follow. Before I left the room, Altshaw said, “You know, kid, I would’ve taken half that amount.” He started laughing again, and I felt compelled to join in. “Go ahead, laugh all you want now. But if anyone finds out what you’re about to get from me, you’re done in this town.”

  I followed Irv down a stairway into a garden-level storage room with bars on the windows. In the corner of the room next to an outside door was a walk-in vault. Irv dialed the combination, opened the door, switched on a light, and gestured for me to enter. I obeyed his command and saw floor-to-ceiling walls of safe-deposit boxes. Irv pointed to a box and told me to try to open it. I reached up and pulled a few times on the latch—then a sharp pain pierced my side and dropped me to my knees only to be met with another blow to the face. My last memory was the sensation of being dragged around like a sack of concrete.

  I woke in the alley, slumped up against a brick wall outside the door through which Irv had deposited me. Despite feeling as if a day had passed, I was able to replay the events that had actually occurred within the last half hour. I touched my left cheekbone and was grateful Irv’s fist had not revisited the right side of my face, which was still healing. As I stood, pain radiated through my left side and stabbed me with each step. I found my car, drove home, then limped up the stairway to the couch where once again I lay with an ice pack on my face.

  Staring at the cracked paint on the ceiling, I wondered if I had reached a crossroads. That is, I had to decide how this incident would affect not only the investigation but the definition of myself. The world was full of sociopaths, some of whom had no qualms about associating with killers and others who didn’t mind knowing a person targeted for death. And then there were those who slept soundly after pulling a trigger at close range. Murder helped the flow of money seek its own level. How low did money have to dribble before it led to Snooky’s killer?

  33

  Pinkish urine brought to mind the emergency room until I remembered my ten-thousand-dollar deductible. Having already parted with three grand, I thought I’d give it a day or two.

  “Altshaw saw you coming a mile away,” Frownie said. “Flesch warned him.”

  “I never saw Flesch, only his secretary.” I was sitting upright on the couch balancing the ice pack on my face.

  “He’s got his whole office bugged. He hears everything. Maybe one day you’ll realize the kind of people you’re dealing with.”

  “I gotta get whatever Altshaw has on Conway.”

  “Forget about it.”

  “I can’t forget about it. If I can prove Tate’s blackmailing Conway, it’ll break the case wide open.”

  “Then try some other channel. Don’t confront Altshaw directly; he might kill you next time. What about the tattoo broad?”

  “She thinks her dad’s a killer, but there’s this sick lo
ve-hate-father-daughter thing going on. It’s potentially volatile. I can’t take her seriously.”

  I hung up with Frownie, knowing I needed an insider, someone connected enough to have a foot on both sides of the line. Frownie was out of the question and Kalijero had too much at stake. The only other option was Satan himself. But what would I have to give up in exchange?

  * * *

  Back on the stone amphitheater seats near Diversey Harbor, Voss said, “Holy shit, Landau, not again!” He referred to my plum-colored cheekbone. “Who’d you piss off this time? Sniffin’ around some other man’s cooch?”

  “Tate’s lawyer is Alan Flesch. Flesch hired Eddie Altshaw to dig up dirt on a woman named Linda Conway. I need to know what he’s got on her.”

  “And you thought you could just stroll into his office and ask him? Just knock him down like you was driving a limo?” Voss laughed hard enough to create a tsunami across his stomach. “If it makes you feel any better, you got thumped by a former Golden Gloves lightweight champ.”

  “What will it cost to get Altshaw’s info?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “C’mon, Voss. Everything I got on Kalijero is hearsay. There’s nothing written, no ledgers, no diaries, nothing. Whatever Snooky had he took with him.”

  “Let’s pretend I believe you. Tell me what Kalijero was involved in. Better yet, wear a wire, and I promise to personally deliver whatever it is Altshaw has on Conway.” His words inflamed my battered body. I saw a red stream filling the toilet bowl. How much blood was Snooky worth?

  “You want to tell me about some bad plasma between us I should know about?”

  Voss’s face clouded over. “I got nothing against you except your name.”

  “What did my name ever do to you?”

  “Let’s just say your name doesn’t smell like a rose. Any other questions, Landau?”

  “Back to Altshaw. What if I gave you ten grand?”