Maxwell Street Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

“Jimmy—”

  “The only risk is if we screw it up. Then it’s my ass.”

  “What do you mean, your—” Kalijero hung up.

  I walked the neighborhood a little longer. I felt tired, like I’d been up all night. It was about ten-thirty when I got back to my recliner. I sat with a notebook and pen, retracing my steps from the morning Dad showed up. I should have been taking daily notes as Frownie had taught me. But viewing the investigation from its end point presented a clearer view of the most relevant facts regarding Snooky’s murder and Voss’s guilt. It would be someone else’s job to hack away at all the peripheral rot. My Glock .40 was essential. Being heavily armed with facts was equally vital.

  Afternoon melted into evening. A cold front moved through the area, sparking a fast-moving thunderstorm that left behind cooler air and a pleasant easterly breeze off the lake. Kalijero showed up at seven carrying a small cardboard box from which he took a square recording device the size of a Triscuit cracker. He had me take my shirt off, taped the device into the groove of my breastbone, then gave me an earpiece.

  “Wait here.” Kalijero made a move to leave.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “Where do you think? To my car, so we can test it out.”

  “You mean there’s no one else working with you?”

  “Bingo.”

  Kalijero sat in his car in the loading zone across the street and we practiced using the miracle of digital technology.

  “Hey, Jimmy—”

  “Don’t shout! Just talk normal, like I’m in the room.”

  “Why does Frownie hate you so much?” Kalijero’s mumbling in Greek came through loud and clear. “I’m just curious—”

  “Shut up and focus on Voss!”

  For the remainder of the test I spoke only when requested. After Kalijero was satisfied, he came back up. “By nine o’clock,” Kalijero said, taking over my recliner, “I want you in that block strolling around, testing the sound just like we’re doing now.”

  “How much do you need to arrest him?”

  Kalijero thought about it longer than I liked. “Confessions with details, showing premeditation, rationalization. You said you can get him talking about how great he is. Prove it.”

  “When he walks away from me, you nab him.”

  “No. We can arrest him anytime if we get a recorded confession. But if it gets ugly between you two, I’m coming in. Then you gotta think about getting down, behind some crap. Anything can happen—”

  “What do you mean ugly? If he pulls a gun?”

  “Remember this morning when I talked about the risk of screwing it up? For example, if I go in before we get the info to bust him, then Voss knows we’ve been watching him and starts covering his ass. Plus he’s got plenty of favors to call in.”

  “What if I shoot in self-defense?”

  “You better make damn sure you can prove it.”

  Neither of us spoke for a while. Then I said, “I don’t want you coming in unless we can put that son of a bitch in prison. I don’t care if the microphone blows up. Got it?”

  Kalijero got up from the recliner, looked at me, then shook his head in disgust. Before walking to the door he said, “I’m doing this alone because this whole operation is off the record. That’s the deal I made with Hauser. If we can’t nail Voss with his own words, I’ll stay away and just monitor things from afar. But just so you know, if shots are fired, I’m moving in.”

  * * *

  I put on my linen sport jacket, clipped a pen to the breast pocket, and shoved a high-capacity magazine into the Glock. In a side pocket, I put Snooky’s notebook. In the other pocket, I dropped a glass vial, a book of matches, and two four-ounce cans of lighter fluid.

  At nine o’clock I parked on West Liberty Street. Just a hint of daylight remained in the western sky, although the university’s new mega-wattage streetlamps created a stark contrast of light and shadow. I walked a block to Halsted then headed north to Maxwell where I noticed that a chain-link fence now completely surrounded the block. A fire-damaged three-flat from the 1880s was the only building left standing. At nine-fifteen I stood in front of the gate near the bandstand and debris pile. The site was not locked. Nobody worried about junk getting stolen. Maybe it was the chaotic pattern of shadow and light, but the pile of rubble where Snooky’s body once lay looked taller and pointier than I remembered. About eight feet to the left of the rubble was a steel drum into which I emptied both cans of lighter fluid. Tossing the empty containers aside, I reached up to the top of the heap and put Snooky’s journal on a piece of drywall. The neighborhood was quiet. The only activity came from the next block where a hot dog stand served its world famous Polish sausage and bone-in pork chop sandwiches. Kalijero barked through my earpiece, scaring the crap of me.

  “Start walking around the block,” he said. “Say something every ten feet.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Don’t worry. Get walking.”

  Trusting Kalijero seemed like a good idea, so I walked and whispered until I had circled the block, returning to the gate around nine-forty. Kalijero told me to stay put and shut up.

  The time spent waiting for Voss was torture. I didn’t know which raced faster, my mind or my heart. At nine-fifty, Kalijero’s voice startled me again by announcing Voss’s impending arrival. A strange feeling of calm now replaced my anxiety. A minute later I saw Voss’s lumbering figure approach. He wore an open raincoat with one hand buried in his pocket, where I assumed he held a gun.

  “A neighborhood in transition,” Voss said and walked through the gate. He glanced at the debris pile then walked a complete circle around the bandstand before stopping to lean against the side of the stage. “When I was growing up,” he said, “we used to call this place Jew Town.”

  I followed him inside the fence and stood on the opposite side of the debris pile. “Feeling nostalgic?” I asked.

  “Whaddya so nervous about?” growled Voss.

  “Who’s nervous?”

  “You’re standing over there, keeping that pile of junk between us. And that’s bad logistics.” Voss sidestepped into the shadowed area next to the stage, then back out. “You’re at a disadvantage if you can’t see me.”

  “I get the feeling you were here earlier today, mapping out the place.”

  “Always plan ahead,” said Voss. “But I’m just here to do a little business, that’s all.”

  “So let’s get down to business. Who killed Snooky and why?”

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Where’s my book?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s around. And it’s got everything you want on Kalijero.”

  “And Mildish, Baron, and Tate.”

  “Ah! So you were interested in them as well.”

  Voss smiled. “Hey, it’s gravy. A little extra leverage on big shots is always good to have.”

  “They really don’t know anything about Snooky’s murder, do they?”

  “Naaah. Them bozos don’t know shit.”

  “For a while, I really thought Chancellor Tate was the killer,” I said. “Like he panicked about what Snooky might know about him.”

  “Yeah, sure. That makes sense.”

  “Does it? He kills a guy then dumps the body outside his own office?”

  “Yeah, well, somebody wanted to send a message.” Voss chuckled.

  “Somebody or you?”

  Voss straightened up. “It sure sent a chill through all Snook’s clients, no?” Voss laughed again. “C’mon, let’s get this over with. Give me the book.”

  “Who killed Snooky?”

  “Give me the book. Then we’ll talk.”

  “You told me Snooky cried like a little bitch—”

  “I made that shit up.” Voss stepped forward, waving his hands. “I just wanted to get under your skin, that’s all.” Voss held out the envelope full of cash I had included with the note. “Here’s your earnest money back. Take it.” He tossed the envelope over the pile.

  I said,
“I’m new at this, so be patient. I’m supposed to give you the book so you can cover me with your gun and then walk out of here?”

  “What gun?” Voss showed both hands. “Look, I’m not the monster you think I am. My beef with Kalijero is personal. And you know what? I don’t harbor any bad feelings over you banging my head on that concrete step.”

  I acted like I was mulling things over, then said, “Oh, what the hell. I guess I should just learn to trust people.” I pretended I had the book in my pocket, made a motion as if about to toss something to Voss, then stopped. “On second thought, I’d really like to know who killed Snooky.”

  Voss calmly walked around the junk pile to face me. Then he took out a semiautomatic pistol and said, “Put your hands behind your head.” After I did as told, Voss approached me, grabbed my shirt, yanked it up, then tore the transmitter off my chest. “Hey, Kalijero, can you hear me? Fuck you! You got nothing!” Voss looked at me. “Give me the ear bug or I’ll knock it out of your head.” I handed it over then watched him stomp on both devices.

  “I’m ticklish,” I said as Voss started searching me with one hand while holding his gun with the other. First he checked my jacket pockets then started going over my torso. When he reached my gun, he lifted it from the shoulder holster.

  “Glock .40, not bad,” he said then tucked the gun into the belt of his trousers. I put my arms down. “It really doesn’t matter if you have a gun or not, Landau. If I shoot you, it’s clearly self-defense.” Voss stepped backward into a shadow, shouted, “Bang,” then walked forward into the light. “Where’s the book?”

  “Tell me about Snooky’s murder.”

  “Show me the book.”

  “You’re just so used to things being easy, right, Voss? You came here thinking you could just get what you wanted and walk away without having to admit you killed Snooky.”

  “I didn’t kill no one. That scumbag you wasted in the alley did the killing.”

  “But you were there, supervising the murder, to make sure the meth-head left money in Snooky’s wallet. That prevented Tate, Mildish, and Baron from thinking it was just a robbery. You wanted them to see Snooky’s corpse as a message that someone had just acquired a little accounting leverage. Always planning ahead. Someday, you would turn that leverage into cash or favors.” I took Voss’s smirk as a grudging acknowledgment.

  “Why shouldn’t I just waste you and leave?”

  “Because you want Snooky’s book and all the power it holds. Because if shots are fired, Kalijero and the cavalry come in, guns blazing. You’re getting sloppy, Voss.”

  “It’s dark, you lured me here.” The brashness in his voice had tempered somewhat.

  “Give me the truth, I give you the book, you walk out with your corrupt kingdom intact.” I laughed. “I mean, why not? You know I’m not wearing a wire anymore.”

  Voss adjusted his grip on the gun. “You go to all this trouble just for some goddamn truth? Who cares?”

  “I promised my father I’d find out what happened.”

  “Oh, I get it, it’s some kind of Landau-blood-honor thing. Fine. But I’m telling you right now, if I don’t leave this shithole with what I want, I will fuck you up, and it will be self-defense.”

  “You couldn’t go after Snooky directly,” I said, “because he had too many friends. Other creeps, connected types like you. Together they could probably take you out. You knew the kind of money Kalijero was bringing in at O’Hare’s Tailspin. You found out he used Snooky’s services. You found out about Snooky’s friendship with Lisa. You manipulated her into helping you. She’s a little wacky, emotionally unstable. You exploit her weakness. You find out she has her own vendetta against Tate. You told her if she could get the names and dates and account numbers, she could bring Tate down and destroy him.”

  Voss pretended to yawn. “Snooky cleaned Kalijero’s cash. That was a no-brainer. But I gave the tattoo broad five hundred bucks anyway to verify Snooky had a Greek cop as a client. She’s a smart broad, you know. She tells me about Tate using Snooky. Maybe Tate’s not paying his taxes? That’s against the law, isn’t it? I do a little snooping. Whaddya know? Tate is connected to Mildish and Baron.”

  “But you still need the book and Lisa can’t get it. A shitstorm begins when Kalijero starts complaining about you supplying meth to the strip club.”

  “What? Who said that?” Voss did his best to look outraged.

  “Nice try, Voss. I’m supposed to believe dealing meth is against your moral principles?”

  Voss started pacing, moving in and out of light. “I ain’t worried about steering a little crystal to the club—if that’s what you’re thinking. You know why? Because it’s a hell of a revenue enhancer! We damn near doubled our profits after those dopes got their first taste of whoring around on meth. All that cop brass getting nice, fat envelopes. Fuck it. What do I care? I’m not cooking it, I just push it along.”

  “But it’s not just the club, is it? You couldn’t resist using Lisa’s junkie clients. They did you favors—like murdering Snooky—and you got them meth. If one of those scumbags got killed, so what? Plenty more to choose from. But you gotta get that book because you’re worried about Kalijero. So you send an army of meth-heads to tear Snooky’s house apart.”

  Voss stopped pacing. “Okay, you’re a brilliant investigator. Time to hand it over.”

  “After Snooky died, things changed between you and Lisa. Like you said, she’s no dummy. When you realized she knew you had one of her junkie friends kill Snooky, you reminded her of how powerful you were and that a lot of circumstantial evidence stared her in the face.”

  “That little bitch wanted that book as bad as I did! She didn’t give a damn about Snooky. She just wanted to ruin Tate.”

  “Bullshit! Lisa never would’ve helped you if she knew Snooky would get killed! But now you’ve got her scared and you can’t get Kalijero out of your mind. You’re looking for a little insurance. So you introduce Lisa to the idea of framing Tate as a meth dealer—hoping to throw the scent off your own meth-dealing ass. She gets a junkie or two to call his cell phone, his office, his house. His business card shows up on a dead scumbag.”

  “I’m getting bored, Landau. But hey, if you want to finish telling me what you know, that’s just dandy. Or maybe you’re done?”

  “You’re not bored, you’re nervous.”

  “Why? Because I had some mob-lackey money-laundering piece-of-shit nobody cared about killed?”

  “I could never understand people like you. Is it because you’ve been untouchable for so long you think you’re exempt from consequences?”

  Voss stepped forward, snarled, “I am the consequence!” then retreated.

  “You were wrong. Somebody did give a damn about Snooky. But this meth thing. You know when you cross a line? And you make people nervous? Sometimes they get all federal on you. Wire-tappy kind of federal.”

  “I know, dumb ass. I’m insulated from all that.”

  I took the glass vial from my pocket and held it up. “This is one of several vials I found at a dead junkie’s flophouse. If you look close, there’s a beautiful thumbprint encrusted in a milky white residue that smells like cat pee. You know, I bet this thumbprint just might belong to someone already in the database who knows what happens to repeat drug traffickers if they refuse to cut a deal—like giving up their suppliers.”

  “You’re definitely the dumbest Landau who ever cursed this city. I told you I’m insulated. I just give orders once it comes in, direct it places to be stored—”

  “All right, all right,” I said. “The book is lying on top of the crap pile.”

  Voss walked up to me and pointed his gun at my forehead. “Just remember, Landau. Try anything and it’s self-defense against the Snooky avenger.”

  “What can I try? You took my gun.”

  “Shut up and get the book.”

  Voss backed up a few steps. As I reached up to the top of the debris pile and grabbed the journal off the ch
unk of drywall with my right hand, I found the matches with my left. I held the book up. “Okay, now what?”

  “Throw it to me.”

  I had an unobstructed path to the steel drum. The junk pile lay between Voss and the drum. If I dove behind the pile, Voss would have a small window to get a clear shot at me before I could get behind the drum. Loaded with rubbish, I figured it weighed at least fifty pounds. I slipped a finger behind one of the matches, bent it forward, and held the match head against the striking surface.

  “Just in case you’re wondering,” Voss said while removing my .40-caliber from his belt before presenting a posture with double-fisted guns. “I’ll fire your gun into the ground then shoot you with mine.” Voss laughed. “You shot first, I returned fire. That’s what Kalijero’s report will say.”

  “Okay, Voss,” I said. “Take the damn book and fuck off.”

  I held up the book, cocked my arm back, then followed through with a throwing motion before diving to my left, executing a tuck-and-roll, journal and matchbook still in hand. As I scrambled on my belly, a shot rang out. Just as I got behind the drum, a second shot cracked, followed by a flash, then intense pain from the igniting matches burning my hand. I screamed but endured the pain long enough to drop the flame into the steel drum, setting its contents ablaze with a whoosh.

  Kalijero rushed in, shouting for everyone to drop their weapons. Voss tossed my .40-caliber within a few feet of me. I imagined Kalijero just inside the gate on one knee, pointing his gun at Voss’s profile.

  “I’m behind the steel drum,” I shouted. “I’m unarmed.”

  “Kalijero!” Voss shouted. “Landau tried to kill me. Arrest him!”

  Peering around the drum, I saw Voss standing his ground, ready to fire at whatever part of me was exposed or, perhaps, thinking about approaching me for a kill shot.

  “Drop your weapon, Voss!” Kalijero shouted. “Then we’ll talk about it.”

  “Goddamn it, Kalijero! Cuff that little shit and bring him to me.”

  “Voss! Put your gun away and relax. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “You put a wire on Landau, you piece of shit! I’m supposed to trust you?”