by Glenn Ickler
“It’s not that kind of date. The chemist is a man.”
“Now days you never know,” Corinne said.
Chapter 25: Manipulation
How the hell are you going to move from asking this bird about his chemistry award to finding out about his contact with cousin Vito?” Al asked as we pulled into the 3M Company parking lot at 7:15 Tuesday morning.
“I’m going to use his dislike of the non-scientific press to make the connection,” I said. “By alluding to what he considers poor treatment by the press in the horse doping case, I might be able to slip Vito’s name into the interview. It’s called manipulation.”
“Well, good luck with that. I might get a shot of him manipulating you right out the door on the end of his foot.”
“He didn’t sound like a violent man,” I said.
Nor did he look like a violent man when he greeted us at the reception desk at 7:30 on the dot. Dr. Philip Lymanski was short of stature, sparse of hair and broad of belly—definitely not the physically abusive type. He wore a dark-gray pin-striped suit, a white button-down-collar shirt and a plain pale-blue tie. If you looked up the word “bland” in an illustrated dictionary, Dr. Lymanski’s photo would be there.
He led us down a long hall to his office, which was devoid of anything personal. The décor on the walls consisted entirely of framed diplomas and award documents. No photos of family or works of art. The carpet was beige, his desktop was devoid of clutter, and the chairs he invited us to sit on were only a shade darker beige than the rug. More shades of bland.
“So, you scan the scientific press for story ideas,” Dr. Lymanski said after he settled himself behind his desk, which held little more than a blotter and a calendar. It could have just been delivered from the factory.
“We look everywhere for news,” I said with what was meant to be a disarming smile. “You never know where you might find something local, like the story about your award.” Dr. Lymanski nodded but did not return the smile.
I started the interview by asking him to tell me about the research that led to the award, hoping he would get rolling and I wouldn’t have to ask any questions that would reveal the true state of my knowledge of chemistry. Luckily he was a free-wheeling talker once he got started, and I wasn’t forced to prompt him. His discovery had something to do with particles several sizes smaller than atoms and required a symbolic explanation on the chalk board. I copied the equations and reactions, and wondered if I’d be able to decipher my notes when I began to write the story.
When Dr. Lymanski wound down, I said, “This is a fascinating story and you seem suitably proud of your research and this award. I’m surprised the local media weren’t notified by the institute sponsoring the award.”
“I asked them not to send out any local publicity,” he said. “I don’t like dealing with the Twin Cities press.”
“Have you had a bad experience with the Twin Cities press?” I asked with what I hoped was an air of innocence.
“Several years ago I was falsely accused of a crime and the papers and TV played it up as though I was a major gangster. The case was blown a thousand miles out of proportion. I’m sure every asshole reporter, pardon my French, who covered the case was in a state of depression for weeks after all the charges were dropped.”
“That must have been before I started at the Daily Dispatch. Anyway, I don’t remember your name being connected with a court case. What did it involve?”
“Nothing that has anything to do with my current work,” he said. “And as I told you, the charges were dropped because we were innocent.”
“We? Someone else was involved with you?”
“A friend.”
“Another 3M scientist?”
“No, just a friend.”
“Is he still a friend?”
“It doesn’t matter. Our occasional get-togethers have nothing to do with my work or this story, so let’s not discuss old dead issues. At any rate, Mr. Mitchell, I believe our time is up. Nice meeting you—and you, too, Mr. Jeffrey. I’ll be looking forward to the story and hoping you got my good side with the camera.”
“Should be in tomorrow or the next day,” I said. “And don’t worry about the photos. Al always gets the best side of his subjects.”
As we left the building, Al said, “You’re as slippery as a greased pig skating on an icy sidewalk.”
“The best laid schemes o’ mice and men don’t always gang a-gley,” I said. “And sometimes we asshole reporters catch asshole citizens like Vito Luciano in a lie.”
“Our reluctant researcher certainly had some lousy chemistry with the press.”
“You might say he had a bad reaction.”
“That seems elementary. But where does all this leave us with Vito?”
“It leaves us needing to challenge him on his lie about having no recent contact with his partner in alleged chemical crime. I need to ask him exactly where he was and what he was doing the day his cousin swallowed the strychnine.”
“You don’t think your pal at the Falcon Heights PD has done that?”
“If she has she hasn’t shared it.”
“So you’re going after Vito when we get back to the office.”
“That’s my first phone call of the day.”
“Lucky you. I’d rather have a root canal than talk to Vito again.”
“Don’t say that. I might be needing some dental work after I call him a liar.”
* * *
Ozzie Bergman, the bartender, answered the phone at King Vinnie’s Steakhouse. He said Vito was in his office but wasn’t taking any calls. “Don’t bother to leave a message,” Ozzie said. “He ain’t returnin’ any calls neither.”
“Either,” I said, automatically correcting Ozzie’s grammatical faux pas.
“Huh?” he said.
“Nothing. Just a knee-jerk reaction. I’ll ask Vito my questions in person later on. Will he be around all day?”
“He’s generally here till closing, but he don’t hang around half the night like Vinnie did.”
I started to say “doesn’t” but caught myself and instead said, “See you this afternoon.”
“Cheers,” Ozzie said. “Maybe he’ll buy you a drink.”
“Maybe he won’t,” I said after hanging up. “Not after I ask him what I’m going to ask him.”
“You’re talking to yourself again,” Corinne Ramey said. “You must have been calling the Falcon Heights PD.”
“No, but that’s next. Better get ready to cover your ears when you see me put the phone down.”
“Better yet,” she said. “I’m going out to interview an old coot who drove into a house on the East Side.”
“We’re doing interviews with old coots hitting houses now?”
“It was the fire chief’s house. And he crushed the stuffed bear that was standing on its hind legs in the chief’s den.”
“Good grief. Does the chief hunt bear?”
“How are you spelling that?”
“Get out of here,” I said, picking up the phone. Corinne jumped up and double-timed it to the elevator.
To my surprise, KGB was available to take my call. Not surprisingly, she made very little information available.
“Are you following any new leads?” I asked.
“We are still questioning Mr. Grimes,” she said. “We set up a lineup for his viewing and he exonerated Mr. Louis Luciano, who some people were quite certain perpetrated the crime.”
“Hey, I just asked some questions and wrote a story based on the answers. You were the ones who went out and arrested him.”
“You’re right. Hopefully we have learned from our mistake and we won’t arrest anyone on purely circumstantial evidence again. Will you do the same with your reporting?”
Ouch! “I always try to be careful,” I said. “In this case I followed up a lead from another family member who convinced me that Louie was the killer.”
“Would that be the victim’s cousin Vito?” KGB asked.
“The one and only. What do you think of him as a suspect?”
“We aren’t discussing any further suspects at this time. We’ll admit that Vito did have a strong motive.”
“And the opportunity. Do you know where he was at the time of the murder?”
“We’re not revealing any information about further persons of interest at this time.”
“So Vito is a person of interest?”
“We can’t respond to that at this time. By the way, we hear that Louie Luciano is looking for you. Have nice day, Mr. Mitchell.”
The phone went dead and my computer monitor came alive with its chirpy “You’ve got mail” message.
I opened the message. “We need to talk,” it said. It was signed “Willow.”
I opened reply, typed, “No, we don’t,” and clicked send.
* * *
By mid-afternoon I had finished the story about Dr. Lymanski’s research discovery and the upcoming award ceremony, along with a couple of minor pieces that required only a phone call each. Don O’Rourke left for the day at three o’clock, and I checked out at 3:05 after telling Fred Donlin, the night city editor, that I was going out on an interview and wouldn’t be back until the next day. I was still trying to decide how to approach Vito Luciano as I parked in the lot at King Vinnie’s Steakhouse.
I was greeted at the entrance to the dining room by Max Triviano, the manager, which never would have happened with Vinnie in charge. Vinnie’s number one priority as owner of the restaurant was schmoozing his customers. His philosophy was that the office work would still be there to be dealt with after the paying guests were gone and the doors were locked, whether it be after hours or early morning. In fact, most of the bookwork had been left to Max, who was better as a back-office bean counter than as a front-door glad hander.
When I asked to see Vito, Max waved toward the hallway in the back and said, “You can knock but I don’t guarantee he’ll answer. Vito’s nothing like Vinnie, may he rest in peace.”
“Don’t I know it,” I said.
I walked back and rapped on the office door. Hearing no response, I rapped louder. This time a voice inside said, “Who’s it?”
“Mitch from the Daily Dispatch,” I said.
“What the hell do you want?”
“To talk to you. I just interviewed and wrote a story about a good buddy of yours.”
“I ain’t got any good buddies.”
“How about we discuss it without the door between us?” I said.
“Oh, for Chris’ sake come in,” said Vito.
I did. He was tilted back in a beat-up leather swivel chair behind a desk that was the exact opposite of Dr. Philip Lymanski’s sterile workspace. Sheets of paper, magazines, file folders, newspapers, and ledger books were heaped in sloppy piles all across the surface. It was a close call, but I made the grudging concession that Vito’s desk was even more of a jungle than my own.
I picked a stack of old newspapers off a chair in front of the desk, dropped the papers on the floor, and sat down.
“So, what phony baloney is claimin’ to be a good buddy of mine?” Vito said.
“Dr. Philip Lymanski,” I said. “And he seems to be the real thing.”
Vito sat up straight and put his arms on the desk. “What the hell were you talkin’ to him about?”
“He’s famous in the world of chemistry. He’s getting a big deal award at the ‘U’ this weekend. I thought you’d be there to clap when he was introduced. I’m hoping you’ll make a comment for my story.” No reason to tell him the story was finished and probably already set in a page of the morning paper.
“Why would I be there?” Vito said. “I told you I ain’t seen Lymanski since the, uh, the incident.”
“Lymanski says otherwise. He says you two get together occasionally.”
“You asked him that?”
“In a roundabout way.”
“You’re a sneaky son of a bitch, did you know that?”
“I’ve been called worse things than that,” I said.
“You are worse than that,” he said. “You’re a snoopy pain in the ass who never gives a guy a minute’s peace. Now that Louie’s off the hook I suppose you’re back to hopin’ you can prove I killed Vinnie. You probably asked Phil if he mixed up the poison for me to put on Vinnie’s goddamn fool piece of garbage on a stick.”
“What if I told you that I did and he said yes.”
“I’d know you were a lyin’ little creep in addition to bein’ all them other things I just said.”
“Those other things,” I said.
“What did you say?”
“I corrected your grammar without thinking. Sorry about that.”
“Oh, my god, you come in here accusin’ me of murderin’ my cousin and you’re worried about my fuckin’ grammar?”
“It’s a habit with me. Knee-jerk response you could call it. Sometimes I just can’t control it.”
“Well, I can’t control the urge to throw out of this office without takin’ the time to open the door, so you’d better get your ass out of here before I come around this desk and grab you by your suspicious little throat.”
I stood up. “Where were you and who were you with the day that Vinnie died?”
“Get the hell out of my sight.” Vito started around the desk and I accepted the invitation to vanish. I closed the door behind me to slow Vito down in case he was following and walked full speed back into the dining room.
Louie Luciano was standing at the bar.
Chapter 26: Diplomacy
The slamming office door had drawn Louie’s attention. He was turning to look at me, and I came to an abrupt halt to take stock of my situation. Behind me, at the end of the hall in which I was standing, was the restaurant’s back door. Ahead of me was Louie, who was smiling and rubbing his right hand with his left like a jeweler polishing a stone. The right hand was clenched in a fist that looked as big as a cantaloupe to me.
There were two options. One, I could turn and run out the back door or, two, I could try to bluff my way past Louie. A sensible person would have chosen option one, but sensible people don’t work as newspaper reporters. I walked slowly forward.
“Nice to see you,” I said when I was about a dozen feet away from Louie.
“Even nicer to see you,” Louie said. His smile widened. “Would you like your head smashed to pieces right here or do you want to take it outside?”
“I’d prefer to stay in here where there are witnesses.” I pointed to three bar patrons and Ozzie the bartender, all of whom were watching with morbid interest.
“You think these birds are gonna help you?” Louie said.
“I think they’ll testify against you at your assault-and-battery trial after you beat up a reporter who offers no resistance.”
“What do you mean no resistance? Are you just gonna let me bash your head in without fighting back?”
“I come in peace and offer you an apology for judging you falsely. Also I am by nature a pacifist who does not engage in fisticuffs.” I gave him my most Ghandian look of peaceful serenity.
The smile turned to a look of puzzlement. “So you’re just gonna take a one-two punch to the kisser without any kind of fight?”
“That’s right, Louie. I am in the wrong and I deserve to be punched in the kisser. And I will not swing at you in return.” This was, of course, pure hogwash. If he came at me I’d break his nose, but I’d rather talk my way out of the conflict.
Louie’s fist unfolded. “That wouldn’t be no fun.”
I s
tarted to say “any fun,” but caught myself in time to say, “Any . . . future investigations on my part will assume that you had no part in your father’s tragic death.” All I needed was to have him explode over a grammar correction.
“Damn right I didn’t, you goddamn slimy weasel,” he said. “You should have listened to me in the first place instead of getting me sent to jail.”
I had just been demoted from a snoopy pain the ass to a goddamn slimy weasel, but I didn’t mind as long as the threat of damage to my head was gone. “You’re right, I should have, but I’m a suspicious person by nature. I guess it’s just in my genes.”
“Well, you better get your jeans outta here before I change my mind and give ’em a kick with a number thirteen extra-wide shoe.”
Again I accepted the invitation to vanish, walking with dignity past Louie and subduing the urge to run like a rabbit to the front door. “I’m still gonna sue the goddamn paper for slander,” Louie said as the door swung shut behind me.
“Libel,” I said to the air around me as I walked to my car. “You sue newspapers for libel, not slander.”
* * *
“So how was your day?” Martha Todd asked when I arrived home.
“I was called a snoopy pain in the ass, a lying little creep and a goddamn slimy weasel, all within minutes of each other.”
“I didn’t know weasels were slimy.”
“That kind of surprised me, too. I’ve always thought of weasels as skinny and hairy and dry. Not that I’ve thought about weasels all that much.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I was called an overbearing bitch today by a lawyer representing a slumlord our client is suing.”
“We have been the recipients of multiple unseemly slurs,” I said. “We should console each other.”
“I agree. Where do propose that our consolation activities take place?”
“What better place than the bedroom?”
“There is no better place,” Martha said. Supper was late again that night.