The Maxwell Street Blues

by Michael Raleigh

  The Maxwell Street Blues

  A Paul Whelan Mystery

  Michael Raleigh

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1994 by Michael Raleigh

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition February 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-621-3

  Also by Michael Raleigh

  Death in Uptown

  A Body in Belmont Harbor

  Killer on Argyle Street

  The Riverview Murders

  Prologue

  It was late in the day when the fire started. The sun seemed to have been yanked from the sky, and the sprawling Maxwell Street flea market was shutting down. People still stood in the doorways of some of the smaller shops on Halsted, and a few waited in a bunched-up line for Polish or hot dogs from Jim’s, but most of the vendors and pickers along Maxwell and Liberty and Peoria had already gone home. Over near the viaducts, along Fourteenth Street and Fourteenth Place, the Mexicans were still selling produce and tamales and tortas. The record store at Halsted and Maxwell had finally shut off its speakers, but the strains of a mariachi recording could still be heard from farther south.

  The last vendors were all packing it in for the day when someone noticed the flames. A fire here on a windy day was nothing memorable, usually just a diversion, but this one was special. A pile of papers in one of the big dumpsters had caught fire, and the wind had carried burning ash out and deposited it in half a dozen places along Fourteenth. It started small fires on the top of a canvas tent and in a pile of trash sitting out in one of the vacant lots on Peoria. One big slab of burning cardboard landed square on the top of a big white Lincoln whose owner was in the process of negotiating a new set of hubcaps. But the real fire came from a pile of old magazines on Liberty and spread quickly to a stack of card board boxes and then to a little pyramid of old tires. The tires made the difference.

  A column of dense black smoke coiled and curled and scratched at the darkening sky; the air was acrid with it. The wind tugged at it and it changed shape and direction, and in a few minutes it had everyone’s attention.

  The vendor paused in his work for a moment and looked around. Everyone else was running toward the fire, but in twenty years of selling on Maxwell he’d seen a lot of fires. He began to work faster. In the distance the sirens of the fire trucks could be heard, for the third time that day.

  He watched the fire as he packed up. His stall was a piece of plywood set atop a pair of small sawhorses. Across it stretched a square of carpeting and, spread on this, a pair of hubcaps, an old table lamp, a handful of Bic lighters, boxes of finishing nails and masonry nails and wood screws, a woman’s purse—real leather, still in good shape—a ceramic knick knack, a doll, a toy pistol, two boxes of doorknobs, a cheap set of screwdrivers, and a box of Christmas lights in their original box. On this chilly autumn day he’d sold a man’s wallet for three dollars and four packages of C-cell batteries for a dollar apiece. Seven bucks for the day. He’d had worse, a lot worse; other people hadn’t sold a thing.

  He wrapped some of his wares in an old piece of canvas, covered that in plastic, and put the package in a cardboard box.

  The temperature had dropped ten degrees in little more than an hour. The wind made tumbleweed of newspapers and hot dog wrappers, and the street dust and the smoke were beginning to bother his eyes.

  He looked down the street to the fire and saw it was spreading. People were beginning to move back, and he thought he could see new flames growing from the top of a wooden shack.

  A car moved by, skirting pedestrians like a halfback in trouble. He gave the passengers a quick look and they stared back idly, incurious about an old black man packing up his junk.

  He worked quickly, packing and wrapping with practiced movements, and in a few minutes his spot on the curb was empty. He was getting ready to load his boxes onto the truck when he heard a footstep scrape against the sidewalk behind him.

  Someone was standing a few feet away, looking at him. The newcomer wore a shabby gray cloth coat with the collar pulled high and a stocking cap covered with lint. The vendor was about to inform the newcomer that he had closed up for the day but then he stopped. There was something familiar about this one.

  The figure in the gray coat stared at him for a moment, then seemed to mutter something. From inside the coat a gun appeared, and just as recognition dawned on the vendor the gun fired twice.

  One

  Day 1, Friday

  The things in Sam Carlos’s window were dead things. Whelan could tell that much because they didn’t move. The various signs made claims Whelan couldn’t verify, that these were Hispanic delicacies, bargains at Sam’s prices. Whelan studied the dried-out pieces of meat and the deep-fried things that curled up as though from embarrassment and decided that any Latino person who bought his delicacies from an Armenian deserved what he got.

  Sam’s door was open, and smells issued forth that matched the looks of the dead things in the window. Inside the store, the Man Who Would Be Mexican shouted angry Armenian insults into the phone, presumably at his supplier, a Greek from the Haymarket down on West Randolph.

  He paused for a moment, looked at the earpiece, shouted, “You sell shit!” and slammed the phone down.

  Sam Carlos looked up at Whelan and grinned. “Hey, detective man, how you doing?” Then he laughed. “I got problems with those Greeks.”

  “Yeah, I got that impression.”

  Sam Carlos pointed a tobacco-brown finger at Whelan. “You can’t trust the Greeks,” he said.

  Whelan jerked a thumb in the direction of Broadway. “Spiros over at the Wilson Donut Shop, he says you can’t trust Armenians.”

  Sam tried to look insulted, but a customer entered the store so he just laughed. Whelan waved to the grocer. As he turned toward his office building, he noticed a woman examining the produce displayed in boxes outside the store.

  She was a tiny black woman, wizened and wrinkled like one of Sam’s ancient grapes, and she held a small brown oval in her hand. Like the woman, the brown thing was dried and wrinkled. It had a light covering of fuzz, and she held it up close to her face to get a better look at it. As Whelan watched, she shook it, turned it over to examine it from a better angle, then rubbed her gnarled fingers over the furlike covering. Finally she wrinkled her nose and held it up to Whelan.

  “What is that? Sir, do you know what this is?”

  Whelan pretended to be puzzled, then nodded. “I think it’s a kiwi fruit.”

  The woman looked at it. “Got fur on it.”

  There was just the faintest trace of horror in her voice. Whelan knew this lady had seen food grow a layer of fur before, and no one had had the nerve to tell her it was supposed to be there.

  “A kiwi fruit?” she repeated.

  “Yeah. An old one. They’re supposed to be sort of a brownish-green.” He looked at the crude lettering on the sign. “And they don’t cost a dollar anywhere but here.”

  The woman gave him a quick look, showed beautiful teeth in a grin that made her twenty years younger, and then laughed as she tossed the evil-looking kiwi fruit back into Sam’s basket. She p
eered into Sam’s store, where the shopkeeper could now be seen repackaging peaches so the bruised ones were on the bottom.

  “You never have to make a decision fast here, ma’am. You change your mind, you can come back next week and buy that same kiwi fruit, and it’ll still be a dollar.” She laughed and Whelan nodded toward Sam Carlos. “Watch him.”

  He gave her a little salute and walked on. There was a new feature to the door of his office building. Someone had kicked in one of the glass panes in the doorframe and it now sported a thin plywood plank. He stepped back and studied it. Somehow it went with the rest of the building, with the rest of Uptown. The brisk wind had trapped pieces of old newspaper and fast-food wrappers in the little doorway, and the local kids had covered part of the wall with their peculiar stylized graffiti. He looked up at the front of his building and could see streaks and smudges on the windows. The next time this building was washed would be the first time.

  He went inside and trotted up to the second floor.

  He was now the sole tenant of the second floor, with hopes of moving down soon to One, where the restrooms were. He hit the light switch and two bulbs came to life, one at each end of the hall, and he unlocked the frosted glass door that said PAUL WHELAN INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES.

  Yesterday’s mail sat in a pile on the floor. The mail now came so late in the afternoon that he frequently didn’t get to it till the next day. He tossed the khaki vest he was wearing over the back of the guest chair, sat down at his desk, opened a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and started going through yesterday’s mail.

  The door made a loud springy noise and Whelan looked up. His door didn’t open often, so any visitor was a novelty to him, still worth at least his curiosity. A man’s head pushed in through the half-opened door.

  “Mr. Whelan?”

  Paul Whelan dropped the letter he’d been about to open and nodded. “Yes. Come on in,” he said, but he had misgivings; the man looked like a door-to-door evangelist.

  No. He wasn’t carrying religious reading material. More likely a salesman. He was black, light-skinned, late twenties or early thirties, with a vague hardness in his face that put Whelan in mind of the young Malcolm X. He wore glasses and a dark blue suit over a white shirt starched enough to stand by itself. The rest of the ensemble was there—the dark narrow tie, the matching pocket square, the smooth black shoes—and the man was carrying a large black briefcase. Men dressed exactly like this boarded trains in squadrons at every station in Chicago each morning.

  He closed the door behind him and remained standing just inside the doorway, eyeing the office as though he’d made a mistake.

  “Changing your mind?” Whelan asked. The man looked confused for a moment. Then he seemed to realize he’d been staring and collected himself. He crossed the room, holding out his hand.

  Whelan got up and held out his. He saw the man’s eyes take in the loose-fitting blue shirt and the jeans.

  “Paul Whelan,” he said.

  “David Hill,” the man said. “We spoke one afternoon last week.” He smiled and attempted to break all the small bones in Whelan’s hand.

  “Have a seat,” Whelan said, mildly surprised. Hill was one of those people possessed of a deep, resonant voice, and Whelan had expected a much older man. Older and perhaps even white, for on the phone, David Hill had sounded like a white television announcer.

  The visitor looked at the guest chair and caught himself in the act of wiping off the seat.

  Whelan smiled and looked down at the small stack of paper on his desk. It had hardly been worth the effort, nothing in it to make a colleague jealous: an advertising flyer from one of a thousand companies selling car phones, a postcard from a new pizza place on Clark, and a letter from a man in Milwaukee making inquiries about Whelan’s fees. The letter was badly written, brief, and evasive; in eight lines, the writer mentioned Whelan’s reputation for finding young runaways and twice stated that he was writing only for information purposes. The real ones were easy to identify: the writers were embarrassed at their problems, uncomfortable at the notion of hiring a private investigator, strapped for cash, and miserable. This was the real thing. He put it aside to answer later. He’d get a little more information about the case and try to suggest that payment was a flexible thing.

  There was also an item in the mail that amused him: a note from the manager of the decrepit Lawrence Avenue building informing the tenants that the building would be fumigated against the horde of crawling things that had long since taken up residence in its walls and corners. Like all previous missives from the building management, the letter bore the unmistakable signs of someone struggling mightily with English and losing. It said, This building will be exterminated on Thursday, October 24. All tenants must vacate this building because of poison.

  He tossed the letter, shaking his head. The critters in this building were by now inured to any form of pesticide ever used; the only thing that would kill them was likely to kill all the people in the building as well.

  He looked at David Hill.

  The man sat at the very edge of the chair, clutching his briefcase in one hand. There was something in the unblinking intensity of his face that suggested he was about to spring.

  “As I said on the phone, Mr. Hill, I would have been perfectly happy to come to your office. There wasn’t any need for you to come up here.”

  Hill pursed his lips. “It was no trouble. I had business just up the street from here. The bank.”

  Whelan nodded but gave an inward shudder: lawyers and banks, a heavy combination. Sounded like trouble for somebody.

  Hill cleared his throat. “I was told you have a certain expertise in your field.”

  Whelan blinked. Whatever became of English? “It’s a pretty big field, and I wouldn’t want to claim expertise or even success in most of it. What were you looking for? From our conversation I got the impression that you wanted me for some routine investigative work.”

  Hill made a little wave with his free hand. “I understand that you’ve had no small success in finding people.” He spoke with the diction of a drama coach and modulated his tones like a stage actor. This was a man in love with his voice.

  Whelan nodded. “Yeah. I find people. Mostly young people, but not always. You have someone you want to find?”

  Hill frowned slightly. “I don’t.”

  “A client?”

  “Yes.” Hill looked down at his perfect shoes for a moment, and when he looked up, he wore his first smile of the meeting. “And this is not a young person we’re interested in locating. My client is attempting to find a family member. She…we believe he is in the Chicago area. He’s from here originally.”

  “And you’re from…the East Coast?” Whelan asked.

  Hill raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I’m from New York. How did you know that?”

  You talk like Marv Albert, Whelan thought, but said, “Just a hunch.”

  “I guess I’m not aware of it.”

  “Nobody’s aware of his accent. It’s why they’re so hard to lose. How long have you been in town?”

  “A little under six months.” Hill frowned and gave his head a shake. “But I’m not here to talk about my residency.”

  “Sorry. What can you tell me about the person your client is looking for?”

  “The information I have is irritatingly sketchy. My client has been living in another part of the country and, as I indicated, wishes to find a relative believed to be in the Chicago area.”

  “These people lost track of one another sometime in the past?” A nod from Hill. “And is there a particular reason why this person wants to find the relative?”

  “Why do you want to know that?” He frowned again and stared for a moment before speaking. “The detectives I’ve worked with have usually been willing to negotiate their fees and go about their business without—”

  “Without asking questions, right? But the detectives you’ve worked with haven’t been me. I like to know who I’m lo
oking for and why, and what will happen when I find them.”

  “There’s no money involved, no money whatever. These people…” The young attorney seemed to feel some disapproval of the client and his—no, her family. Hill had said “she.”

  “All right, it’s not a matter of a family estate.”

  “My client wishes to locate this individual for personal reasons, nothing more. The relative is believed to be here. The client is unfamiliar with Chicago. As I am myself.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “The man I am trying to locate is named Samuel Burwell. He is originally from Georgia, came north with his mother in the nineteen thirties. From what I’ve been told, he appears to have left town in the fifties, got into some sort of personal trouble, and returned sometime around ’sixty or ’sixty-one.”

  “How old would he be?”

  “Fifty-eight or fifty-nine.”

  “And does the client have evidence that this man is still alive?”

  “Well, there’s no evidence to the contrary. My client received a letter from him years ago. It was from Chicago, and he gave his address. The client attempted to contact him but the letter came back. He’d moved on. I gather he was something of a drifter.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then nothing. Now, after several years, the client wishes to establish whether or not this man is still alive.”

  “You have the last address?”

  “Yes, and other addresses the client remembered.”

  “Do you know the neighborhoods?”

  “West Side neighborhoods, Mr. Whelan. I have a rough idea of the geography but little more. Why? Are you assuming I would have a better chance at finding a man in these neighborhoods than a white man would?”

  “Not at all. There are parts of the West Side that are dangerous for anybody, and parts that are dangerous for nobody. But I don’t worry about that. I walk and talk like a cop and people generally assume that I’m still one. I was just wondering if you made any attempts to find him yourself.”