“But I did have something to feel guilty about,” I said aloud. “You weren’t that far off the mark, you know-I only pressured Chigwell because he made me angry. So maybe I gave the final turn to his screw.”
“So maybe we can both learn a little from this, to look before we leap.” Max stood up to reveal a magnificent array of flowers in a Chinese porcelain bowl. “I know you leave tomorrow, but take these with you for some cheer while your poor muscles heal.”
Max was an expert on oriental porcelain. The pot looked as though it had come from his personal collection. I tried to let him know how much the gesture pleased me; he accepted my thanks with his usual cheerful courtesy and left.
26
Back to Home Base
I had a new roommate in the morning, a twenty-year-old named Jean Fishbeck whose lover had shot at her and hit a shoulder before she got him in the stomach. The cosmetic surgery patient had moved three rooms down the hall.
I got the whole shooting story, with loud-pitched expletives, at midnight when Ms. Fishbeck came in from postop. At seven, when the morning shift came in to see if we’d expired in the night, she vented her rage at being awakened in the clarion nasal of the northwest side. By the time Lotty showed up at eight-thirty I was ready to go anywhere, even the psychiatric wing, just to get away from the obscenities and cigarettes.
“I don’t care what shape I’m in,” I told Lotty irritably. “Just sign my discharge and let me out of here. I’ll leave in my nightgown if I have to.”
Lotty cocked an eye at the crumpled chewing-gum wrappers and cigarette pack on the floor. She raised both eyebrows as a stream of profanity poured from behind the closed curtain while an intern tried to conduct an exam.
“The floor head told me you’d been rough on your roommate yesterday and that they were giving you someone more suited to your personality. Did you vent your anger by handing her a few punches?” She started probing my shoulder muscles.
“Ow, damn you, that hurts. And the word you want is throw, not hand Or land, maybe.”
Lotty used her ophthalmoscope on my eyes. “We gave you X rays and a CT scan after we stabilized you on Wednesday. By some miracle you don’t have any cracks or breaks. Some more physical therapy over the next few days should help your sore muscles, but don’t expect them to recover overnight-tissue tears can take as long as a year to heal if you don’t rest the muscles properly. And yes, you can go home-you can do the therapy as an outpatient. If you give me your keys, I’ll have Carol bring you some clothes at lunchtime.”
I’d tied the keys through the laces of my running shoes before setting out on Wednesday. Lotty had rescued them before giving orders to trash what clothes I’d still been wearing on arrival at Beth Israel.
She stood up and looked at me gravely. When she spoke again her Viennese accent was pronounced. “I would ask that you not be reckless, Victoria. I would ask it except that you seem to be in love with danger and death. You make life very hard for those who love you.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes very dark in her angular face, then gave her head a little shake and left.
My twenty-four-hour character summary wasn’t too appealing: a coldhearted bitch in love with death and danger who drove timid cosmetic surgery patients to the nursing staff for refuge. When an orderly came by an hour or so later to take me down for physical therapy, I went along morosely. The normal hospital routine, which depersonalizes patients at its expense, usually drives me into a frenzy of uncooperative sarcasm. Today I took it like a good little lump.
After my physical therapy I myself took refuge from my vituperous roommate, waiting in the lounge for my clothes with a stack of old Glamours and Sports Illustrated Carol Alvarez, the nurse and chief backup at Lotty’s clinic, arrived a little before two. She greeted me warmly, with a hug, a kiss, and little exclamations of horror over my ordeal.
“Even Mama has been praying to the Blessed Mother for your safety, Vic.” That was something, indeed-Mrs. Alvarez usually looked on me with silent contempt.
Carol had brought jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of boots. The clothes and underwear seemed unnaturally clean. I’d forgotten leaving them in the laundry on Wednesday. Apparently one of my downstairs neighbors had dumped them in a wet heap outside my apartment door with an angry note -Carol had generously taken the time to run them back through the machine.
She helped me quickly with the discharge routine. Since she knew a lot of the nurses on the floor, their hostility toward me cooled a little when they saw me with her. With me carrying Max’s oriental bowl and Carol the geraniums, we made our way through the long corridors to the staff parking lot behind the hospital.
My head seemed stuffed with cotton, remote not just from my body but from the day around me. It had been only two days since my ill-fated run, but I felt as though I’d been away from the world for months. My boots felt new and strange and I couldn’t get used to the sensation of the jeans zipped close to my body. At that they weren’t as close as they used to be-the last few days seemed to have taken a good five pounds off me.
Mr. Contreras was waiting for me when we got to my apartment on Racine. He had tied a big red ribbon around Peppy’s neck and groomed her auburn hair until it shone in the dull gray day. Carol turned me over to them with another kiss and left us at the door.
I would have much preferred to be alone to order my thoughts, but he had earned the right to fuss. I submitted to his ushering me into the armchair, pulling off my boots, and tucking a blanket tenderly around my legs and feet.
He’d fixed an elaborate tray of fruit and cheese, which he set next to me along with a pot of tea. “Now, cookie, I’m leaving her highness here to keep you company. You want anything, you just call me. I printed my number next to the phone so you don’t have to look it up. And before you go off sticking your head into trouble, you let me know. I ain’t gotta hover over you-I know you hate that-but someone’s gotta know where to come looking for you. You promise me that or I’m going to have to hire me a detective just to follow you around.”
I held out a hand. “It’s a deal, Uncle.”
The honorary title moved him so much that he spoke sternly to the dog, outlining her duties to me, before slapping me on my sore shoulder and moving off down the stairs.
I’m not much of a tea drinker, but it was pleasant to stay where I’d been planted. I poured myself a cup, mixed it with a lot of heavy cream, and alternately fed grapes to myself and the dog. She sat on her haunches watching me with unwavering eyes, panting slightly, taking her guard duties seriously, assuring herself that I wasn’t going to disappear again without her.
I forced my weary mind back to the time before my assault. Only three days earlier, but the neurons moved as though they’d been rusted over for years. When every muscle aches it’s hard to remember feeling whole.
I’d been warned out of South Chicago Monday night. On Wednesday I’d been dispatched most efficiently. That meant something I’d done Tuesday had brought an immediate re action. I frowned, trying to remember what all happened that day.
I’d found Jurshak’s insurance report and talked to Ron Kappelman about it. I’d also left a message for young Art implying I had the material. These were tangible documents and it was tempting to think they showed something so damaging that people would kill to keep them secure. It might be difficult to pry the truth from Kappelman if he was concealing something, but Jurshak was such a fragile young man, I ought to be able to pound the facts from him. If only I could find him. If he was still alive.
Still, I shouldn’t concentrate on those two at the expense of the other people involved. Curtis Chigwell, for example. Early Tuesday I’d sicced Murray Ryerson on him and twelve hours later he’d tried to kill himself And then there was the big shark, Gustav Humboldt himself Whatever Chigwell knew, whatever they were concealing about Joey Pankowski and Steve Ferraro, Gustav Humboldt had full knowledge of Otherwise he would never have
sought me out to try to get me to swallow lies about two insignificant workers in his worldwide empire. And the insurance report Nancy had found dealt with his company. That must mean something-I just didn’t yet know what.
Finally, of course, there was little Caroline. Now that I’d worked out that she was protecting Louisa, I figured I could get her to talk. She might even know what Nancy had seen in the insurance report. She was my best starting point.
I took the blanket from my legs and got up. The dog immediately sprang to her feet, waving her tail-if I stood up, it was clearly time to go running. When she saw me just move to the phone, she flopped down in depression.
Caroline was in a meeting, the SCRAP receptionist told me. She was not to be disturbed.
“Just write the following on a note and take in into her-‘Louisa’s life story on the front page of the Herald-Star?’ And add my name. I guarantee she’ll be on the phone within nanoseconds.”
I had to cajole a little more, but the woman finally agreed. I carried the phone back over to the easy chair. Peppy eyed me in disgust, but I wanted to be sitting down for the coming blast.
Caroline came on the line without preamble. I let her rant at me unchecked for some minutes, shredding my character, expressing remorse that I’d risen unchastened from the swamp, even lamenting that I didn’t now lie buried in the mud.
At that I decided to interrupt. “Caroline, that was vile and offensive. If you had any imagination or sensitivity, you would never have thought such a thing, let alone said it.”
She was silent for a minute, then said gruffly. “I’m sorry, Vic. But you shouldn’t have sent me messages threatening Ma.”
“Right, kiddo. I understand. I understand that the only reason you’ve been behaving more like a horse’s rear end than usual is because someone was gunning for Louisa. I need to know who and why.”
“How do you know?” she blurted.
“It’s your character, sweetie. It just took me awhile to remember it. You’re manipulative, you’ll bend the rules any old way to get what you want, but you’re no chicken. You’d run scared for only one reason.”
She was silent for another long moment. “I’m not going to say if you’re right or wrong,” she finally said. “I just can’t talk about it. If you’re right, you can understand why. If you’re wrong-I guess it’s because I’m a horse’s rear end.”
I tried to will my personality into the phone. “Caroline, this is important. If someone told you they’d hurt Louisa unless you got me to stop hunting for your father, I need to know it. Because it means there’s a tie-in between Nancy’s death and my looking at Joey Pankowski and Steve Ferraro.”
“You’d have to sell me and I don’t think you can.” She was serious, more mature than I was used to hearing her.
“At least let me give it a shot, babe. Come up here some time tomorrow? As you can imagine, I’m not too fit right now or I’d zip down to see you tonight.”
She finally, reluctantly, agreed to come by in the afternoon. We hung up in greater amity than I’d have thought possible ten minutes earlier.
27
The Game’s Afoot
An annoying lassitude gripped my body. Even the short conversation with Caroline had tired me out. I poured some more tea and flicked on the tube. With spring training still two weeks away, there wasn’t much doing during the day. I moved from soap to soap to a tearful prayer meeting-Tammy Faye’s sobbing successor-to Sesame Street and turned the set off in disgust. It was too much to expect me to sort papers or pay bills in my enfeebled state; I wrapped myself in my blanket and lay down on the sofa for a nap.
I woke up about twenty minutes before Kappelman was due and stumbled into the bathroom to rinse my face with cold water. Someone had stolen all the dirty towels, scrubbed the sink and bathtub, and tidied up odds and ends of toiletries and makeup. Peeping into my bedroom, I was staggered to see the bed made and clothes and shoes put away. I hated to admit it, but the tidy rooms were cheering to my sore spirits.
I’d hidden Nancy’s documents in the stacks of music on the piano. The elves had carefully put the music inside the piano bench, but the insurance material lay undisturbed between the Italienisches Liederbuch and Mozart’s Concert Arias.
I was picking my way through “Che no sei capace”- whose title line seemed admirably apt, in that I understood nothing-when Kappelman rang the bell. Before I could get to the intercom Mr. Contreras had bounded out to the lobby to inspect him. When I opened my door I could hear their voices in the stairwell as they came up together-Mr. Contreras trying to tamp down the suspicions he felt toward any man who visited me, Kappelman trying to suppress his impatience with the escort.
My neighbor started talking to me as soon as his head cleared the last turn and he caught sight of me. “Oh, hi there, cookie. You have a good rest? I’m just coming to pick up her highness here, get her some air, a little food. You weren’t feeding her cheese, were you? I meant to tell you-she can’t tolerate it.”
He came into the room and started inspecting Peppy for signs of illness. “You don’t want to go walking her alone, now, nor going off by yourself on one of your runs. And don’t let this young guy here keep you going past when you’ve got yourself worn out. And you want any help with anything, me and the dog’ll be at the ready; you just give us a holler.”
With this thinly veiled warning, he collected Peppy. He hovered at the door with more admonitions until I finally thrust him gently onto the landing.
Kappelman looked at me sourly. “If I’d known the old man was going to investigate my character, I’d’ve brought my own attorney along. I’d say you were safe if you kept him with you-anyone attacks you he’ll talk them to death.”
“He just likes to imagine I’m sixteen and he’s both my parents,” I said with more indulgence than I felt. Owing my life to Mr. Contreras didn’t keep me from finding him a little wearing.
I offered Kappelman a drink. His first choice was beer, which I rarely have in the house, followed by bourbon. I finally unearthed a bottle of that from the back of my liquor cupboard.
“An old South Sider like you ought to be ready with a shot and a beer,” he grumbled.
“I guess it’s just one more sign of how much I’ve abandoned my roots.” I took him into the living room, folding up the blanket I’d left on the couch so he could sit there. My place was never going to be the equal of his Pullman showcase, but at least it was neat. I didn’t get any compliments, but then he couldn’t be expected to know how it usually looked.
After a few polite nothings about my health and his day, I handed Nancy’s packet to him. He pulled a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his shabby jacket and carefully went through the document a page at a time. I sipped my whiskey and read the day’s papers, trying not to fidget.
When he’d finished he put his glasses away with a little gesture of puzzled helplessness. “I don’t know why Nance had these. Or why she thought they might have been important.”
I gritted my teeth. “Don’t tell me they’re completely meaningless.”
“I don’t know.” He hunched a shoulder. “You can see what they are as easily as I can. I don’t know that much about insurance, but it looks as though Xerxes might have been paying more than these other guys and Jurshak was trying to persuade the company”-he looked at the document searching for the name-“Mariners Rest to lower their rates. It obviously meant something to Nancy, but it sure doesn’t to me. Sorry.”
I scowled horribly, causing the kind of wrinkles they warn starlets against. “Maybe the point isn’t the data but the fact that Jurshak handled the insurance. Maybe still does. He wouldn’t be my first choice as either an agent or a fiduciary.”
Ron smiled a little. “You can afford to be superior-you aren’t trying to do business in South Chicago. Maybe Humboldt felt it was easier to go with the flow on Jurshak than use an independent agent. Or maybe it was genuine altruism, trying to give business to the community where he set up his plan
t. Jurshak wasn’t very big in South Chicago, let alone the city, back in ’63.”
“Maybe.” I swirled my glass, watching the golden liquid change to amber as it picked up the lamplight. Art and Gustav doing good for the good of the community as a whole. I could see it on a billboard, but not so easily in real life. But I’d grown up around Art so I followed revelations about him-deals that made him or his partner, Freddy Parma, a director-and insurance provider-for a local trucking company, a steel firm, a rail freight hauler, and other outfits. Campaign contributions flowed from these companies in a most gratifying stream. Mariners Rest Assurance Company might not know these things, but Ron Kappelman ought to.
“You’re looking awfully sinister.” Kappelman interrupted my reverie. “Like you think I’m an ax murderer.”
“Just my coldhearted bitch expression. I was wondering how much you know about Art Jurshak’s insurance business.”
“You mean stuff like Mid-States Rail? Of course I do. Why do you-” He broke off mid-sentence, his eyes widening slightly. “Yes. In that light, going to Jurshak for fiduciary assistance doesn’t make much sense. You think Jurshak has something on Humboldt?”
“Could be the other way around. Could be Humboldt has something to cover up and he figures Jurshak is the man to do it for him.”
I wished I knew if I could trust Kappelman-he shouldn’t have needed me to spell that out for him. I took the documents back and looked at them broodingly.
After a pause Kappelman smiled at me quizzically. “How about dinner before I head south? You fit enough to go out?”
Real food. I thought I could make the effort. Just in case Kappelman was leading me back to my pals in the black raincoats, I went into the bedroom to get my gun. And make a call on the extension by my bed.
Young Art’s mother answered the phone; her son still hadn’t shown up, she told me in a worried whisper. Mr. Jurshak didn’t know yet that he had disappeared, so she’d appreciate my keeping it quiet.
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