Change of Address

by Rick Polad

  I adjusted my legs. The cold air had tightened my muscles. “What is this paper?”

  “It’s a letter from Dad’s lawyers in London. Gladstone and Veatch. He’s buying some horses.”

  “Mind if I give it a try?” I offered.

  She gestured with her hand as we slowed for a red light. “Be my guest, but I’ve been through it three times.”

  She turned right on Jackson and headed east. Traffic was light. The city seemed to have slowed to a crawl after a week of hell.

  I opened the case and started to straighten the papers. First time through was fruitless. The second time I noticed one sheet seemed thicker than the rest. I wetted my finger and thumb, held the paper between them, and separated the two stuck sheets. Neither was from Gladstone and Veatch. But I figured if the humidity had stuck these two sheets together it could happen again so I kept looking till I found the offender near the bottom of the stack.

  “Got it, Kelly.”

  She glanced over the paper I was holding up. Without a word, she looked over her shoulder, slammed on the brake, downshifted, spun the wheel, and all of a sudden we were heading in the opposite direction.

  As if nothing unusual had happened, she calmly said, “Thanks, now what do you want to talk about?”

  “When I can talk again I’ll let you know! You want to pull over and help me get my fingernails out of your briefcase?”

  She laughed. This time it wasn’t at all airy. It was full and hearty and very sexy.

  “Sorry, just a reflex,” she said with a concerned look.

  “Sure, it’s just a reflex if you’re Richard Petty. Where the hell did you learn how to do that?”

  “I have an uncle who runs a race car driving school back home. I’ve learned from the best, including Richard Petty, by the way.”

  “That’s great. But next time give me some warning. Not that I don’t trust you, but these are busy city streets. Give me a chance to let my life flash before my eyes first.” I added race car driver to my Kelly list and my hunch was the list would keep growing.

  My heart had about recovered when a pat on the arm from the offending lady got it beating fast again. After walking away from Kathleen, I’d decided to keep my emotions under control, maybe let them out for a walk once in a while on a short leash. Kelly had snapped the leash.

  “So, what’s up?” she asked with no response from me. “Spencer!”

  I jerked. “What?”

  “I really am sorry. I really shook you, didn’t I?”

  “I was just thinking. What did you say?”

  “I asked what you wanted to talk about.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, there are several things. But the original one is I’d like you to put a name with a face.”

  “Any particular face?” She turned, slowly and legally, back onto Cicero and headed south, back towards the track.

  “Yeah. Brown hair, ponytail, scraggly, broken pointy nose, and dark eyes that look like they’re being sucked into a black hole.”

  Another laugh, one of those nice ones. “You do have a way with words. I wouldn’t quite have described him that way, but it sounds like Ronny Press.”

  I nodded. “That’s what I thought. I met him at the track. I asked him rather unexpectedly if that was his name and got no answer. Didn’t even flinch. He should’ve blinked or twitched or something. It was like I was talking to a post.”

  “I’m not surprised, Spence. The guy is scary. I haven’t found much human about him. I was so sure he just crawls under a rock at night, I followed him home once. That’s how I found out where he lives. I wouldn’t put anything past him and that’s why I worry about Bobby. Ronny is just using him and Bobby will do anything he says.”

  I told her about our morning conversation. Her response was unexpected.

  “Great. Now I’ve got two men to worry about.”

  “Excuse me?”

  A few blocks past the track, she turned onto the Stevenson Expressway and headed downtown. “Oh, I know, you’re a big boy and can take care of yourself and can probably beat the crap out of Ronny Press. But I have a feeling he doesn’t fight fair. And I have a feeling you do. And from what I’ve seen so far, I’d kinda like to keep you around for awhile.”

  Sure, drag that out. The reason I wasn’t following in Dad’s footsteps was he had had to fight fair, he had to stay within the system. I’d been hoping by doing it this way I could step outside the system once-in-a-while. Maybe not. And now that I knew she cared about me, should I admit I cared about her?

  She snuck a sideways glance in my direction. “This is where you’re supposed to say, preferably with a Bogie drawl, ‘Don’t worry, Doll, I ain’t goin’ nowhere and no tough guy’s gonna change that’.”

  I started to laugh and by the time I stopped I had made a decision. I still wasn’t sure what it was, that she could drive like Petty, did Bogart better than me, or had all the character traits of a Girl Scout. And it didn’t hurt that she’d never fit into the uniform. I gave in. I realized that I already trusted her and admitted, to myself at least, that I cared about her a lot. But, for now anyway, I couldn’t tell her that. But something about her made me want to take her up to meet Aunt Rose and sit and watch clouds and sailboats for a few years.

  “Somewhere along the line, I’m going to have to talk to Ronny Press. Maybe I’ll wait to tell you till after the fact.”

  “I’m not doubting your manhood. Just be careful. I’ve watched him and he’s dangerous.”

  “Do I have a sign on my back like a new driver? Careful, new detective, stay clear, can’t take care of himself.” It was one of those statements you wish you could take back as soon as you said it.

  We got off the expressway at Congress and Kelly slowed to a stop at a red light. I knew my comment was out of line and was waiting for an angry return, but she glanced at me with only a questioning look.

  As we pulled away from the light she asked, “Are you new at this?”

  I fidgeted with the briefcase trying to think of some manly way out of this and couldn’t. I didn’t like the role of a rank amateur, but I had no choice. “This is my first case,” I admitted. “But I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

  “That really has nothing to do with it, Spence. People who can take care of themselves die every day. It’s called life. Little kids who haven’t even learned how to swing a bat yet are being gunned down in the streets. There’s nothing certain about it. Just because you can take care of yourself doesn’t mean some crazy won’t take a shot at you while you’re strolling down the street.”

  “I know. I apologize. It’s just that I got the same lecture yesterday from my Polish baby-sitter.”

  “It wasn’t a lecture. It was concern. And I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who is.”

  “Is what?”

  “Concerned.” She smiled. “If I was the only one who cared about you, I’d begin to wonder about my taste.” She turned through traffic on south State Street into a semi-circular drive in front of an old, tall office building and stopped next to the walk. “Do me a favor? Stay with the car and if anyone wants it moved, drive it around the block?”

  I said I’d be glad to. She said she’d be back in ten minutes. She was. I asked her if she wanted to join me for a Cubs game and she gladly accepted. She asked who my Polish baby-sitter was. I told her about Stosh on the way to Wrigley. I explained he was a close friend of the family. I then asked why she hadn’t asked about the case I was working on. She said it was none of her business and if I wanted her to know, I’d tell her. I asked her to marry me. She said she would, but only if Buckner hit a game-winning home run in the ninth inning. I wondered if either of us was joking.

  We sat in the bleachers, soaked up the sun, drank a few beers, and enjoyed the aura of Wrigley Field. To most Cubs fans it didn’t matter if they won or not. They came to the park to watch baseball in one of the last old-time parks in the league. It was about sun and hot dogs and ivy on the walls
.

  The game was close and I started to worry when it was 3-2 Cards going into the last of the ninth. Buckner was due up fourth. In little league the guy on deck would yell, “Hey, Tommy, save my raps!” Tommy would usually strike out. After two quick outs, DeJesus came up and on the first pitch lined a screamer down the third base line. He was standing on second when the left fielder fired the ball to third. And Buckner was up. He took two balls and then hit a long drive down the left field line. It left the park, foul by a hair. I let out a “whew” and got an elbow in the ribs.

  “Want to call it off?” Kelly asked.

  “Nope. I’m no welcher. Are you aware of what is happening here?”

  “Yup. I’m watching a great ballgame and you’re flopping around like a bass that’s just realized it went after the wrong worm.”

  “Great. A fisherwoman too?”

  “A sports enthusiast of all types,” she said. “I grew up with four brothers and a gaggle of male cousins.”

  I didn’t think I could have sweated any more than I already was, but I did. And I didn’t stop after Buckner struck out. I had escaped, but not by a whole lot. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.

  I slid my beer cup under the seat and said, “Guess your bass slipped off the hook.”

  “Looks that way. But think of the story I’ll have about the big one that got away.” Her smile kinda made me wish I hadn’t.

  On the way back to the track, she filled me in on the strange goings-on there. There wasn’t much, mostly just a feeling she had. Strange people hanging around the stables and something about too much hay and then not enough hay. I didn’t quite understand and neither did she. But I had long ago learned to trust a woman’s intuition.

  She pulled up in back of my Mustang and wrote down her hotel number on the back of a card. I dreaded the thought of switching cars. Someone should come up with a way of keeping your car cool while it’s parked. Like maybe running the air conditioning off of solar power.

  I opened the door and asked if a guy got a kiss on the second date. With a twinkle in her eye, she said she was quite a sportswoman but she never kissed a fish before and she wasn’t going to start now. After admitting that I deserved that, I asked her for dinner Saturday. She accepted and I told her I’d pick her up at six.

  I stepped out into the heat that the coming of evening hadn’t done much about. As I opened my car door, I counted six times that my body had suffered through a thirty-degree swing in temperature today. That couldn’t be doing me any good.

  And, as far as Beef was concerned, I wasn’t doing much good either. I’d found Marty’s mysterious friend but that was it. Saturday I’d have to get to work.

  When I got back to the office, the answering machine was flashing. The message was Aunt Rose reminding me that Kathleen was coming on Wednesday. Jeez. Just what I needed.

  Between the heat and the hot dogs I wasn’t hungry. So I read a little and went to bed early with thoughts of Kelly Green making me absolutely crazy. But those thoughts soon turned to the dream I’d been having. It started with a long, dark, empty hallway. Then a few nights ago, my mom and dad were at the end of the hallway waving, and I ran towards them but never got any closer.

  Chapter 16

  What time does a hooker get out of bed? Yeah, I know, when the hour’s up.

  When I woke up Saturday morning, I was thinking of the normal wake up. I mean, they have to get some sleep sometime. If so, what time do they get up? I needed to talk to Elizabeth’s neighbors and it was something that was playing with my foggy mind.

  I took half a grapefruit out of my mini-fridge and thought about it while cutting out all the little sections. I love grapefruit, but eating it is such a pain in the ass. I was spoiled; Mom always used to gut it for me. By the time I got to sprinkling on the sugar, I had decided early afternoon would be best. That would give me time to stop by the bakery where Elizabeth had worked.

  Good news on the weather front. We were going to break the 100-degree string. Only a high of 98.

  By 10:30, I was trying to find a parking space anywhere within a block of the bakery. I settled for a block and a half and walked back through the weekend shoppers with arms full and children in tow.

  A nicely browned loaf of bread was painted on a swinging sign on an arm extending out over the door of the Golden Loaf Bakery. Opening the door, I was greeted by the wonderful smell of artery-clogging delectables. Unfortunately, I hadn’t considered the Saturday morning bakery rush and found myself surrounded by wall-to-wall people. From my vantage point I couldn’t even see the counter.

  I edged along the window and, standing at the corner of the glass showcase, waited for one of the girls to come within hearing range. A dark-haired teenager with her hair in a net, pimples on her face, and a white bag in her hand, came to within three feet of me and bent to reach the crescent rolls.

  When she stood up, I struck. “Excuse me, I’d like to talk to someone who knew...”

  “Hey! Wait till your number’s called like the rest of us or I’ll break your arm!”

  I looked to my right, ready to defend myself, and found a woman who looked as though she wouldn’t have had any trouble breaking my arm and wouldn’t have lost any sleep over it either. I apologized, found the number machine and took one. 50. They were on 26. Keeping my spot at the edge of the counter, I leaned against it and tried to guess who would order what.

  The crowd in front of me thinned out and not many people came in after me. Finally, about 11:15, the dark-haired girl called number 50. I waved my ticket and she asked what I wanted on her way over to me, chomping on gum in cadence with her swaying hips.

  “As I started to say about 20 minutes ago, I’d like to talk to someone who knew Elizabeth Williams.”

  “You don’t want to buy anything?”

  “No, I don’t think so. My weight has gone up just standing in line. Did you know her?”

  She glanced down the counter. Two young girls were filling orders and a boy was exchanging full trays for empty ones. She looked back at me. “We’re not supposed to be talking while we’re working.”

  “If you can give me just a minute, I’d appreciate it.”

  She glanced away again. “It would help if you bought something.”

  I sighed. “Okay, give me a jelly donut.”

  “We’re all out.”

  “Then put your hand inside the case and give me the first thing you run into. Did you know Elizabeth?”

  Crescent roll. “Well, we worked together, but I didn’t know her very well. Not as good as Rita anyway.”

  “And Rita is?”

  “They were best friends. That’ll be twenty-eight cents.”

  I reached in my pocket and pulled out a buck. Handing it to her, I asked, “Is Rita here?”

  “Sure, she’s in the back.” She rang up the sale and handed me the change. I was surprised it was all there.

  “Would you ask her if I could talk to her, please?”

  Just then a woman, late thirties, came out of the back with two trays of dinner rolls.

  Tilting her head and snapping her gum, dark hair said, “That’s her, ask her yourself.”

  Skipping the smart-ass comment that was on the tip of my tongue as well as the thank you, I moved down the counter.

  Rita was busy balancing one tray on the edge of the case while she slid the other one in.

  “Nice job,” I said in my best ingratiating manner. “Didn’t spill one roll.”

  The look I got would’ve frozen molten lava.

  “If you want to buy something, you need to take a number, sir.”

  “No, no, I already paid my dues. See?” I held up my trophy bag. “What I’d like is to talk to you for a minute, if you could spare one.”

  “What about?”

  “Elizabeth Williams. I understand you and she were friends.”

  She gave me a disgusted look. “I thought we were. What’s it to you?”

  “I’m a private investigator. I’d l
ike to talk to people who knew her.”

  She wiped her hands on a powdery apron. “You trying to find who killed her?”

  I wasn’t sure what I was trying to find, so, at the risk of losing any credibility I had, that’s what I told her.

  A “who the hell are you trying to fool” look slowly formed on her face. She asked who I was working for.

  “My bills are being paid by her brother, but my efforts are guided by the best interests of her daughter, Marty.”

  Right answer. Her eyes softened and she lost the attitude.

  “Okay, give me five minutes and we can talk over lunch. You want a sandwich?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got a roll.”

  Three little wrought iron tables with pink tablecloths stood against the wall. Each had two matching wrought iron chairs. I picked the table farthest from the door. Taking out my roll, I flattened the bag and used it as a plate. In a few minutes, Rita joined me.

  Letting out a tired sigh, she said, “Saturdays are the worst. I’m running all day and these bones aren’t getting any younger.”

  “They don’t look that old.”

  “Thanks, but you’ll have to take my word for how old they feel. You have a name?”

  “I’m sorry. Spencer. Spencer Manning.” I reached across the table and she shook my hand.

  “Okay, Spencer Manning. I’ve got half an hour. Sure I can’t get you something else?”

  “No thanks, this’ll do.”

  She bit into a tuna sandwich. I played with my roll. “You thought you were friends?”

  Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she said, “We were friends. We were very close. I guess I’m still angry at the... well, the turn her life took.”

  I was confused. “It wasn’t her fault she was killed.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “That’s not what I mean, but I’m not quite sure I believe that either. Sometimes the decisions we make lead us to things that are not, well, pleasant. Are you aware of her part-time job?”

  “Oh, I see. Yes, I am.”

  “Well, we argued about that for days, but she kept saying she had no other alternative. I will never believe that. We lived in the same building, a nice place on Paulina, and then she just up and moved to that...” Tears welled up in her eyes. “It just kills me that she made Marty live in that hole with those goings-on.” She dabbed her eyes with the napkin. “How is Marty?”