Killer on Argyle Street

by Michael Raleigh

  When she came back, she stretched her long body on the couch and watched him for a long time, the green eyes half closed. She looked pleased with herself, and comfortable in a way that had come late to their relationship. Whelan went over and sat down on the couch beside her. He was still chilled from the street and she felt almost feverish to him. He leaned against her hip and said nothing.

  “Stick around, soldier. This is the best place for you to be. It’s why you came here tonight.”

  “I know that.”

  She turned slightly to rest on her back and smiled. He started to say something but she reached out and grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down on top of her, then met him halfway in a kiss.

  Ten

  The sun was making a claim to the street and if he ignored the bite in the air Whelan could almost convince himself it was finally spring.

  It’s spring in my heart, he thought, but I’ll never admit it.

  He stopped in the Wilson Donut Shop under the El station and it was one of those mornings when he knew half the people there—Ruth the waitress and Wiley, a chain-smoking old man he’d used for information, and Spiros slinging ham steaks and hash browns over the hot grill, and he was happy to see them all.

  All men are my brothers, he said.

  He got a cup of coffee and looked around. Over by a window, staring out at the street with his mournful blue eyes, was old Tom Cheney of Graybull, Wyoming. He jumped slightly when Whelan put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Easy there, cowboy. I’m on your side.”

  The old man grinned. “Sit down and take a load off.”

  “How you been, Tom?”

  “Gettin’ by, gettin’ old, gettin’ ornery. How about you?” Cheney squinted slightly through the smoke of his cigarette.

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Working?”

  “Always. Not that I have much to show for it.”

  “Never knew that to matter much to you.” The old man leaned back and gave him a quizzical look. “You got a woman somewhere, Whelan?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You’re not deaf yet. I said, you got a woman somewhere?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  Tom Cheney laughed. “You’re just setting there, grinning at everybody, grinning out the window. You’re in love or you’ve lost your mind, one or the other. So you tell me, are you in love, or have you gone simple on us?”

  “Probably both.”

  The old man nodded and sipped at his coffee for a second. “I knew a fella once, this was back in Sheridan, long time ago. Rodeo rider, made the whole circuit, all the way from Prescott up to Alberta, Canada. He had the nicest gal you’d ever want to see, right there in Sheridan. Pretty, too. They kept company for years and years, and everybody was waiting on them to tie that old knot, and it never happened. This fella, he wasn’t real excited about the idea, and the gal, she just kept waiting.

  “Finally, when this had been going on for years, the gal just up and left him. She run off and found herself a schoolteacher down in Laramie, and this old cowboy never knew what hit him. She was getting on fifty years old, and I guess he thought she’d got to where she’d always be there for him, marriage or no. He was wrong.”

  “Is there a point to this?”

  “Oh, no, no. I just felt like telling a story, is all.”

  “I’ll bet. If I tell you I’m not planning to let this one get away, will you cease and desist from the sermons?”

  “Wasn’t any sermon at all. You know how old men babble.” And Tom Cheney fixed him with a look that told him he’d been instructed on the expected behavior.

  He left the doughnut shop with a second cup of coffee and a promise to take Tom Cheney to the fights at the Aragon or a Cub game.

  Whelan was still smiling at the world when he reached his office building. The sun was still shining and there were neither dead squirrels nor warring motorists in front. What there was in front, was a gray Caprice.

  “Damn,” Whelan said.

  Detective Albert Bauman leaned his bulk against the car and puffed at one of his dark little cigars. Bauman was dressed for the new weather. He’d tossed the overcoat and fished a blue-and-white plaid sport coat from the dark terrors of his closet, and under this he wore a knit shirt that would have embarrassed a peacock. He was smiling at Whelan.

  This is not good, Whelan told himself.

  “Top of the morning, Snoopy.”

  “Mine just went south. Where’s your conscience?”

  “He’s got a personal problem with a member of the opposite sex. I left him hanging on the phone with her, mumbling into it about how they need to work things out. Sounded to me like she wasn’t buying any of it.”

  “She probably caught him showing some other lady his collection of chest hair. You need to see me, or are you just sunbathing?”

  “Yeah, we oughtta talk.”

  Whelan motioned for him to come in, then pushed his way into the hall. The first floor was fully lit and he could hear voices down the hall, the sounds of business being transacted, of people interacting. Whelan had lights on his floor now but there were no noises because there were never any people. Thus far, Nowicki was the only human being Whelan had ever seen going into or coming out of A-OK Novelties.

  “How come they aren’t lined up waiting for you, Shamus? These other guys seem to do a business.” Bauman grinned, then noticed the new tenant. “What the fuck are ‘novelties’?”

  “I think they’re the same thing as ‘notions.’ ”

  “That helps me.”

  Whelan put the key into the lock. “How come you waited outside? You usually just let yourself in.”

  “I’m trying to mend my ways. Landini thinks B-and-E is beneath the dignity of a police officer.”

  Inside the office, Whelan slid into his chair and Bauman pulled out the visitor’s chair and dropped two hundred and twenty pounds on it. The chair sighed.

  “So what’s up?”

  “I thought we’d talk some more about this name you give me yesterday. Whitey.”

  “What about it?”

  “I think I figured out who you’re talking about.”

  “You know, I thought you might. You going to give me that?”

  “I thought we’d have an exchange of ideas.”

  “I haven’t had one in weeks.”

  “Sure you have. Your wheels are always turning.”

  “What do you want?”

  “First of all, where’d you get Lester?”

  “Told you that. A street kid.”

  “Where?”

  “Outside the Dunkin’ Donuts at Clark and Belmont.”

  He watched Bauman weigh and process this information.

  “Got a name for this kid?”

  Yeah, I do, he thought, but you have to get your own. He reached back to his conversation with the group-home workers to come up with a name. “Sonny. I talked to a couple of girls and they pointed this kid out to me, said he used to know Tony Blanchard.” Bauman’s eyes seemed to take on a little glow. He nodded for Whelan to continue. “He gave me Lester’s name. I was under the impression that Lester actually worked for Jimmy Lee Hayes but I guess I was wrong.”

  Bauman hesitated before finally saying, “Yeah, you were. The other thing, where’s Lester? Nobody seems to know where he is.”

  “I haven’t talked to him.”

  “Since when?”

  “Yesterday morning. I tried to get him to tell me about this Whitey but he wouldn’t give me anything.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have anything to give you.”

  “Sure.”

  Bauman ground out his little cigarillo in the ashtray, bending it into an L-shaped casualty but not quite putting it out.

  “And where was this?”

  “The restaurant on Irving and Sheridan where he hangs out. The Crystal something-or-other.”

  “And that’s the last time you saw him?”

  “No. I followed him late
r on, I thought he’d lead me someplace interesting.”

  “And did he?”

  “Yeah, to the Farm-in-the-Zoo.”

  Bauman winced. “I hate that fucking place. Smells like the place my ma used to go to buy chickens. This Polack place on Milwaukee, nobody even spoke English. You could get chickens cheap there. They were alive when you come in, and you’d point to the one you wanted, and this Polish lady would fucking assassinate the chicken and they’d pluck it. I hated it. They had rabbits there, too, but I didn’t know what for. My ma told me they were for pets, but later on I found out they were for hassenpfeffer and shit like that. I can still smell that place.” He shook his head at the memory, then gave Whelan a look of curiosity. “So what did old Lester do at the Farm-in-the-Zoo? Did he feed the goats, Whelan?”

  “What he did was, he lost the private detective who was following him. He went in and out of the buildings and I think he doubled back to Clark Street while I was watching the pigs fight over lunch.”

  Bauman surprised him with a laugh. It was more a snorting sound, but it was genuine. Bauman rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and shook his head. When he looked at Whelan again, his dark gray eyes were moist. “Lester? Old Lester left you in the zoo? You sure he didn’t, like, put on his Keds and break into a sprint, Whelan?”

  “Have a good time, Bauman. He shook me, but I can follow a couple of guys in a gray Caprice till the cows come home.”

  “Not if I knew somebody might be tailing me.”

  Whelan half turned in the swivel chair and looked out at Lawrence Avenue. They were putting something new up on the marquee of the Aragon.

  “Where do you think Lester was going?”

  “No idea.”

  “Gonna have a little meet with somebody, you think?”

  “That’s what I was assuming.”

  “And now we can’t find him. Wonder what that means.”

  Whelan sensed that Bauman was changing gears, and waited.

  “Those kids told me this guy was looking for Tony Blanchard. Why would that be?”

  Bauman’s gaze came back into the room. “Ain’t any big mystery about that. I think Jimmy Lee wanted to find the kid bad. I think the kid knew who was taking out Jimmy’s people.”

  “How would the kid know that?”

  “I think he saw. I think he saw one of ’em getting whacked.” Bauman punctuated his statement with a nod. “What I wanna ask you, Whelan, is, have you seen this guy Whitey?”

  “No. I’ve got a description, that’s all. Old guy, big teeth, whitish blond hair that sticks up. One kid told me he looks like a skull.”

  Bauman seemed amused. “A skull, huh? That’s nice. These kids, they got a way with words. So you haven’t seen ’im yet?”

  “Nope. And I’m not sure I want to. People seem to be a little nervous talking about him.”

  “What people?” Bauman stared at him.

  “The kids that saw him. Lester—I don’t think Lester liked dealing with him much.”

  Bauman nodded slowly, still watching him. “That all you got?”

  “All I’ve got now.” He waited a beat, then tossed out a new card. “No, I’ve got one other thing, you maybe already know this. Jimmy Lee Hayes’s brother.”

  Bauman blinked slowly. “No, Whelan, I don’t. Isn’t that amazing. Tell me about this brother.”

  “Younger brother, I think he is. Name’s Bobby. He’s kind of a nervous type. Blondish hair, blue eyes, thin, about five nine. For all I know, he’s a dead ringer for Jimmy.”

  “Nah. Jimmy’s big, got dark hair full of grease and shit, probably thinks he looks like Elvis. So where’d you find this guy?”

  “Hangs out in a saloon on Clark Street over by Chase Park. Ed and Ronda’s.”

  “Clever name for a saloon. So how’d you come by this information?”

  “Lester ran into him.”

  “He didn’t say nothing to me.” Bauman gave him the lizard-on-a-rock stare.

  “When did you talk to Lester?”

  “I don’t know. Couple weeks ago, why?”

  “That’s why you don’t know about him. He just got into town.”

  Bauman nodded slowly. “Picked kind of a bad time to come for a visit, huh?”

  “You could say that. Anyhow, Lester told me he ran into the brother in this tavern.”

  “We’ll have to check out this Bobby Hayes. Thanks, Whelan.”

  “Got anything for me?”

  Bauman raised his eyebrows. “Whaddya need me for? You seem to be doing good. Well, I gotta go protect Mr. Landini from his social life. You keep in touch, okay?”

  “Absolutely.” Whelan watched Bauman lift his bulk out of the chair and leave the office, the scent of Right Guard mixed with cigar smoke trailing behind him.

  Okay, Whelan thought. How much did you not tell me this time?

  The young woman was on duty at the Carlos again when Whelan came in.

  “Is Mr. Dixon in?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ll buzz him for you. Your name?”

  “Whelan.” She made a call on the hotel desk phone and watched Whelan as it rang. She shook her head. “He’s not answering.”

  “Do you know whether he ever came in last night?”

  “No—another girl had the desk during the night.”

  “All right. Well, I already gave you my card. Thanks.”

  He cruised. He hit Lester’s haunts and made the circuit from Addison to Foster, up Sheridan and back on Clark, and the waitress at the greasy spoon, the bartender down the street, the vendor who sold Lester his green sheet, all shook their heads when Whelan asked about the old fence. As he drove back up Sheridan toward his office, he turned up Windsor and made a slow pass by the rooming house where Les had made his first stop in the cab. He pulled up in front and looked the building over, lit a cigarette and hit a radio button that earned him Maynard Ferguson playing to a wild crowd. In a first-floor window next door, a thin-faced man watched the street, his chin cupped in one hand. The windows of the rooming house were unpopulated, but in several there were the unmistakable signs of a rooming house: ketchup bottles and milk cartons and jars of mayonnaise on the window sills: cheap refrigeration. When he’d been watching the building for almost a half hour without seeing signs of life, he got out of the car, stretched, and went up the broken sidewalk.

  The glass in the door was wire-reinforced but the wood was splintered along the lock, where someone had kicked it in. Whelan gave it a push and it swung open, and the smell of stale wine and body odor assailed him. He heard and felt the crunch of broken glass to go along with the smell, and felt sorry for the poor soul who had dropped his bottle.

  He was turning to look at the mailboxes when he sensed rather than saw the other man in the corner of the hall. He spun around and the other man gave a startled movement backward.

  “Shit,” the man said. As he reached behind him, seeking the wall, the man held out a worn-looking cane, pointing it at Whelan.

  “Easy,” Whelan said. He held up both hands, palms out. “Take it easy.”

  The only sound was the man’s panting. He kept his cane in front of him and his eyes on Whelan’s and said nothing. His body seemed to be bent over to one side and he was missing all his front teeth on top. The man was in his sixties, perhaps older, and like most of the homeless was still dressed for winter despite the warm spell: thick red knit cap and a heavy gray woollen coat. Balls of grayish lint clung to the hat. He’d carry this load of clothes around till there was no further chance of the cold taking him off his guard.

  “I’m just looking for somebody. A man named Whitey. Do you know the people in this building?”

  The old man curled his lip slightly, exposing the black gap in his mouth, shook his head. After a few seconds during which he blinked many times, he began to lower the cane.

  “Do you live here?”

  Another shake of the head, and the look of a man who’s been rousted from a thousand doorways. The cane touched
the tile floor and he put weight on it.

  Slowly, the man edged toward the door, never taking his eyes off Whelan. His gaze seemed to halt at Whelan’s shirt and then he nodded.

  “Smoke?”

  Whelan patted the pack in his shirt pocket. “Yeah, sure.” He fished out the pack, shook out a cigarette and held it toward the old man. The man took it and Whelan came up with a match.

  “I’m looking for a man in his fifties or sixties, white hair, tinted glasses. Wears a light-colored raincoat. Seen anybody like that?”

  The man tried to look interested, squinted, then shook his head. Another puff on the cigarette brought him a coughing jag. Still coughing, he moved toward the door, took one final look in Whelan’s direction and was gone.

  Whelan scanned the row of brass mailboxes for names. On one, MOORE had been scratched with a key or nail; RAYFIELD had been written in blue ink on first aid tape over another. The rest were blank, and several had been forced open. One mailbox appeared to have had its label peeled off recently. A building where the mail, such as it was, would be dropped in a pile on the bottom step. The smart ones would have theirs delivered somewhere else. Two names and he didn’t even know the one he was looking for. Perhaps this was just a place where Les was supposed to pick up the note. He shook his head and went out. A few feet from the door he found a gangway that ran to the alley behind the building. It brought him into a barren little courtyard strewn with refuse. A man in dirty blue coveralls was attempting to pick it up but his heart wasn’t in his work. Whelan watched him take single pieces of paper and march doggedly to the dumpster, drop them in and return for more, all in slow motion. At this rate, he would have the yard cleared by century’s end.

  “Excuse me?”

  The man looked up and dropped the cardboard container he’d just picked up. “Yes, sir?”

  “Do you know the tenants in this building?”

  “Nope.”

  “Could you tell me if you’ve seen a man here, with white hair and glasses, clean-shaven. Big teeth. His hair is kind of bushy.”

  The man shook his head. “They’re all old.”

  “Who manages the building?”

  “Mr. Blakely.”