He paused at the landing to the first floor and looked at the offices on both sides of the hall: a small travel agency whose continued existence puzzled him—no one he knew in Uptown took vacations; two social service agencies—the death sentence on any building was the day it was forced to rent its space to welfare agencies; a baby photographer; two small Korean importers; an old man who rented out theatrical props. Whelan counted the days for one of them to move out so he could be forever free of the hated second floor. Other than the Whelan Investigative Agency, the only other tenant upstairs was a nervous-looking accountant seldom there. The halls were kept in semidarkness by the penny-conscious owner, who lived somewhere in suburban Lincolnwood avoiding taxes and subpoenas, and all doors but the front were kept locked, including those to the restrooms. Whelan had to use the one on the first floor, and had to get the key from the baby photographer. The owner was rumored to be the landlord of an entire block of burned-out buildings on the West Side, and Whelan fully believed some morning he’d come in to find the building a pile of soot.
He opened the door to his office, picked up his mail from the floor and went in. If possible, it was hotter inside than on the street, and he opened the window quickly to let the fumes from Lawrence Avenue and the noise from the el come in. Across from his window, the Aragon marquee was undergoing rapid transformation: “FRIDAY NITE SALSA! three bands y un grande…”
He laughed at the familiar Creole employed by the management of the old dance hall and went through his mail. There were two carryout menus, one for a new pizzeria over on Addison near the ballpark and another for a place calling itself Imperial Mongolian Majesty House and promising Szechuan and Mongolian cuisine. He filed both menus in his top drawer, with the rest of his collection. There were now over ninety, representing most of the cuisines of the planet Earth, and he intended to sample them all before he died.
There was also money in the mail. “Fat City,” he said.
The money was a check from Kenneth Laflin for six hundred dollars. It was supposed to have been seven hundred and change, but Whelan by now understood Laflin’s approach to his obligations, his grasp of math and his adversarial world view. The letter was an exact duplicate of all Laflin’s others, just as Laflin was a clone of the fast-moving high steppers on La Salle Street, where lawyers bred and multiplied like the Gerbils from Hell but always seemed to find work for one another. Tall, perfectly dressed, with silver-fox hair, a year-round tan and the morals of Legs Diamond. And of course, successful. Dealing with him was an irritant, but Laflin was a major contributor to his income, and the relationship afforded Whelan the exquisite pleasure of occasionally telling a rich young attorney to go screw himself. The letter thanked Whelan for his professionalism, for his ingenuity and for his inventiveness, and expressed the hope that they would continue their professional association in the future. Whelan stared at the letter, annoyed that he’d have to come up with a new set of photocopies for his expenses, then looked at the check and felt better.
He sat clown at the gray steel desk, inhaled the exhaust coming in through his window and looked at the sports section of the Tribune. Art Shears was coming by around ten but he expected no other calls or visitors till then. He often had coffee and donuts delivered at ten-thirty from the greasy spoon under the tracks, just to give his hallways some traffic and himself a face to talk to. There was really no reason to be in the office now, but he willingly spent his mornings at the desk, for he believed it was the way he kept order in his life. Each morning he came in at nine, sat at his desk, wrote his reports to Laflin or other clients, drank coffee and read the paper column by column. Often he took the rest of the day off, but the mornings provided structure. If you let go of the structure in your life, you left yourself vulnerable to other things and you lost what you had, whether to sloth or drink or something worse. Whelan was fairly well convinced that if he were suddenly freed of the need to work to support himself, he’d go off the deep end.
At nine-thirty he called his service, normally a perfunctory call, brief and friendly. He was surprised when a new voice answered, not the whiskey-throated Shelley, whom he’d never met but envisioned as Lucille Ball at 275 pounds, but a man, a young man, and of distant origins.
“Hello-good-morning, this is the offices of Wee-Lan Investigative Sarviees,” the voice sang.
“No. It’s ‘Way-lan.’ It’s pronounced ‘Way-lan.’”
“He is not in,” the little voice sang back.
“No, the name, my name, is Paul Whelan. It is pronounced ‘Way-lan.’”
“Good morning?”
“Paul Whelan speaking, my friend.”
“Thank you very much, sir. Mr. Wee-lan is not in. I am answering sarvice.”
“I know that. You are my answering service.”
There was a pause, indecision, perhaps a breakthrough. “Who is calling, please?”
He took a deep breath and said, “Paul Whelan.”
“He is not in,” the voice chirped, its confidence back.
Whelan took another breath. “Good morning, friend. And what is your name?”
“I am Abraham Chacko,” the voice warbled.
“Hi, Abraham.”
“Hello. Good morning.”
“And, ah, where are you from, Abraham?”
“I am from India,” he said excitedly.
“No kidding? Well, Abraham? I am Paul Whelan of Whelan Investigative Services. I am. The man to whom you are now speaking is Paul Whelan.”
“He is not in.”
A dull pressure, more of an ache, began to form behind Whelan’s eyes, and he saw spots of white light. “Every day dozens of people are killed for trivial reasons, Abraham, did you know that?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Where is Shelley, Abraham?”
“She is not here.”
“Yeah, that was my guess, too. Tell you what, Abraham. You call Mr. Whelan for me at his office in about, oh, ten minutes and tell him I’ll see him later.”
“Veddy good, sir.”
He hung up and began fiddling with his desk clock, which had not worked since winter. In a few minutes there was a ring on the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hello-good-morning, Mr. Wee-lan, this is answering sarvice. You have but only just the one call and he is a Mr. Paul. He will see you later.”
“Thank you very much.”
The service was, in many ways, a waste of money, since the bulk of his calls turned out to be phone solicitations, wrong numbers, teenage jokers or weirdos fascinated by the notion of speaking to a private detective. Still, the phone brought occasional business and was a way for people to catch him. Or it had been till the appearance of Abraham Chacko.
At ten after ten there was a knock, followed by a cough and the sound of feet shuffling. Through the clouded glass of the door he could see the slightly stooped silhouette of Art Shears.
“Come on in, Art.”
Whelan could see at a glance that Art Shears’s life had seen changes and they weren’t for the better. He hoped he could hide his shock. Art’s hair was shaggy and going to gray, and it hung over his collar. He’d lost weight, more than he needed to, and his rumpled seersucker jacket seemed to be a size too large.
“Hey, Paulie. Long time no see.”
Whelan nodded and got up to shake his hand. “Joe Konzcak’s funeral.”
“That’s how it is now. Weddings and funerals, that’s where we all see each other. When you’re young, you think you’ll hang around with your friends forever, that you’ll never stop seeing them. Then it’s just weddings and funerals.”
“And not many weddings,” Whelan said, laughing.
“No. Maybe yours, Paul. Got to happen some day. How bout it?”
“Don’t hold your breath, Artie. I think you got married for both of us.”
“Still seeing Liz?”
“No. And don’t ask. How’re things with you, Art? Sit down.”
“Oh, super. Can’t complai
n.” Art Shears took the client’s chair and Whelan sat down on the edge of the desk. There was a rash across both Art’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Artie grinned and fidgeted and Whelan could smell whiskey.
“Sorry I’m late, Paul. I called to say I’d be running a few minutes behind and I got some guy from Pakistan.”
“India. My answering service.” He laughed and Art smiled.
“Some service. Hey, interesting location for an office, Paul. You love stuff like this. Soaking up the local color, or what?”
“I thought I was the local color.”
“You ever think of writing a book?” Whelan shook his head. “Why not? You’re a smart guy, you’ve seen a lot of interesting things up here. You ought to think about it, Paul. There’s nobody who knows the street up here better than you. You’ve got your contacts and you know how to talk to the people, and I could give you a hand with it.” Art seemed to be warming rapidly to his own idea and Whelan wanted to head him off.
“You were always the writer, Artie. So, how’re Marie and the boys?”
Shears’s eyes clouded but he answered quickly. “Oh, they’re great. Matt’s a junior at Gordon and Tommy’s already got a job with the Trib, and he’s not halfway through De Paul yet.”
“Really? So he’s going to be a newshound like his old man, Art?”
Art beamed and shrugged. “He could do a lot worse, right?”
“Sure. You still living over on Peterson?”
Now there was a hesitation. “No. I, uh, I’m over by the ballpark, Paul.”
Whelan nodded. Not “we” but “I.” Art Shears reddened and the blotches grew darker but he clung tightly to his smile. “Never could get myself too far from the old haunts, you know?” He looked around the room for a moment. “Marie and I…we separated just after the holidays. So she’s still up there on Peterson and I’ve got a…you know, a little place on Wilton.”
Whelan nodded. A little place. A furnished room, most likely. Artie put his hands together and let them hang between his knees. He looked down at his shoes. A man in distress, a man without prospects. Whelan was suddenly jolted by the thought that perhaps Art wanted him to do something in connection with the separation. Watch Marie. He squirmed in his chair and leaned forward.
Artie misunderstood and raised his hands. “Hey, Paulie, relax. I’m sorry, I know it makes people nervous but I don’t mind talking about it. It’s just temporary. We talk on the phone just about every day, we really get along as well as we ever did. We’ll be back together in no time. I’m as sure of that as…I don’t know, as sure as I’m sitting here.” He shrugged.
He wanted to say something to ease Art’s discomfort. “Good, Art. You’ve been together a long time and she’s a great lady.”
“Oh, she’s the best, Paul. The best there is. Anyhow…I…it’s my fault. I was having some rough times, you know how it is. Newspaper business is a bitch and I got to, you know, drinking a little too much and I did a couple things that I guess put a scare into her.”
“Like…what? Anything you can talk about?”
“Oh, Jesus, no, look at your face.” Art Shears’s laughter was genuine. “No running around or anything like that. I don’t get into fights or chase women. I just had some troubles at work, had it out with my boss. And I quit. I also lost a little bit at the track, which didn’t help things any. You know how stupid you get when you’re in money trouble and it comes without warning? You try to make it up in one day. And when you lose, you come right back to the ponies the next day. So…” His voice trailed off.
“You quit the Trib, huh? And you had nothing else lined up?”
“Nope.” Art smiled confidently. “But I’ll do all right. I’m on my own now, free-lancing. I’m writing my own stuff now.” He leaned back in the chair and grinned.
Whelan smiled and hoped his friend hadn’t seen him wince. He’d never yet heard anyone use the term “free-lancing” who wasn’t on the verge of searching the want ads for tomorrow’s employment. People who were waiting and paying the rent by it simply said they were writers. You were “free-lancing” when nothing had happened yet.
“So. Making a few bucks at it, Art?”
“Oh, a few here and a few there. I’ve been doing some reviews for a couple of…uh, community newspapers and I’m supposed to get together with the features editor of one of the big suburban papers. And I’ve got a lunch date with Bill Friedman next week, maybe do myself some good writing features with the Times. And besides, I’ve got a few bucks left from what they gave me at the Trib. Took my vacation in cash, plus I had a few dollars coming when I left.”
“Sounds good to me.” Sure. He’d sold “reviews” to a couple of papers with circulations under two thousand and he had appointments, including lunch with an old friend too nice to say no.
“But I didn’t come here to blow my horn, Paul. I’m working on something else, something a lot better and much bigger.”
“Oh? You gonna let me in on this?”
“Yeah, now that you mention it. I’m writing a book. A big book. I’m doing a book on the guys who live on the street.”
“These streets? You mean the derelicts?”
“Sure, Paul. There’s a thousand stories out there. Hell, you know a lot of these guys, right?” Whelan shrugged. “Now, I know what you’re thinking, Paul. Somebody’s done that already, about a hundred times for the sociology department of some college, but I’m gonna do it differently.”
Artie loosened his collar button and pulled at the knot of his tie. The tie looked clean, the collar wasn’t, but Artie was growing excited now and Whelan realized he could finally relax.
“You going to keep me guessing, or what?”
“What sells books, Paul? Facts? A lot of facts? Uh-uh, no, entertainment sells books. People want to read something that’s entertaining. I’ve read a lot of the stuff that’s been written about these people and I can do it better. Nobody’s going to buy a book about fifty hoboes when most of them have led pretty boring lives, and I’m not going to write about the stockbroker who lost it all in the Depression and became a juicer.”
“Makes sense,” Whelan said, just to be contributing.
“There’s one guy out here on Wilson, over by the college, stays in that hotel and does day labor. He was a fighter in the forties and fifties, fought Billy Conn and knew Joe Louis, Jersey Joe Wolcott, all those guys.”
Whelan nodded. “Barrelhouse Joe. Worked for a brewery a long time.”
Art pointed a finger at him. “You know him, I knew you would. And I met this other guy, decorated in World War Two, fought at D-Day. And then I got one guy,” and he began jabbing his finger excitedly at Whelan. “I got this guy, I think he’s been on the run all his life for something he did a long time ago. All his life. I mean, I could tell the first time I talked to him, he had something he was hiding. He’s always looking around, got these dark little eyes that flit back and forth constantly when he talks, like he’s been looking over his shoulder so long he won’t ever he able to stop.”
Whelan nodded, glad to see Art happy about something and wondering where all this was heading.
“But I’m telling you, Paul, sometimes I feel my skin crawl when I’m down here.”
“That’s natural. It’s not a safe place to be hanging around.”
“It doesn’t bother you,” Art said, pointedly.
“I worked here a long time. Now I live here. I never got far away from it. I just inherited the family estate, which happened to be smack in the middle of it.”
“Great old house, though.”
“Yeah, it is that.” Whelan’s house was a sandstone building on Malden, a block gradually giving itself over to rehabilitation and respectability but still an island in the middle of blocks of burned-out and rundown buildings. You could drive to the Loop in fifteen minutes, you could go six blocks in any direction and find calmer, saner neighborhoods and typical Chicago life, but it was a long fifteen minutes, a long six blocks. He’d a
lways loved the house, which his folks had bought when he was in high school. Upon his mother’s death he’d moved in almost immediately. It had never occurred to him to sell and get himself something in a nicer neighborhood.
“Anyhow, I think this guy has a story. Lived out on the West Coast for a while, near as I can make out, came here about a year ago. But he’s from here. He mentioned Riverview once, taking his kids to Riverview and taking them on the roller coasters and the parachute and all that stuff. I don’t know…I can’t figure out what he did, but he’s on the run, that much I’m sure of.”
Artie stopped and seemed to be waiting for a reaction.
“You were born out of time, Art. You should have been born back in the twenties or thirties, covered the Spanish Civil War, parachuted onto the Serengeti, something like that.”
Art Shears laughed and his face looked younger for a moment, and Whelan knew his old friend was forgetting his troubles, at least for a while.
“Listen, I’ve got coffee and rolls coming in ten minutes. Buy you breakfast, okay?”
“Best offer I’ve had all day. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.” He cocked his head to one side and watched Whelan for a moment, a sly smile on his face.
“So, aren’t you curious yet?”
“What?”
“Don’t you want to know why I came to see you?”
“I thought maybe it was a long-awaited social call. Shoot the breeze and all that fine stuff.”
“I don’t mind doing that, Paul, but I came here with a business proposition. I need your pro-fesh-un-al services.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“Now you have my total attention.”
“I need you to come with me on some of these interviews. I need you to help me talk to these guys, some of them.”
“Sounds to me like you’re doing fine.”
Art shrugged. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, but I’m not stupid, I know somebody who’s good at getting people to open up would be getting more out of some of these people than I am. And Paulie, there’s nobody who can do that like you can. I’ve never known anybody who could get strangers to open up, tell their stories, spill their guts like you can. Honest to God, Paul, sometimes I’m with a guy for an hour before I get anything I can use on the tape.”
Death in Uptown Page 2
