The little man smiled slyly. “It’s pretty comical, huh?” A touch of pink came into the pale cheeks and the faintest trace of irritation into the eyes. Perhaps not so overmatched after all. It was Whelan’s turn to redden slightly.
“No. I couldn’t get him up either. Do you really want to?”
The little man laughed. “I have to. He wants to come back to our program.”
“Detox?”
“Yes. He has good intentions but he can’t walk.”
“I can give you a hand.”
“I could sure use it, if you don’t mind. My security guard is busy at the moment.”
“No trouble at all. I was coming to see you anyway.”
The little man looked at him. “All right. Let’s get him on his feet. Come on, Archie. Help us out.”
Whelan got down and put Archie’s arm over his shoulder, the officer did likewise with the other arm, and they both pushed and grunted and Archie seemed to be singing, but eventually they had him on his feet. Archie immediately began to sag again, but the door opened and a tall thin black man in his forties emerged. He was wearing a dark blue guard’s uniform, and his gaze took in everything as he walked toward the officer.
“I’ll take him now, captain.” The guard nodded at Whelan.
“We’re glad to see you, J.B. He’s all yours.”
The guard grinned and showed several gold-capped teeth. He put a shoulder under Archie’s arm and grabbed him around his waist, and Whelan watched in amazement as the guard walked off with the heavy drunk.
“You going to put him on the dumbwaiter, J.B.?” the captain asked.
“Next time, captain,” the guard said, and disappeared inside.
“In-joke?” Whelan asked.
The captain gave Whelan a puckish look. “Sort of. The men’s quarters are upstairs and some of these fellows are pretty big, like Archie there, and we always joke about putting them on the dumbwaiter—which we use to get food to the upper floors. But one night we had a fellow who must have weighed two hundred seventy-five pounds, and J.B. was off duty, so my wife and I stuffed the man on the dumbwaiter and sent him on up, and then we ran up the stairs after him and rolled him off. So now it’s an emergency course of action.”
“How come J.B. doesn’t have the same trouble carrying him that we did? Magical powers?”
“Boy, I don’t know. I’ve seen him swimming, so I know there’s no secret mass of muscles hidden under his uniform. He’s amazing, and all he has to do when there’s trouble or somebody gets out of line is put one of those skinny hands on a man’s shoulder. Like putting someone in a vise. Let’s have a cup of coffee.”
“Sounds good.”
The captain led him inside and opened a door just past the staircase. Whelan followed him inside. A chubby, cheerful-looking woman in a Sal Army uniform sat at a desk and smiled as they entered.
“Hello, Doug. Good morning, sir.”
Whelan looked at the officer. “I know I’m ‘sir’ so you must be Doug.”
The captain laughed. “This is my wife, Eunice. She hates her name but you can use it anyway. I’m Doug Wallis.”
“Paul Whelan. Should I call you ‘captain’?”
“No, Doug is fine. I’ve been Doug a long time. I’ve only been captain for three years. Come on into the lunchroom. That’s where the coffee urn is.”
“I know. I’ve been here before.”
“Oh?” The captain looked at him with interest.
“When Captain Salley was here. He helped me find a young woman I was looking for. She had been in your women’s program for a while.”
“You’re a police officer, then?”
“No. I used to be. Captain Rogers was here then. Now I’m a private investigator.”
“Really? How interesting.”
“Probably not as interesting as running a service center in Uptown. I notice business is booming, by the way.”
The captain smiled and led him to the coffee urn. “Yes, it is. We’re feeding thousands of people a week now. The Detox program is actually beyond its planned capacity, and we have more young women on the third floor than we’ve ever had before. We’ll never go out of business. How do you like your coffee?”
“Black is fine.”
The captain poured him a cup of coffee and led him back to a private office.
“So, you said you were coming by to see me. What can I do for you, Mr. Whelan?”
“I’m looking for someone. Several people, actually.”
The captain broke into a youthful grin. “I’ve never met a private investigator.”
“I’m glad you’re amused. You should see the impression I make on the police.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure. A friend of mine was doing a series of interviews of men living on the street. During the course of his work he came across one particular man who seemed, at least to my friend, to have something to hide.”
“Who doesn’t, down here?”
“Well, that’s how I felt. But Art was convinced that this guy had a story and he thought he could turn it into something. Anyhow, he was following this man around, trying to get a line on him and a few other people. He asked me to sort of team up with him. What he really needed, I guess, was somebody to watch his back door. I just thought it sounded like a guy grasping at straws. I didn’t really think there was a book in it. We were supposed to talk about it in a few days and I…I was going to go along with it. Humor him, I guess. Now I don’t have to. He was found murdered in an alley Tuesday.”
“I’m sorry, Paul.” Whelan found himself being studied by the blue eyes. “You feel responsible for his death. In a way.”
Whelan looked into his coffee, then focused on a city map on the far wall of the room. “Not really. At least, I’m not aware of it, if I do. What I really feel is…that I could have been a little more, I don’t know, decent, maybe. A little better to him over the last couple of years the few times we talked. He was my best friend, my oldest friend. I wish I could have done something for him to make him feel a little better about himself. He was a doomed man the last time I saw him, and I was shocked. He had a drinking problem and his marriage was on the skids and he’d lost his job. I don’t feel responsible for his death: I feel like I could have done something for his life. I only saw him a couple of times over the last few years but all those things were probably in progress and we just…I didn’t have any time for him.”
“This is my line of work, Paul. I know about these things. You couldn’t have arrested these problems of his. His family couldn’t. And the last time you saw him, you said you’d help him?”
“Yeah.”
Captain Wallis shrugged. “Then his last recollection of you would be of an old friend who was going to do something important that he asked you to do.” He folded his arms across his chest and nodded.
“You’re pretty good at this work, huh?”
Captain Wallis shrugged slightly and smiled. “Paul, I assume the police are looking into your friend’s death. Why are you?”
“Hard to explain. First of all, the detectives assigned to the case don’t inspire me with confidence. I also think they’ve got Artie pegged as a bit of a derelict himself. Once they run out of gas on this thing, they’ll let it go. I won’t. And I’ve got some advantages: I know the neighborhood, for one, and I know some of the people who work up here and a few on the street.”
“So can I be of specific help?”
“Yeah. Tell me if you know somebody named Sharkey and an Indian or Mexican named Hector.”
“I know both of them. They eat here regularly. So did Shinny.”
“Shinny.” Whelan drew a blank for a moment, then remembered hearing the name from the three people in the alley. “That’s the man that was killed last week?”
“Yes. He was stabbed to death in an alley not far from here.”
“And Shinny knew these other men?”
“Yes. They were together often. Shinny w
as a little bit of a loner but he was often in their company. He was small, like Sharkey, and Hector looked after the two of them.”
“Did they ever stay here?”
“They were never in Detox. I think Sharkey would have made a good candidate. I’m not sure whether Hector had that serious a problem. I never actually saw him intoxicated. And the Indians are more comfortable with their own program over on Sheridan.”
“I know some of those folks. I’ll have to pay them a visit.”
“But I can’t say I’ve seen either Hector or Sharkey recently. Not in at least a week.” He picked up the phone and buzzed J.B. on the com-line, asked the guard about the two men, listened, then shook his head. “Sorry, Paul.”
“No, you’ve been a lot of help. A couple people mentioned this other killing but I wouldn’t have known there was a connection.”
“You think there is a connection?”
“Two men who knew a third man are both found dead in alleys a few days apart. Sure, there’s a connection. You betcha.”
Captain Wallis pulled at the blond hairs of his goatee and then looked at him. “Well, stop in again, Paul. Just to chat and have some coffee.”
“I’ll do that,” he said.
Liz was brief and distant over the phone but said to come over. He immediately felt self-conscious and debated whether to go home first and shower and change, then decided to get it all over with. He drove up Clark to Roscoe and parked in front of Sam-mee’s, a Korean restaurant where they’d eaten often in better times. He walked down the surprising slope of Roscoe—Clark Street ran along a prehistoric ridge, the ancient shore of Lake Michigan, and these east-west streets ran downhill all the way to the lake—and climbed the steps of the three-flat where Liz had lived for more than ten years with her son.
She must have been watching from the window because she was standing in the open door when he got to the second-floor landing.
“Howdy,” he said, feeling awkward and gritty and now wishing mightily he’d gone home for a shower.
“Hi,” she said, a little breathlessly. He felt somehow relieved that she wasn’t resorting to the casual persona she often adopted. It wasn’t a time for being casual.
“Don’t get too close. I’ve been out on the street all day.”
She stepped back to let him in. “You didn’t tell me about Artie Shears. I found out from Shelley. I just missed you at the wake. You’re working on that, aren’t you.” She let it fall as a statement.
“Yeah. And I’m getting nowhere fast. But I’m probably doing better than the police are.”
He took a few steps into the dining room, looked around and saw that she had packed dozens of boxes and had them stacked along the walls. The pictures were gone from the walls, the bookcases empty.
“Well…getting close, huh?”
“I guess.” She leaned against her dining-room table and folded her arms. She was wearing a long blue T-shirt and cutoffs, and her hair was pulled back and she wore no makeup. He knew from long years of experience that she thought she looked dreadful at the moment, but he thought she looked wonderful. There was no point in saying it, though.
“Do you want something to drink?”
“Water. A lot of water.” She smiled, bustled off to the kitchen, and over her shoulder shot back, “You wouldn’t be thirsty so often if you stopped smoking.”
He laughed and threw himself down on her sofa. Then, embarrassed to be sitting where they’d several times made love, he moved to an armchair by the window. Liz came in with a tall glass of ice water and he drained half of it at a gulp.
“So what do you hear from Charlie?”
“I just talked to him an hour ago. He’s fine. He misses some of his friends but my dad’s been taking him around, showing him turtles and ducks and deer and all that stuff, and he’s rapidly becoming a little Wisconsin boy.” She looked at him for a moment. She was sitting on the other armchair, leaning forward, chin cupped in her hands. For the first time in the long grueling months of the dissolution of their relationship, he could see her sadness.
“Do you want to talk about Artie, Paul?”
“No. The more I talk about him, the more it hurts.”
She seemed to take a breath. “Do you want to talk about…us?”
“Can I change your mind with anything I might say?”
“No.” She smiled slightly.
“Then, no. I’m not trying to be…I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad to see you.”
“I’m glad you’re here, too.” Then, after a moment, she asked, “How do you feel, Paul?”
“Oh, I’m better. I’m not…I’ve had some other things to think about lately…so I’m doing okay. You?”
“I feel terrible. I know this is not what you want to hear, but…you’re my oldest friend.”
“You’re right, it’s not what I want to hear. Eighteen years and I’m your friend. What an accomplishment. Can we be pen pals?” He felt himself growing angry and took a long drink of his water to calm himself.
“There was a time when it would have worked and we…our timing wasn’t right.”
“Timing? You got married, for Chrissakes.”
“You didn’t want to get married, Paul.”
“I was ten months out of the service, Liz, I was still seeing Cong snipers in maple trees.” He put his face in his hands, shook his head, then looked at her.
“I’m sorry. This is no time for this sort of thing. Let’s just…I don’t know what.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No, I’m not hungry,” and then he laughed, at Liz who always wanted to offer him food when she was uncomfortable, and at himself and the hopeless picture he thought he made, and at them, at people who dance around in little circles for eighteen years and still can’t quite pull it off. He stood up.
“I have a small speech.” She smiled ruefully and he went on. “For eighteen years, more or less, you’ve been the woman in my life—”
“Among others,” she said.
“Let me finish this, will you? And I understand how it is between us and I don’t like it, and I’m not sure it’s right, but I accept it. I’ll write you letters and if you don’t answer them, I’ll just write Charlie letters. I think he’ll answer. So…good luck.” He smiled slightly. “That’s it. That’s my speech.” She got up from the other armchair and came over and put her arms around him, and they stayed together for a long time, and then they broke it off. She took his hand as they walked to the door and he picked up the small box of clothes and personal articles he’d left here over the years. At the door he nodded to her and left. On the street, he took a quick last look at the house on Roscoe that he hoped he’d never see again, and walked back up the street to his car.
He stayed home that night and busied himself with what was, for him, an elaborate dinner. He made cornbread and a small salad with bleu cheese dressing and broiled two and a half pounds of country ribs, smothered in a hot sauce and covered in the broiler with sliced onions. He let the ribs cook till the sauce was candied and the fat on the meat was charred and caked and the onions were sweet and soft. It was the meal he’d cooked most often for Liz. He made a long, lingering exercise of his dinner, then sat in front of his TV set and nursed three bottles of dark Augsburger while the Cubs started a four-game series with the Astros in Houston. Here he could predict the future: like his garden and his relationship with Liz and his career prospects, a four-game Cub series in Houston was a “moribund enterprise.”
The Cubs lost 7–zip and he took a long bath, reading old National Geographics in the tub. Then, unable to take any more of this day, he went to bed.
He didn’t so much hear the noise as feel it, a subtle scratching, a tool against metal, someone working at his lock. He sat up in bed, looked at the glowing face of the clock and saw that it was 1:48. He slipped noiselessly out of bed and pulled on his pants, then crept out to the hall. The noise was coming from the back door. He padded quietly to the rear of the house, holding his bre
ath and listening to the pounding of his heart, which now seemed to be lodged somewhere in his throat. At the door to the kitchen, ten feet from the back door, he paused and listened to the person breaking in. He came silently across the room, slid open the cutlery drawer and felt around in the dark. He pulled back his hand and saw that he’d come up with the “ginsu.” It was ugly, it had a cheap-looking plastic handle, and it had a blade a foot long. It looked like a kris or something out of some Arabian fairy tale, and a TV ad had talked him into parting with $19.95 for it, a knife that would remain sharp forever. In a house filled to overflowing with cutlery, with his father’s carving knives and the dozens of dangerous little daggers his mother had used to slice and pare and cut, the ginsu had seen little use, but Whelan now realized its worth. He had the longest, most unlikely kitchen knife on earth and unless the guy outside had a field mortar, Whelan had the edge.
He swallowed, listened to the tinkering, jumped when the invader began to throw his weight against the door and then said, “Come on in, pal. I got something for you.” There was silence and Whelan rushed at the door.
“Come on, asshole. You want to see me?” He fumbled at the old lock and finally managed to yank it open in time to hear the man’s heavy footsteps going quickly down the back stairs. Whelan rushed out onto his back porch hoping for a glimpse of the intruder and heard his gate scrape open and shut. He ran back through the house to the front door, yanked it open and ran out onto the front porch. Whoever it was had been moving pretty well.
He stood for a while looking up and down his street. For a moment he had the feeling that his intruder was still somewhere up the street in shadow, watching him. Pulsing with anger, he came down the street and began to walk toward Lawrence, peering into gangways and the spaces between cars, and finding nothing. Eventually, when he was nearing the corner and almost a block from his house, a car full of teenagers passed him, and he saw from the looks on their faces that, as far as the rest of the populace was concerned, there was a shoeless, half-naked madman wandering Malden Street with a butcher knife.
Death in Uptown Page 8
