Death in Uptown

by Michael Raleigh

  He returned to the house, tossed the knife inside the hall and went in to get his cigarettes. He came back out and sat on the stairs and smoked. As he looked up and down the street, he tried to assess his feelings. In addition to the fear he’d felt, there was something else, something deeper. A sense of release, almost a giddiness. The pounding in his heart masked it, but it was there. He thought for a moment and understood. He needed to be immersed in action, in some kind of action.

  What I really need is a mugging.

  He realized that in the morning the idea of a home invasion wouldn’t be so appealing, but right now, it was something. He sank back onto the stairs. The smoke and the cooler night air calmed him, and he spent another twenty minutes there. Eventually his thoughts turned to Liz.

  Five

  He woke at six, showered and had a quick cup of instant and was out of the house by six twenty-five. Two and a half hours till the funeral, a lot of time to work with. He drove up to Wilson and parked in front of the college.

  The morning was cool with a soft breeze from the lake. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the rooftops, so the air held an illusory promise of a break in the heat. And Uptown was rocking. For the people of the streets and gangways, he knew, there was no such thing as time, and in the coolness of this summer morning the streets were noisy and overrun with people—people standing and chattering, people dragging their bodies from one place to another as they’d done half the night and all the previous day, people talking to themselves, people dancing. Dancing. In front of the college a group of street people bounced and bopped to a small radio cranked up to its limits, and a few feet away, not one of their party but joining in anyway, a small dark-haired woman shuffled her feet and sang scat to the music. A couple of old men sat on a concrete bench a few yards from the music and stared dull-eyed at the dancers. The people beyond time, Whelan thought.

  He cruised the streets, not certain what he was looking for, then returned to his parking spot and got out to walk. A group was gathering in front of the day-labor office between the Wilson Men’s Club Hotel and the Wooden Nickel, and he attracted some notice as he neared them. One tried to stare him down, a blond boy, maybe nineteen. Whelan looked away and smiled. Not me, kid. I don’t fight in hot weather. He decided to go up to the newsstand and get a paper. He was under the el tracks when he saw the familiar figure, weaving slightly and asking passers-by for change. A familiar figure and Whelan was disappointed to see him. The young man smiled agreeably at him, not recognizing him at first, and casually brushed his long dark hair out of his eyes.

  “Hello, Wade.”

  “Hey, Mr. Whelan. Hey—”

  “I thought you were leaving town.”

  “Naw, not yet, man. I just—”

  “That’s what you told me, Wade. You said you were going home. That was back in June. Jesus, I don’t know if I’m glad to see you or sorry.”

  Wade shuffled slightly, half turned and shrugged, watching a bus move down Wilson. “Like, it’s hard to get it together, you know?”

  “You told me you were all set, you said—” And he caught the look in the boy’s eyes, the resistance, and stopped himself. “Aw, what do I know. I’m glad to see you, Wade.”

  “Hey, it’s cool, Mr. Whelan. I just thought—I think I’m gonna stay up here till the cold weather, get a little coin together, right? Then I can go back with something.”

  “You talk to your ma?”

  “Yeah.” He held up one finger. “I called her once. I did. I just don’t wanna go back, you know, with nothin’.”

  “Right.” Whelan looked around and tried to think of something to say. Wade Sanders had been his project for years. Whelan had picked the boy up one Friday night in response to a call that two youths were breaking into a pawnshop. And so they were. Two “youths” barely fifteen, Wade and an Appalachian kid named Terry Grimes, who was destined for bigger things. Orphaned at thirteen, Terry Grimes became a constant presence in Uptown and the various Northside lockups till his death by stabbing at the age of eighteen. That night, he and Wade were demonstrating how inept a pair of child burglars could be. Whelan and Jerry Kozel had caught them hammering away at the bars on the backdoor of the pawnshop, whacking away with a claw hammer and a tire iron and making enough noise to alert the Navy. As they pounded and swore at the bars, they were watched by a dozen people from surrounding apartments and a trio of old drunks sitting on a discarded sofa in the alley and passing a bottle. Wade had cried on the way to the station. He was from Ottawa, Illinois, and had come to Chicago with his father, who had died within the year, leaving the boy to live with a nineteen-year-old cousin. The cousin had left town and young Wade had found himself on the street. Wade’s mother had remarried, and the young man and his stepfather loathed one another. Whelan made the boy his project. Over the next six months, he got Wade into a group home and into an alternative high school on Montrose where he was able to complete school; he’d gotten him summer jobs with the Park District, helped him find a studio apartment and had given him money on several occasions. Wade was a good kid, smart and streetwise and well liked. He was optimistic about his future, convinced that he’d eventually get into a vocational program, learn a trade and return to Ottawa to show everyone he was respectable. He was just short of his twentieth birthday and, Whelan believed, an alcoholic.

  “Buy you breakfast, Wade?”

  “I just had a donut, Mr. Whelan. I’m looking for a dude that owes me a little bread.”

  “Take a rain check, then. We should get together, since you’re staying for a while. Right now, I think you could help me. It’s worth a couple bucks to me.”

  Wade smiled. “Man, you don’t have to pay me for helpin’ you. What do you need?”

  “I’m looking for someone. A friend of mine was…killed. Beginning of the week, over in the alley there behind Broadway.”

  “Shinny or that other dude?”

  “The other one.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry, man.”

  “He was working on a book and interviewing people, and I want to talk to one of the guys he was interviewing. I think his name is Sharkey, and I think he runs with an Indian named Hector.”

  Wade nodded. “Hector I know. He’s okay people. I like Indians, you know?”

  Whelan laughed. “Wade, you like everybody. Do you know Sharkey?”

  “Not to say nothing to, you know, but we had a few pops together.”

  “Seen them lately?”

  “Nope. Not in a while. I could ask around, though.”

  “I’d appreciate it. You working at all?”

  “I been doin’ a little of this and a little of that. Working for the place down the street here, and doin’ some stuff for the guy that owns the Nickel.”

  “Good,” Whelan said. Day labor with the old men, porter at the Wooden Nickel. “See you soon, Wade. Call me if you hear anything.”

  “Will do, Mr. Whelan.”

  He went back to his car and cruised for a while longer, then returned home and dressed for the funeral. He had a cup of coffee and listened to the news, then called his service.

  “Hey, Shel.”

  “We’re up early this morning. How’s tricks, sweetheart?”

  “Same as usual. Listen, Shel, if I get any calls this morning, tell them I’ll be in the office in the afternoon. I’m going to a funeral.”

  “You got one call already, hon.”

  “Really? What kind of hours do they think a detective puts in? Who was it?”

  “A Miss Jean Agee.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Sounded about eighteen, lover. You picking them young these days?”

  “These days, I’m not fussy. But I don’t know this lady.”

  “She said she’d call again.”

  “Okay, Shel.”

  He drove to the funeral home and was early. There was a short procession over to St. Mary of the Lake and a Mass that was surprisingly well attended. After the Mass, Whelan d
rove several of Marie’s friends to the cemetery. There was a brief graveside prayer and the casket was placed on a frame, on which it would he lowered into the grave later. Then the funeral of Art Shears was over. The sky was a whitish blue and there was a haze to the air, and Whelan’s dark blue jacket felt like tent canvas.

  Marie Shears broke away from a group of people and came over to him. She put her arm around his waist and hugged him.

  “Thanks, Paul.”

  “Thanks for asking. It was an honor to be his pallbearer.”

  “Want to come by the house? We’re having, you know, a little lunch. Nothing fancy, just sandwiches and salad and things like that.”

  “I’ve got to go back to work. I know that sounds humorous, but I do.”

  She looked at him for a moment, inclining her head. “You’re looking into this.”

  “The boys tell you?”

  She smiled. “No. I know you. Can I help?”

  “Maybe. For now, did Art tell you the name of the man he’d been interviewing, the last one?”

  “No. He said he was talking to a lot of different people. He just said one of them was a little unusual. A small man that hung around with an Indian man.” She shrugged. “That’s all.”

  “That helps.”

  She gave him a little squeeze and looked at him candidly. “He always thought you were something special, Paul Whelan. He said you were the most dependable person be ever knew. Maybe that doesn’t sound like much of a compliment, but I know how he meant it.”

  “I’ll take it.” She went back to her people and he walked out to the parking lot and got into the car.

  He went home and changed into a loose cotton shirt and white painters’ jeans, then went out, leaving the car behind. He grabbed a quick cup of coffee at the New Yankee Grill on Wilson, chatted with Eva, the perky little Tennessee waitress, paid his money to the fat sullen woman at the register and left.

  He called Shelley from the office.

  “I’m here, Shel, but not for long.”

  “You’ve been popular. Miss Agee called again, and a Detective Bauman.”

  “He’s a charmer, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, aside from the fact that he hasn’t got any manners, he’s not so bad. He tried to make me.”

  “It’s that voice, Shel.”

  “I think he can tell what goes with it.”

  Whelan laughed. “Listen, if these people call again, tell them I’ll be back in the office around one-thirty, two, okay?”

  “Miss Agee requested an appointment.”

  “Tell her she’s got one. Talk to you later.”

  There were an estimated twelve thousand Indians in Chicago, and most of them eventually made their way to Sheridan Road. St. Augustine’s was on Sheridan, less than a mile in a straight line from Wrigley Field; it was a social service agency for Indians, run by the Episcopal Church. It was housed in a beautiful old brownstone building that had once been a funeral parlor. A woman stood on the porch of St. Augustine’s. She was perhaps sixty-five, plump, fair skinned and dour, and a chain-smoker. Whelan knew her to be the daughter of a Stockbridge tribal chief and one of God’s toughest creations.

  “ ’Lo, officer.”

  “Hello, Abby. You know I’m not a police officer anymore. How’re you?”

  “Got bronchitis. And I’m old. Other than that, I’m fine. Lot of people doin’ worse. What brings you here?”

  “Looking for somebody. His name is Hector and I think he’d be with a white man, older fellow, named Sharkey. Don’t know the Indian man’s last name. At least I think he’s Indian. Might he Mexican.”

  Abby nodded. “He’s both. He’s half Mexican and half Pima. All the same, though. Mexicans are Indians anyway. They just don’t know it.”

  She sagged against the column of the porch and took out a pack of Camels. Unfiltered Camels. “You want one?”

  “Sure. So you know these guys?”

  “Oh, we know ’em. Hector comes here to eat. Brings that other one, too. Hector Green, that’s his name. Goes to Bo’ Jou Nee Jee, too.”

  “He goes where?”

  “Bo’ Jou Nee Jee. That’s the alcoholism program we got up the street.”

  “I know the place. I just didn’t know it by that name.”

  “Ojibwa. Means ‘welcome friend.’ ”

  “So you’ve served the other guy, too. Sharkey.”

  “Sure. We don’t turn hungry people away. We’re civilized.” There was open amusement in the dark eyes. He grinned at her. In his time as a street cop, Whelan had seen this woman handle drunks twice her size. If she didn’t want them inside her building, they just didn’t get in. She sent them off to sober up. She’d be firm and impassive. Only once did he ever see her lose her temper, a hot afternoon when she’d chased two young Indians down Sheridan and finally whacked one across the back of his head for calling her a “fat old white lady.”

  “Seen these men around lately?”

  “Nope. Try down the street, They might’ve seen them there. Try the War Bonnet, too.”

  “You think they’d have money to drink in a tavern?”

  She shrugged. “Somebody in there might know where to find ’em.” She puffed on her Camel. He took a deep drag on his and the unfiltered smoke seared his lungs. He patted her on her shoulder.

  “Thanks for the smoke.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  A small group of Indian men were eating soup at a wooden table inside the double storefront that housed Bo’ Jou Nee Jee. In a far corner an Indian woman sipped lemonade, and Whelan realized how dry he was. He stood just inside the door; no one looked up. After a moment or two he was approached by a small, dapper man with curly brown hair going gray and the widest, most innocent-looking green eyes he’d ever seen.

  “May I help you?” The man smiled at him, still wide-eyed, as if he’d seen God.

  “I’m looking for someone. My name is Whelan. I’m a private investigator and I’m trying to locate a man.”

  “I’m Harold Ludwig. I’m the staff psychologist here. The man is an Indian?”

  “I’m really looking for two men, a white man named Sharkey and an Indian named Hector Green.”

  “We know Hector here. We know his friend Sharkey, too. Why are you looking for them? May I ask that?”

  “Sure. I think they were among the last people to see a friend of mine who was killed in an alley less than a block from here.”

  “Oh, that poor man that was robbed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked at Whelan for a moment, as if wrestling with something, then nodded. “I’ll ask some of the men.” He excused himself and went over to the table and spoke to the Indian men. Two shook their heads, one did nothing and a fourth looked lip briefly, glanced at Whelan and spoke. Dr. Ludwig nodded and returned.

  “Joe Browndeer says he saw Hector on Friday or Saturday and hasn’t seen him since.” Dr. Ludwig smiled. “He thinks it’s because Hector owes him money.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you think Hector killed this man?” The doctor’s gaze was direct, a challenge.

  Whelan looked around the room and shook his head. “No. No, I don’t guess I do. There’s…” He shrugged, groping for a concrete way to explain his suspicions. “There was something deliberate about this, something planned. I don’t think he was robbed and I don’t think he was killed by somebody like these men.”

  “We read that he was robbed,” the doctor prodded.

  “Any number of things could explain that. A kid could have come along and robbed the body. The killer could have taken Art’s things to make it look like robbery.” He looked at the doctor and smiled. “Not a simple world.”

  “No, it’s certainly not.”

  “So you tell me: is this something Hector Green could have done?”

  Dr. Ludwig’s eyebrows jumped. “Good Lord, no.” He looked over at the table full of Indians. “They drink too much, they live too hard. But they’re not kil
lers or thieves.”

  “I didn’t think so. Look, I’m really looking for the other man, for Sharkey. He’s the man my friend was talking to. Can you have some body give me a call if either one turns up? I won’t get anybody into any trouble, if it can be avoided.”

  “We wouldn’t think of withholding information.”

  “Yeah, you would, doctor. I can hear you thinking.” Dr. Ludwig smiled and Whelan handed him a card. The psychologist studied the card with undisguised amusement.

  “I know, you’ve never had the business card of a private investigator, right?”

  A touch of pink came into the little man’s face. “I’ve never met one. I thought they existed only in the movies.”

  “Check out the Yellow Pages. We’re everywhere.”

  Dr. Ludwig laughed and tucked the card into his pocket. Whelan waved to him, nodded to the Indian men watching him and left.

  The first face he saw in the War Bonnet was Geronimo’s. The poster was yellowing with age and showing rips and tears along its edges but was still perfectly positioned so that a customer entering would see the Apache chief in his most famous pose, kneeling and scowling, his Winchester across one knee.

  The face behind the bar belonged to Charlie Bodie, “Choctaw Charlie,” and the faces lining the bar were all Indian, mostly younger men. They looked up when the door opened, studied Whelan, marked him for a cop and looked back down into cans of Blue Ribbon.

  Charlie was loading a case of Hamm’s into the far cooler and Whelan studied the decor while he waited. Early Hostile, he decided. Bold but tasteful. Directly over the register and highlighted by the bare bulb a few inches above it was the famous and outrageously gory Budweiser print of “Custer’s Last Fight.” There were prints of Osceola, Sitting Bull, Tecumseh, and Cochise, and a dramatic sketch of Pontiac with forts burning in the background. There were crossed plastic tomahawks above the mirror, and toy bows and arrows were taped to the liquor cases, and a bumper sticker echoed the Indian writer Vine DeLoria’s Custer Died for Your Sins.