Death in Uptown

by Michael Raleigh

  “All right, all right,” he heard himself repeating over and over. “It’s all right, take it easy…” and when she’d calmed down, he led her to the edge of her bed and sat her down.

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  She shrugged. “I think he’ll go to Detroit. He has some friends there who’ll put him up. After that, I don’t know.”

  “He was here?”

  She nodded.

  “Why didn’t he take you with?”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t go after I realized what he’d done. I was so shocked—”

  “But what did he tell you he needed from me all this time? Didn’t you know what was going on?”

  “No. That he was out there killing people?” She sniffled and got up, crossed the room to the small dresser to get Kleenex, their came back to the bed and sat.

  “He just told me he thought you knew where my father was.”

  He thought about what he’d told her. “No, Jean, I told you all along what was going on.”

  “I didn’t really think that was what you were doing. You didn’t seem to be finding anything, so I thought maybe you really were after my father for some reason.”

  “But I told you about the killings.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “Why would I connect those killings with my brother? Why should I think he was out there killing winos?”

  “And now?”

  “Now I know it’s all true.” Her whole body seemed to sag. “It hit me last night. I started putting things together, things he’d said, things you’d told me, and how certain things seemed to happen after I’d talked to him, and then I knew.”

  “Last night—did you ask him?”

  “Yes. He said he killed them all and it was no big deal.”

  “No big deal, huh?”

  She nodded. “That’s what he said. They were all bums and drunks like our old man, so it was no big deal.”

  He took out the photo of “Gerry Agee.” “So who is this turkey, anyway?”

  She looked at Whelan and laughed. “That’s the guy I took to my senior prom. Fooled you, huh?” She smirked and laughed again, and Whelan nodded, wondering at her easy lapse into mirth.

  “But I scared you, darlin’. When I went back to the YMCA and asked around.”

  “I didn’t think you would do that and I was afraid you’d show them the picture.”

  “It never occurred to me to flash the picture. Everybody admitted Gerry Agee’d been there. You…you didn’t like what I found out there, did you?”

  She began to shred the Kleenex in her hands. “No. I knew there was something wrong with Don but those stories of yours, about him pacing his room and making strange sounds and talking to himself, I never thought it was that bad.” She shuddered.

  “So why did he kill them all?”

  “To get to my father. He told me he caught an old man in an alley and tried to get some information but the old man died when Don hit him.”

  “Hit him? He beat him to death. It was an old derelict named Shinny.” She stared at him open-mouthed. “And Art Shears?”

  “He made a mistake. He thought your friend knew something. He was wrong. He even listened to his tape to see if he had anything on it. Nothing.”

  “Your father made Don, didn’t he? He recognized him?”

  “I think so, or somebody told him someone was asking around about him. Don said Sharkey just disappeared, along with that poor man Hector.”

  “And Billy the Kid?”

  “Don said he got in the way. I don’t know what he meant.”

  “He meant Billy saw him kill Art Shears.”

  “Right. You told me somebody saw Billy the Kid running away from the alley or something.”

  “Not exactly. Somebody saw the killing, and saw Billy watching it go down. Billy was watching the killer, your brother.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Somebody saw the killing?” She gave a little shake of her head.

  “Yes. Somebody saw it,” he said, and held his breath.

  He watched the color drain from her golden complexion till she had a sickly look and his stomach churned. “You didn’t know we had a witness for all this, huh?”

  She smiled a little but her eyes were unfocused.

  “It doesn’t make any difference, does it? Now now.”

  “No, I guess not. You pretty much told me what the police would want to know. But I still need to know. Why? Why did he want to find your old man, anyway? To kill him?”

  “I guess.”

  “I suppose he figured the old man owed you something. And this was his way of taking out his share, huh?”

  “Yes.” She wiped her nose with the tattered Kleenex.

  “And in all fairness, he did owe you something.” He watched her.

  “He sure did. He owed us a lot more than…than anybody could realize.”

  “And what about the money?” he asked casually.

  She shot him a quick glance, sudden and alert. “The money?”

  “The money he ran off with. What’d he do with it?”

  She shrugged. “I never thought about it.”

  “Probably blew it all pretty fast. Gambled it away, maybe. That was one of his problems, right?”

  She looked away and seemed to be thinking about something else. “Yes, one of his many.”

  “Wonder why he came here, why he came back.”

  She looked at him. “I don’t know. To get money, I guess.”

  “Did Don have some notions about that?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “He thought, you know…He thought there might be money here. Somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would a derelict live like an alley cat for fourteen years and then come back to pick up money he had all along?”

  “It’s not so farfetched, Paul. I’ve heard stories about people stashing their money away for years and coming back to it when they thought nobody was looking for it anymore.”

  He wanted to laugh. “So you came to Chicago to make the big score, huh?”

  “The big what?” She smiled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your papa’s money. That’s what you were after. That and a pound of flesh. I think you convinced each other that the money was still around somewhere and that the old man was going to lead you to it. I think old Don came here to kill him and you came here looking for money. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  She said nothing but stared at him.

  “Do you know how badly I wanted to believe that crock of shit you were handing me? The poor worried little lady with the crazy brother. But I like your style: you were prepared. I’ll give you that. You had one story in case I believed you, and you had another one in case I didn’t, and in both of them you’re just the innocent bystander.”

  “I’m not telling you any story, I’m telling you the truth.”

  “No. It’s all a crock and I’m an idiot for trying to believe any of it. Your brother was out there on the streets killing people and it didn’t even make you blink. I’m not even sure you were surprised by the tales I came back from the Y with. You knew he was whacko. You knew he’d kill whoever he had to and you were willing to accept that. And all along, through it all, you were hanging onto my every word, anticipating every move I made, passing information along to him. Setting me up.”

  She stared at him unblinking, and he knew it was almost over.

  “And sleeping with me.”

  She made a little shrug. “That wasn’t part of it. That part I enjoyed. Donnie doesn’t tell me when to get involved with somebody.” She surveyed the room with a bored look. “You’re the first man I’ve been to bed with after a steady diet of schoolboys, Paul.” She smiled slowly and he felt his heart chill.

  “Let me tell you what else I think, Jean. That night at the park, when Billy and I had our little encounter—I thought Billy slashed my tires, just to make sure I got the message. And now I think Don di
d it. I think he was hoping Billy’d take me out for him, and he may have even been thinking about doing it himself. But he was there, the same time I was. He was there and I felt him watching me, but I had no idea who it was.”

  He looked down. “The worst part is, I led him to Billy and I think I probably helped him find Hector and…your father.”

  “He would have found them anyhow. One way or another, sooner or later, he would have found them.”

  “But he learned about Billy from me.” She said nothing. “And I probably led him to the building he found your father in. Did he tail me, Jean?”

  She shrugged and frowned, as though she was irritated.

  “Jean, do you understand that you’re a murderer?”

  “No. That’s crazy—”

  “You’re responsible. You knew.”

  “Oh, come off it! I didn’t do a thing except sleep with a stranger. A stranger I’ve become very fond of.” She gave him a head-on look and confidence came into her eyes.

  “Sorry, darlin’, but as they say downtown. I’ve got motive, opportunity, method and a confession.”

  “What confession?”

  “The one you just gave me.”

  “I didn’t give you anything.”

  Whelan allowed himself a harsh laugh. “There’s the understatement of the decade.”

  She came forward, looking him in the eye, and hunkered down beside his chair. She put her hands on his leg and he was conscious of her scent, and he tensed.

  “Let me just ask you one thing, Paul. What difference does it all make now? Donnie’s crazy, sure, and he did everything you said, but those were dead men already, Paul. They were the walking dead and they just died a little sooner. They were just…wasted lives. They were wasted lives already.”

  He laughed again and she looked startled.

  “That’s what Mengele said about the Jews. That prick that killed children for his experiments, that’s what he said. Did you know that? That was his justification. No, Jean, they weren’t dead yet and whether they were wasted lives is not yours to say. Jesus, one of them was about nineteen years old. And one was my friend.”

  She lowered her head. “I’m sorry about him, Paul. I really am.”

  He sighed. “Oh, I really doubt it.” She looked up at him and he stared around the room, admitting the pain he felt that he couldn’t unmake this, talk it all away, lie to the world. He let his glance fall on each object in the room, taking it all in and knowing he’d never set foot in the Estes Motel again.

  “What I can’t get over is how stupid I feel.”

  “You’re smart enough. Donnie thinks you’re really smart. He was getting a little nervous there for a while.” She bit her lip and forced a slight smile. “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere you want. Let’s just leave, go somewhere, get out of…this place. I hate this city.”

  “You haven’t done a thing for it, either, kid. No, we can’t go. I sure couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He laughed. “Are you kidding? I couldn’t trust you for ten minutes at a stretch. Be like sleeping with a scorpion.” He caught a flash of anger in her eyes and got to his feet. “You never did call the Jacobsen Agency, did you?”

  She smiled stiffly. “Sure I did. They recommended you and a couple of other investigators.” She shrugged. “It was a bonus. It just sounded better to say you were recommended.”

  “So you guys had your story down from the get-go, huh? Pretty sharp for a couple of kids abandoned by their father. Too bad you didn’t find his money, for all your hard work.” He began walking to the door.

  “Oh, Paul—”

  He turned. “You know, what I can’t figure out is why you stayed behind. Was that to convince me, make it look like you had nothing to do with Donnie? Pretty smart. And when were you gonna leave? Next week, maybe, when you got tired of me?”

  She stared at him. Her look was a mixture of fear and hostility and she looked much older now.

  He smiled. “So, when were you planning to catch up with Donnie?” Something came quickly into her eyes and passed just as quickly, but he’d caught it. It was the look of privileged information, of what she knew and he didn’t, and his breath caught in his chest.

  “Oh, shit. Am I a sharpie or what? He hasn’t gone anywhere. I dropped him off at the Greyhound Station but I didn’t see him get on a bus. He’s still here. You guys aren’t through yet. Which is it, the money or me?”

  She put her hands on her hips and looked down at the floor.

  “Maybe both, huh? Old Donnie does think I’m smart. Where? Not here, the room’s registered to you.” He studied her for a moment. “I’ll bet I can guess. I think I have a houseguest. He’s been there before, too. Phew, old Donnie puts in a long day.”

  She looked as if she’d protest and he held up a hand to silence her. “Save it, kid.” He went to the door, opened it and looked at her one more time. “I should have known. A guy like me and a little co-ed from a small town.” He shook his head and smiled. “By the way, the money’s gone, Jean. There’s nothing here.”

  “How do you know that?” There was new interest in her eyes.

  “I just do. It’s the only thing I’m sure of. He pissed it all away a long time ago. Trust me.” And as he stepped out into the hall, Whelan said over his shoulder, “Listen, Jean. Remind me: I’ve got somebody I want to introduce you to,” and he slammed her door.

  The gray Caprice was parked directly in front of the lobby doors and Bauman was having a routinely hostile conversation with the liveried doorman, who apparently couldn’t see the need to block the way of ritzier automobiles with an unmarked police car.

  “You lookin’ for some kinda trouble, pal?”

  “No, man, I jus’ got to keep this space open for the limos an’ shit.”

  “Well, this is my limo. Your boss got a problem with that, send him out and I’ll take him over to Eleventh and State. You can come, too.” The doorman, looking wonderfully out of place in a red-and-green costume that would have been outrageous at Waterloo, stepped back, shaking his head, causing his lime-green top hat to topple to one side.

  Whelan walked over to the Caprice. Rooney was behind the wheel, looking disinterestedly at the Michigan Avenue traffic.

  “Out making new friends already, huh, Bauman?”

  Bauman made a growling sound. “Wants to tell me where I can park. A guy in a clown suit wants to tell me where I can fucking park.”

  “Just as long as you’re having a good time. Hey, are we keeping Rooney up?” The older detective gave Whelan a look of distaste, then stared across the street at the park.

  “She still up there, Whelan?”

  “Yeah. My guess is she’s packing, real fast.”

  Bauman nodded and looked genuinely uncomfortable. “Okay,” he said pointlessly. He cleared his throat, played with his collar, nodded again.

  “Go on up, Bauman.”

  “Yeah. We got word out on the brother. A.P.B. everywhere from here to Windsor, Canada, and every place from here to L.A. He’s history.”

  “Hope so. He’s not contributing to our society. I gotta go. Talk to you later.”

  “Yeah. C’mon, Roon. Let’s go.”

  The detectives got out of the car and motioned to a squad car parked farther down the block. Whelan walked briskly down Michigan Avenue, down the most beautiful street in Chicago, and hated the noise and the light and the warm night air. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. It tasted hot and dry and turned his stomach slightly. He wasn’t comfortable with what he was doing: if it went wrong, the kid would be on the street, but probably not for long. He wanted badly to see his face. He wanted to see Don “Ewald” face to face.

  He parked at the corner and sat in his car for twenty minutes, watching his house, studying the street, investigating the shadows and the night shapes. It wasn’t late but there was no one moving on Malden, as though word had gone out. Eventually he told himself it was time
to go in. Don was in his house.

  He got out of the car, heart racing and conscious of sweat rolling down his sides under the loose-fitting shirt. White shirt—if Donnie-boy is at the window, he’s made me already.

  He closed the car door quietly and forced himself to breathe slowly, and remembered with breathtaking clarity another day when he feared he was about to die. He remembered crawling out into a clearing, remembered thinking how incredibly hot it was, crawling and hearing the gunfire and the incessant screaming of the wounded boy, and he remembered cursing to himself at the noise the boy was putting up, and thinking “It’s my time” over and over, “It’s my time,” and then reaching the kid and pulling him by his shirt and feeling rather than hearing the round that took him in the thigh and pulling and wondering why it was taking so long.

  He walked around to his trunk, opened it and rifled casually through his disordered tool kit, and came up with a small hammer. He slipped it under his shirt in back and tucked it into his belt. He rooted around for a second more, pretended to be searching for something, then shut the trunk and walked slowly toward his house.

  He took the steps at a normal pace, shuffled his feet noisily on the warped wood of the old porch, fished around in the rusted mail box and came up with nothing. He fumbled for his keys, looked around at the porch. On summer nights when he was a boy, impervious to the heat like all small boys, he would sit out here with his father, listening to him spin tales of the old days, and then it struck him.

  After all this animal has done, after everything else, the killing and the plotting, this lowlife sonofabitch is in my house. They invaded my life and now they’re in my house!

  Got something for you, Donnie.

  He turned the key and flung the door open as he had five thousand other times. He tossed his keys on the hall table, slammed the door behind him and walked into the living room. He could smell him.

  You can smell the guy who’s waiting for you, an old cop had told him once. People don’t notice, but it’s there. You can smell his sweat or his deodorant or his gum or the liquor he drinks or his lunch, but everybody’s got a smell.