Windy City Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  —

  “You don’t sound too good,” Kalijero said. “Rough night?”

  Lying on my back, staring at the ceiling from the futon mattress, I let the phone rest against my ear. I was not accustomed to morning sunlight, but the blinds had been included in the mischief, so there it was. “You could say that.”

  “You mind if I stop by? I got some things to show you.”

  “I’d absolutely love to see you, Jimmy. Seriously. I really, really, want to see you. Bring bagels.”

  No response, then, “Are you fucking with me? Landau, want me to come over or not?”

  “Yes! But bring some fucking bagels.” I hung up and wondered why I had just acted like a prick. Kalijero was a good guy. We were friends—sort of. An hour later, holding a brown bag and leather briefcase, he stared in disbelief from the doorway.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “I’d offer you a seat, but I don’t have one.”

  We stood at the kitchen island and ate while I filled him in on yesterday’s events.

  “This looks like someone in a rage,” Kalijero said, wiping away a schmear of cream cheese. “The parking officer with the drug problem. He’s the one I’d keep an eye on.”

  Kalijero opened his briefcase and took out some papers. “Frownie had a will. He left everything he owned to various labor unions. Except one item. This is yours.”

  Kalijero handed me a picture of Frownie’s most prized possession, a 1933 Cadillac V-16 once owned by the king of Denmark. I stared at the photo unable to comprehend that I would own this vehicle.

  “What am I going to do with it? This is a rich man’s hobby.”

  Kalijero started laughing. “Sell it, dumb ass! You don’t think he expected you to drive the damn thing?”

  I said, “The day Frownie died, I was snooping around his place. I found a photo album. There’s a kid, a dead ringer for a young Jimmy Kalijero. Frownie’s got his arm around his shoulders.”

  “So what?” Kalijero stopped chewing. “What do you care? I’m not in his damn will. That tells you something, doesn’t it?”

  “What’s with the secrets?”

  “Just because you don’t know about something doesn’t mean it’s a secret.” Kalijero closed his eyes a few moments then opened them. “I told you some already. About when Frownie begged me to let your father plea for a shorter prison sentence. I said I didn’t realize how close he had been with your family. That’s a lie. I knew.”

  I waited for more. “And?”

  “When I was a kid in the fifties, Frownie was like an activist type. He always was trying to help working people, especially immigrants. Everyone loved him. That’s how he got to be so good at his job, because he had so many friends. Lots of those people became contacts for his detective work, including your grandfather over on the West Side. Us kids loved listening to Frownie’s stories about gangsters and pool halls full of hoodlums. After my dad died in a car wreck, he took a special interest in me. Kept an eye on me, made sure I didn’t skip school. He became close to my mom, even though she barely spoke English and Frownie sure as hell didn’t speak Greek.” Kalijero, laughing, shook his head. “He tried to learn a few simple sentences but always got so tongue-tied and pissed off that he’d start cussing.”

  “This is all very scandalous. I can see why you didn’t want me to know about it.”

  “I’m not done, smart ass. Word got out about plans to build the interstate through our neighborhood. We all knew this meant the end of Greek Town. A hundred years of history bulldozed under. Frownie organized against it. He used every contact he knew, trying to find out who to beg or bribe or make some kind of deal with. But this was the Feds we’re talking about. Even though I was only about seventeen, I knew it was hopeless. And that pissed him off.”

  “He didn’t like your attitude.”

  “Yeah, especially so readily taking the compensation money. He wanted me to at least fight first. He stopped talking to me for a while. Then he told me how disappointed he was. Gradually he warmed up. A few years later, I disappointed him again when I went to the police academy. He had his heart set on me going to college. I had already been in uniform a couple of years before we started talking again. We kind of developed a more professional relationship. I gave him tips if I heard something at headquarters; he’d use his contacts for me if I asked. When I made detective, he congratulated me and I think he might have even meant it. When I started working vice, Frownie was pretty much retired, but he heard about a gambling sting I was conducting. When it all went down and he found out it was your father, he came to me. When I refused to go light with the charges, that was the last straw. Glad you asked?”

  “Sure, why not? I’m always glad to learn something new. I got something to show you.” I walked to my bedroom and returned with the photo of Tamar’s boss and Jack Gelashvili. “You know anything about this guy?”

  Kalijero looked at the photo and frowned. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Who cares? Just tell me if he’s someone I should know.”

  Kalijero scratched his head. He looked tentative. “He’s pissed off a lot of the community because he feeds the bums and lets them sleep it off in the bakery. More and more bums are coming to the neighborhood because of him, they say.”

  I waited for more. “He feeds the poor? That’s all you know?”

  “I didn’t say that’s all I know! But we don’t have anything concrete on him. He’s one of those characters—it doesn’t matter. He’s known to us, but that’s as much as I can say right now.”

  “I’m starting to think the Russian mob might have been involved in Gelashvili’s murder. So does his former boss at parking. No real evidence yet, just a story.”

  “Well, if you do get evidence, don’t pursue it. You’ll end up as dead as Gelashvili. Now I got something to show you.”

  From his briefcase he took out two enlarged photos of a rectangular copper or bronze object. Embossed on one side was a bearded man with a crown. On the other side, the king’s sunken image along with three ornate characters of an exotic alphabet etched into a corner.

  I said, “You want to tell me what I’m looking at?”

  “Help me figure it out.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “For now, it’s better you don’t know.”

  “Did you check with one of the eighty universities in Chicago?”

  “I did.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to show it to that girl, Gelashvili’s cousin. It’s a way of confirming what we suspect.”

  “Holy shit, Jimmy! Just tell me what you suspect! Is it relevant to Gelashvili being dead? I’ve got kindling for furniture. I’m not in the mood for games.”

  “I’ve been pretty damn straight with you, Jules. In fact, I’ve gone out of my way to be a good guy when I sure as hell don’t have to be. So why don’t you pretend I have more experience in these matters than you? Why don’t you pretend I’ve been doing police work for over thirty-five years?”

  Kalijero was great at reminding me that he was in charge and would always be in charge if we worked together. It still didn’t make sense for him not to tell me what he suspected. But it also didn’t matter.

  37

  On the phone at the bakery, Tamar sounded tired but glad I called. “I didn’t hear from you yesterday,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if something was wrong.”

  It was true we had not spoken since I dropped her off at the bakery the morning after we had sex—a potential mixed signal if there ever was one. I apologized for not calling and told a brief story of yesterday’s adventures at city hall. I did not mention the sacking of my apartment. She suggested I stop by after the late-morning rush.

  After I filled several garbage bags with wood scraps and stacked the larger pieces along the wall, I set out to a Salvation Army thrift store down the street where, in fifteen minutes, I had picked out suitable replacements, paid for with cash. Then I left fi
ve C-notes with a carpenter-locksmith guy I trusted to repair my door and install a dead-bolt. I enjoyed sharing the wealth.

  I loaded the Civic with the refuse and drove to a West Side wood recycler before doubling back to the Kutaisi Georgian Bakery. Despite the absence of the double-parked white van, I recognized the heavyset Hispanic driver sitting at a table near the door, relaxing with coffee and a pastry. Maybe he figured out there was a loading zone in the alley. For the first time, I noticed a patch on the left breast of his jacket identical to the IIPD snake-eating bald eagle decal on the windshield.

  Tamar greeted me with a warm hug and led me to a table with two pastries. The booths were empty except for Boris stoically smoking a cigarette, flicking the ashes in a coffee cup. Three hammered guys at the drunk table, one snoring loudly. “Why does your boss put up with that?” I said.

  Tamar seemed not to know what I meant. Then she said, “My boss is very compassionate. He understands hard times.”

  “What about that guy? Is he supposed to be smoking in here?”

  Tamar frowned. “No!” she said then stood up, walked to Boris, and said something. Boris initially had no reaction other than to drop the butt into the coffee cup without even acknowledging her presence. After Tamar turned to walk away, Boris said something out loud in what I assumed was Russian. Tamar stopped momentarily, but didn’t turn around. Then she continued walking back to our table and sat. She didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead looking troubled.

  “Are you okay?” I said. Tamar nodded. “What did he say to you?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said quietly.

  I tried to lighten things up a little. “I’m gonna get fat if you keep pushing these tarts or turnovers or popovers or whatever they are on me.”

  “Pakhlava,” Tamar said, trying to sound cheerful. “And you could use a little fattening up. What’s that?” Tamar pointed at the manila envelope I’d brought with me.

  I handed her the photo of the kingly figure embossed in metal. “Do you know what this is?”

  Tamar needed only a glance. “It’s an ornament of King David IV. Georgians are known for their metal-working skills.”

  I handed her the photo of the flip side of the ornament. Her eyes bounced around the image until she focused on the inscription and brought the photo to within inches of her face. She mumbled a word I assumed was in her native Georgian.

  “I’m guessing those are letters. Maybe somebody’s initials?”

  Tamar looked deadly serious. She turned to glance at Boris. “Where did you get this?”

  “A cop gave it to me,” I said. “He wants some kind of confirmation before he tells me anything more.”

  Tamar put the photo down. “You’re right. Those are initials written in Mkhedruli, the Georgian alphabet. The letters are the equivalent to the English B, D, and G. King David’s likeness is common on these metal ornamentations. One carves their initials so it won’t get mixed up with someone else’s ornament. That’s what my cousin Bagrat Dogonadze Gelashvili did.”

  I said, “This is more evidence that the bracelet with Baxter’s phony suicide note was planted. This ornament was found somewhere else—or on someone else. It’s time to find out.”

  Tamar slouched in her chair and stared at the table. Her eyes filled, but she wiped them with the back of her hand before a single tear managed to spill out. I moved my chair closer and put my arm around her. She leaned into me and said something in Russian. “That means, It was over quickly, they say. He didn’t suffer. Be thankful. That’s what the gangster-asshole said to me.”

  —

  Kalijero picked up on the first ring. “Well?”

  “It’s an ornament of a Georgian king. Where did you get it?”

  “Meet me at Area B in an hour,” Kalijero said. I agreed and we hung up at the same time.

  Tamar stared at the photo of Jack’s initials as if in a trance until she looked at me and said, “You didn’t tell him it belonged to Jack.”

  “I got a meeting right now at police headquarters. But first there’s something else I want to talk to you about.” I took out the photo of the baker and Jack. “This is your boss, right?”

  Tamar looked at the photo and back to me. “What’s this all about?”

  “There are people who suspect this man might be connected to the Russian mob. Some even think he runs a human smuggling operation.”

  Tamar handed the photo back to me. The look in her eye told me she wasn’t happy. “And do you think my uncle Gigi is a criminal?”

  The word “uncle” hung in the air over Tamar’s head. For a moment I pictured death rays shooting out of her eyes. “You heard what that gangster just said! He’s implying he knows something, maybe even participated.”

  “That doesn’t mean Gigi is involved!”

  “Then why does he let these scumbags hang out in his bakery?”

  Tamar looked horrified, but I couldn’t say from what. “Because, because, he has no choice! They’re gangsters, they don’t give you a choice, and Gigi goes along. He has to! You don’t think Gigi had anything to do with Jack’s murder, you can’t!”

  The proverbial can of worms covered me. “I don’t know what to think. Everyone knows I’m not buying the murder-suicide story. Maybe they’re throwing in your uncle to perpetuate the phony mafia theme.”

  “Let me guess. You want me to spy on the most generous man who ever lived. A man who made sure I had a job and that most of the people who’ve made this bakery a huge success had jobs.”

  Her anger was palpable. “I’m not asking you to spy. But if you notice something that might seem weird—”

  “Weird? Like what? Crates overflowing with rifles and grenades or bags of white powder lying around the warehouse? Or how about my uncle sitting around with a bunch of guys named Khaber or Sergi or Zakhar performing ancient initiation rites and guzzling vodka while playing Russian roulette?”

  “You’re overreacting—”

  “Am I? If this bakery were run by white Americans, would you be taking this photo seriously? Or does the word ‘smuggling’ cause your brain to create the image of a scheming Central Asian connected to an international arms or drug dealer?”

  “You’re calling me a racist? You really think—”

  “Just get away from me!” Tamar stood, knocking the chair over. “Get out of our bakery. Just leave. Leave me alone!”

  She stormed away and disappeared into the prep room. I left the bakery with a knot in my stomach. I knew what kind of pain it was, but I had to focus on the latest developments. On my way to Area B, I wondered if I was as insensitive as Tamar suggested.

  38

  The Area B district station was a textbook description of bleak in an otherwise eccentric neighborhood of restored bungalows and rehabbed frame houses. I sat on a wood bench outside the detectives’ room and admired framed photos of the smiling mayor and glowering police chief. Against the wall were two vending machines: one for soda, another for yummy sandwiches wrapped in plastic. A bulletin board announced various K-9 and Mounted Units fund-raising events and encouraged participation in the Area B Memorial Ten-Kilometer Run. There was also a congratulatory letter from the assistant superintendent for Area B’s participation in the West Side Greek Parade.

  Kalijero stuck his head out the door and motioned for me to enter. The room was filled with 1960s steel desks and a smattering of detectives talking on the phone or dealing with paperwork. I followed Kalijero to his desk, where he directed me to a metal folding chair.

  “You want a career investigating murders, right?”

  “Talk to me like I’m a grown-up, Jimmy.”

  “I’m just saying, if this is what you want. You ever see a body after it’s been in water awhile?” Kalijero opened the center drawer and slid to me a photo of a woman’s bloated, wrinkled corpse.

  “Awesome. Thanks for this.” I looked at it closely, as if an obvious clue could be found on the face of a gray-skinned cadaver. “You want to tell me
who she is?”

  “We think she’s Russian. Maybe a prostitute.”

  Kalijero’s words caromed sharply off my chest. I could tell he was studying my reaction. “Anything else?” I said.

  “That piece of metal with the king? Found in her pocket.”

  Almost involuntarily, I took a lungful of air and let it out while remembering my first conversation with Tamar, when she told me about Jack’s Russian girlfriend, Lada Soboroff.

  “She matched the description of a missing persons report. The scorpion tattoo on her left shoulder should clinch it. I’m meeting her sister, Marta Soboroff, at the morgue to identify the body.”

  I flashed back three days to the lobby of my office and the woman with the exotic good looks speaking in a Slavic accent. King David IV was shouting the obvious conclusion. But what did Jack Gelashvili’s falling in love with a prostitute have to do with Jack Gelashvili’s murder? I kept Jack’s connection to myself but asked if I could join the identification.

  “You can watch from a distance. I don’t want you talking to the sister until I’m through with her. Got it?”

  —

  A twenty-four percent obesity rate, heat waves, gang warfare, New Year’s die-offs. Those were just some of the factors contributing to a backlog of bodies that occasionally forced the Office of the Cook County Medical Examiner to double up on trays. Fortunately, late October was still the off season.

  Kalijero’s decades of investigating murders gave me instant credibility as I moved through the building with only a “visitor” card clipped to a belt loop. Once inside the medical examiner’s office, we walked toward an autopsy table where a sheeted body lay. Kalijero ordered me to stay back about ten feet and keep quiet. A few minutes later, a doctor entered, along with a victim’s advocate and the sister I recognized as the woman I’d seen at my office. Our eyes met for a moment when she passed.