“No message?”
“If there was, it slipped my mind.”
“Did he give his name?”
“Huh-uh, I think he hung up. Don’t make no difference—I’d never of remembered it anyhow. I ain’t never been real good on names, Zeke.”
Willow sipped his fifth Kennessy’s and listened to the little alarm bells jingling in his mind. Tit for tat—that maniac Joe Orlando setting up a retaliatory ambush, sure as Christ made little green artichokes. It was a time for tactics, and Willow had learned something about tactics in South Korea. He ducked into the men’s room before leaving Millie and Jake’s Watering Hole by way of the front door. The sky was menacing and the rain was close now. Willow walked south on North Austin Boulevard as far as the corner, then west to the alley. He progressed cautiously northward through the alley, hanging close to its east-side buildings until he reached the rear of Millie and Jake’s Watering Hole, and there he paused to peek around the corner of a garage. There were two automobiles in the little parking lot—Willow’s worn-out Buick and a new orange Datsun 300 ZX. The Datsun was pulled tightly against Willow’s rear bumper, allowing the Buick no way out of the lot. Willow approached on the double, fists clenched, then slowed abruptly to a walk, smiling grimly. For a guy who specialized in sneaking up on people, Joe Orlando had a lot to learn. He’d dozed off, his chin resting on the open window frame. Willow came around the rear of the flashy little Japanese car, identifying the ruins of Joe Orlando’s once-magnificent profile with a perfunctory glance. He grabbed the door handle, squeezed, and jerked. He said, “Joe, how come you’re always a day late and a dollar short?”
Joe Orlando responded by toppling limply, face-first, into the coarse gravel of Millie and Jake’s parking lot. He didn’t move and Willow stood spraddle legged, staring down at him. He saw a large, sopping-wet splotch of blood surrounding a dime-sized black hole between the padded shoulders of Joe Orlando’s canary-colored sports coat. Willow peered into the Datsun. There was a blackjack on the passenger’s seat. Willow wiped the door handle with his handkerchief and left the parking lot to head south in the alley as the rain struck. He came through the front door of Millie and Jake’s Watering Hole at a gallop, wiping water from his face, taking his old seat at the bar, and nodding to Jake. He said, “Wet out there!”
Jake popped a shot glass onto the bar and grabbed a bottle of Seagram’s. Willow said, “I’m drinking Kennessy’s, Jake.”
Jake said, “That’s right! Where you been, ain’t seen you in a long time.”
Willow said, “I went down to Pete’s Place, looking for a guy. The joint’s padlocked.”
“What guy?”
“Name of Bill. He owes me ten bucks.”
“I’d know him if I seen him, maybe—then again, maybe not.”
Willow polished off his Kennessy’s while watching the Chicago Bears finish losing to Miami 35–14. Jake was staring at him. Jake said, “If you name’s ‘Tut,’ you just had a telephone call.”
Willow said, “I know—you told me.”
“This was a different call. Maybe she’ll try again.”
“She? What was her name?”
“Well, she give one, but names sort of slip my mind.”
“Florence?”
“No, but it was damn near exactly like that.”
“Gladys?”
“Yeah, Gladys. She said it was kind of important.”
Willow was listening to sirens whooping from the south on Austin Boulevard. They swelled, faded briefly to the west, then came screaming up the alley, and grumbled to silence in the parking lot behind Millie and Jake’s Watering Hole. Jake squinted at Willow. He said, “Whaddafuck, Carl?”
Willow shrugged. “Probably somebody burning leaves. Burning leaves is against the law these days.”
Jake said, “Yeah, all that old pollution bullshit.”
27
Sunday
They stood in the cold, gray afternoon rain sweeping in from the southwest, a shabby handful of misfits from Millie and Jake’s Watering Hole, plus a few neighborhood busybodies and a couple of wide-eyed kids on bicycles. The tiny parking lot was jammed. In addition to Willow’s Buick and Joe Orlando’s Datsun there was an unmarked black Ford sedan, a paramedics van, and a pair of blue-and-whites, their rack lights blinking red. There were two paramedics in smudged white suits, three uniformed cops, a bespectacled photographer who’d shot pictures of everything but cloud formations, and two plainclothesmen. The tall, stoop-shouldered, slow-moving, sour-visaged detective was Callahan, and the pudgy, bustling, self-important little beaver was Charlie. Callahan was in charge, and he looked around with bored eyes, mopping rain from his chin with a soggy handkerchief. He said, “All right, who found him—who phoned this mess in?”
No response.
Callahan kicked the left rear tire of Willow’s Buick. “Whose heap is this?”
Willow raised his hand. “It’s mine—hell, all it needs is paint and pipes.” Whatever he was, there was an intensely loyal streak in Willow. He said, “And rubber.”
Callahan said, “Okay, and who are you?”
Willow told him and Callahan jotted the information and Willow’s license number onto a dripping pad of yellow paper. He said, “You got any idea why he’d want to pin your car in like this?”
Willow shook his head.
Callahan wanted to know what Willow was doing on North Austin Boulevard. Willow said, “Drinking beer.” Callahan seemed to accept that.
The two paramedics were digging Joe Orlando’s face out of the parking lot gravel, heaving him onto a stretcher, covering him with a sheet of blue plastic, lashing him down, loading him roughly into the meat wagon.
The detective named Charlie raised his arm for attention, reminding Willow of an old photograph of Hitler at the Reichstag or whatever they’d called it. Charlie had a high-pitched nasal voice. He said, “Any of you people see anything unusual this afternoon?”
Harry Jenkins, an out-of-work plumber, nudged Willow. He said, “Yeah, Jake bought a round.”
Charlie frowned. Jake glared at Harry Jenkins and growled, “Cocksucker.”
A fat woman, leaning on a cane and wearing a red babushka, said, “I took in my wash just before it started to rain, and I seen a nun come out of this parking lot.”
Charlie said, “What kind of nun?”
The fat woman said, “Catholic.”
Charlie said, “Tall nun, short nun, young nun, old nun?”
“Sort of tall—older, I think. Wore glasses, carried a big black handbag.”
Charlie said, “You ever seen this nun before?”
“Not that I remember of. I don’t get out too much no more—I got all this arthritis, you see.”
“When did this happen?”
“Oh, about ten years ago—came on me right out of the blue.”
“The nun, ma’am—when did you see this nun?”
“When I was taking in my wash.”
“Yes, ma’am, but when was that?”
“A few minutes before it started to rain.”
“Was this Datsun here before it rained?”
“This what?”
“This orange automobile, ma’am—was it here when the nun left the parking lot?”
“I didn’t notice, I was busy taking in my wash.”
“Which way did the nun go?”
“North, mostly.”
“North, mostly?”
“She went east some and west some. She was drunk.”
“She was drunk?”
“Piss-assed.”
Charlie said, “Anybody else see a plastered nun?”
Callahan mumbled, “Drop it, Charlie, you’re kicking a dead dog.”
Charlie said, “Yes, sir! Right, sir!”
Callahan said, “Somebody got something to add?”
Silence, except for raindrops striking puddles. Callahan turned wearily to one of the harness bulls. He jerked a thumb at the Datsun. “Get on the horn and have this thing towed
to the pound.” He glanced at Charlie. “You riffled the stiff—what’s his name—Orlando?”
Charlie nodded a highly efficient nod. “Yes, sir!” He checked a list. “Billfold, address book, comb, keys, dental floss, mirror—”
“Dental floss? Mirror? Must of been a fruitcake!”
Charlie frowned in the rain. “Different breed today, sir. Orlando had two hundred sixteen dollars and change, sir—twenty-seven cents, to be exact, sir!”
“Plus a blackjack! A fairy with a blackjack! Make a note of that so I can write a fucking book.”
“I have the blackjack in my pocket, sir.”
“Well, take it out and go brain that goofy fat broad with it!”
“The trunk was blank, sir—just the spare and the bumper jack—nothing in the dash box but a Datsun Owner’s Manual. The car’s brand new—fifty-one miles on the clock, sir.”
“He should have stopped at fifty.”
“Yes, sir, somewhere south of Irving Park Road. I see what you mean, sir—one mile too many—the last mile, so to speak, sir!”
Willow looked at Jake. He said, “What if he came from the fucking north?”
Jake said, “Yeah, then he would of had to stop up on—what’s the name of that street?”
“Foster Avenue.”
“Right, Foster Avenue. Any other observations?”
“Just one—if Charlie don’t get his nose out of Callahan’s ass, Callahan’s going to fart and blow Charlie’s brains out.”
The paramedics van and a squad car were pulling out of the lot. Callahan, Charlie, and the photographer had piled into the black Ford to follow. One blue-and-white was sitting tight, waiting for the city tow truck. The crowd was dispersing. On their way into the tavern Willow said, “Sunday in Chicago.”
Jake said, “Yep, great old town! Say, you don’t suppose that drunk nun could of been old Mother Teresa, do you?”
“You mean Sister Rosetta.”
“Yeah, Sister Rosetta.”
“Not a chance.”
“No? That fat broad described her real close.”
“Sure, she did—she’s probably seen Sister Rosetta a few times. The woods is full of broads who’ll say anything to get attention. Arthritis has put this one on a cane, but she’ll stand out in a cold rain for a week if somebody’ll listen to her.”
Jake nodded. “Seems like broads are all the same, don’t it, Leonard?”
Willow said, “Sure does, Wally.”
28
Sunday
Before Willow reclaimed his seat at the bar, Millie was jumping up and down, waving a telephone over her head, gesturing frantically, and hollering, “Tut, it’s for you! Take it in the booth!”
Willow was relieved. For a moment he’d thought that Millie was receiving the Holy Ghost. He stepped into the booth and grabbed the phone. Gladys Hornsby’s voice was strained. “Well, Nostradamus, you called it!”
“Obviously you aren’t talking about the Bears’ game. What’s up?”
“I’ve been contacted by my new blackmailer!”
“When?”
“About noon. I’ve been trying to reach you—I’ve called your apartment and Raponi’s and Mary’s Piano Bar and Pete’s Place and—”
Willow broke in on her. “Tell me about the blackmailer.”
“The price has gone up—there are three sets of photographs and the negatives—one hundred thousand for the package, payable within one week of Casey Bucknell’s return from Germany.”
“That’s hairy!”
“Hold onto your hat! I think I know who I’m dealing with.”
“I’m listening.”
“He was talking through a handkerchief or something, but I’ll bet my left tit that it was Joe Orlando.”
“Poor lovesick little Joe? Joe killed Sam Brumshaw?”
“It looks that way! How else could he have gotten hold of the pictures?”
Willow said, “Lousy odds—a first-degree-murder rap against a batch of dirty snapshots.”
“Snapshots that are worth a hundred thousand, he thinks!”
“Orlando believes that Bucknell leaves that kind of money laying around in dresser drawers?”
“Apparently.”
“How are you to make this swap?”
“A double drop, he said.”
“What are the particulars?”
“None, yet. He said that he’d be in touch.”
“You’re sure that Orlando’s the man?”
“The voice was muffled, but we all have our little peculiarities of speech and I picked up a few. It was Joe, I’m certain!”
Willow shook his head. “It doesn’t rhyme, Glad. I can’t see Orlando blowing Brumshaw’s brains out and hanging around to chat with the cops.”
“I don’t believe it was meant to play that way! I think Joe was in Sammy’s office while we were searching it.”
“Where—in a desk drawer?”
“There’s a back closet that we didn’t go through. Joe could have ducked into it when he heard you picking the lock.”
“Not according to the coroner’s office—Brumshaw was killed an hour before we made the scene—approximately ten-thirty.”
“Who knows what happened up there? It could have taken Joe an hour to find the pictures.”
Willow was sorting it out. “It’s just possible—and he got out of there too late to avoid the law. But who called the cops?”
“Joe, of course, just before we got there—we had him trapped but we didn’t know it. We got out by the skin of our teeth! Joe didn’t quite clear the area.”
“Why the hell would he make the call in the first place?”
“Why does an arsonist call the fire department? Look, Tut, before the police arrived, only three people knew that Sammy had been killed.”
“The murderer, you, and me.”
“You didn’t make the call and neither did I!”
“Which leaves the murderer.”
“Yes! Joe Orlando!”
Willow didn’t argue. Gladys was making sense. He said, “So where do we go from here, or there, or wherever we are?”
“I’m down to my last move. I can scrape up about ten thousand dollars. Will you be my emissary—go to Joe, offer it to him, reason with him, threaten him, beat him up, or something? It’s all hanging by a thread, Tut, Casey will be back early this week!”
“Getting together with Orlando would be difficult.”
“It’s worth a try! I have his telephone number.”
“That won’t help. Orlando’s at the Cook County Morgue.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“Resting peacefully, I assume. He’s dead.”
There was a long, bleak silence and Willow waited. Then he said, “Glad, are you all right?”
Gladys said, “He’s what?” Her voice was hoarse.
“They found him this afternoon—in the parking lot behind this firetrap.”
“Behind Millie and Jake’s Watering Hole?”
“Right.”
“But what on God’s green earth was he doing in Millie and Jake’s parking lot?”
“Waiting for me with a blackjack—Joe and I didn’t hit it off too good last Thursday.”
“How did Joe die? Was it a remorse thing—suicide?”
“Remorse suicides step in front of fast trains—they hardly ever shoot themselves between the shoulder blades.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Judas Iscariot!”
“Glad, you’d better sit down.”
“I am sitting down! There’s more?”
“Just a bit. A nun was seen leaving the parking lot about the time Orlando was killed—an older nun, wearing glasses and lugging a big black handbag. She was so drunk she could hardly navigate.”
“Aunt Rosie! Oh, dear God, what the fucking hell next?”
“Nobody’s managed to make much of the nun story yet, but they’ll get around to it.”
“Who saw this nun?”
“Some balmy old barracuda acros
s the alley—not the most reliable type, but Buck Curtin’s very thorough. He’ll dig into it, depend on that.”
“Buck Curtin?”
“A lieutenant out of Homicide, and not my greatest admirer. Curtin’s working the Brumshaw business, and within twenty-four hours that sonofabitch will be all over me like a hailstorm!”
“We’re going to be dragged into this mess, that’s what you’re saying?”
“Well, Glad, just step back and take a look at it—you and I were at Brumshaw’s office on the morning he was killed. A couple of days later, Curtin and his partner tailed me and they know that I met you and that we threw an afternoon party at the Roviana Motel. And four days after Joe Orlando talked to the police he turns up dead no more than fifty feet from where I’m drinking beer! Don’t you think we ought to be dragged into it?”
“Yes, perhaps, but—”
“That’s not all. If Buck Curtin focuses on the nun angle, and if he nails Sister Rosetta while she’s carrying that artillery piece, and if he learns that she’s your aunt—well, Holy Christ, a man could just sit down and bust into tears!”
“I see.”
“I don’t think you do. Sister Rosetta was spotted at the site of Orlando’s murder and she had an excellent motive for killing him—defense of her wide-eyed little niece who’s done nothing out of line but pose naked with half a truck farm stuck in her grinder—and if it turns out that Orlando was plugged with a Heffernan-Reese .38, there’s just one helluva good chance that Sister Rosetta’s alcoholic old ass will be incarcerated in the local bastille!”
“All right, Tut, spare me the acerbics.”
“I quote from the writings of the immortal prophet—‘facts is facts.’”
“What about the pictures?”
“Ah, yes, the pictures—two wise men on a mountain peak one blue October mom, spake they of carrots, cucumbers, and golden ears of corn.”
“You’re drunk!”
“Maybe so, but there ain’t none of my aunts going around murdering people in parking lots!”
“Tut, godammit, we have to locate those pictures!” Her voice was like shattering glass.
“Okay, the pictures—if they were in Orlando’s car, Sister Rosetta has them. If they weren’t, they’re at Orlando’s residence, or they’re stashed in his bank deposit box.”
Death Wore Gloves Page 12
