I walked up to him and nodded.
"Maurice Lane," I said.
He nodded and offered me a large meaty hand. I shook it. It was firm and warm. He had a few inches on me. I'd have put him at around six two, maybe six three, but he probably had close to seventy pounds on me. His head was bald and the color of lightly roasted coffee beans. I recognized the voice immediately. His lips curled into easy smiles and his eyes twinkled with mischievousness. They were warm and brown as chestnuts.
"Call me Morrie," he said.
"You butchered my name," I said.
"Yeah, sorry about that, didn't know how it was spelled."
"C A R R I C K," I said. "You were missing the last C."
He nodded.
"Won't happen again, Tony," he said, squeezing my shoulder with his big meaty hands.
"It's Anthony," I said.
He shook his head and then looked at me steadily.
"You're a tough sonofabitch," he said, "but I like your honesty. You don't like nicknames?"
"Just not that one," I said.
"I see," he said. "Listen, I'm a nickname kinda guy, so I'm gonna have to work on one for you."
"I'll give you a hand. I've only ever had one and it was from an old friend."
"Yeah, what's that?"
"Smiling Irish," I said, deadpan.
Lane nodded.
"Smiling Irish. I don't get it," he said, shaking his head back and forth slowly. "You don't look like the smiling type to me."
"I smile at funny things," I said. "More importantly, I smiled a lot in the ring, when I won."
"Alright, I can dig that. So you're a boxer, I respect that. I'm gonna call you Irish. Until I see you smiling, it'll just be Irish."
I nodded and walked over to the carousel where the bags were starting to come by in dribs and drabs. Lane walked with me. He was dressed smart. Looked more like a banker than a cop. He had on a navy blue suit with a deep purple shirt. A dark French blue colored tie with splashes of purple was knotted around his neck with a dimple that his chin had lost. A French blue pocket square stood proudly out of his jacket pocket like a roosters comb. He had on patent leather, shiny black shoes with socks that matched his shirt.
His cufflinks were silver. His Rolex was silver too. That gave me pause on a cop's salary. On his lapel was a silver medallion of some sort of saint.
"Who's that?" I asked, nodding at his lapel.
He touched it softly.
"Saint Jude," he said.
I nodded and turned up my mouth.
"The patron saint of lost and desperate causes," I said. "Is this an omen on the case?"
Lane let out his laugh. It was infectious and I liked to hear it.
"No, no. You're Catholic then?"
I nodded.
"Lapsed," I said.
"Aren't we all? No man, Saint Jude is also the patron saint of the CPD."
I nodded again and looked over at the carousel. My bag was coming in. I reached in and grabbed it.
"Then perhaps he'll help us," I said. "I'm a sucker for lost causes."
"Let me get you to your hotel," he said. "We're making an early start tomorrow."
I walked with him until we got outside. I turned up the collar on my coat. It was cold. I knew that, I just hadn't felt it until then. Straight out front of the exit was a dark blue M5, similar color to his suit. That was his car. He walked me up to it and put my bag in the trunk. I got in on the passenger side. As we got going he nodded at the security guard patrolling the limited time parking.
"You've got fancy things on a cop's salary," I said.
"You like my car?" he asked.
"It's better than mine," I said.
"What do you drive?" he asked.
"Buick LeSabre," I said. "Some years old."
"American made," he said, nodding out the front windscreen.
"What can I say, I'm a patriot," I said, looking at him. "You like the Germans."
He nodded his head from side to side.
"I like them well enough, it's the engineering I'm really into. This car is the fastest production sedan on the streets."
And he hit the accelerator as if to prove a point. I was sucked back into my seat. A comfortable, warm leather seat, I might add.
"I get the point," I said.
He eased off and merged into traffic as we got out of the airport.
"You still haven't answered my question."
"What's that?" he asked, glancing a look at me.
"It's gotta be tough to afford things like this, even on a captain's salary."
He didn't say anything. I kept my eyes on him. He turned and looked at me briefly. He had his left hand draped over top of the steering wheel. His right was draped over the armrest between us, making him lean in towards me.
"I've got a question for you," he said, grinning. Then he opened up the armrest, looked down at it briefly and pulled out a toothpick which he stuck in the corner of his mouth. "You said you only had one nickname."
I didn't say anything. I remembered what I'd said.
"John tells me that he has a nickname for you to."
Lane looked over at me and raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.
"I still haven't heard any questions," I said, still eyeballing him.
Lane looked back out the window and moved the toothpick to the other side of his mouth using his tongue and lips.
"You're a tough nut," he said. "How come you told me you only ever had one nickname and yet I now know you've had at least two."
He glanced at me. I still hadn't taken my eyes of him.
"Must be I'm a pathological liar," I said, and then I smiled.
He saw it and grinned. Then he slapped his thigh, took the toothpick from his lips and rattled the chain in his throat that bubbled up in laughter.
"Hot damn, you are a sonofabitch," he said. "John told me you didn't take shit."
I didn't say anything. There still weren't any questions asked.
"Sid," he said to me, looking out the windshield, "Sid Vicious. I bet you earned that honestly."
"You can call me Irish or Anthony," I said serious as a punch to the face. I was still eyeballing him, and now my neck was starting to get tired.
"Alright, alright Irish, no need to get antsy about it. Let me ask you a question."
He already had.
"How do you think I got a car like this?"
"Well, you're a lawman," I said, "so you didn't steal it. You've either got a rich old lady or you're on the grift. Most times I've seen it, means you're on the grift. Plus, you aren't wearing no wedding ring."
Lane nodded slowly.
"You're a smart one alright," he said. "And you're right, I ain't married. Was once, didn't work out. Maybe again, who knows what the cards hold. But I ain't crooked, let's get that clear."
He looked at me earnestly. Maybe he was trying to intimidate me, threaten me. Didn't work. I'd been stared down and threatened by gangsters that could carry through and not been intimidated.
"Sure," I said, smiling like a Cheshire cat.
He shrugged.
"Shit, don't matter if you believe or not. I'm gonna tell you how it happened. My old man left me some money when he passed. Owned his own plumbing company. Sold it a while back, retired, then died a few years later. Probably 'cos he was bored. Anyway, left me a good chunk of change and I like to spend it."
I nodded and looked out the front window. Could be legit, could be bullshit. Didn't matter. I was here on the good people of Chicago's dime to investigate a murder, not crooked cops.
"Where's the hotel?" I asked.
"Got you in a Best Western up by Wrigley Field. Something nice but not fancy. Something the taxpayers wouldn't balk at, but at the same time keep you close to the game. Pun not intended."
Lane chewed on the toothpick and drove through the night. Soft jazz was playing on the radio, I recognized the current track as Wes Montgomery's Angel Eyes. It's never cut and dry. Lane might be a bullsh
itter but he had good taste in music.
"Tell me why I'm here," I said, trying to spark some conversation out of the wet and sorry-looking tinder between the two of us. Lane didn't look at me.
"To learn about baseball," he said, and grinned. "I'm just joking. I'm not a big fan myself. More of a football man."
He glanced over at me and looked me up and down real quick.
"You look like a hockey fan," he said.
"It's alright," I said. "I prefer to be in the game than watching."
"Yeah, I can dig that. That's me too. Though my football days are behind me. Bum knees."
I didn't say anything. Didn't particularly care.
"So James Ensor is the deceased," he said. "One of the best, if not the best, pitchers in the leagues at the moment."
I interjected.
"Almost got three thousand strikeouts, pitched three no-hitters. John gave me his stats."
Lane looked over at me, and nodded. He grinned his big wide grin. I liked it.
"Yeah, this ain't about his game though, this is about his murder."
"Tell me about it. I'm on the clock anyway."
Lane looked over at me again, the toothpick between his lips flicking around like the second hand of a clock.
"Shit man, really? You gonna charge the good people of Chicago for tonight."
"Well, this ain't a date, and if it was you'd be paying. I've been on your time since this afternoon. That's a half day I could've been sunning on the beach."
"Yeah, you white people trying to get as brown as a brother."
He shook his head.
"Looks good on you," I said, "might look good on me too."
Lane looked over and grinned wide.
"My man, you're alright."
"I'm just a brother from another mother," I said. It felt cute at the time.
Lane left out a little laugh. I'd have to try harder.
"Why is CPD looking for outside help on this one?" I asked.
"We need outside help on practically every one, only this one gets the news so the Mayor decides to throw some money at it. Originally he just wanted to bring in the help to cover other cases, but me and the Commander of Grand Central convinced the higher ups they needed to bring in good help to help with this specific case. That's how you got here."
I nodded at the windshield.
"That's awful nice of you," I said recklessly.
"Well, wasn't looking for you. I just trust my buddy John. He knows the best and told me that was you. He hasn't been wrong yet."
"Yeah, I heard you only clear around one third in a good year. That's pretty abysmal."
"You telling me. Is it true what I hear?"
"What's that?" I asked.
"You cleared all cases you were involved in?"
I nodded. Lane looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
"Hot damn," he said, slapping the steering wheel. "How many did you have? Two or three?"
He laughed at that. The joker, thought himself pretty funny.
"Two hundred and thirty-one so far," I said.
That shut him up. He went back to looking out the window at the bleak night sky.
"We got a lot of murders up here," he said after some time, "our guys are going from case to case. Hard to do them all justice."
I didn't say anything.
"Four, five hundred?" I asked.
"Probably over five this year. Not as bad as some years though."
"Worse than others," I said.
"Glass half empty kinda man, hey?" he asked.
"Glass halfway, anyway you look at it," I said.
We drove along for a bit in silence.
"Who found him?" I asked.
"James Ensor?"
I nodded.
"A teammate, later that evening. Went to see why he hadn't come in from practice. James was throwing some balls in the net at the field. Around nine thirty, Darian Stark comes by to look for him. Sees him dead on the field by the pitcher's practice net. Called it in."
"What position does this Darian play?" I asked.
"I know what you're thinking, sometimes it's the person that finds the body is the one that murdered the body. We know that."
"Yup, but that's not what I'm asking."
"Darian's a pitcher. Hasn't been getting a lot of play lately."
"Right, so this is gonna be a good deal for him," I said.
Lane nodded.
"Yeah, most likely. He's their second best one."
"What did your guys see when they got there."
"James Ensor, dead on the field. Double tap to the chest area. Probably close proximity, but no GSR on his clothing. Arm's broken pretty good too."
"Which one?" I asked.
"His pitching arm."
I nodded.
"Could be related," I said.
"Could be," he said.
"This would've been on Monday, right?"
Lane nodded. He pulled into the Best Western entrance and stopped the car outside the main entrance. It was a clean, unpretentious hotel. I was surprised to be getting any hotel this close to Wrigley Field this close to the World Series. Lane leaned in and looked at me.
"World Series was supposed to start tomorrow, but with this murder and all, they've postponed the start until Friday. It'd be nice to have this wrapped up by then."
I shook my head at him.
"Unlikely," I said. He shrugged.
"I'm giving you the pep talk the mayor gave us. Detectives Jeramie Jackson and Bradley Dykes will pick you up tomorrow at eight sharp. They're two of our best, and I figure you'll like working with them. You probably won't be seeing a bunch of me unless you're not getting the results we're expecting."
Lane reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a business card and handed it to me. The toothpick was still stuck in the side of his mouth. I looked at the card. Then he offered me his hand and I shook it.
"Any questions?" he asked.
I looked at him for a moment.
"What was your father's business called?"
He looked at me and then looked away.
"Shit, man. Any questions about the case?"
I looked at him for a while and then slowly shook my head. He didn't answer mine. He was a lying sonofabitch and I wasn't sure why. I got out of the car and leaned in from the open door.
"Take care," I said, "you never know how long the good times'll last."
He looked at me and his eyes narrowed.
"John vouched for you," he said. "I'm hoping it wasn't misplaced, because that's on me. Just stick to your knitting."
I closed the door and went to retrieve my bag from the trunk. I watched him drive off without even the smallest wave. I wasn't sad about it. I just wondered how many times he'd be seen driving that fancy car when I was done with the Windy City.
FOUR
Green Grass Of Wrigley Field
I was waiting in the lobby of the hotel on Wednesday morning. It was seven thirty and I was reading the local paper. The front page of the Chicago Tribune didn't have much to say about the ongoing investigation of James Ensor. The paper was conservative, as most large citied papers seemed to be. The front page news had returned to world events, which I wasn't much interested in. Primarily because they were always so depressing but also because there wasn't much I could do about it. But maybe most importantly today, I was on the job, and my focus was finding out about James Ensor. I read the City and Sports sections. They had coverage on Ensor.
I didn't learn a whole lot more than what I already knew. Everyone was hoping for his three thousandth strikeout during the series. Fans were upset. Some even doubted the CPD would solve his homicide. That was amongst the more salty diehard Chicagoans. It was honestly earned. The homicide clearance rates would make a gangster rejoice and the Chief of Police cry like a baby. Not that I'd seen it.
The Lovable Losers played in the National League, what that meant, I found out, was that the pitcher didn't get a designated hitter. D
idn't mean much to me, but in many leagues the pitcher only pitched. I didn't get it, but there it was.
I also found out Ensor had won two Cy Young awards as well as Rookie of the Year and MVP. I had to admit I didn't know much about him. Heck, I hadn't even been familiar with his name. That was on me. I didn't watch much sports, but you knew that already. His career ERA was 2.49. This was putting him in a race with Clayton Kershaw of the LA Dodgers. That was a name I knew.
What the newspaper man was saying in effect, was that Ensor would probably go down as the second best ERA leader in the modern era of baseball. He was older than Kershaw by almost eleven years, and generally, a pitcher's ERA doesn't improve with age, it usually slips. I wasn't gonna get into any arguments about that. Baseball fans are hardcore and opinionated, I'd leave the arguments to the professionals. I was just learning the stats as they stood.
James Ensor wasn't a bad hitter either. At least for a pitcher. That was also in the paper. The writer I was getting most of this from was the sports writer Zak Brookes. I figured I might have a talk with him. He might have some information about the game and specifically Ensor that might come in handy.
I was just finishing up the paper when two badly dressed bankers walked into the lobby. They wore the gray suits of homicide cops. I don't know why they preferred gray. Maybe it was the color of dreariness that suited the job. Maybe it was a metaphor for murder, the gray area where most crimes are committed. Maybe I'm being too deep. Maybe gray suits are just more common and cheap. Yeah, that must have been it. They looked around the lobby looking for me. It was going to be hard. The lobby was busy. This was the start of the World Series after all.
I stood up and nodded at them. They walked over. They looked like the odd couple. Bradley Dykes, if I was to guess, was the white cop. It seemed like a white boy's name. He was tall. Around six two and thin as a rake. He also had his gun on his waist. I could see that through his jacket. He had orange hair, short cut and a pale face that was wrinkled more than it should've been. I'd peg him in his fifties, but he might have been forties.
Jeramie Jackson was the African American. I did that by exclusion. These are the detective powers I have. He was average height but thick. Thick with muscle and fat. He had short hair closely cropped so it looked like not much more than a frame around the top of his head. The way he carried his left arm slightly away from his body meant he carried his piece in a shoulder holster.
Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 54
