“His address a fake?”
“I’m afraid so. Turned out to be a vacant lot in New Town. But we got a good description from the night nurse in the emergency room. Big surly guy with black curly hair, bald in front. No beard. I gave it to my gofer at the police. He said it sounded like Walter Novick. He’s a stevedore and usually uses a knife. Might explain why he didn’t do so well with acid.”
I didn’t say anything and Murray added penitently, “Sorry. Not funny, I guess. Anyway, he’s a free lance, but he’s done a lot of work for Annunzio Pasquale.”
I felt an unaccustomed surge of fear. Annunzio Pasquale. Local mob figure. Murder, torture, you name it: yours for the asking. What could I possibly have done to arouse the interest of such a man?
“You there, Vic?”
“Yes. For a few more hours, anyway. Send irises to my funeral; I’ve never cared much for lilies.”
“Sure, kid. You be careful who you open doors to. Look both ways before you cross Halsted… Maybe I’ll run a little story on this-might make the mean streets a bit safer for you.,’
“Thanks, Murray,” I said mechanically, and hung up. Pasquale. It had to be the forgeries. Had to be. If you wanted to create money and push it into circulation, who’s the first person you’d hire? A Mafia man. Ditto for securities.
I don’t frighten easily. But I’m not the Avenger-I can’t take on organized crime with my own bare hands. If Pasquale really was involved with the forgeries I’d graciously concede the round. Except for one thing. My life had been threatened gratuitously. Not just my life-my eyesight, my livelihood. If I gave in to that, I’d never have a moment’s peace with myself again.
I frowned at a stack of newspapers on the coffee table. There might be a way. If I could talk to Pasquale. Explain where our interests diverged. Explain that the matter of the securities would blow up in his face and just to leave that alone. I’d turn the other cheek if he would withdraw his protection from Novick.
I wondered how I could best get this message to the don. An ad in the Herald-Star would do the trick, but might bring the law down on me hard and heavy, too. Hatfield would love to be able to hold me on an obstructing federal justice charge.
I called a woman I know in the D.A.’s office. “Maggie- V. I. Warshawski. I need a favor.”
“I’m on my way to court, V.1. Can it wait?”
“This won’t take long-I just want to know some of Don Pasquale’s fronts-restaurants, laundries, anyplace I might be able to get discreetly in touch with him.”
A long silence at the other end. “You’re not so hard up you’d work for him, are you?”
“No way, Maggie-I don’t think I could stand up in court to an interrogation by you.”
Another pause, then she said, “I guess I’m happier not knowing why you want to know. I’ll call you when I’m free-maybe about three this afternoon.”
I wandered restlessly around the apartment. I was sure it wasn’t Pasquale who’d been on the phone to me. I’d seen him in the Federal Building once or twice, heard him speak in a thick Italian accent. Besides, say Pasquale was ultimately responsible for the forged stocks, responsible for creating them, he couldn’t be the one who got them into the priory safe. Maybe he lived in Melrose Park, maybe he went to church at the priory. Even so, he’d have to have bought off a lot of people there to get at the safe. Boniface Carroll or Augustine Pelly as front men for the Mafia? Ludicrous.
Of course, there was always Rosa. I snorted with laughter at the image of Rosa as a Mafia moll. She’d keep Annunzio in line good and proper-yes, no pasta for you tonight, Annunzio, unless you burn my niece with acid.
I suddenly thought of my cousin Albert. I hadn’t even included him in the picture before; he was so much in Rosa’s shadow. But… he was a CPA and the mob could always use good CPAs. And here he was, fat, forty, unmarried, dominated by this truly awful mother. Maybe that would rouse some antisocial spirit in him-it would in me. What if Rosa had called me without his knowing it? Then afterward he talked her into sending me away. For some bizarre reason he had stolen St. Albert’s stocks and replaced them with counterfeits, but when the investigation heated up he replaced them. He could have gotten the combination to the safe at any time from Rosa.
I continued to work up a case against Albert while cooking curried eggs with peas and tomatoes for lunch. I didn’t know my cousin very well. Almost anything could go on behind that bloated, amorphous exterior.
Roger Ferrant called again while I was halfway through the curried eggs. I greeted him cheerfully.
“Vic. You’re sounding more like yourself again. I want to talk to you.”
“Sure. Have you learned something new about your Ajax takeover?”
“No, but there’s something else I want to discuss with you. Can we have dinner tonight?”
On an impulse, still preoccupied with Albert, I not only agreed but even offered to cook. After hanging up I cursed myself-that meant cleaning up the damned kitchen.
Feeling slightly aggrieved, I scrubbed out a collection of stale pots and plates. Made the bed. Trudged through unshoveled sidewalks to the grocery, where I bought a pot roast and cooked it like beef Bourguignon, with onions, mushrooms, salt pork, and of course, Burgundy. To show Roger I didn’t suspect him anymore-or at least not at the moment-I decided to serve dinner wine in the red Venetian glasses my mother had brought from Italy. She had originally carried out eight, carefully wrapped in her underwear, but one of them broke several years ago when my apartment was ransacked. I now keep them in a locked cupboard in the back of my clothes closet.
When Maggie called at four-thirty, I realized one side benefit of heavy housework-it definitely keeps your mind off your troubles. I’d been too busy to think about Don Pasquale all afternoon.
Her voice on the phone brought the clutch of fear back to my stomach.
“I just took a brief glance through his files. One of his favorite meeting places is Torfino’s in Elmwood Park.”
I thanked her with as much heartiness as I could muster.
“Don’t,” she said soberly. “I don’t think I’m doing you any favor telling you this. All I’m doing is speeding you on your way. I know you’d find it out for yourself-one of your newspaper pals would be glad to send you to your funeral just to generate a snappy story.” She hesitated. “You were always a maverick when you were on the public defender’s roster-I hated appearing against you because I never knew what outrageous defense you might rig up. I know you’re a good investigator, and I know you have a lot of pride. If you’re onto something that leads to Pasquale, call the police, call the FBI. They’ve got the resources to handle the Mob, and even they’re fighting a losing battle.”
“Thanks, Maggie,” I said weakly. “I appreciate the advice. I really do. I’ll think about it.”
I got the number of Torfino’s restaurant. When I called and asked for Don Pasquale, the voice at the other end said brusquely he’d never heard of such a man and hung up.
I dialed again. When the same voice answered, I said, “Don’t hang up. If you should ever happen to meet Don Pasquale, I’d like to give him a message.”
“Yes?” Grudgingly.
“This is V. I. Warshawski. I’d like a chance to talk to him.” I spelled my last name slowly, giving him my phone number, and hung up.
By now my stomach was jumping in earnest. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle either Roger or dinner, let alone a combination of the two. To relax, I went into the living room and picked out scales on my mother’s old piano. Deep diaphragm breaths. Now, scales on a descending “Ah.” I worked vigorously for forty-five minutes, starting to feel some resonance in my head as I loosened up. I really should practice regularly. Along with the red glasses, my voice was my legacy from Gabriella.
I felt better. When Roger arrived at seven with a bottle of Taittinger’s and a bunch of white spider mums, I was able to greet him cheerfully and return his polite kiss. He followed me to the kitchen while I finished coo
king. I wished now I hadn’t cleaned up this morning. The place was such a mess I’d have to wash up again tomorrow.
“I lost track of you at Agnes’s funeral,” I told him. “You missed a good old scene with some of her relatives.”
“Just as well. I’m not much of a scene person.”
I dressed a salad and handed it to him and pulled the roast from the oven. We went into the dining room. Roger uncorked the champagne while I dished out the dinner. We ate without talking for a while, Roger staring at his place. At last I said, “You said there was something you wanted to discuss-not anything very pleasant, I take it.”
He looked up at that. “I told you I’m not interested in scenes. And I’m afraid what I want to discuss has the makings of a row.”
I set down my wineglass. “I hope you’re not going to try to talk me into laying off my investigation. That would lead to a first-class fight.”
“No. I can’t say I’m crazy about it. It’s the way you do it, that’s all. You’ve closed me out of any discussion about that- or anything you’re doing. I know we haven’t spent that much time together so maybe I don’t have the right to have expectations about you, but you’ve been damned cold and unfriendly the last few days. Since Agnes was shot, in fact, you’ve been really bitchy.”
“I see… I seem to have stirred up some people who are a lot bigger than me. I’m afraid, and I don’t like that. I don’t know who I can trust, and that makes it hard to be open and friendly with people, even good friends.”
His face twitched angrily. “What the hell have I done to deserve that?”
I shrugged. “Nothing. But I don’t know you that well, Roger, and I don’t know who you talk to. Listen. I guess I am being bitchy-I don’t blame you for getting mad. I got involved in a problem that was puzzling but didn’t seem too dangerous- my aunt’s thing with the fake stock shares-and the next thing I knew someone tried pouring acid in my eyes.” He looked shocked. “Yes. Right on this very landing. Someone who wants me away from the priory.
“I don’t really think that’s you. But I don’t know where it’s coming from, and that makes me draw away from people. I know it’s bitchy, or I’m bitchy, but I can’t help it. And then Agnes’s being shot… I do feel kind of responsible, because she was working on your problem, and I sent you to her. Even if her being shot doesn’t have anything to do with Ajax, which maybe it doesn’t, I still feel responsible. She was working late, and probably meeting someone involved in the takeover. I know that’s not very clear, but do you understand?”
He rubbed a hand through his long forelock. “But, Vic, why couldn’t you say any of this to me? Why did you just draw back?”
“I don’t know. It’s how I operate. I can’t explain it. It’s why I’m a private eye, not a cop or a fed.”
“Well, could you at least tell me about the acid?”
“You were here the night I got the first threatening phone call. Well, they tried making good on it last week. I anticipated the attack and broke the guy’s jaw and took the acid on my neck instead of my face. Still, it was very-well, shocking. I thought I heard the man who made the phone call talking at Agnes’s funeral. But when I tried to find him, I couldn’t.” I described the voice and asked Roger if he remembered meeting anyone like that.
“His voice… it was like someone who didn’t grow up speaking English and is disguising an accent. Or someone whose natural accent would be a strong drawl or something regional that he’s trying to cover.”
Roger shook his head. “I can’t differentiate American accents too well, anyway… But, Vic, why couldn’t you tell me this? You didn’t really think I was responsible for it, did you?”
“No. Not really, of course. I just have to solve my own problems. I don’t plan to turn into a clinging female who runs to a man every time something doesn’t work out right.”
“Do you think you could find some middle way between those two extremes? Like maybe talking your problems over with someone and still solving them yourself?”
I grinned at him. “Nominating yourself, Roger?”
“It’s a possibility, yes.”
“I’ll think about it.” I drank some more champagne. He asked me what I was doing about Ajax. I didn’t think I should spread my midnight adventure at Tilford & Sutton too far-a story like that is very repeatable. So I just said I’d done a little digging. “I came across the name of a holding company, Wood-Sage. I don’t know that they’re involved in your problem, but the context was a bit unusual. Do you think you could talk to your specialist and see if he’s heard of them? Or to some of your corporate investment staff?”
Roger half bowed across the table. “Oh, wow! Legman for V. I. Warshawski. What’s the male equivalent of a gangster’s moll?”
I laughed. “I don’t know. I’ll get you fitted out with a machine gun so you can do it in the best Chicago style.”
Roger reached a long arm across the table and squeezed my free hand. “I’d like that. Something to tell them about in the box at Lloyd’s… Just don’t shut me out, V.1. Or at least tell me why you’re doing it. Otherwise I start imagining I’m being rejected and get complexes and other Freudian things.”
“Fair enough.” I disengaged my hand and moved around the table to his chair. I don’t blame men for loving long hair on women; there was something erotic and soothing about running my fingers through the long mop that kept falling into Ferrant’s eyes.
Over the years I’ve noticed that men hate secrets or ambiguities. Sometimes I even feel like pampering them about it. I kissed Roger and loosened his tie, and after a few minutes’ uncomfortable squirming on the chair, led him into the bedroom.
We spent several agreeable hours there and fell asleep around ten o’clock. If we hadn’t gone to bed so early, my deepest sleep wouldn’t have been over by three-thirty. I might have been sleeping too heavily for the smoke to wake me.
I sat up in bed, irritated, momentarily thinking I was back with my husband, one of whose less endearing habits was smoking in bed. However, the acrid smell in no way resembled a cigarette.
“Roger!” I shook him as I started scrambling around in the dark for a pair of pants. “Roger! Wake up. The place is on fire!”
I must have left a burner on in the kitchen, I thought, and headed toward it with some vague determination to extinguish the blaze myself.
The kitchen was in flames. That’s what they say in the newspapers. Now I knew what they meant. Living flames enveloped the walls and snaked long orange tongues along the floor toward the dining room. They crackled and sang and sent out ribbons of smoke. Party ribbons, wrapping the floor and the hallway.
Roger was behind me. “No way, V.!.!” he shouted above the crackling. He grabbed my shoulder and pulled me toward the front door. I seized the knob to turn it and drew back, scorched. Felt the panels. They were hot. I shook my head, trying to keep panic at bay. “It’s on fire, too!” I screamed. “Fire escape in the bedroom. Let’s go!”
Back down the hail, now purple and white with smoke. No air. Crawl on the ground. On the ground past the dining room. Past the remains of the feast. Past my mother’s red Venetian glasses, wrapped with care and taken from Italy and the Fascists to the precarious South Side of Chicago. I dashed into the dining room and felt for them through the smog, knocking over plates, the rest of the champagne, finding the glasses while Roger yelled in anguish from the doorway.
Into the bedroom, wrapping ourselves in blankets. Shutting the bedroom door so opening the window wouldn’t feed the hungry flames, the flames that devoured the air. Roger was having trouble with the window. It hadn’t been opened in years and the locks were painted shut. He fumbled for agonizing seconds while the room grew hotter and finally smashed the glass with a blanketed arm. I followed him through the glass shards out into the January, night.
We stood for a moment gulping in air, clinging to each other. Roger had found his pants and was pulling them on. He had bundled up all the clothes he could find at the s
ide of the bed and we sorted out the leavings. I had my jeans on. No shirt. No shoes. One of my wool socks and a pair of bedroom slippers had come up in the bundle. The freezing iron cut into my feet and seemed to burn them. The slippers were moth-eaten, but the leather was lined with old rabbit fur and cut out the worst of the cold. I wrapped my naked top in a blanket and started down the slippery, snow-covered steps, clutching the glasses in one hand and the icy railing in the other.
Roger, wearing untied shoes, trousers, and a shirt, came hard on my heels. His teeth were chattering. “Take my shirt, Vie.”
“Keep it,” I called over my shoulder. “You’re cold enough as it is. I’ve got the blanket… We need to wake up the kids in the second-floor apartment. Your legs are so long, you can probably hang over the edge of the ladder and reach the ground-it ends at the second floor. If you’ll take my mother’s goblets and carry them down, I’ll break in and get the students.”
He started to argue, chivalry and all that, but saw there wasn’t time. I wasn’t going to lose those glasses and that was that. Grabbing the snow-covered rung at the end of the escape with his bare hands, he swung over the edge. He was about four feet from the ground. He dropped off and stretched up a long arm for the goblets. I hooked my legs over one of the rungs and leaned over. Our fingertips just met.
“I’m giving you three minutes in there, Vic. Then I’m coming after you.”
I nodded gravely and went to the bedroom window on the second story. While I pounded and roused two terrified youths from a mattress on the floor, half my mind was working out a puzzle. Fire at the front door, fire in the kitchen. I might have started a kitchen fire by mistake, but not one at the front door. So why was the bottom half of the building not on fire while the top half was?
The students-a boy and a girl in the bedroom, another girl on a mattress in the living room-were confused and wanted to pack their course notes. I ordered them roughly just to get dressed and move. I took a sweatshirt from a stack of clothes in the bedroom and put it on and bullied and harassed them out the window and down the fire escape.
Killing Orders Page 14
