In the hotel people remarked at how sullen I seemed, but I kept everything to myself. Even Kathy Daniels singing my favorite song didn’t do much to lift my spirits, and she seemed to notice.
“You seem down, Ron. Anything wrong?”
I didn’t answer immediately, not knowing where to begin. Was anything right, would have been a question closer to the truth.
“A friend of mine was killed a few days ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Anyone I’d know?”
“Nah.” I didn’t want to go into it.
“Were you close?”
I smiled. “Yeah, once.”
She nodded and asked me if I had anything special I’d like to hear.
“How about, ‘As Time Goes By’?”
“From that old Humphrey Bogart/Ingrid Bergman movie? I love that one, but I’m afraid I don’t have the music for it.”
I told her that anything would do, and as I left to do my rounds her voice floated after me singing “Georgia On My Mind.”
For the next few days the mindless shifts at the hotel and the punishing workouts at Chappie’s at least kept my mind occupied, and got me through that difficult period between Christmas and New Year’s. As the freezing cold whistled along with the Hawk, I was anxious to start fresh. I was ready, as they say, for the times to get better.
CHAPTER 8
January started out pretty rocky. The temperature took a nose dive into the minus digits with a windchill to match. It was all I could do each morning to get up, get dressed, and put in my roadwork. The snow felt brittle and dry under my shoes. Like it’d be there forever. Then Wednesday afternoon The Beater wouldn’t start. The engine turned over, but it just wouldn’t catch. I called my buddy Bob Matulik, who owned a garage near my house. He told me he’d send the tow truck and for me to come by later about the car. When I did, it wasn’t good news.
“Fuel pump’s shot, Ron,” he said.
“Great. How much is that gonna run?”
Bob raised his eyebrows. “Not sure,” he said. “The rough part’s gonna be finding one. Plus this car’s so old I’ll have to do it myself because nobody else knows how to fine-tune a carburetor anymore.” He grinned wryly. “When I get a chance, I’ll send one of the guys over to the junkyards and see what we can come up with. How much longer you gonna keep this beast, anyway?”
“Well, I was waiting for it to flip over on the second hundred thousand so I could advertise it as low mileage.”
That got a laugh out of him. “A ’79 Catalina,” he mused. “One of the last in the era of the old muscle-cars. Big engines, carburetors, lots of torque…”
“When cars were really cars,” I said. “My Camaro got stolen so I ended up with this one. Figured it would only be temporary, but I ended up putting so much money into it, I decided to keep it. Couldn’t afford not to.”
“I dunno,” Bob said, shaking his head. “Car gets this old it starts to nickel and dime you to death. Hard to find parts, too.”
“Guess I’d better plan for the worst, then.”
Actually, I had been saving for a new car. The money I had in the bank, mostly from the insurance recoveries I’d made, was building steadily, but I had nowhere near enough to put down on a new Camaro. Unless I went with one of those deals where you put ninety-nine dollars down and drive it until it’s repossessed because you’re stuck with such a huge, unmanageable monthly payment. Kind of shoots your credit rating to hell, too. Maybe the extra money I was getting from helping George out at the hotel would make the difference.
I hadn’t really spoken to him since that night at the morgue. Doug had been the one calling me to set up my hours. George took a few days off after New Year’s and went out of town. I knew he was back, but we just hadn’t tagged up. I took out my cell phone and dialed George’s work number. Someone else answered, and when I asked for him the guy dropped the phone and bellowed out his name. George came on about a minute later.
“Detective Grieves, may I help you?”
“Hi, it’s Ron.”
“Oh, yeah, Ron. How you doing? I was gonna call you.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. Just wanted to let you know that nothing came back on the latents from that car in that hit-and-run on Paula,” he said slowly. “Ah, they’re gonna have to put the investigation on the back burner, so to speak.”
Which meant they were administratively closing it. But I’d figured as much.
“Yeah, well I kind of expected that.”
“But I promise you I’ll lean on some of my street contacts,” he said quickly. “Something will turn up sooner or later.”
“I appreciate it,” I said. His voice had a conciliatory tone to it. I figured it was a good time to ask him. “So tell me something…You still pissed at me for blowing the interview with that Russell guy?”
“Who? Oh that asshole. Nah. I got some new plans now. Don’t even include him or his fucking Securitec.”
“Oh?”
“Doug and I are gonna expand our company,” he said. “We might even consider keeping you as our third partner. Even got a new name picked out. Windy City Knights. What do you think?”
“Does have a ring to it. We’ll have to talk it over. Say, you guys busy to night?”
“That depends,” he said slowly. Same old cautious George. “Why?”
“There’s a fight card at the Riviera. I could get you guys tickets if you want.”
“Hey, that’d be great. We were gonna try and blow outta here a little early, too.”
“Okay. I’ll leave them at the front gate. Starts at seven.”
“Outstanding. Can’t wait to tell Doug.”
“Just one more thing,” I said. “I need to borrow your truck for a couple days.”
“Huh?” he barked. “My truck.”
“Yeah, The Beater’s fuel pump conked out. I need some transportation.”
I expected him to be upset, but he laughed instead.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll just call Ellen and tell her to give you the keys.”
“I appreciate it, brother.”
“No problem. And, Ron…”
“Yeah?”
“I meant what I said about trying to get a line on who ran down Paula. I want you to know that.”
“I never doubted it.” I thanked him again and hung up.
I was able to hitch a ride over to George’s on Bob’s tow truck, which was heading out for yet another in an unending stream of service calls. Maybe George should expand the business to include cold weather jumps, I thought as we wheeled through the recently plowed streets. I helped the tow truck driver with the jump he had to do, then picked up the truck from George’s house. His wife, Ellen, gave me the keys and we talked for a few minutes while I let it warm up. She told me that she had to go pick up the kids. I went back out to the big Ford F-150 and got in. It was warm, but I could see the gas gauge needle dipping down toward the low red end as it idled. In this kind of weather, with the truck sitting outside, it was a necessity to keep a full tank. The sucker only got about eight or nine miles to the gallon and cost a cool fifty to top off the dual gas tanks. I checked my wallet and headed for the nearest gas station. No wonder George hadn’t given me any grief over loaning it to me. He knew I’d have to fill it up for him. But beggars can’t be choosers, I thought as I wheeled the big truck through the side streets. Plus, it was already close to three and I had a workout to get in at the gym before to night’s card.
After shooting home I grabbed my gear and made a quick protein drink for energy. But at the gym Chappie was standing by the ring apron tapping his foot. Raul was already in the ring shadowboxing.
“Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” Chappie said. “Raul’s been waitin’.”
“Sorry, guys,” I said. “Car problems.”
Raul nodded and continued to dance around the ring. Chappie grinned and shook his head. I hurried to the locker room and started to change. Usually I like to take my time gettin
g dressed. A personal ritual, so to speak. But today I felt pressed. Hurried. Not a good omen. I slipped on my cup supporter and laced the long, nylon fighting pants over it. Today Chappie’d said that he wanted some realistic training. That meant that Raul and I would go at it hard for at least four rounds. Or until one of us got hurt. I didn’t want it to be me.
I tossed my ditty bag down by the ring and started to tape my hands. Chappie came over and gestured for the tape. In his capable hands the task was done in about a minute.
“You warmed up?” he asked me.
I shook my head.
“Get in there and shadowbox some,” he said. “Raul’s done been waiting for too long now.”
I stepped up through the ropes and began a quick bouncing around the ring. Occasionally I stopped and stretched, but I was always pretty limber from my daily stretching routine. On the other hand, knowing today that we’d be going for broke, I did a little more stretching than for a regular sparring session. As I did this I reflected on the upcoming fight. Nine more days. Then I’d have the belt…Or would I?
My ruminations ended when Chappie said, “You ready? Let’s get it on before next Christmas rolls around.”
I nodded, but just then my beeper, which was clipped to my bag, went off. Chappie swore and said, “I know you ain’t planning on answering that.”
“I am unless you want to take over paying my bills,” I said, stepping through the ropes. I reached down for it, but the big boxing gloves made it impossible for me to press any buttons. I flashed an exaggerated grin at Chappie, who grabbed the beeper and pushed the button. The number of my answering service flashed on the screen. She’d put a nine after it, which indicated that it was a low-grade emergency.
“Sorry, I gotta make a quick call,” I said.
“Fine,” Chappie said, grabbing some focus pads. “Me and Raul gonna do some real work, like I’m sure Elijah Day be doing.”
I went into the office and had Brice dial the number for me since I was still wearing the boxing gloves. Chris, my service operator, came on the line.
“Yeah, babe, what’s up?”
“Oh, Mr. Shade. Sorry to bother you but this girl keeps calling for you. She says it’s no emergency or anything, but I can tell she’s pretty nervous.”
“She give a name?”
“Yeah. Laurel Kittermann.”
“Laurel?” I said. Visions of Paula’s cousin danced through my mind, all freckles and pigtails. Laurel’s mom and dad had both died in a car crash when she was very young, and Paula’s parents had taken their niece in to raise as their own. “She leave a number?”
“Yeah, she did.” She read off a Chicago-area exchange. “I already checked it through name and address for you. It’s a Denny’s in South Holland.”
“What’s she doing there?”
“I got the impression she’s lost,” Chris offered.
“Oh, great,” I said. “I’d better give her a call. Thanks.”
After she hung up I had to call Brice in to dial the phone for me again. A nasal, feminine voice answered with a “Denny’s, may I help you?”
“Yeah, I hope so,” I said, trying to sound ingratiating. “I’m Detective Ron Shade, and I’m trying to get hold of a Laurel Kittermann. She’s supposed to be at the restaurant now.”
It was the “detective” part. Got ’em every time. I heard the nasal voice call out, then heard another.
“Ron, it’s Laurel Kittermann,” she said. “I’m not sure if you remember me.”
“Of course I do. You’re in Chicago?”
“Yes. I came down to take care of Paula’s affairs.” She let her voice trail off.
Affairs, I thought momentarily. Was that why she was calling me?
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said. “Oh, the flowers were very lovely. My family really appreciated your thoughtfulness.”
“I wish I could’ve made it up there,” I lied, hoping my tone sounded convincing. “But I was real busy on a case.”
“Yes, Detective Grieves told us. You’re a private detective?” She paused, then added, “I was hoping we could get together.”
“Yeah, sure.” I heard Chappie’s angry shouting, asking if I was going to spend all day tying up his phone.
“Look, Laurel, I’m kind of pressed for time right now. Where are you?”
“That’s just it. I’m not real sure. I haven’t been down to Chicago since we moved up to Ludington, and I’m kind of lost.”
“Okay. What’s the address of the place you’re at now?” I heard her ask the waitress. She repeated it back to me. “You’re not that far away from where I am. Just take Halsted, that’s the street that runs north and south to 127th. Then turn left and go to Western.”
“Wait a minute. Which way did you say was north?”
Chappie bellowed again, but I had to go through the directions two more times before she finally had them down.
“I’m working out at a place called The Beverly Gym at Ninety-ninth and Western,” I said. “Just park in the lot in back and ask for me when you get here, okay? I’ll get you up to Paula’s from here.”
“Okay, Ron. I’m looking forward to seeing you again after all this time.”
“Me too.”
When I did get back to the ring, I had cooled down, but Chappie was so angry that I immediately said I was ready and shoved in my mouthpiece. Raul was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration, and he nodded at me as we tapped gloves. Chappie smeared some Vaseline over my face, laced on the helmet, and rang the bell, and I moved to the center of the ring. I’d cooled down way too much, and felt it.
Raul sent his quick jab out to meet me. Several times. At around a hard 184, he was a natural cruiserweight, and hence about thirty pounds lighter than I was. Naturally he was a tad faster, too. Part of our training game plan was for me to do a lot of sparring with Raul, figuring if I could get used to slipping and blocking his lightning-like punches, I’d have no problem making Elijah Day miss. But today I wasn’t dodging very well. Raul stung me with several more jabs, then smashed a hard front kick into my chest.
“Show me some kicks, Ron,” I heard Chappie’s voice say. He continued with his gentle prodding: “Or is you sleeping? Maybe you be catching, ’cause you sure getting tagged with everything he throwing.”
It was true. I couldn’t seem to find my legs. Or my arms for that matter. The distractions of the phone call, coupled with the cool down, made me feel bulky and slow.
I zoomed a couple of jabs of my own, but Raul’s head snapped out of the way. My kicks swept up, connecting with nothing. At the end of the round Chappie sprayed some water over Raul, then me. His voice held the bitter chastisement that he reserved for such occasions.
“You leave your head in the locker room today, Shade? Or are you plannin’ on wrappin’ it up so you can give it to Day yourself? ’Cause you get in that ring with him doing what you doing today, he gonna hand it to you.”
I let him talk, knowing it was just his way of trying to motivate me, and concentrated on getting my breath back. Slow deep breaths. Chappie left me and went over to Raul, administering to him. When the ten-second buzzer rang I slipped in my mouthpiece and moved to the center of the ring.
The second round was pretty much even. Raul continued to dance away from me, but every time he came in close I managed to get in at least one or two body shots. You can move your head easier than your body, so it’s easier to hit, and it pays long-term dividends by slowing your opponent down. Between rounds Chappie quieted down some. He told me to pick up the pace. In the third Raul seemed to find his rhythm and began catching me with hooks and right hands again. One of them at the bell stung me so hard my head was ringing.
“Look, if you want me to just cancel the Day fight, tell me now,” Chappie said. “I don’t know what the hell you doing in there.”
But by the fourth I was finally starting to get really warmed up. We were going at it pretty hard. The close
st I’d been to a gym war in a long time. I stopped trying to chase Raul and began concentrating on cutting off the ring. More body shots slowed him down, and that allowed me to get in a few shots to the head. Kill the body and the head will die, an old boxing proverb said. It was very true, which was why Chappie always advocated a strong body attack. Raul’s knees buckled slightly at the bell, and Chappie went to his corner first. I stood with my arms resting on the ropes trying to regain my wind. When Chappie came up next to me, he sprayed some water over my face and let me rinse.
“Now you starting to look like a fighter again,” was all he said.
In round five Raul seemed to have regained some of his energy. He smashed a couple of kicks to my body and arms, but left himself open when he dropped his leg back down. Elijah Day had done the same thing during our first fight. I tagged Raul with the wickedest left hook I’d thrown all night. He backed off, and when I came forward he tried a spinning backfist. It was a full-contact karate move and could be devastating if properly delivered, but like every technique there was a counter. As he stepped around, I moved in and threw an overhand right that smacked into the side of his head. Raul went down to the canvas, Chappie watching and tolling off an eight count.
Raul jumped up and began kicking his legs to keep the circulation going. Chappie checked his eyes and asked him if he was all right.
“Yeah,” Raul said. “No problem. Good shot, Ron.”
But his eyes were glassy and I knew he was still on what they call “queer street.”
We tapped gloves and began again. One thing for sure, there was no quit in Raul. He immediately started to come after me, throwing punches and kicks, but it was my turn to dance away this time. I spent the rest of the round moving and slipping, instead of trying to follow up on my advantage. We both knew I could have taken him out of there if I’d wanted to, but it was no challenge for me to knock out a man who was thirty pounds lighter than I was. My challenge would come when I stood across the ring from Elijah Day.
When we finished the round, Chappie came in and sprayed us both with water. He slipped on a pair of focus mitts and told Raul he could hit the showers. Raul nodded and slapped my outstretched glove.
Windy City Knights Page 7
