Gold Coast Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  “But you thought I could make it easier for you. You thought I might call up my old pal and have him meet you somewhere for a ginger ale.”

  “So what if I did? What’s wrong with that?”

  Kalijero didn’t respond. I stood there for several more minutes, refusing to believe he was content to let the conversation end on such a sour note. His anger was palpable, and probably as mysterious to him as it was to me. I thought about asking him what he was so pissed off about but decided to walk away. Just as I made a move, Kalijero chimed in with his own suggestion that I leave. I followed his advice, happy to let him think my departure was his idea.

  —

  Before heading out, I called in an order to Tasty Harmony. Despite Kalijero’s bitterness, the Taverna had put me in a sentimental mood, which was why I decided to take Halsted Street all the way home. For those vulnerable to bouts of nostalgia, the old storefronts and façades of this storied street evoked romantic images of the poor, huddled masses playing out gritty urban fables, all while showing what it was really like to live in the big bad city. If Chicago had a heart, its aorta was Halsted, running south from Grace Street all the way to the Little Calumet River.

  A white bag with my Bigboy Burger waited at the front door. Once inside, I ate at my computer while checking the hundreds of flights to Newark. Why would so many people want to go to Newark? A ten-thirty departure the next morning sounded good. A few more mouse clicks and a cheap motel off the highway became my accommodation. I called Amy.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said you were going tomorrow,” she said.

  “It was your idea too. Now you want to talk me out of it?”

  “No, no. I just—”

  “Fine. Then come over and meet Punim. I can show you where everything is.”

  I left the door ajar and swept up a few months of fur balls from corners and under tables. Amy had sounded different, I thought, as I pushed the dark fluff into a dustpan. A half hour later, footsteps padded up the stairs. She appeared in the doorway wearing faded hip-hugging jeans and a gray open blazer over a black scoop-neck T-shirt. A faint smell of roses followed her in.

  “I love the open floor plan.”

  “Have a seat,” I said, and walked to the bedroom where Punim lay on a window hammock awash in sunshine. I shouted, “You did say you liked cats, right?” No response.

  Disturbing a comatose cat steeped in the warmth of a fleece bed could be risky. Disturbing a female cat with Punim’s personality was just a bad idea. Nevertheless, I slipped my hands under shoulder and hip and carefully lifted her. A subdued growl resonated in my palms, becoming clearly audible by the time I returned to the front room. Amy sat on the couch, hands folded in her lap. She said nothing as I laid Punim on the opposite end of the couch, presenting her as one might offer a sacred relic.

  I said, “Let’s see if she wakes up on her own.”

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Punim and I have been together—”

  “No! The trip to New Jersey! Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?”

  “Of course not.”

  She paused. “I hope I didn’t push you into something. We are, I think, kind of friends, and I just want to make sure whatever you’re doing—you would’ve done whether you met me or not.”

  Punim lifted her head, looked around, yawned, stretched. Then she got to her feet and walked toward Amy. I said, “Just act totally comfortable, like you own the place—she can smell fear.”

  Amy said, “Who am I to tell people what to do? You know what I mean? What the hell do I know anyway?”

  “Here she comes.”

  Punim sniffed Amy’s knee, climbed into her lap, then relaxed to Amy’s slender fingers stroking her. The tender scene stunned me.

  “Jules, are you listening to me?”

  Deep breath. “I was already planning on going to New Jersey. I would be going back East regardless of whether or not you spotted me in the alley and wondered if I might be a ghost. You are absolved from any responsibility or liability regarding any harm that may come my way.”

  I walked into the kitchen and told Amy the litter was in a bag under the sink. From the fridge, I took out a plastic container and held it up. “Give her a heart or a liver or a kidney in the morning. The same in the late afternoon or evening. If they’re small, give her two.”

  “Raw organs?”

  “You ever see a wild cat cooking its food?”

  Amy blinked a few times, then turned her attention back to her lap. Gently, she scratched Punim’s head and then stroked the length of her spine, letting Punim’s tail slide between her fingers before repeating the motion. On the few occasions visitors had attempted similar interaction with Punim, the aftermath included loud cursing and a drop or two of blood. Perhaps Amy’s effect on Punim lent credibility to her claim of psychic powers. Maybe she really had a gift. Punim would know, after all.

  I sat at the opposite end of the couch and watched awhile longer. “Are you two talking about me?”

  Amy didn’t look at me, but I thought I detected the beginnings of a grin. “Do you think all that cash Eddie gave you might be—”

  “Time out. I don’t know this Amy. Suddenly, you really care about me?”

  “I’m a human being, Jules. If I detested you I would never have bothered talking to you again.”

  “I prefer someone look at me when she says she doesn’t detest me.” She ignored my request. “She doesn’t detest me! It must be love.”

  “Why are you so sarcastic?”

  “You told me quite clearly not to call you for any reason other than my investigation.”

  “So you’re either professional or romantic? There’s nothing in between?”

  “Okay. I’m glad you like me enough not to detest me. I’m glad you like me enough to be concerned.”

  Amy turned to me and smiled. Then she lifted Punim off her lap, stood, and softly laid her back down on the couch. “I have to go. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll start coming to take care of her.”

  I followed her to the door and thanked her for cat sitting. “Oh, here,” I said taking the extra key off a nail behind the door. She closed her hand over the key, briefly engaging my fingers, then made the slightest gesture to leave before abruptly reversing course to kiss me warmly on the cheek. By the time her lips retreated from my face, my hand had found the small of her back. I pulled her tightly against me. Our mouths fastened, tongues explored, and loins gnashed with that erotic fire humans held fast until such moments.

  As quickly as it began, so it also ended with Amy pushing me away. “No!” she said. “This can’t happen.” She walked to the top of the landing. “I’m sorry, Jules. Be careful over there and don’t worry about Punim.” I watched, stunned, as she disappeared down the stairs.

  I hated mixed messages.

  Chapter 21

  I had never been to the East Coast, and the iconic Manhattan skyline sparked a bit of excitement as the plane taxied on the runway in Newark. The feeling faded when my rented Ford Focus merged onto the Garden State Parkway, where the adjoining communities sprawled in patterns identical to any metropolitan area east of the Mississippi. At the Irvington exit, I caught a glimpse of my motel but continued into town. It didn’t take long before another iconic image came to mind, one of urban decay. Abandoned buildings, broken windows, trash piles, shuttered shops, and gang graffiti gave Eddie’s hometown a stunned, post-apocalyptic quality.

  Here and there, I found reminders of civilization. On Springfield Avenue, outposts of major banks serviced the public on the same block as deserted warehouses, bars, strip joints, wig shops, nail salons, rent-to-own furniture outlets, and discount beauty-aid stores. And after discovering pockets of tidy communities proudly displaying the Stars and Stripes in their fight to maintain working-class respectability, I sensed a defiant entrepreneurial spirit still remained, representing a flicker of optimism within this forsaken piece of New Jersey.

&nbs
p; I stuck to the major arteries, pulling over occasionally to peek down side streets, all of which looked equally depressing. By chance, I found the municipal building that housed police headquarters. I had planned on visiting the building the following morning, but remembered Frownie’s advice to never put off an opportunity. After parking my Ford, I wondered if declining the extra insurance had been a mistake.

  The sergeant behind the desk appeared absorbed in paperwork, but as I approached an officer, whose silver nametag read “Trujillo,” he looked up, smiled warmly, and asked how he could help me. Above his name, the word “Valor” was written.

  “I’d like to talk to Detective Cooper,” I said.

  Trujillo hesitated then leaned on his elbows. His eyes were now distant black dots under a furrowed brow. “May I ask what this is regarding?”

  “I’m trying to locate someone.”

  “Someone in trouble?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “I could help you with missing persons.”

  “Thank you, but I’d rather talk to Detective Cooper first.”

  “I’ve been in this community a long time. I know a lot of people.”

  “Officer Cooper knows my client.”

  The sergeant’s eyes bounced around my face. “Detective Cooper works out of a different location.” Trujillo wrote something on the back of an envelope and handed it to me. “Here’s the address. Do you know how to get there?” I shook my head. He took the envelope back and started sketching a map on the other side. “This neighborhood should be okay in the daytime. You can park in the area and walk. At night, only park in front of the building. If there’s no space in front, leave and come back during the day.”

  After I thanked him and turned to leave, Trujillo said, “How well do you know Detective Cooper?”

  “I hear he appreciates things that hold their value,” I said and walked out, confident Trujillo’s expression had not changed.

  —

  Cooper worked from a mini-precinct situated among dilapidated two-story homes, at one time comprising a charming middle-class neighborhood. Rottweiler-like dogs barking from numerous broken windows represented the only sign of life. The building itself, a one-level concrete rectangle, had all the charm of a vacated dry cleaner’s. The office was one large room. A plainclothes African American officer sat behind what may have been the Compaq desktop computer I owned in the early 2000s. His golf shirt fit tightly around biceps the size of cantaloupes. Slightly graying around the temples, he looked up at me through round tortoiseshell eyeglasses, then pleasantly smiled. “One moment, please,” he said in a surprisingly soft voice. After pecking out a few more letters and saving his document, he sat up.

  “How can I help you, sir?”

  “I was hoping I could speak with Detective Cooper.”

  The officer pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Well, I’ll have to check his schedule. Does he know why you want to see him?”

  “I’m investigating a missing person, someone I’m pretty sure he knows.”

  He nodded several times. “Okay, sure. So he’ll know why you’re here—but he doesn’t know you personally?”

  “Correct. But he knows people I know.”

  “Good. Can I have those names?”

  “Detective Cooper is a police officer, right? Here to serve and protect on the public payroll?”

  “Oh, no, no, no, of course. It’s just that, like, you know, he’s my boss, you know? And he likes to know who he’s dealing with so it will make things easier if he knows a little bit about why you’re here, that’s all.”

  I watched a man who could break me in half with one hand squirm on a steno chair under the brunt of my glare. I almost felt sorry for him. I took a pen off his desk and wrote the name “Eddie Byrne” on a piece of paper.

  The man took the paper and disappeared down a staircase off the back wall of the room. A few minutes later he returned.

  “Detective Cooper was wondering if you could come back tomorrow morning. After nine o’clock, say?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  —

  The Gala Festival Motel was a one-story U-shaped brown brick structure just off the highway. Two African American high school girls at the counter graciously welcomed me. One was taller and wore braided hair extensions, the other had a bob with a heavy side bang. The taller one told me my room had just been cleaned and that there was a hot tub somewhere out back. They both wore white blouses with a colorful badge depicting a torch in front of an open book.

  From the doorway of my room, I surveyed the chasm running down the middle of the bed, then acquainted myself with the smell of chlorine bleach. The towels were stiff and the size of large washcloths. The only thing missing was a neon sign flashing on and off through the window.

  It don’t cost nothin’ to talk, Frownie always said. When you go to a new place, talk to anybody about anything. That’s how you learn. I walked back to the lobby and asked the girls what people did for fun in this town. They both giggled. The taller one said, “For you? Only one place we know about.”

  I thought I knew what they meant, but asked anyway. “What do you mean for me?”

  More giggling. “White boys,” the shorter one said. “Besides buying drugs, there’s only one reason white boys come here.”

  “It’s called ‘Back End Up,’ ” the taller one said, and they both broke into peals of laughter. I couldn’t help but join in.

  “A strip joint?” I said.

  “They cater to white boys from the burbs,” the taller one said. “It’s been here forever.”

  “What else?”

  The laughing stopped. The shorter one walked over to the window, looked outside, and said, “Sir, it’s getting kind of late and it’s really not safe for you to be wandering around this part of Irvington at night.”

  “Except for Back End Up.”

  “Exactly,” they said at the same time and then took turns filling me in. “It’s all set up for white guys to feel safe. Lots of cops moonlighting as security. Some gangbangers too.”

  “Cops and gangbangers working together to protect white boys in a strip joint?”

  Both girls nodded. “That’s the way it’s always been.”

  They watched me mentally digest the information until I said, “I know a guy who said he lives here. A white guy. What neighborhood would that be?”

  They looked at each other. The tall one said, “No white guy lives in this town. Not since I’ve been alive.”

  “He’s older than you. Maybe his family stuck around?”

  Both girls looked mystified. The shorter one said, “I don’t know any white people who live here. Maybe they do. But I’ve never seen them.” The other nodded her head.

  I said, “What are those badges you’re wearing?”

  “It’s for academic excellence,” they both said.

  I congratulated them. The girls took turns thanking me and gave directions to Back End Up. From a convenience store, I bought a loaf of bread, grape jam, and a jar of peanut butter. I sat on the corner of the bed, eating and thinking. Despite the shabby furniture in a shabby motel, I saw no sign of roaches or ants. I attributed this to the motel’s toxic approach to cleanliness. Cooper, a white cop, operated out of a mostly black town. This I knew. But thanks to a simple conversation, I also knew where white men went to spend money here.

  Chapter 22

  The glow caught my attention at least five blocks from Back End Up, another large, nondescript cement rectangle but this one with a parking lot lit up like a football stadium. A man holding a radio transceiver to his mouth and wearing a dark windbreaker with the word “SECURITY” across the back waved to me from the middle of the lot. He stood in an open space next to the last car in the row. After I pulled in, he welcomed me to Back End Up and pointed to another man standing twenty yards away, dressed identically, apparently waiting to escort me. As we walked, several other “SECURITY” men strolled the perimeter o
f the lot. On the corners of adjacent blocks, drug dealers and whores freely conducted curbside negotiations.

  When we reached the sidewalk, I saw about a dozen men smoking cigarettes behind a roped-off area in front of the club. My escort stopped, smiled, then gestured toward the door with an open arm. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”

  Before entering the club, I decided to hang out awhile with the smokers, all white men, ranging in age from early twenties to about seventy. Each maintained at least a three-foot buffer between himself and someone else. Personal space. Standing closest to me was a guy with black hair taped up on the sides, box cut, and spiked. He wore a tracksuit with the jacket unzipped enough to reveal a gold cross on a heavy chain. Guido tuxedo, I think his outfit was called. When he noticed me I smiled and said, “My first time here.”

  Guido Tuxedo blew out a plume of smoke and chuckled. “Undercover, huh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothin’. Yeah, this place is good for tit suckin’ and ass grabbin’ in a back room. More if you got the cash. Lots of Brazilian bitches. Watch out for the old girls. Still in decent shape but teeth all fucked up.” Guido Tuxedo took a long drag, flicked the cigarette into the street, then returned to the club.

  I observed the others awhile longer, stoically puffing in their isolated worlds, then took one last look at Kalijero’s picture of Cooper sitting at the table with his goons. When I entered the club, the world turned purple, thanks to a ceiling grid of canisters shining a spectrum of violet hues. The venue was shaped in a semicircle with sloping tiers leading to the performance area. I stood at the top tier where a row of corn plants blocked most of the view.

  “Good evening,” a smiling woman said, walking up to me. “There’s a twenty-dollar cover charge and a two-drink minimum.” Although too old to be a stripper, she still looked amazing in a black bustier and matching miniskirt.

  “Uh, okay, can I have a quick peek to see if my friends are here yet?”

  Something about her body language set off a silent alarm because a young gangbanger in an oversized sleeveless T-shirt appeared from the top of an aisle and began wandering toward us. His shirt appeared to be red, although I couldn’t be sure in the light.