Gold Coast Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  “Exactly! I’m using you and your forty valuable years of cop contacts. You’re the best bang for my buck.”

  Kalijero had no retort for an idea so brazenly well-reasoned. “Okay, Landau. What’s the word you want on the street?”

  Kalijero’s sarcasm was unmistakable and stung my confidence. “First a little background: Margot Daley said her husband is still alive. Margot said she shot Tanya dead in front of him and Doug carted her off—”

  “You believe this?”

  “Not until I see a body. But here’s the message: Spike wants to make things right with Doug. Split the wine fifty-fifty. Meet him at—at Pâtisserie Grenouille. Have him call you or one of your contacts to set the day and time.”

  “How about Sunday, high noon?”

  “Fuck you, Jimmy. We’re talking over a million bucks’ worth of wine.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Doug gets five cases of Mouton Rothschild. Do a little research if you think it’s bull.”

  Kalijero paused, then said, “Okay, I’ll try to get the word out. Just don’t be surprised if Doug doesn’t get the memo.”

  Chapter 37

  Despite the temperature, I cracked the window and sat listening to the din of Halsted. The neighborhood appeared dull and washed-out under the clouds. The traffic sounded muffled too, as if the city’s volume had been turned down. Even the pedestrians appeared to walk with a heaviness in their stride.

  Eddie answered on the second ring. I said, “Where are you? We need to talk.”

  After much throat clearing, Eddie responded quietly with “What happened?”

  “Don’t worry, dude. Nothing big. Just want to give you some info—but not on the phone. Maybe I’m paranoid.”

  Eddie gave me a Lakeview address about a mile from my apartment. “No kidding? You get tired of roaches and syringes?” Eddie didn’t respond. I said I’d be over in a few minutes. He hung up without saying goodbye. Bad manners, like his dad.

  —

  The address was a two-story graystone on a quiet tree-lined avenue, as virtually removed from the South Jackson Street crud as one could get without living in suburbia. Eddie sat on the top step of the front stoop, playing a game on his phone. I sat on the next lowest step.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  “Gina’s dad owns it,” he mumbled, still focused on the game.

  “Good investment.”

  “He grew up in this house. Kept it in the family.”

  Eddie continued playing until he said, “Damn it!” then put the phone down.

  “Doug Daley isn’t dead,” I said.

  His face lit up. I didn’t recognize him. “Then Tanya’s probably alive?”

  “I don’t know. Spike stole a lot of pricey wine from Doug. Now we’re trying to lure Doug someplace, to talk with Spike about splitting the wine. I thought you could use some of your contacts to get the word out that Spike wants to make things right. But he’s going to have to tell us where Tanya is if he wants the wine.”

  “I don’t got no contacts. Not here.”

  “Ask Cooper.”

  Angry Eddie said, “Ask him what?”

  “Tell him you’re helping Spike dump some pricey wine on a rich chump named Doug Daley. You want to get the word out, and set up a meeting. Cooper will think you’re following through on the reason he sent you here.”

  Eddie snapped at me. “It’s not like you make a call and everything just happens! It’s not some stupid movie.”

  “Tell Cooper that Doug knows where Tanya is. He wants you to find Tanya, right?”

  Eddie straightened up. His face relaxed a bit. “Yeah,” he said. “That might work.”

  Neither of us spoke. Across the street, a young couple packed their Volvo with luggage. On the porch, two small kids wearing blue hooded sweatshirts with Cubs logos laughed while jumping up and down.

  “It’s coming to an end, Eddie,” I said. “We’re getting closer to the truth.”

  I thought I heard the slightest chuckle. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

  —

  An abstract grayscale mix of shapes reflected off the windshield of the gray sedan parked across from my apartment. The four concentric circles on the grille held no special significance until the driver’s side window lowered. We stared at each other. I extended my arms, holding my palms up with a bewildering look. Amy smiled weakly, then stepped out of the car. We had spoken on my return from Irvington, but watching her cross the street in tight stretch slacks and a black cable-knit sweater temporarily eclipsed all memory of why she approached.

  “Ooh. Your face is still a mess,” Amy said.

  It took a moment, but I remembered what she meant. I considered suggesting we go upstairs, but something about her posture discouraged me. “You look like you want to tell me something.”

  Amy sat on the second stair of the building’s stoop. I sat next to her, but not presumptuously close. She said, “I was thinking about our conversation the other day. Maybe it would be best to confront Margot Daley directly about the wine counterfeiting and how it relates to Tanya’s whereabouts. You know, get right to the point.”

  “Fake wine is irrelevant to Margot.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why do you say that?” Something about her words sounded staged.

  “Margot’s wine was stolen—an inside job, it turns out—but she doesn’t know about the wine counterfeiting. Figuring out why Tanya left her old New Jersey home in the first place will tell us a lot.”

  “Margot was betrayed by someone who conspired with her husband?”

  “A kid named Spike who then double-crossed Doug and kept the loot.”

  “Margot still insists Doug killed Tanya?”

  “She’s an unreliable narrator. Nobody is dead until we find a body.”

  Amy leaned back, as if to take a good look at me. “You seem kind of uptight.”

  I leaned back, intentionally imitating Amy, as if to take her all in. “Why are you always showing up suddenly? Why don’t you just call me?”

  “Because I prefer talking face-to-face. I was going to give you five more minutes before driving off. I was just about to leave after I finished reading the paper.”

  “Why do you need to see me? Am I special?”

  “Just tell me to get lost if that’s what you want! What are you afraid of?”

  She had a point, but even tough guys like me needed their secrets. “Margot admitted Doug’s not dead,” I told her.

  Amy looked like she wanted to yell at me again. Instead, she nodded her head a few times then said, “He orchestrated his own death in a phony car crash. Interesting. Did she concede anything else?”

  Her choice of the word “concede” struck me. “Like what?”

  “Oh, c’mon! Something about Tanya?”

  “She didn’t tell me what Doug did with the body. Which is why we have to find Doug.”

  “Maybe I can help—”

  “That’s right! You said you have a friend in law enforcement, the one who told you where Margot lived.”

  “You think I’m lying.”

  “I think you followed me to Margot’s house.”

  Amy laughed. “What else have I lied about?”

  “Not knowing Tanya Maggio had a boyfriend who hired me.”

  More laughter, only more intense. “Anything else?”

  “Give me time. I’ll think of something.”

  Joining in her third spasm of laughter had not been my intention, but the genuineness of her amusement captured me. Amy said, “What about Spike, the guy who stabbed Margot in the back? Is he involved in counterfeiting wine?”

  “Excellent investigatory work.”

  “You could’ve told me this.”

  “It’s more fun to watch you figure it out.”

  Why did Amy put up with me? I wanted to think she hoped to be my girlfriend one day, but I also wanted to think I would one day play third base for the Cubs. Maybe she was just a rich, pretty psychic who would come around every no
w and then to try her hand at private investigating.

  Amy said, “So you want my help finding Doug or not?”

  “Something tells me my answer is irrelevant to your actions.”

  Amy’s expression became trance-like. No doubt wheels spun, cogs meshed, levers pivoted, but I had no idea what it all sounded like inside her noggin. She said, “I think you’re right. Tanya was running away from someone. Maybe your client.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it.”

  “Eddie Byrne still had several months to do in prison when Tanya hit the road.”

  “Anyone else in Irvington worth running away from?”

  “You ever been to Irvington? I wanted to run away as soon as the plane landed.”

  “How would Doug Daley benefit by pretending to be dead?”

  I played along. “What better hiding place than a grave?”

  “But hiding from what? Spike has the stolen property.” Amy’s features broadcasted a catalogue of coded emotions.

  “What?” I said, probably louder than I should have. “Just say what you’re thinking.”

  “It seems odd you didn’t ask Margot why she went along with this charade.”

  I didn’t want to tell her about Margot’s murder confession. “Until we find Tanya, everything else is a waste of time. You psychics are all alike. You know I’m not telling you everything but you won’t come out and say it. How about we focus on finding Doug and then we can discuss all the things I’m not telling you?”

  Without waiting for a reaction, I stood then walked up the stairs. Once inside my apartment, I lay on the couch and ransacked my brain, trying to figure out how Amy knew Doug supposedly died in a car crash.

  Chapter 38

  My head ached with unorganized data. Keep it simple. Tanya’s relationship with Cooper was probably the key. No doubt, a slime bucket like Cooper tried getting into her pants. That alone would be worth running away from New Jersey. Her decision to tell Spike that Margot’s wine might be seriously valuable was probably meant to enrich herself and Doug while letting Spike do the dirty work.

  A few hours earlier, Kalijero had said he would get the word out. On the street, news traveled at the speed of sound, a perception based purely on Hollywood portrayals. Kalijero’s forty years of contacts, plus a sprinkling of Amy’s psychic dust, inspired my vision of an illicit whisper campaign covering the city like summertime ozone. When a few more hours had passed with no call, Kalijero’s sarcastic “Okay, Landau” started playing repeatedly until I could stand it no longer.

  Kalijero answered the phone saying, “You’re still such an amateur, Landau.”

  “Well?”

  “Yes, son, I got the message out. But this could take time. Or maybe it won’t work. You’re betting Doug Daley is connected to the street like a career hoodlum. Only you know why this could be true.”

  “Doug’s connected to the dark side through Spike whether he knows it or not. With millions at stake, it seems like word has to get back to him. And what about that Chicago cop connection Cooper has to help him expand business?”

  “What? I never said it was a cop.”

  “You were looking into the possibility.”

  “There are a lot of possibilities in this case and none of them give a damn about you.”

  “Care to explain what you mean—a little bit?”

  “You know what I’m talking about! Lots of groups want to see Cooper in prison. You’re not in one of those groups. You’re on your own, getting paid by one of Cooper’s lackeys. When I say you’re on your own, I mean it. To the good guys, you’re just a clown walking into a hornets’ nest. If you get stung to death, it’s your own damn fault. But they’ll thank you for leading them to the nest.”

  “A few days ago you said you felt a little responsibility for me since Frownie died. Later you suggested therapy for my recklessness. Suddenly, you no longer feel the love. If I die you don’t get paid, you know.”

  Ten seconds of angry mumbling in Greek. “Even if I wanted to watch your back, I don’t have enough details. I’d find out about you in the morning paper.”

  “Just promise to come down and identify my corpse.”

  “I’ll bring the flowers to your funeral since no one else will be there. Go take your cat for a walk.”

  Kalijero hung up. Punim slept peacefully on the window hammock.

  —

  Perhaps Brenda fell in love with Doug Daley gradually, over a period of time, enough time to allow the obscure chemical reactions to open her heart to another’s subtleties. On the way to Pâtisserie Grenouille, I stopped at an animal shelter called Furry BFF, to get a packet of information. At the pâtisserie, the light-lunch surge had already peaked. The old, white-bearded Blackstone sat at his usual table. I grabbed a two-top that Jennie had just cleaned, then took the packet out of the folder. “Congratulations!” the introductory page began. “You’re taking the first step in establishing an enforceable compact to provide a legally sanctioned arrangement for the care and sustenance of your pet should you die or become disabled….”

  Brenda interrupted my thoughts. “Hi,” she said then set down a tall, caramelized pastry with custard oozing out the bottom. She took two forks from her apron pocket then sat. “You look serious,” she said.

  “I’m setting up a trust for my cat.”

  Had I not spoken with a straight face, Brenda might have simply giggled instead of screeching with laughter. In response, I could only muster a sympathetic grin, which proved the antidote to Brenda’s glee.

  “Oh. I’m sorry—”

  “It’s fine. I suddenly realize how funny that must’ve sounded.”

  “Well—I don’t know. If you love your pets, you want to make sure—hey, is something wrong? Besides your bruises needing to heal?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Hey! I just remembered something. Tanya wanted to organize a catch and release, spay and neuter program to help control the feral cat population. We both loved cats. That was another reason I liked her.”

  “That’s another reason I hope we find her in good health.”

  She pushed a fork across the table and said, “Eat.” I cut out a gooey chunk. Brenda eyed me suspiciously. “Too rich?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “By how long it’s taking you to swallow.”

  “I have an unsophisticated palate.”

  “You never told me how you got those bruises.”

  “I’m hiding something underneath them.”

  Brenda frowned. “You wanna wear that canelé home with you?”

  “I got roughed up a few days ago.”

  Brenda closed her eyes and sighed. “What about that circle I helped you close? When you asked about Mouton Rothschild?”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, you verified that Doug knew the value of Margot’s stolen wine.”

  Brenda assumed an exaggerated slack-jaw. “Margot had Mouton Rothschild in her collection?”

  “Ten cases. 1945.”

  Brenda sat up and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes glazed over. “I can’t believe it. And Doug stole it? Was Spike involved? And—Doug is dead, so where’s the wine?”

  “Brace yourself. Margot says Doug’s not dead. Spike has the wine.” Several days ago Brenda learned the man she loved was a murder-suicide suspect, today she found out he’s not dead. I watched her digest the information through a series of beastly expressions. “I’m sorry,” I said. “This must seem like a nasty joke.”

  “That girl! Tanya. You don’t care about the wine, you want to find Tanya. She might be alive too?”

  Brenda not dwelling on Doug pleased me. “I need a meeting with Spike and Doug. Doug gets his share of wine, I get Tanya. Where do you think a dead man like Doug would spend his days while trying to get his wine back?”

  Brenda’s face reflected the strangeness of the question. “I’m not sure I really knew him that well. And you’re not telling me why Doug and Margot want the world
to think he’s dead.”

  “Brenda, do me a favor and trust that everything will be revealed to you. But for now, try to be a little psychic. Pretend you’re Doug. You’re owed millions and you’re not going anywhere until you get it. Where would you hang out?”

  Brenda considered my request. “He was the calculating type. He would’ve had everything planned out. And I don’t think he’s one to hide somewhere. He needed to be around people.”

  “Maybe he’s hiding in plain sight?”

  Brenda studied me. “Yeah. You may be right. Maybe Tanya is hiding with him?”

  Mentioning Margot’s murder confession seemed pointless. “Maybe,” I said. “But someone could recognize him.”

  “Who’s looking for him besides you?”

  She had a point. The cops were not involved.

  “I have contacts trying to arrange a meeting between Spike and Doug here at the pâtisserie. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Brenda touched my hand. “Nah. That’s okay. The more I learn about the guy, the less I like him.”

  Chapter 39

  The implication of the man keeping pace in my periphery escaped me until I reached for the car door and a hand gently but firmly took my wrist. I flinched, braced myself, then turned to see round tortoiseshell eyeglasses on a brown face.

  “Hello, Landau,” Sergeant Blake said.

  Two days ago, that same face had a view of my battered body lying on a cot as he casually discussed business.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” I said. “Ahmet’s knee safely on the mend, I hope?”

  Sergeant Blake didn’t respond but maintained a benign hold of my wrist. “Let’s talk a bit.”

  “Let me guess. You’re here to tell me to stop picking on three-hundred-pound Turkish wrestlers?”

  The sound of air violently exiting Sergeant Blake’s nostrils accompanied the twisting of my arm to the threshold of dislocation. “I give you credit for still being alive,” Sergeant Blake said into my ear, still maintaining his soft-spoken tone. “When I walked out of that room, I assumed Ahmet would’ve snapped your neck like a chicken bone. As easy as separating your arm from your shoulder. But I’m glad you made it out alive. Wanna know why?”