Gold Coast Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  “We get our meeting?” I said.

  “Jules?”

  My first name coming from Kalijero’s mouth sounded bizarre. “Jimmy?”

  “Yeah,” Kalijero said through an exhale.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Huh? Yeah, listen. You gotta really watch your back now. Word is, someone flew in town to shut someone’s mouth—for good. Probably on Cooper’s order.”

  “Cooper’s muscle already talked to me.”

  “You’re not listening. Nobody’s talking to nobody. You’re just dead. There’s no discussion.”

  “You think I’m that someone?”

  “You pissed off a lot of people—who was this guy? What did he say to you?”

  “A Cooper clown named Sergeant Blake. He’s here to find Tanya, but hopefully not harm her.”

  “What’s your thinking?”

  “Well, maybe she knows too much.”

  “Stay away from Sergeant Blake.”

  “I just want to find Tanya, get her with Eddie, and my job is done. Be honest, Jimmy. If the bad guys really wanted me dead, what chance would I have?”

  Pause. “Not much.”

  “Then what’s with the dumbass advice? And what’s so important about my life that—”

  “That’s what I’m talking about! You don’t give a damn if you get blown away. You’re fucking depressed, Landau!”

  “I was talking about Cooper, Mommy! Why is it worth sending a hired gun halfway across the country to kill me? Just because I know Cooper is making bum wine?”

  “It’s the skirt, idiot. They don’t want you to find her. And if they figure out where she is before you do, they might get you out of the way first.”

  “Cooper must think she’s alive. But why would Margot lie about killing her?”

  “That girl’s got everyone damn scared.”

  “Except Eddie, who hired me.”

  “You think Eddie’s stupid enough to cross Cooper?”

  “Love conquers all, Jimmy.”

  “You sound like a real malaka sometimes.”

  “Why?” I said, with the assumption malaka was not a compliment. “Eddie blew off Spike in the wine-scam business. Tanya is the only other reason he’d be here.”

  “You don’t think it’s blood-in–blood-out with these guys?”

  “Probably. I don’t know. They’re not Sicilian. Maybe it’s more Mafia-light.”

  “You joke too damn much. But, listen, I’m gonna have a procedure done. I’ll be in bed for five or six days. Highly sedated. So I don’t know how much help I can be.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s no big deal. I’m just telling you so you know.”

  “Okay. Thanks for telling me.” Brenda beeped on call-waiting. “I got another call—”

  “Take it.” Kalijero hung up.

  “I couldn’t get to the phone earlier,” Brenda said. “But I’m glad you called because it reminded me of something I forgot to tell you this morning.”

  “Pray, do tell.”

  “Yesterday, we were talking about Spike. And later in the afternoon, I stepped out for a smoke and saw him hanging out across the street, just kind of wandering up and down the sidewalk. I didn’t think too much of it, but an hour later he’s still out there.”

  “Did he know you spotted him?”

  “I don’t think so—or he didn’t care. Anyway, I got busy in the kitchen for at least another hour, and when I came out, Margot was sitting at a table, eating and reading like she does. I got curious, so I stuck my head out the door and saw that Spike was gone.”

  “He would’ve had a clear view of Margot leaving her apartment and walking to the pâtisserie.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Interesting. Hey, how does that old guy who likes croissants know your last name?”

  “I keep business cards on the counter, so a lot of people know my last name. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “You mean about Spike? I’m wondering if he’s smarter than I thought.”

  “Really? Why do you say that?”

  “It’s complicated but for now—”

  “Trust everything will be revealed to me. You said that a few hours ago.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Hey, it’s okay! I trust you know what’s good for me. I gotta go.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not. Either way, she spoke the truth.

  —

  From Brenda’s parking lot, I sat in my car and stared at Jeremy’s black Porsche in the dusky light of early evening. The idea of Sergeant Blake and Jeremy knowing each other troubled me. It seemed odd that Spike wasn’t equally troubled. Jeremy stepped out of the Vin Bar attired in the sacred garments of a master sommelier, and began grooming in the Porsche’s side mirror. He had a date. Perhaps he was scheduled to meet with the Mystical Potentate of the Vintner’s Temple or some other secret sanctuary reserved for worthy nobles of the grapevine. In the meantime, I called Margot.

  “Has anything gone missing from your apartment recently?” I asked.

  “Who is this?” Margot said.

  “Sorry. Jules Landau. Does Spike have a key to your place?”

  “I don’t know. Back up. You asked if I was missing something?”

  “I think Spike staked out your place yesterday—waiting for you to go to Brenda’s café.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Brenda told me.”

  “I see. Is she working for you now?”

  “We’re friends. So what? You should change your locks, Margot.”

  “What do I have worth stealing?”

  “That baby grand is probably worth 10K, right?”

  Exhaled sound of disgust. “I’m fairly certain my piano was not stolen.”

  Jeremy climbed into his Porsche. “Well, double-check just to make sure. And I meant it when I said you should change your locks. Gotta go.”

  I followed Jeremy east on Webster about three miles until he turned south on Clark Street and wound his way to a Gold Coast neighborhood on East Lake Shore Drive. He turned into one of the storied neo-classical limestone and brick buildings, then handed his keys to a valet. Having my 1983 Honda Civic parked by a man wearing a jacket, tie, and white gloves would be a first. I gave my key to the valet. He looked confused. “I’m the millionaire next door,” I said.

  “Who are you here to see?”

  “I’m with Jeremy—the Auvergnat Vin Bar guy in the black Porsche.”

  The man sort of nodded then said “Eighteen” to another man who opened the elevator. I sat on the leather bench all the way to the eighteenth floor while admiring the Persian rug and my reflection in the beveled mirrors. The door opened onto a hallway wider than many North Side streets. Directly across on the other side of the hall, a crowd socialized in what I believed the wealthy referred to as the drawing room. I approached cautiously, but nobody seemed to notice or care about my presence. On closer examination, the guests appeared quite varied in affluence, age, and grooming habits. Connoisseurs in Italian suits chatted with evenly tanned former beatniks. Hipsters in tight jeans, ill-fitting sweaters, and chunky jewelry mingled with the bulging biceps of athletes.

  Tables of wine bottles and long-stemmed glasses lined the perimeter of the room, although some tables had only a large, glossy photograph of an opened wooden crate displaying a few bottles of a hallowed vintage. I found Jeremy standing toward the rear of an eclectic group, listening to a British gentleman, dressed in an old-fashioned single-breasted tuxedo with satin lapels, lecturing on wines sold from various French river valleys. It seemed odd that Jeremy, the vin master himself, would be among the audience instead of out front leading the discussion. A bushy white beard, wispy and windblown, caught my eye. When I saw the beret on the shiny head, I recognized Blackstone from the magic shop. He stood in the back of the group, stoically watching the lecturer interact with his fans. I got the feeling he
wasn’t listening as much as waiting. I navigated through the crowd, trying to position myself closer. When I reached the outer edge of Jeremy’s right periphery, I heard a British accent assigning distinctions such as immortality, one-hundred plus points, and alternative investment. I snaked my way to the display, where a lustrous photo of several 1945 Mouton Rothschild bottles dignified the table. Then I squeezed my way back through the crowd until I reached the hallway. From there I called Spike.

  “He’s already looking for a buyer?” Spike said. “He’s trying to screw me even faster than I thought he would!”

  “I get the feeling you’re not surprised.”

  “Seriously, Landau? With that kind of money at stake?”

  “When I called you earlier, you said Sergeant Blake might be looking for you at the magic shop. What were you doing there?”

  “I was just checking something.”

  “How do you know about that place?”

  “Doug would send me there to buy stuff for him.”

  “The old guy remembers Doug and Tanya coming in.”

  “I don’t remember any old guy.” I described the bearded man. “Nope.”

  “You want to tell me what you were checking?”

  “No.”

  “If it was related to Tanya, you wouldn’t be playing goddamn games, right?”

  “You hurt my feelings.” The call dropped.

  Back at the party, I stood just inside the doorway and scanned the room for gray-haired, GQ-looking guys who might be Doug Daley. Why would Doug be at this party? To see if Spike was using Jeremy to sell the wine behind his back? Gradually, the group around the tuxedo man thinned enough for Blackstone to hobble up to him. They chatted for a bit before the man raised his arm and signaled to someone with his index finger. A minute later, Jeremy approached. Tuxedo Man quickly introduced him to Blackstone, then excused himself. The two new friends walked to the edge of the crowd and found a gap along the wall, where they stood ensconced in their own little world.

  What could this odd-looking pair possibly have in common? Did Blackstone have a few million in cash he wanted to hide in vintage wine? Jeremy handed the man a small book. He looped his cane over his left arm, held the book with both hands, then began paging through it. Occasionally, he stopped to read something. Jeremy watched and waited. Blackstone seemed to be in no hurry, despite his one-man audience. Finally, he closed the book, handed it back to Jeremy, and smiled. They spoke a bit more, shook hands, then the old guy hobbled through the crowd and out the door.

  Jeremy waited a bit longer then made his way through the crowd, passing within a few feet of me on his way out. He had that spacey look of joyful preoccupation. After the elevator doors closed, I stepped into the hallway and pushed the down button. By the time I reached the valet station, Jeremy’s black Porsche was pulling away.

  —

  The curtain of mist that had greeted me upon wakening once again dangled over the city, engulfing anything taller than a standard brick mid-rise. As I drove home, I couldn’t help but think that Doug had been present at the party, or maybe his interests had been represented by an agent lurking among Jeremy’s crowd of admirers. Then it occurred to me that perhaps Blackstone and Doug had some kind of alliance. He had, after all, admitted Doug and Tanya often came into the magic shop.

  Chapter 42

  My phone rang around five A.M. “Get over to the magic shop,” Spike said.

  “Yes, you woke me.”

  “Dude, get over here. Jeremy just pulled up.” The call dropped.

  Half asleep, I threw on some clothes, dropped a chicken heart in Punim’s bowl, then stood outside my apartment, trying to remember where I parked my car. To the east, the first sign of light diffused through the cold, clear air that had replaced yesterday’s fog. Ice water coated the city. The idea that Chicago would one day be warm seemed more remote than the Cubs playing baseball in October. I turned onto Lincoln, pondering the significance of Jeremy showing up at the magic shop. Had he struck some kind of deal the previous night with Blackstone? Maybe they were meeting again to finalize something. Why would that demand my presence?

  When I arrived, Spike stood on the sidewalk across the street from Legerdemain, leaning against the window to a Bosnian restaurant, arms folded. He seemed not to notice my approach. As far as I could tell, he was staring at the illuminated window above the shop, grinning the way one did when taking pleasure in another’s misery.

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “Look at the window, tell me what you see.”

  Initially, I saw just a bare white wall before a man quickly walked past the window, then returned in the opposite direction, stopped, laced both hands behind his head, then walked about erratically, coming into and out of our line of vision.

  “Can you feel the panic?” Spike said.

  “That’s Jeremy? What’s he doing?”

  “He’s looking for Margot’s wine,” Spike said gleefully.

  I needed a moment to audit his words. Up to this point, the wine had existed more in a virtual state than a tangible one. The implication that ten cases of Mouton Rothschild had been stored in a dreary little apartment maybe thirty yards from where I stood, brought with it a sense of awe.

  “That’s why the air conditioner was on!” I said. “To keep the temperature cool.” Spike looked at me and nodded enthusiastically. “But how did you know when Jeremy would come and get it?”

  “After you told me he had found a buyer, I had a feeling he wouldn’t wait until morning to check on his fortune. No way he was getting any sleep. So me and my amphetamine salts have been waiting in my car all night.”

  “You moved the wine.”

  “Don’t worry about the wine, just stick with what you’re supposedly good at. Like setting up a meeting with Doug. How’s that meeting coming along?”

  Spike’s brash sarcasm staggered me. He knew more than I realized and the cheeky prick wasn’t afraid to shove it in my face. Why was I taken off guard? The idea that he could make me uncomfortable in my own investigation rubbed at the blister covering my usually dormant susceptibility to violence.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.

  “I mean, for a crack detective, you don’t seem to know shit. You’re supposed to be plugged in, remember?”

  The slightest hint of mirth settling upon Spike’s face was all it took for me to land my fist squarely below his left eye, dropping the little bastard to the sidewalk. I sat on his chest and raised my fist again, only to hold it in check, aware that another blow could turn a fairly harmless black eye into a fractured socket or cheekbone. Instead, I put my hands around his neck knowing full well I wouldn’t strangle him, but would still receive great satisfaction feeling my fingers pressed against his throat.

  “Having fun playing gangster?” I said. “Did you know guys like Cooper actually have people beaten to death? Not just one slug to the face, but one after another after another, until your face is a swollen, bloody pulp and your brain is like an overripe peach.”

  The apartment window went dark. I dragged Spike around the corner by the back of his jacket and sat him up against the wall.

  “What was that for?” he said.

  “Don’t you know? In the gangster world, most of us gotta earn respect. We don’t just get it ’cause Daddy says so. You gonna give me some respect now and quit fucking around?”

  Spike touched his cheekbone. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

  I sat down next to him. “Maybe that old man—his name is Blackstone—and Doug are working together?”

  Spike pretended he had to think about it. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “We both know Jeremy’s going to call you and tell you he’s found a buyer for the wine. He’s going to try to convince you to tell him where it is. You’re going to play along, set up a meeting with the old man, and then we’re going to find out how he knows Doug. Sound like a plan?”

  “You’re still a fucking asshole,” Spike said, which I took a
s a kind of grudging acknowledgment.

  “Yeah, I know. Put some ice on your face.”

  —

  Punim watched me from her window hammock. The pet trust had to be funded. A caretaker had to be assigned. A trustee had to be designated. I sat staring at the trust papers on the coffee table. A feeling of stagnation spread over me. Waiting for a call after invoking a sublime telegraph service to get the word out only aggravated my awareness. For all I knew, Kalijero hadn’t done a damn thing with his contacts. No doubt he hid information from me. Only Eddie really knew whether Cooper wanted him to find Tanya or not.

  I moved the coffee table closer to the couch then lay down with the knuckles of my right hand resting in a bowl of ice. Out the window, I saw a hint of blue in the atmosphere, which meant the sun lurked just under the horizon. As a little boy, I thought the sky reflected blue off Lake Michigan. Back then, I knew as much about the optical phenomenon of scattering sunlight as I knew about Newton’s laws of knuckles colliding with cheekbones.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling I had underestimated Spike, perhaps to the point where he had co-opted my investigation. Considering his relationships with Cooper and Doug, what he knew and what he decided to tell me gave him a power difficult to resist. But what was his ultimate goal? To make a lot of money or find Tanya? As my knuckles transitioned from cold to burning, I thought about my surrender to violence, how Frownie would’ve said punching Spike in the face showed weakness, not strength. The fact Spike could influence my behavior revealed who was really in charge. Twenty minutes later, I removed my numbed knuckles from the ice, returned to bed, then drifted off, wondering if Spike was a bona fide hoodlum prodigy.

  Chapter 43

  The phone rang about nine o’clock, rousing me from an agitated slumber. I anticipated Spike calling to tell me about a meeting with Jeremy and Blackstone. Instead, Amy said, “Do you think Spike is also connected to Eddie’s boss?”

  I yawned. “Why would I think that?”

  Amy’s irritation transmitted loud and clear. “Eddie came here to check up on the wine scamming biz, remember? Maybe Spike was his contact.”