The Fifth Floor

by Michael Harvey

  “Here, clean yourself up.”

  Woods washed off the blood. I took out a handkerchief and wrapped up some ice.

  “Press this on your face. Keep the swelling down.”

  Woods took the compress and swung the rearview mirror his way.

  “How’s it look?” he said.

  I swung the rearview mirror back.

  “Your nose is fucked, so forget about it. Unless you want to go to the hospital and have it set.”

  Woods had the ice on the side of his cheek and shook his head.

  “Good idea,” I said. “Leave it the way it is. If you want to breathe better, they can break it and reset it later.”

  Johnny rolled an eyeball my way. Guess he didn’t like the idea of rebreaking a part of his face.

  “Relax,” I said. “I had my nose busted six or seven times. Never went to the hospital. Not a big deal.”

  Woods pulled the compress away and felt his face. Carefully. Then he put the ice back in place and leaned back against the headrest. I turned on the radio. Woods decided he wanted to talk some more.

  “Where’d you learn to fight, Kelly?”

  “We didn’t fight.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “You fought. I didn’t throw a punch.”

  “That’s what I mean. Man kicks my ass without throwing a punch. Tells me he knows how to fight. Where did you learn?”

  “Here and there,” I said. “Growing up.”

  “You fight for fun?”

  “Never fun. Not if you know how to do it. It’s work. And it’s mean. And it’s for keeps.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Which means it’s usually for money.”

  “So you’re a pro?”

  I glanced at the edge of my reflection in the driver’s side mirror. “Used to be,” I said.

  “So I didn’t have a chance.”

  I looked across the car and shrugged. “Fighting’s like anything else. You go up against a man at his profession and you’re probably going to lose. You may get lucky. More likely you get your head busted in.”

  I clenched and unclenched my fist, settled it back against the steering wheel.

  “Moral of the story,” I said. “Know who you’re fighting. And don’t raise your hands unless you’re willing to go all the way.”

  Woods didn’t say much after that, which was okay with me. I turned up the volume on the radio. Mike & Mike was on ESPN. Talking about how they bickered off air like an old married couple. Then they proceeded to bicker about that for half a minute, just like an old married couple. I kept waiting for them to talk about sports. Just a mention. In passing, even. I looked over at Woods.

  “This sound like sports radio to you?”

  He didn’t answer. After a few minutes, I gave up and turned it off. Then I started up the car as Woods spoke again.

  “So what have you found out, Kelly?”

  I turned off the car. “About what?”

  Woods’ face looked better now, cleaner. He laid a bandage across the bridge of his nose and smoothed it down with his fingers as he talked.

  “The thing on Hudson Street. What we talked about in my office the other day. What have you found out?”

  His voice had softened and carried a subtle edge. The cuckold was gone. In his place, the mayor’s fixer. Inside his comfort zone. The world of Chicago politics. Leverage and power. Shadows, bluff, deceit. That was okay. My investigation into Bryant’s murder thus far had turned up nothing more than nickels and dimes. I needed someone with some expertise. Someone who could turn my loose change into real money. Someone who might be scared enough to talk.

  “I know about the Chicago Fire,” I said. “I know the mayor’s great-great-grandfather probably started it. Helped along by the guy who ran the Chicago Times.”

  Woods yawned at my initial bombshell, stretched his arms, and cracked his knuckles. Then he craned his neck from side to side and resettled in his seat.

  “Sounds like a good movie to me, Kelly. Got any proof?”

  “Property records. Tying John Julius Wilson to the land. Maybe along with Charles Hume.”

  I thought the names might bother Woods. I was wrong.

  “It’s not a crime to own property. That all you got?”

  “I also know about the Sheehan’s,” I said.

  Woods flinched at the book’s mention. Just a single movement along the left side of his upper lip. But it was enough.

  “I know you went to the house on Hudson to get the book, and I know Allen Bryant was killed for it.”

  “I told you, Kelly. I had nothing to do with Bryant. He was dead when I got there.”

  “What about the book, Woods? Was that gone too?”

  Whatever bluff the mayor’s guy had been hoping to play was crumbling pretty quick. I was getting dangerously close to some version of the truth, and Woods needed to get his side out.

  “I told them this was a bad idea,” he said, and shook his head. “I fucking told them.”

  “Told who?” I said.

  Woods’ fingers were as overweight as fingers could be. One wore a gold wedding band. Another had a Claddagh ring squeezed onto it. He looked at them for a long time. Didn’t see anything he liked and looked back at me. I don’t think he saw anything he liked too much there either, but what the hell.

  “Fuck you, Kelly. You know who.”

  “They want the book pretty bad.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it true?” I said.

  Woods looked up again.

  “Is what true?”

  “John Julius Wilson. The Chicago Fire. Is it true?”

  “Oh, Jesus. Are you going to talk about this?”

  “I told you, Woods. I’m only about the murder. Allen Bryant was found dead inside his house. His first-edition Sheehan’s was the only thing found missing.”

  “Shit.”

  “That’s one way to analyze it. What I need to know from you is how the book fits into this whole thing. I know about Hume. I know about John Julius Wilson. I know about the land scam and the fire. Now tell me about the Sheehan’s.”

  Woods smoothed his eyebrows and massaged the skin at his temples. I started up my car and began to drive. Maybe a change of scenery would help things along.

  “There was supposed to be a letter,” Woods said. “Have you heard about that?”

  He moved his eyes across the car. I flicked my head. Neither yes nor no. Just enough to tell him I was in control and was going to get everything he had. This morning. Right now. Woods looked away and kept talking.

  “Hume and Wilson supposedly drew up a letter after the fire. Laid out the whole thing: the plan to burn out the Irish; the land grab; how it all spun out of control. Then they signed it. Each kept a copy.”

  “Why?”

  Woods chuckled, as if he understood this part of the story all too well.

  “Fuckers didn’t trust each other for nothing. The letter prevented either from talking.”

  “The letter was protection for Wilson,” I said.

  “Probably. He was the poor Irishman. Needed a handle on Hume.”

  “Shrewd,” I said.

  “Runs in the family.”

  “So what happened to the letters?”

  “That’s the thing,” Woods said. “This is all rumor. Urban legend. Who the fuck knows. But the Fifth Floor believes it. So they sent me out to track them down.”

  “The letters?” I said.

  “Yeah, the letters. At Hume’s request, all his papers were burned at his death. Supposedly his copy of the letter was burned then.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe he figured it wasn’t his problem anymore, so fuck it.”

  We were back in Sauganash. Woods cracked a window and watched his neighborhood slide by. I turned onto a street called Keene and pulled up to Queen of All Saints. The sign out front said it was not just a church but a basilica.

  “What’s so different about a basilica?” I
said.

  “You Catholic?”

  “All my life.”

  Woods shook his head and grunted. “Jesus Christ. A basilica’s a big church. Sometimes it contains a crypt, a place in the church where they keep the bones of a priest or a saint.”

  “Huh.”

  “You better get some religion, Kelly.”

  “You think so?”

  I parked in front of a large green lawn, stretching out and away. Toward the basilica’s twin spires, soaring, and its granite façade, impressive. Beyond that, a flourish of marble steps. Expensive. Inside the church, presumably, salvation. Or at least a chance to contribute some cash.

  “What about Wilson’s copy?” I said.

  “Of the letter?”

  “Yeah, Johnny. Wilson’s copy of the letter.”

  “What about it?”

  “That’s the one you’re looking for.”

  “If it ever existed. The mayor claims he knows nothing about it.”

  “Officially,” I said.

  “That’s right,” Woods said. “Unofficially, it goes something like this. The year was 1920-something. One of the mayor’s horny ancestors went into a cathouse over on Skid Row.”

  “This was before the Wilson family had taken up politics?”

  “Just before,” Woods said. “They were just filthy-rich pig-fuck land barons. Anyway, this guy is in there with one of the lovelies. They have a moment between rounds and he pulls out the letter. Showing off or some fucking thing. Just about then Chicago’s finest raid the place. All hell breaks loose. Did I tell you the Wilson guy was married?”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “I’m sure you are. Anyway, he jumps out a second-story window, half naked.”

  “And leaves the letter behind?”

  Woods cocked a finger my way and fired. “Bingo. He went back the next day but the girl had skipped town. Family never saw or heard about it again. Over time, everyone forgot about it.”

  “Until recently?”

  “Yeah, recently. No one is sure where the rumor started but it’s out there. The letter is legit and the mayor is nervous.”

  “Tell me how the Sheehan’s fits in.”

  Woods held out a hand. “I’m getting there. You know the first editions are numbered?”

  I nodded. “One to twenty.”

  “You’ve done your homework. Four’s the lucky number. The first edition of Sheehan’s numbered four contains information as to the location of the letter.”

  “Sheehan’s number four, huh?”

  “That’s what they say. There’s a clue in there somewhere.”

  “And you believe all this?”

  Woods grunted again. “My bosses do. That’s all that matters.”

  “You keep talking about rumor, Johnny. But I don’t believe it. There’s a source here. Someone is making you guys believe.”

  “You think so?”

  “I think so. And I have a picture in my pocket. A picture of you running from a murder. A picture that tells me I’m gonna get his name. Probably sooner than later.”

  “Piss off, Kelly.”

  “Not a problem, Johnny, once I have your source. Someone put you guys onto the letter and the Sheehan’s. Probably offered to read the tea leaves once you got the book and parse out the clue. Am I right?”

  No response.

  “Let me ask you this. Did he put you on to Allen Bryant’s trail?”

  Woods cut me a look at that one. “I found Bryant myself. Tracked down six other first editions before I found him.”

  “Bryant had the number four, didn’t he?”

  Woods nodded. “I met with him the night before he was murdered. He told me he had the book at his house and would give it to me the next morning. I showed up…” Woods shrugged and shook himself free. “He was dead, Kelly. I saw the body and split.”

  We sat in the silence of the moment. Each with our own set of problems.

  “Does the mayor know about Bryant?” I said.

  “Not from me. On the other hand, there isn’t much he doesn’t know.”

  “Is anyone else interested in the letter?”

  “Mayor’s got a lot of enemies,” Woods said. “Love to get their hands on something like that.”

  “But would they kill to get their hands on it?”

  Johnny smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit, took a little water, and washed some blood off a cuff.

  “These people are civilized, Kelly. Political types.”

  “Doesn’t answer my question. Would they kill to get their hands on the letter?”

  “Absolutely not.” Woods swiveled his head my way and offered up a narrow smile. “Unless, of course, they thought they could get away with it.”

  “Who’s your guy on the letter?”

  “Not going to let that go, are you?”

  “No.”

  I thought I knew the answer but wanted to be sure. Woods shrugged.

  “Fuck it. He’s a little weasel, anyway.”

  I nodded. “The curator at the Chicago Historical Society.”

  “Now I am impressed,” Woods said. “You got it. Lawrence Randolph. He’s the one who pushed this thing on the mayor. Convinced him the letter from his great-great-grandfather might be real. Might be in play.”

  “And the Sheehan’s?”

  “Way I hear it, Randolph was the one who thought the Sheehan’s was worth getting. Just to take a look at.”

  I thought about my friend the curator, sitting behind his desk. Pulling strings and moving pieces around the city. Probably got a big charge out of the whole thing.

  “What does Randolph want?” I said.

  “What else? Power. He wants to be the first curator for the City of Chicago. Official fucking historian or something. Mayor promised him all sorts of things. If we get the letter.”

  “And bury it?”

  “Right. Bury it. If you ask me, the thing doesn’t even exist, but there you go. In my world, sometimes the things that don’t exist are the most dangerous. Now you know everything I do, Kelly. Keep me the fuck out of it.”

  “Or else?”

  “Or else you have another enemy downtown you probably don’t need.”

  “You worried?”

  “To be honest, no. Word is you play it straight up. I figure my chances are pretty good I come out clean.”

  “If you’re telling me the truth.”

  “Like I said, you know everything I do. That’s all I can offer.” Woods checked his watch and nodded toward the basilica. “I’m gonna slip in the back. Catch the eight-thirty mass.”

  He reached for the door latch. I put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Just so you understand, Johnny. What I said about your wife, I meant it. Anything. Even a little bit of hurt, for her or the girl, and it all comes down on you. No talk. No bullshit. Just you and me and no happy endings.”

  Woods pulled out of my grip, rolled his shoulders, and ruffled up his dignity.

  “Don’t worry about it, Kelly. You can have her.” He cracked the door to my car, put a foot outside, and leaned back toward me.

  “Final word of advice, pal. Whatever she’s selling, take a pass. Janet’s all about Janet. Always will be. Now leave me the fuck alone. I gotta go to mass.”

  With that, Johnny Woods got out and walked across the grass, toward his God. An old priest in a red and purple hat was waiting at the top of the stairs. They shook hands and Johnny disappeared inside. The priest turned and looked back my way. I knew he couldn’t see into my car, but I felt his weight, anyway. Being Irish Catholic will do that to you. I pulled away and put the basilica in my rearview mirror. The domestic problems in Sauganash would have to wait. There was still a murderer or two afoot. Not to mention the matter of the Chicago Historical Society and a weasel named Lawrence Randolph.

  CHAPTER 29

  Randolph was sitting behind his desk, holding what looked like an elephant tusk in one hand.

  “Know what this is?” he said.

&n
bsp; I didn’t.

  “It’s an oosik.”

  The curator offered me the object but I wasn’t interested.

  “Know what an oosik is?” he said.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s the bone from a walrus’ penis.”

  I looked again at the object. Two feet long and seven inches around. “Congratulations to the walrus.”

  Randolph chuckled and laid the walrus’ pride and joy on his lap. “I have a poem on the wall over there,” he said. “It’s called ‘Ode to an Oosik.’ Want to take a look?”

  “I want to know about the Sheehan’s. First edition. Number four, to be exact.”

  Randolph ran one hand down the side of his oosik and took some time in formulating a response. When it came, it wasn’t much.

  “Number four, you say?”

  “Yeah, Randolph. Number four. The first edition you have the mayor’s people chasing. The key to finding a letter…about a scandal you told me never happened.”

  Randolph’s eyes moved back and forth across my face, looking for a lever to pull, an angle to push. After a while he gave up and decided to play it out.

  “You know about the letter?”

  “Johnny Woods told me.”

  “Okay, so I think there’s a chance that Wilson’s copy might exist. So what? I have no obligation to discuss that with you.”

  “You got the mayor’s people going on this, didn’t you?”

  “Sure, I pushed it along. If true, it’s a major bit of history. I’m a historian. So, why not?”

  “Got a person killed. How’s that for starters?”

  “I know the mayor’s men. They’re not going to kill anyone over this.”

  I shrugged. “Who else would be looking for the letter?”

  “As far as I know, it’s just Wilson and his inner circle.”

  “Those are the only people you talked to about this?”

  “Yes. And, as I understand things, Allen Bryant was going to give them the book. So why kill him?”

  “So you knew about Bryant?”

  “Woods called me on the morning you showed up at the society.”

  “You’re a weasel, Randolph.”

  The weasel was back to petting his walrus. He held up the oosik and pointed it my way. “We still have a deal?”

  “Fuck off. And put that goddamn thing down before I stick it somewhere.”