A Body in Belmont Harbor

by Michael Raleigh

  “And if I don’t? If there isn’t anything?”

  She made a little puffing noise. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll have trouble, Mr. Whelan.”

  “It’s something you should think about.”

  “I’m not worried about it. Now—should we discuss your fees, Mr. Whelan?” She reached into the handbag again and came out with an elegant gray wallet.

  He sighed. “My current rate is two hundred a day plus expenses.”

  She shook her head sharply. He thought the change that had suddenly come over her was remarkable—now that she was discussing money and service rates and terms, she was calm, relaxed, assured.

  “I dislike the small print intensely, Mr. Whelan. I don’t get involved in things like expenses and receipts.” She looked off at the calendar on the wall, stuck her tongue into her cheek, nodded and looked at him.

  “I’ll give you three a day and you eat the expenses,” she said, and her tone made it clear that this was not a negotiation but a statement of fact.

  He shrugged and smiled. “Fine. And let’s put a limit on it. Let’s say two weeks. If I haven’t come up with anything by the end of that time, we’ll wrap it up.”

  “I’m not worried about money, Mr. Whelan.”

  “I wasn’t implying that you were. But I’m sure you aren’t in the habit of throwing money away. And you can always hire another investigator at the end of that time if you want.”

  She nodded and looked around, and it was clear that the prospect bothered her. She nodded again. “All right, Mr. Whelan, two weeks.” She opened her wallet and took out a sheaf of crisp new bills, fifties, and laid them on his desk. “One thousand dollars, Mr. Whelan. Your retainer.” She raised an eyebrow. “Will this be enough?”

  “Of course.” Whelan took out a cigarette of his own and lit it. In a fairly barren summer, a thousand bucks wasn’t the worst way to start the workday. He told her the kind of information he’d need to go on. She gave him dates and names and numbers. Then she stood, did violence to one final cigarette in his ashtray, and held out her hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Whelan. I appreciate your assistance.”

  “I’ll be in touch. You’ll receive regular reports by phone and a written report upon completion. Can I get you a cab or give you a lift somewhere?”

  She gave him an appraising look. “I got here under my own power. I should be able to manage.”

  She left the office and Whelan stood in the doorway and watched her walk toward the stairs. When he went back into the office he was asking himself what he’d gotten into.

  Three

  At Area Six headquarters he got a desk sergeant who sounded like a bad tape. He could make out “hello” and “sergeant” and then something else that sounded like “anchovy.”

  “Hello. I’d like to speak to someone working on the Harry Palm killing.”

  “Thewhat? Thewhatsir?”

  “The body found at Belmont Harbor about a week ago. Who are the detectives working on that one?”

  “Whosisplease?”

  “My name is Whelan, and I used to work out of Eighteen, and I was at Town Hall for a while, too. I came across some information and I wanted to run it by the guys working on that one.”

  “All right.” The sergeant wheezed into the phone and seemed to slip into a lower gear. “Leave your name and number and I’ll have the investigating officers get back to you.”

  “They’re not in now?”

  “If they were in, I’d put you through to them, wouldn’t I, sir?”

  No, he thought, but he said, “Guess so.” He gave the sergeant his name again and his phone number and then, before the sergeant could cut him off, thought of something.

  “And who’s going to be calling me, Sergeant? Who are the officers involved?”

  “Detectives Bauman and Landini,” the cop said, exhaling.

  “Who?”

  “Detectives Bauman and Landini,” and now sergeant Whateverhisnamewas was irritated.

  “Must be getting on to lunchtime, huh, Sarge?”

  “What?”

  “So Bauman got another partner, huh? What, did he kill the last one? What was his name…Schmidt?”

  “He went on disability,” the sergeant mumbled.

  “Just pulling your leg, Sergeant. Have a nice day.”

  He hung up and looked out onto Lawrence. He shook his head and sighed. “Bauman. And I was having such a nice morning.”

  It took three calls, but he finally got hold of Fred Myers, now Deputy Chief Myers. The chief wasted no time on pleasantries.

  “You’re calling about Jan Fairs, right, Whelan?”

  “Right. What can you tell me about her husband’s death?”

  “Nothing to tell. He killed himself. She won’t accept it. Same old shit, Whelan. You been there before.”

  “How solid is the evidence that it was suicide?”

  Myers snorted into the phone. “About as solid as it gets, Whelan. The guy was seen torching his own boat.”

  “She told me he was seen on the boat, but—”

  “No, not on the boat. Torching the boat. Pouring gasoline on the boat, all over it. He killed himself, Whelan, there’s no question about that, except in her mind.”

  “So why did you refer her to a private detective?”

  “Why not? Thought she might believe it coming from you. She thinks the police just don’t give a shit. Besides which, she’s got a hard-on about her husband’s partner.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “That’s what she really wants, Whelan. She wants a piece of that guy Vosic.”

  “Got any idea why?”

  “Sure—he’s alive and he’s rich. And who knows, maybe he’s a crook, but just between you and me, they were both dicking the system around for all it was worth. Her husband was certainly no better than his partner.”

  “Did you know both of them?”

  “Sure. And I wouldn’t buy a used car from either of them.”

  “Phil Fairs seem like the type to commit suicide?”

  “He was a cokehead, Whelan. Pretty serious habit, too. Yeah, I think a guy like that, his brain’s fried, his whole career starts coming apart, yeah—he might do it. Why not?”

  “Well…thanks for the business, anyway.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Myers said without any emotion and hung up.

  He called his service and Shelley answered, whiskey throat and all.

  “Hi, baby. How’s tricks?”

  “Shelley, it’s always a pleasure to hear your professional phone manner. Do you speak to all my clients this way?”

  “Only you, babe. Hey, I made an appointment for you with that Ice Maiden, and she didn’t complain, did she?”

  “Mrs. Fairs? No, but people like that don’t complain, Shel, they just rip out your page in the phone book. Listen, I’m ducking out for a while and I’m expecting a call from Detective Bauman.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “You remember him, huh? Well, I need to talk to him, so I hope he calls.”

  “Sure I remember him. ‘Dese and dose’ and phone manners like a mule skinner. Nice man. I know what he needs, honey.”

  “Yeah, but are you ready to make that sacrifice?”

  “Anything for my country, baby,” she laughed.

  Whelan told her he’d check back with her later in the day.

  “Okay, but you call after six and you’ll get Abraham. He’s on nights this week.”

  He sighed. Speaking with Abraham was one of the great burdens of his professional life.

  “Okay, Shel. Thanks for the warning.”

  He walked back home and got his car. It started, and he was impressed—perhaps it was an omen. He drove to Irving and Sheridan and parked a few feet from the corner. Half a block down Irving was Byron’s, where a hot dog was still an art form, and he couldn’t think of any reason to skip lunch. He ordered two, with all of the wondrous additions and afterthoughts that marked a classic Chicago-style hot dog and consigne
d imitators to an eternity of mediocrity. When he was finished he thought about having a third but controlled himself with effort, settling instead for a quick cigarette. Then he went back to the corner. Up the street on Sheridan the great gray hulk of the Palacio stuck an empty marquee out at the traffic. Former synagogue, sometime church, occasional movie house, the place was as unpredictable as its neighborhood. Two blocks away in the other direction stood the Festival, another dead movie house, the place where, as a teenager, he’d watched his first strip show. In other neighborhoods the old theaters were snatched up and rehabbed and turned into night clubs and glorified dance halls; in Uptown they sat empty.

  The King’s Palace was still open for business, still surviving, still offering the same entertainment night after night, year after year, so that the marquee never needed changing: TONIGHT, TWO BIG SHOWS, THE KING’S PALACE PROUDLY PRESENTS, DIRECT FROM LAS VEGAS, THE HIGHTONES.

  Whelan shook his head and smiled. When he’d gone off to Vietnam the Hightones had been the nightly act at the King’s Palace; when he returned, the Hightones were still there. Through Johnson and Nixon and Ford and Carter and now Reagan, the Hightones came to the King’s Palace six nights a week and strutted and sang and mauled the works of songwriters who deserved better, and Whelan had no doubt that ten years from now, after a nuclear holocaust or bombardment by asteroids, the Hightones still would be showing up at the King’s to croon to the drunks and pick up a paycheck.

  And like its entertainment, the King’s Palace itself had now outlived four owners—five, if you counted Harry Palm. In a way it was a sad thing that Harry was dead, for in Harry the King’s Palace had found its true soul mate—cheap, jaded, sleazy, and insincere. In the hands of Harry’s partner, a former accountant named Hoban, the place might undergo a dangerous transformation, might clean its johns occasionally, get rid of its unique smells, change clientele, and, yes, maybe even hire musicians who could play and sing.

  He walked back to the bar and pushed open the door, bracing himself for the smell. It did no good; you can hold your breath only so long, and the smell was waiting for him when he took his next breath. The smell came from the carpet, a dark brown layer of polyester that looked like the pelt of an otter caught in an oil slick and gave off all the odors that make a tavern—stale beer, spilled liquor, ashtrays and cigarette butts, rancid perfume, and vomit. The air conditioner hadn’t had time to kick in yet and was doing little more than stir up the odors.

  He nodded to the bartender, a young man with long hair worn in a ponytail, and sat down at the bar. The kid plucked at the ugly black tie he was forced to wear, wiped his hands on his pants, and walked over to Whelan.

  “Nice and cool in here,” Whelan said, checking out the bartender.

  The kid nodded curtly and looked at him. The sullen, I’m-just-working-here-till-I-get-a-call-from-my-agent type. Okay. He looked at the kid and then at the other customers, both of them, a pair of guys in sport coats at the tail end of the bar. One was staring at his cigarette and the other seemed to be talking to himself.

  “Got any coffee?”

  The kid shook his head.

  “You speak any English?”

  The kid gave him a sarcastic look. “Yeah, I speak English. Is that supposed to be funny or what?”

  “I just wondered. Most people speak when they’re spoken to. I thought you were from, you know, Pakistan or someplace like that.”

  “I look like I’m from Pakistan, man?”

  “I don’t know what they look like, actually. How about a Coke?” The bartender gave him a nasty look and stalked down the bar to the soda gun. He came back with a short Coke, slammed it down on the bar so that some of it spilled over, and looked at Whelan.

  “A dollar.” He waited for Whelan to object.

  Whelan put two singles on the bar. “All yours. Hoban around?”

  The kid nodded his head toward the back of the bar and Whelan stifled an impulse to laugh. Just like in the movies. Okay, I’ll play, too.

  “Anybody with him?” he asked, straight-faced.

  The kid shook his head and looked at the two singles. Whelan shoved them toward him.

  “Put ’em in your pocket. Cokes ought to be free, anyhow. And listen.” He leaned over the bar and looked around furtively. “Anybody comes in looking for me, you didn’t see me, all right? Especially cops.”

  “Cops?” The kid licked his lips and some color crept into his sallow face. In an otherwise unpromising shift, an adventure had materialized.

  “Yeah, especially cops. Most especially plainclothes, you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “They’ve probably been crawling out of the woodwork since Harry, right?”

  The boy bartender held up two fingers and raised his eyebrows significantly.

  Two what? he wondered. Two cops, two visits, two o’clock, two horse in the eighth race? “Two, huh?”

  “Just on my shift,” the bartender said. “Who knows how many times they been in on other shifts, you know?”

  “They got anything yet?”

  The kid shrugged. “You really think they give a shit?”

  “You didn’t like old Harry, huh?”

  “I didn’t give a shit one way or the other, long as I got paid, okay? He didn’t bother me, I didn’t bother him. I just gave him his messages. That’s all I had to do with him.”

  “Hoban runs the bar, then?”

  “Of course.” The boy gave him a suspicious look.

  Whelan smiled. “You know how it is, if a place has three owners, each one tells the world that he’s the real deal, that it’s his place and he’s got junior partners. Harry told everybody it was his place, that Hoban was his, you know, his accountant.”

  The kid looked toward the back room. “No, it’s his joint. Harry just had money in the place. Liked to come in here late at night…”

  “And strut, right?”

  The first smile appeared on the bartender’s face. “Absolutely. He was just copping a stance, man. Showing off his chicks, doing a little business.”

  “Do a couple lines in the john, sell a little blow, am I right?” Whelan grinned, one streetwise guy to another.

  “You got him down, man. Yeah. Spent half his time in the john or on the phone, wanted to look like a fucking major operator.”

  Whelan snorted. “Wasn’t major when I did business with him.”

  “He always had somebody pissed off, like he was late with a delivery or he put out some bad shit or he changed the price or something like that.”

  Whelan nodded and took a sip of his Coke. “Know what I think? I think he pissed off somebody he was dealing with and they got tired of it. I think he got himself a disgruntled customer.”

  “Always. You couldn’t get through a week without somebody coming in here with a hair up his ass looking for Harry.”

  Whelan nodded knowingly. “I probably know every one of them.” Time to go fishing. “Let’s see, you probably saw a little guy, wiry guy, about so high.” Whelan held his hand out at about five and a half feet. “Right? Little guy?”

  The bartender nodded slowly, looking off into the back. “Yeah, yeah, I think there was a little guy. Puerto Rican guy, I think.”

  “No,” Whelan said confidently. “That’s what he wants everybody to think. He’s Greek. How about a good-looking blond guy, well dressed, about, oh, five nine?”

  The kid shook his head briefly.

  No Vosic. Okay, let’s try again.

  “And, let’s see…a big guy, about…” He was trying to think of a way to finish his imaginary description, but the bartender was already nodding.

  “Oh, yeah, I know the big one. Weird dude. Real weird. A duster, right?”

  “Well, wait a minute now. Who are we talking about? There was one guy, tall and real thin, but I don’t think he was into angel dust. The other guy, he was real big…”

  “The bald guy,” the kid said. “The bald guy, real nervous, real…y
ou know, always in a fucking hurry.”

  “Oh, oh, him. Yeah, yeah, yeah, but I don’t think…no, he didn’t do dust, not the guy I’m thinking of. That’s just how he is. You’re right, though. A strange one.”

  “Yeah, I couldn’t deal with that guy, not at all. Made my fucking skin crawl. He’d come in looking for Harry and if Harry wasn’t here he’d look at me like he wanted to take a piece out of me, like it was my fault, you know?”

  “Don’t fuck with him, though.”

  The kid held up both hands. “Hey, they don’t pay me enough for that.”

  The door opened and three men walked in carrying music cases. Whelan’s mouth opened and he wanted to laugh. I’m in a time warp, he thought.

  If it was a time warp, the Hightones were in it with him, three middle-aged men in Beatles haircuts and Nehru jackets, three heads full of hair dyed shoe-polish black, three lined faces with sunlamp tans. Three men who couldn’t sing and couldn’t dance and couldn’t play if their lives depended on it, eking out their existence in this dark little corner of Chicago, on the fringe of Uptown, on the lunatic fringe of life, DIRECT FROM LAS VEGAS the marquee said, but it had said that in 1967. Whelan wondered if there might not be a place for the Hightones in the Guinness Book of World Records: “Most sets played in the same sleazy tavern” or “Longest gig in one place.” But more likely their place in music history was secure as “Most performances of the same material.” Whelan smiled; he was in the presence of celebrity. These three men were the Musicians that Time Forgot.

  He heard the kid whisper “Shit” and turned to smile at him. “Let me guess—you were hoping they wouldn’t show up.”

  The kid glared genuine hostility at the three Hightones and looked back at Whelan. “You don’t have to listen to their shit music five nights a week, man.”

  “Little early for them, isn’t it?”

  The kid snorted. “Rehearsal. They actually rehearse the shit they do.”