Guardian Angel

by Sara Paretsky

  “Jason Felitti,” I said mechanically, but my eyes were blazing with rage. They used to own the damned company, but Ben Loring couldn’t tell me jackshit about Paragon’s relations with Diamond Head? I pounded the chair arm in fury.

  Mr. Contreras eyed me with concern, so I explained my abortive conversation with the steel company controller. “Do you know about any scams people at Diamond Head would’ve taken part in? I’m sure guys talk on the floor—you might have heard something.”

  He shook his head regretfully. “You know, doll, it’s been a while. And like I said, Paragon came in when I was on my way out.”

  We both sat quietly for a few minutes. Peppy went back to her puppies. They were exactly two weeks old now and starting to explore. She had to collect a couple who’d strayed into the dining room, carrying them back to the nest in her soft, strong jaws.

  “Oh, doll, I forgot to tell you. I did ask some of the ladies about Chrissie Pichea. About whether she had a job, you know.”

  I pulled my mind away from Ben Loring’s iniquities and tried to think about Todd and Chrissie Pichea. “And does she?”

  “Not as far as they knew. But Mrs. Tertz and Mrs. Olsen said she was supernice, wanting to help them with their investments, so they wondered if she’d done that kind of work before she got married.”

  I stared up at him. “Really! Help with their investments? I hope none of them gave in to the impulse.”

  He shrugged. “As to that I couldn’t say. But what I did think was interesting was who came around with her talking to them. Guess.”

  I shook my head. “From your tone of voice I know it wasn’t her husband, but—not the first Mr. Warshawski, surely.”

  “The first? Oh, I get you, your ex, you mean. Nope. It was the kid lives across the hall from me. Vinnie Buttone, who’s always giving you such a hard time.”

  I sat back on my heels. Vinnie the Banker. That’s how I always thought of him. I just never bothered to wonder which bank. It had to be U.S. Metropolitan Bank and Trust. I whistled through my teeth. Vinnie was tied to Todd and Chrissie. So that connected them to the bank.

  I’d have to call to confirm it, of course. But say I was right—U.S. Met was connected to Diamond Head, owned by Jason Felitti, who also sat on the Met board. I could feel the two halves of my brain trying to come together, trying to juggle Chrissie, Vinnie, and Mrs. Frizell with Diamond Head Motors. I couldn’t do it.

  I pushed myself upright.

  “Where’re you off to, doll? Want to talk to Vinnie? You think maybe he’s a con artist trying to steal their money?”

  I laughed. Vinnie was such an uptight, tight-assed little goober, it was hard to see him as a criminal mastermind. Anyway, I wasn’t going to face him until I had some unassailable facts to dangle in front of him. I was sick of getting burned from charging in on people without the ammunition to make them talk.

  I explained this to Mr. Contreras. “I’m heading up to O’Hare. I’ve got to get out of town.”

  “Where’re you going? Back to Pittsburgh?”

  “I don’t know. The Cubs are in Atlanta this weekend. Maybe I’ll just head south and see if I can get a ticket.”

  He didn’t like it. He hated letting me out of his sight. But if I stayed in town there’d be at least one more dead body on the police records and maybe more.

  36

  Last Will and Testament

  Fulton County Stadium was a big place compared with Wrigley Field, and not nearly as many fans came out to cheer on the Braves. I had no trouble getting a ticket on Sunday. The Cubs won—in itself a miracle. The boys were having trouble figuring out what game they were suiting up for this summer.

  I made a dutiful pilgrimage to Martin Luther King’s birthplace and drank a Ramos gin fizz at Brennan’s. Just separating myself from Chicago for two nights was a help, but I couldn’t get over the dull ache from Lotty’s misery: being estranged from her is like missing a piece of my own body.

  I caught a noon flight back to Chicago on Monday. During the el ride back into town I tried to marshal my thoughts back to the work that lay ahead.

  I knocked on Mr. Contreras’s door to let him know I was home, but he was out—with his tomatoes, I saw from my kitchen window. I’d forgotten the emergency glazier, but my generous neighbor had swallowed his hurt feelings and let the man in, as a note taped to the new window informed me.

  I fiddled with a leftover piece of putty. The only way I know to keep depression at bay is by working. I needed to visit the Bank of Lake View, to try to discover why Mrs. Frizell had moved her account from them. I also wanted to put a little pressure on Ben Loring at Paragon Steel. First, though, I tried the alarm people. I got them just before they closed, but was able to schedule an installation for the next morning.

  It was far too late now to go to the bank, but Ben Loring would doubtless still be wrestling away with Paragon Steel’s controls in Lincolnwood. I dialed their number and got put through to Sukey’s deep, sweet voice. I realized I hadn’t learned her last name.

  “This is V. I. Warshawski. I was by Friday afternoon to talk to Ben Loring and his pals.”

  “Oh, yes, Ms. Warshawski. I remember clearly.”

  “I had another question for him. Something I learned after I left.”

  “I’m sorry, but he specifically said he didn’t want to talk to you if you called.” Her rich voice conveyed personal regret. Someone ought to be auditioning her for the stage.

  “Well, I won’t try to muscle my way past you. But could you tell him I now know that someone at Diamond Head is shipping out spools of Paragon copper wire in the middle of the night? Ask him if he thinks that’s curious, or just a normal part of their business.”

  She put me on hold. Five minutes later Ben Loring was rasping at me, demanding to know what the fuck I was talking about, who was I working for, what the hell did I want.

  “To share information with you. Are you surprised to hear it?”

  He brushed that aside. “How do you know? You got pictures? Proof of any kind?”

  “I saw them with my own eyes. I was clinging to one of your spools while it hung from a gantry. In fact, it probably saved my life. So really, I’m calling out of gratitude.”

  “Don’t play the cute fool with me, Warshawski—you don’t strike me as the type. Give me some details. And tell me why you’re calling.”

  I gave him a succinct picture of what I’d seen. “I am getting so tired of being jacked around by people connected to Diamond Head. If someone doesn’t start talking to me soon, I’m going to be sharing my bits of information with the feds. Maybe even the newspapers.”

  I heard him whisper “Oh, fuck” under his breath, but he didn’t say anything else. “We need to talk, Warshawski, But I have to speak to my management group first. When can you come back out here? Tomorrow morning?”

  I thought of the alarm installation. “I’m pretty busy. Unless you want to come down here?”

  “Just can’t get away tomorrow morning. I’ll call you. But don’t go talking to anyone until you hear from me.”

  “Ah, nuts, Loring. I’m not going to dangle on a spool for you forever.”

  “I’m not asking you to, Warshawski. Just a couple of days. I may even get back to you tonight. Give me your number.”

  “Aye, aye, skipper.” I saluted the phone smartly as we hung up, but of course he couldn’t see that.

  So now what? Was he involved and trying to gain a few hours either to frame a cover-up or blow my brains out? At least Rawlings’s squad car might make the latter less likely.

  I didn’t have enough information to worry about it anymore this afternoon. I needed to retrieve the Impala, collect my belongings from Mrs. Polter before she sold them for fire extinguishers, and return home.

  On my way out I knocked at Mr. Contreras’s door. He was inside again and much relieved to see me. I let his waves of information about the glazier wash over me, thanking him when there was a break in the surf, then explaining my g
oing back out. “I’m returning here. Probably by eight.”

  “I could make us dinner,” he offered tentatively.

  I hugged him briefly. “I’ve got some chicken upstairs that I ought to cook tonight. Why don’t you let me make you something for a change?”

  He walked me to the door. “Stay out of the San this time, doll. I know you drink a lot of water, but that stuff ain’t good for you.”

  Vinnie was coming in as I left. Mr. Contreras and I both stared at him, trying to picture him as a con artist. In his pale-gray summer suit and tightly knotted tie he looked so stodgily corporate that I had to give it up.

  “Evening, Vinnie,” I said brightly. “Got any investment advice for us?”

  He looked at me stonily. “Sell your share in the co-op, Warshawski. Neighborhood’s coming up and you won’t be able to afford your tax bill.”

  I laughed, but I could feel Mr. Contreras start to bristle. As I went out the door I heard a diatribe that began with “young man” and might end anywhere.

  I walked over to Belmont and Halsted to catch the el. No one seemed to be following me. My legs ached as I climbed the stairs to the platform. Mr. Contreras was right: the day was coming when I wouldn’t be able to swing from the chandeliers any longer—I could already feel its shadow in my muscles.

  The air-conditioning wasn’t working on the train I caught and its windows didn’t open. The Sox were playing a night game at home. Happy fans in cutoffs had joined the overflow of commuters to make the ride one of suffocating misery.

  When I got off at Thirty-first, I was so glad to be outside again I decided to walk to the Impala. I sketched a wave to the Number 31 bus as it left the station, relieved not to be one of the standing sardines packed on such a muggy night.

  My Nikes were at the bottom of the San. The loafers I’d put on didn’t offer much support. My feet began to hurt about halfway to the car, but I plodded on past bus stops. The evening sky was starting to thicken with rain clouds again. The first drops began to fall as I got to Damen. I sprinted the half block to Thirty-first Place, where I’d left the car. No one seemed to have vandalized it. I’d been worrying about that on the ride south, wondering whether Luke would even bother to fix the Trans Am if his own precious baby were damaged.

  The keys had been in my jeans pocket when I went into the drink. The ring looked rusted out, but the ignition turned without faltering. I’d also salvaged Mrs. Polter’s front-door key. The knot I’d tied through my belt loop had held through my gyrations Friday night.

  When I got to her house on Archer, the rain was falling in a thick sheet. I ran full tilt up the rickety stairs, slipping on the worn wood in my loafers. I was soaked before I got to the top. My fingers, thick with cold from my drenching, fumbled with her front-door lock.

  By the time I got it open Mrs. Polter was waiting on the other side. The hall was so dark it was hard to see, but the twilight behind me glinted from the fire extinguisher she was pointing at me. I hunched my head down under my forearms to protect my eyes, and lunged under her outstretched arms into her abdomen. It was like butting my head into a mattress. We both grunted. I turned underneath her armpits and wrestled the extinguisher from her grip.

  “Mrs. Polter,” I panted. “How kind of you to welcome me in person.”

  “You’re wet,” she announced. “You’re dripping all over the linoleum.”

  “It’s the canal. Your pals pushed me in, but I managed to climb out. Want to talk about it?”

  “You got no call to break in here and attack me. I oughtta call the cops.”

  “Do, Mrs. Polter. Be my guest. There’s nothing I’d like better than for you and me to talk to the cops. In fact, I’m kind of expecting one of them to call you. You hear from a Detective Finchley over at Area One?”

  “He the nigger cop? Yeah, he was by. I got nothing to say to any of ’em.”

  “Niggers or cops?” I tried to get the words out lightly, but a picture of Conrad Rawlings’s copper torso against my own flashed through my head and made me choke. I tried to push my anger back—she wouldn’t share information more readily for a lecture on the evils of racism.

  “Either of ’em. I told him he wants to talk to me he oughtta get himself a search warrant. I know my rights, I says to him, and he can’t come pushing me around.”

  “So which is it? You don’t want to call the local station to complain about my being here? Or you want me to get Finchley back here with a warrant?” My teeth were starting to chatter from cold. This made it harder to focus on the conversation, which didn’t seem to be going anywhere anyway.

  With one of her abrupt turnarounds Mrs. Polter said, “Why don’t you go upstairs and change, honey. You got something dry up there you can put on. Then you and me can have a bit of a talk. Without dragging the cops into it.”

  I was still holding the fire extinguisher. Before going into the dark stairwell I handed it to her. I didn’t think she was going to attack me at this point.

  Under the forty-watt bulb in Mitch’s old room I took off my wet clothes and rubbed myself warm with a towel out of my suitcase. From the disarray in the case it was apparent my landlady had indeed gone rummaging.

  I pulled on the clean T-shirt and sweatpants and wondered what to do with my gun. The jacket that had concealed my shoulder holster was too wet to put back on. In the end I strapped the gun next to my bare skin, where it rubbed uncomfortably.

  The floor creaked outside my door. I whirled and opened it. One of my fellow boarders had been drooling at me through the keyhole.

  “Yes, I’ve got breasts. Now you’ve had a chance to look at them, go someplace else and play.”

  He blinked at me nervously and scuttled backward up the hall. I shut the door, but didn’t bother to try to block the view—what I really didn’t want people staring at was the gun, but it was too late now to try to hide that.

  I had a change of socks, but no shoes. My loafers were too wet to put back on. I decided to keep my clean pair of socks for the drive home. I padded back downstairs in my bare feet, going slowly so as not to cut myself on nails or loose edges of linoleum.

  My landlady was watching a high-speed chase scene involving Clint Eastwood and a chimpanzee. Her oldest lodger, Sam, was sitting on the couch, drinking a Miller and laughing at the chimp. When Mrs. Polter saw me behind her, she jerked her head at Sam. He stood up obediently, disentangling a couch spring from his threadbare suit.

  She waved a hand from me to the couch. It was the only other seat in the room besides her outsize vinyl armchair. I looked at it dubiously. The places where fabric still covered the springs were littered with cracker crumbs. I perched on one of the arms, which wobbled dangerously beneath me.

  Mrs. Polter regretfully muted the sound just as Clint and the chimp pushed a second car off the road. I’d certainly rather watch that than talk to me too.

  “So you went into the canal, huh?”

  “Didn’t your pals tell you? We had quite an evening together. When they tried to use my body as part of the roadway, I decided that she who fights and runs away would live to fight another day.”

  “Who tried to run you over?” she muttered, her eyes on the screen.

  “Milton Chamfers, Mrs. Polter. You know him: you phoned him as soon as you heard from me, to tell him I was returning to the neighborhood.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do, Mrs. Polter.” I got off the couch arm and snatched the remote device out of her hand. “Why don’t we get back to Clint later? My adventures Friday night were every bit as exciting as his. I promise to describe them in vivid Technicolor if you’ll just listen to me.”

  I clicked the power switch and the giant Mitsubishi went blank.

  “Hey, you got no call—” she yelled.

  “Lily, you okay?” Sam hovered nervously in the doorway. He must have just moved a few steps into the dark hall, ready to leap to her defense.

  “Oh, go eat your dinner, Sam. I c
an take care of her.”

  He tried beckoning to her. When she didn’t budge, he sidled into the room and leaned over her chair. “Ron says she’s got a gun. He seen it when she was dressing.”

  Mrs. Polter gave a crack of laughter. “So, she’s got a gun. She’d have to have a cannon to cut through my flesh. Don’t worry about it, Sam.”

  When he’d disappeared into the gloom again, she eyed me narrowly. “You come here to shoot me?”

  “If I’d wanted to do that I’d have pulled my gun when you were waving that damned fire extinguisher at me—the cops would have bought self-defense then.”

  “I didn’t know it was you,” she said indignantly. “I heard someone at my door. I got a right to defend myself, too, same as you, and in this neighborhood you can’t be too careful. Then you come barreling at me like a mad bull, what do you expect? The mayor and a welcoming party?”

  I grinned at her last comment, but continued my attack. “Did Chamfers call you Saturday? Tell you I was dead?”

  “I don’t know anyone named Chamfers,” she shouted. “Get that through your head.”

  I slammed the television with the palm of my hand. “Don’t give me that shit, Mrs. Polter. I know you called him; they told me Friday night at the plant.”

  “I don’t know anyone named that,” she repeated stubbornly. “And don’t you go banging on that TV. I spent a lot of money on it. You break it you buy me a new one, if I have to take you to court for it.”

  “Well, you called someone. Who was it?” Light suddenly dawned. “No, don’t tell me—you phoned Mitch Kruger’s son. He gave you a phone number when he came by for Mitch’s stuff and asked you to tell him as soon as anyone came round asking about his dad. You must have warned him I’d been here and he made it real clear that he wanted to know right away if I came back.”

  Her jaw dropped. “How did you know? He said no one was to know he’d been here.”

  “You told me. Remember? Last Tuesday when I came by looking for Mitch’s papers?”

  “Oh.” It was hard to read her expression in the dim light, but I thought she looked chagrined. “I promised I wouldn’t say anything. I forgot.…”