Guardian Angel

by Sara Paretsky

  I smiled sadly. “I’m glad we’re not on the South Side, then.”

  “Don’t make a joke of it, Victoria. It’s not funny. Maybe I’ve got some prejudice. Heck, probably I do, I’m seventy-seven, you don’t change how you was raised, and I grew up in a different time. But I don’t like seeing you with him, it makes me uncomfortable. And if I don’t … Well, you just can’t picture how ugly people can be in this town. I don’t want you buying yourself a lot of grief, doll.”

  “I just got through seeing with my own eyes how ugly people in this town can be.” I leaned forward and patted his leg. “Look, I know it’s hard—to be black and white together. But we’re not that far down the road yet. We’re two people who’ve always liked and respected each other, and now we’re trying to see whether, well, our attraction is just bad old jungle fever, or has something more substantial to it. Anyway, Conrad isn’t black. He’s kind of copper.”

  Mr. Contreras clutched his ears. “I can tell just by you saying that that you like the guy.”

  “Sure, I like him. But don’t crowd me into making any other declarations. I’m not ready for them yet.”

  He wordlessly handed me my keys and got to his feet.

  He tried to shake off the arm I put around him, but I kept a grip on his shoulder. “Please don’t cut me out of your life, or take yourself out of mine. I’m not going to say something stupid, like I know you’ll come around in the end. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. But you and I have been friends a lot longer than I’ve known Conrad. It would bring me great pain to lose you.”

  He mustered a smile from some depth. “Right, doll. I can’t talk about it anymore right now. Anyway, I been away from the princess too long. She needs to get out more often while she’s nursing.”

  I felt melancholy after my neighbor left. I’d started an affair with Rawlings because an erotic spark had always jumped between us, and the time had somehow been right last week. But I didn’t need Jesse Helms or Louis Farrakhan to tell me the road ahead would be rocky if Rawlings and I got serious about each other.

  As I was listlessly poking through the refrigerator Murray called, practically slobbering into the phone in his eagerness for my story. This morning’s Herald-Star had had a fine photo of the wreckage of Simon’s truck and the Impala, but the text was short and ambiguous. The paper didn’t want to accuse the Felitti boys of any malfeasance, not with their political connections. They didn’t want to take me on, though, since I’d been an important source for them over the years. I gave Murray my version of events: I had nothing to gain and everything to lose by being snappy with him while the Felittis gathered ammunition. When we finished, I sent him to Ben Loring in the hopes that Paragon Steel could provide some hard documentation to shore up my own case.

  By then it was almost six. I braced myself and called Luke Edwards to tell him about the Impala. He was furious. The fact that his baby was at the police labs and would be featured as an exhibit in a murder trial only enraged him further. He threatened to take a jackhammer to the Trans Am just so I’d know how he felt. I was on the phone with him for almost an hour. We weren’t exactly friends again by the time I hung up, but at least he finally agreed to let me pick up the Trans Am.

  “Although a less generous man would keep it as a hostage, Warshawski,” came his parting shot.

  I also gave Freeman Carter a call. I wasn’t sure I wanted him representing me in the trials and suits that lay ahead. Freeman was at home, but he’d heard a pretty complete version of events from some of his old associates. He brought up the representation issue before I did.

  “I was too close to that situation, Vic. I let my own anger over what Yarborough was doing to the firm cloud my mind, and I took it out on you—which is inexcusable between a lawyer and a client. But the real problem is a potential conflict of interest. You need someone speaking for you who is unimpeachable, because Yarborough may be firing some pretty big rockets. I’ll come up with a few names. And I’ll see that the bills don’t get out of hand. And after that—I don’t know—you can take your time to decide whether you want me to work for you in the future or not.”

  “Thanks, Freeman,” I said quietly. We left matters at that for the present.

  I was moving restlessly around my living room, wanting to talk to Lotty, not wanting another painful conversation, when Mr. Contreras showed up unexpectedly. He’d gone to the corner for a pizza, the kind we both like, thick with vegetables and topped with anchovies. And he’d picked up a bottle of the Ruffino I often serve him.

  “I know I should’ve called, make sure you wasn’t planning on—on doing anything else for dinner, but I could see you didn’t have much food left. And we had a pretty good adventure. I thought we ought to celebrate.”

  Carol Alvarado showed up unexpectedly when we were close to the bottom of the bottle. She was taking the graveyard shift tonight, filling in for someone else, she explained, and was just stopping for a minute on her way to the hospital. She’d read the brief story in this morning’s Herald-Star, but wanted to talk to me specifically about Mrs. Frizell.

  She turned down an offer of wine. “Not when I’m going on duty. You remember I told you I thought I might have the answer for Mrs. Frizell?”

  So much had happened in the last few days, I’d forgotten our conversation at the hospital. I hadn’t thought much of her secretive optimism then, but I made polite noises.

  “It was her meds. I talked it over with Nelle McDowell, the charge nurse, and she agreed: too much Valium can have that effect on an old woman—make her restless and at the same time appear senile. And when it’s combined with Demerol it’s almost a recipe for senility. So we stopped the drugs for seventy-two hours and today she’s definitely better—not totally over it, but able to answer simple questions, focus on who’s talking to her, things like that. Only, she keeps asking about her dog Bruce. I don’t know what we’re going to do about that.”

  “Neither do I,” I said. “But it’s wonderful news. Now, if only I can get the Picheas out of her life, she can move back home one of these days.”

  “She’s still going to be in a nursing home, or having to convalesce someplace,” Carol warned. “It’s way too early to talk about bringing her home.… Do you think you could come see her? Nelle says you have a good effect on her.”

  I made a face. “Maybe. I’m not very fit right now—I’ve had a couple of rough days in the detection mines.”

  Carol asked for details on last night’s heroics. When I finished she only said, “Gosh, Vic. Too bad they didn’t bring you to County instead of Mt. Sinai. I could have patched you up—it would have been just like old times.”

  I shook my head. “Maybe you leaving the clinic was good for me as well as you. It’s time I stopped turning to you and Lotty every time I scrape my knee.”

  Carol shook her head. “You and Lotty don’t understand. Leaning on people who love you isn’t a sin. It really isn’t, Vic.”

  “Try telling her,” Mr. Contreras jeered. “I been breaking my head on that brick wall long enough.”

  I punched him lightly on the nose before seeing Carol to the door.

  53

  Subterranean Homesick Blues

  The next morning Mr. Contreras helped me prepare a wicker basket. We lined its bottom with plastic and put a couple of towels inside. The puppies, almost three weeks old, had their eyes open. With their soft, rich fur they looked adorable. We picked the two smallest and put them in the basket. Peppy watched us intently, but didn’t protest. By now she spent some time away from her brood each day. Their little nails were scratching her stomach and the joys of maternity were starting to wear off.

  At County Hospital, Nelle McDowell greeted me with genuine pleasure. “Mrs. Frizell’s making real progress. She’ll never win a Miss Congeniality prize, but it’s wonderful to see someone come back from the edge the way she has. Come and take a look yourself.”

  She eyed the wicker basket thoughtfully. One little nose was pushing throu
gh a crack. “You know, Ms. Warshawski, I think you may be violating hospital policy. But I’m too busy this morning to have seen you come in. You go on down the hall and talk to the lady.”

  The change in Mrs. Frizell was remarkable. The sunken cheeks, which had made her look like a corpse, had filled out, but more impressive was the fact that her eyes were open and focused.

  “Who are you? Some damned do-gooder?”

  I laughed. “Yeah. I’m your damned do-gooding neighbor, Vic Warshawski. Your dog Bruce got my dog, Peppy, pregnant.”

  “Oh. I remember you now, coming around to complain about Bruce. He’s a good dog, he doesn’t roam the neighborhood, no matter what you people say. You can’t prove to me he sired your bitch’s litter.”

  I put the basket on the bed and opened it. Two black-and-gold fur balls tumbled out. Mrs. Frizell’s face softened slightly. She picked up the puppies and let them lick her. I sat down next to her and put a hand on her arm. “Mrs. Frizell … I don’t think anyone has told you, but Bruce is dead. While you were unconscious, someone took all your dogs and put them to sleep. Marjorie Hellstrom and I tried to save them, but we couldn’t.”

  When she didn’t say anything I went on, “These are two of Bruce’s offspring. They’ll be able to leave their mother about the time you’re ready to come back home. They’re yours if you want them.”

  She was scowling in the fierce way people do when they’re trying not to cry. “Bruce was one dog in a million. One dog in a million, young lady. You don’t just replace a dog like that.”

  One of the puppies bit her finger. She admonished it sternly, but with an undercurrent of affection. It cocked its head on one side and grinned at her.

  “You might have just a little bit of his look, sir. Maybe just a little.”

  I left the puppies with her for half an hour and told her I’d be back with them again the next day.

  “Don’t think I’ve made up my mind about this; I haven’t. I may sue you for negligence, letting my dogs die. Just keep that in mind, young lady.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will.”

  When I got home I told Mr. Contreras I was pretty sure she would take two of the dogs, but that he’d better get hustling to find homes for the other six. Before he could start trying to argue me into keeping one of them, I diverted him with a plan for Vinnie. As soon as he’d grasped the details, the old man was enthusiastic.

  That night he waylayed Vinnie as the banker came in from work, then buzzed my apartment twice to let me know he was ready.

  I came down the stairs two at a time. Vinnie’s round brown face tightened in dislike when he saw me. He tried to brush his way past me, but I grabbed his arm and hung on.

  “Vinnie, Mr. Contreras and I have a deal for you. For you and Todd and Chrissie. So why don’t we go down there and talk and try to put all this ugliness behind us.”

  He didn’t want to do it, but I murmured words about the police and the feds and the investigation that was revving up into U.S. Met’s role in unloading Diamond Head’s excess junk.

  He frowned pettishly. “I could sue you for slander. But we might as well go down to the Picheas. He’s my lawyer and can tell you where to get off.”

  “Splendid.”

  If anything, Todd and Chrissie were even less happy to see me than Vinnie had been. I let them squawk for a few minutes, but Mr. Contreras didn’t approve of some of Todd’s language and told him so. Todd’s jaw dropped—perhaps no one had ever chewed him out at such length before.

  I took advantage of the momentary quiet. “I have a deal for you three high-flyers. Call it a plea bargain. Todd, I want you and Chrissie to resign your guardianship of Mrs. Frizell. She’s fully alert now, her hip is starting to mend, and she’ll be able to come home and manage on her own, with only a little help, in another month. She doesn’t need you. And I don’t think you can do her any good. So if you resign your guardianship, and if you buy back her three Diamond Head bonds—at face value—I will promise not to say a word to the U.S. attorney about your role in marketing those bonds around the neighborhood. Of course, if you start pushing them again the deal is off.”

  They all started to speak again, in a chorus that included the fact that I should mind my own business, and anyway, they hadn’t been doing anything illegal.

  “Maybe. Maybe. But you walked a mighty fine line, promising people that junk was just as good an investment as a federally insured CD. You could be disbarred, Todd, for taking part in something like that. U.S. Met might want to promote you, Vinnie, for your efforts, but they’d probably ditch you when the publicity heated up.”

  The trouble was, none of them could admit they had done anything wrong. They had talked themselves into the idea that anything that got the results they wanted was by definition legal. I had to hammer repeatedly on the same key to get their attention: I had enough connections to the Chicago media to blow this story sky-high. And when that happened, their bosses would see them as sacrificial lambs.

  “Remember Ollie North? You may think he was a hero, but his bosses didn’t have any compunction throwing him to the wolves when the spotlight shone their way. And you guys don’t have Marine uniforms to strut around in. You’ll be on the streets chasing the same jobs fifty thousand other kids are, and those mortgage payments come right on the fifth of the month.”

  They agreed in the end to my terms, but stubbornly insisted they had never crossed the bounds of propriety, let alone the law. The five of us—Mr. Contreras didn’t want to be left out—would meet at the Bank of Lake View at four Monday afternoon. Todd and Chrissie would bring an order from the probate judge showing the termination of their guardianship agreement. And they would have a cashier’s check for thirty thousand, to buy back the Diamond Head bonds.

  In exchange, I promised not to mention their role in peddling junk when the federal investigators started asking about U.S. Met. Mr. Contreras and I went home exhausted. We drank a bottle of Veuve Cliquot to celebrate.

  The next morning I wondered if our jubilee had been premature. The doorbell rang at nine, just as I was trying to see how much of a workout my stomach could take. The voice at the other end of the squawk box announced itself as Dick Yarborough.

  He came up the stairs with Teri, who was ready for a photo layout in a navy Eli Wacs trouser suit, her smooth peach skin perfectly made up. Dick had on the suburban executive’s weekend costume, a Polo shirt, baggy cotton trousers, and a sports jacket.

  “Vic—it is all right if I call you that, isn’t it? I feel as though I know you.” Teri stretched out a hand in a gesture of intimacy while Dick lingered in the background.

  “Yeah, I feel as though I know you too.” I ignored her hand. “You two want something special? Or am I a stop-off point on a goodwill tour of the poor?”

  Dick winced, but Teri gave a faint saintly smile. She sank onto the piano bench and opened her eyes wide at me.

  “This is a really hard visit for me to make. Let’s face it: you and Dick were married once, and I know there must still be some feeling between you.”

  “But I’d put on a lead shield before getting close enough to examine it,” I said.

  “They say that hate is the other side of love,” she announced with the air of someone presenting the law of gravity to first-graders. “But I know—Dick’s told me—that you lost your own father, so I think you can understand my feelings.”

  “Peter’s dead?” I was astounded. “It wasn’t in the morning paper.”

  Dick made an impatient gesture. “No, Peter’s not dead. Teri’s having trouble getting to the point. She and Peter are very close and she’s afraid she may lose him to a long jail sentence if she can’t persuade you to drop charges.”

  I felt my lips tighten with anger. “It’s great that they’re close. Peter especially is going to need a lot of support over the next several months—maybe even the next twenty years. And knowing his daughter’s in his court, believes in him a hundred percent, will only help.”

  Te
ars glistened on the ends of Teri’s lustrous lashes. Waterproof mascara kept black smears from developing under her eyes. “Dick said you had a strange sense of humor, but I can’t believe you think this is funny.”

  “I don’t find anything that’s happened in the last three weeks very funny. Two old men were killed because your daddy and your uncle didn’t want them squealing about a pension reversion your husband set up. At least one old lady nearly became homeless because of a slick marketing scheme your uncle organized to chisel her out of her life’s savings. And I don’t feel very happy myself, having been shot at and almost run over.”

  I fingered the ridges on my stomach through my cotton T-shirt. The bandages covered the cuts, but I kept thinking they were oozing every time I twisted my torso.

  “But Daddy explained all this to me. None of this was his doing. The people at the Diamond Head plant misunderstood him and Uncle Jason. They should never have done what they did. Everyone agrees it was wrong. Daddy will prove it in court; Dick can see to that. But it would make our lives so much easier if he didn’t have to, if you would agree that it was all a big mistake. I’d hate for Dick to have to attack you in public. And you know, in a case like this, they’d hire investigators to dig up your secrets—talk about your love life, your disregard for the law, all those things.”

  Fury had me so in its grip, I could barely see. I jammed my hands into my pockets so Dick couldn’t see their trembling. “Discovery cuts both ways, sugar. By the time I get done with my case your husband will be lucky to have his legal license, let alone be walking around outside a federal prison.”

  Dick, who’d never really come into the room, had wandered over to the window during the last interchange. When he spoke it was to the glass; we had trouble hearing him.

  “My only role in this case will be as a witness.”