Maxwell Street Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  Walking from my car to my apartment, I was feeling good. I caught a glimpse of myself acting in the movie of life as a private eye in a big city investigating a murder. In two days I had found two liars, I thought, and then Frownie’s words hit me hard in the face.

  11

  “Proud of yourself?” His voice competed with the pulsating pain from my right cheekbone. “What’re you doing in this goddamn business?” was the next sound from my father’s mouth, and my left eye opened to see his big snoot standing over me.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “You’re in the emergency room. You got clubbed in the face. Ten stitches and a fractured cheekbone. I found you leaning against the door to your apartment.”

  Dad put an ice pack in my hand and moved both to my eye. The cold felt good. “You should’ve told me Kalijero was on your ass. This ain’t worth dying over, you know.”

  “How did you know about Kalijero?”

  “It’s a coincidence I’m here? He called my parole officer and got my number. I tried calling, but you don’t answer. So I stopped by and there you were.”

  “So he’s on my ass. So what?”

  “So what? This was a message, Jules. You probably only got hit once. A few more with whatever they used, and you wouldn’t be waking up.”

  “I’ll be more careful next time.”

  “I’d be responsible for my own son’s death—”

  “You’re the second old man today who wants to be responsible for my death! I’ll be responsible for my own death, okay?” A nurse walked over and asked if everything was all right. My head throbbed. Dad looked as if he didn’t recognize me. He sat down in the chair and stared into space.

  “Oh, c’mon,” I said. “I would’ve found out about Snooky anyway, and I’d be in the same situation whether you knocked on my door two days ago or not. So what did Kalijero say?”

  Dad turned to me. “He thought he could threaten me. He said he could nail you for obstruction, and I would be your accomplice. He’d make sure I spent my last days in prison. You’ve got him shitting his pants.”

  “He wants that book I showed you.”

  Dad nodded. “Maybe Kalijero got in too deep. Maybe he killed Snooky. Or maybe he just knows who did and why.”

  “The book doesn’t mean shit.”

  “He doesn’t know that. He’s desperate.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Try not to worry.”

  “It’s my fault you got into this. I was a shitty father. It was your mother’s weakness that she accepted me for who I was. I didn’t deserve her. She loved me no matter what.” Dad pushed himself up from the chair. “Your mother got sick just a year after I went away. It’s my fault she died so young.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Dad. You can’t blame yourself for that. And Mom just wanted me to be happy. She wouldn’t have cared what I did for a living.”

  “I don’t know. She was first generation, remember. I think she would’ve wanted more for you.”

  “Blame Great-Granddad, not yourself.” Dad didn’t respond. “Listen,” I said. “I like my life. I like doing what I’m doing. I don’t mind taking a beating. And if I get killed, that’s the price I’ll pay, but this is exactly the way I want it.” Dad gave me the all is lost look. “And you’re not doing me any favors by turning into a guilt-ridden old man. I want your help, but not if you’re going to get all sentimental and repentant.” He departed with a faint smile, failing to hide his resignation.

  12

  I awoke the next morning with my right eye engulfed in hideous shades of purple, yellow, and green. In the middle of it all were ten dissolvable stitches under a bandage. It hurt to blink. A horrified middle-aged woman at the health- and beauty-aids store applied beige foundation to my face as I stood in the aisle. She offered to pay for the bottle. Then I drove to the university’s administration building, a massive concrete monolith serving as the symbolic tombstone for the dying neighborhood surrounding it. I pulled in behind a row of illegally parked pickup trucks and asked a nearby construction worker holding a “Slow” sign if anyone paid attention to parking ordinances during construction hours. He pointed out that the trucks all had special construction permits. I took out twenty dollars and asked if he could secure a permit for my Honda. The man took the money and assured me I had no worries.

  The lobby was cold enough to hang meat. I stared at the directory for several moments but could not find a Professor Moreau. My first murder case required my first cell phone call.

  Audrey picked up on the third ring. She sounded stressed.

  “Look for Dr. Tate,” she said.

  “Your father is President Tate?”

  “No. My father is Chancellor Tate.”

  How logical that every previous instant of my life had occurred so I would hear Audrey’s words in that moment. It almost seemed unfair that it could have been this easy, as if I should have worked harder before having “Chance” from Snooky’s notebook fall into my lap. Would Milly, Devil, and Butch be as accommodating?

  * * *

  Chancellor Tate’s photo hung prominently in the lobby. He was handsome in the silver-haired corporate style, a chiseled-featured CEO who still had a thirty-four-inch waist and probably modeled for GQ in his spare time. Alongside the chancellor hung photos of the president, provost, and regents. Their somber expressions reflected disapproval of the mobs crisscrossing the marble floor in their torn jeans and facial piercings.

  I just wanted a few minutes with Tate, just enough time to put his brain in overdrive. I took the elevator to the tenth floor and asked to see the chancellor. His secretary looked about fifty and wore a white sweater with a large red and blue GO Flames! button pinned below the shoulder. She looked like a retired cheerleader. She asked if I was a graduate student, and when I said no, she said I would have to make an appointment.

  “What time does he eat lunch?”

  “Sir, you will have to make an appointment. Next Monday would be the earliest opening.”

  I wrote “Snooky” on one of my business cards and asked if she would hand it to him. She said she would put it in his in-box. I asked if I could just quickly hand it to him and leave. She said I’d have to make an appointment.

  The door behind her was closed, which didn’t necessarily mean Tate was in, but I thought, What the hell, and bypassed Ms. Flame to crash the party. Stretched out on a leather couch, the silver-haired chancellor napped with an ice pack across his forehead.

  “Jerry, he just barged in—”

  Tate swung his legs off the couch and sat up. His eyes moved back and forth between Ms. Flame and me like a Betty Boop wall clock.

  “Is something wrong?” Tate said.

  “He just barged in, Jerry—”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I’m a private investigator looking into an important matter.” I handed him my card.

  Tate squinted at the card. Ms. Flame grabbed reading glasses off his desk and handed them to him. “I said he had to make an appointment—”

  Tate waved her off. “That’s fine, Barb.” Barb gave boss-man a helpless look before walking out.

  Tate picked up the ice pack from the floor and put it in a small fridge against the wall. Then he sat behind his desk and stared at the card a few more seconds. “You’re not the police?” He stared at my eye.

  “I fell off my skateboard. No, I’m not the police.”

  “Someone is paying you to be here?”

  I wondered if all chancellors were this sharp. “Tell me what you know about Charles Snook.”

  Tate looked around. “I believe he did some work for an associate of mine—and of course I heard about his tragic death. How did you get my name?”

  “The usual record checks.”

  “Records? I had no business with this man. I never even met him.”

  The power was intoxicating. “Ah, you know, these bean-counter guys write everything down. Maybe that associate you mentioned gave him your name as a potential client. You’re
one of a long list of names I have to track down. It’s all really routine, boring work.”

  “I wish I had something for you, but like I said, I never met the man.”

  “What about your associate? Did he ever talk to you about him?”

  “No, she didn’t—or maybe she mentioned his unusual name, which is why I remember it. And then the paper running the story and finding his body just a block from here.”

  “Maybe I could talk to this associate?”

  “Perhaps. Uh, Linda something. She was in the assembly with me. We were acquaintances, really …”

  “No problem,” I said. “If you think of her name, give me a call.” I could feel Tate’s relief. Even the lights brightened. I thanked the chancellor for his time and made a move toward the door and stopped. “You know anything about real estate?” I said. “I was thinking about investment property—no pensions in my business.”

  “Well, I have a mortgage,” he said and laughed. “Honestly, Mr. Landau, my experience is higher education. The university offers adult education courses on real estate.”

  I thanked him again, and as I walked out, I also thanked Ms. Flame for her time.

  13

  At the lobby’s Starbucks, I grabbed a Tribune and ordered a tall iced mocha. The girl behind the counter kept staring at my eye. “Covering a nasty bruise,” I said. “You should see what the other guy looks like.” She smiled quickly and looked away.

  Iced coffee in hand, I stepped into the midday heat and was sweating by the time I had crossed the street to my car. The construction worker hadn’t moved. I waved, and he saluted. Capitalist pig. My gut told me that about now Tate’s mind was racing, and the worst-case scenarios were winning the day. Tate knew a dead man had been funneling him laundered money. Tate lied about knowing this dead man. He would need a shoulder to cry on.

  I was either lucky or good because less than an hour later the chancellor walked out of the building. I turned the key and my Civic jumped right in as expected. I loved my little machine. Despite the domination of fuel injection, a clean carburetor and unsullied oil still gave you a devoted friend. I turned on my hazards and pretended to peer for an address as I followed Tate for two blocks, pissing off anyone behind me. When he walked into the office of a garage, I drove around the block and saw the garage’s exit located on a less busy one-way street, which made it easier for me to pull over and wait with the newspaper partially obscuring my face. Moments later Tate emerged driving a Cadillac de Ville convertible, license plate LJI1158. I repeated, “Leslie-Jane-Irving 1158,” until the plate was in the vault.

  I knew the chancellor wasn’t driving to a restaurant since the neighborhood had every type of food within walking distance, and when you’re freaking out, appetite is often the first casualty. He struck me as a snobby North Side type, and I expected him to head back that way, which he did when he turned on Halsted. But then he surprised the hell out of me and turned onto the Eisenhower Expressway. West Side?

  Traffic was fairly light, and we were soon outside the city limits. Ten minutes later, he exited onto Ridgeland Avenue, which took us into the suburb of Oak Park. I followed from a safe distance as he led me through a neighborhood of magnificent old mansions on quiet, shady streets lined with enormous trees. He slowed to a stop in front of a white Victorian with a wraparound porch. I parked a block behind him.

  Tate held a cell phone to his ear with one hand while gesticulating wildly with the other. From the house, a bearded man in his sixties appeared. He wore a yellow polo shirt with tan slacks. He walked casually, as if it was a routine meeting. As the man reached for the car door, I focused my SLR Ultra Zoom through the windshield and squeezed off a ten-frame burst as he entered the vehicle. Tate put the phone down. If the two were talking, they were doing it while looking straight ahead. The bearded man’s head fell back, as if trying to catch a few Zs. A few minutes later a black Escalade turned onto the street from the opposite direction and parked across from them. A fat, smartly dressed man with a butterball face emerged from the car and walked quickly to the powwow. I squeezed off another ten frames, including the Escalade’s license plate. As soon as the man climbed into the backseat, Tate started giving him an earful. For fun I triggered ten more frames to see if I could catch a maniacal expression to add to my collection. With luck I would snap a few bubbles of airborne saliva. When the chancellor finished his tirade, the meeting adjourned. I started the Civic and headed back to the expressway with a chancellor, two license plates, an address, and two new faces—all part of some kind of equation. Time to call in a favor.

  14

  Punim sat on my lap and stared at me. As I dialed the phone, she blinked.

  “I love you, too,” I said, and as if on cue, she dug her rear claws into my thigh and leaped off. Our love was complicated.

  A female voice answered, “Johnny Bonds.”

  “Jules for Johnny,” I said.

  On hold for two seconds, then, “Don’t tell me, Jules needs bail?”

  My pal Johnny Duggan found me after taking a pile of business cards from a restaurant’s fishbowl, thus depriving someone of a free lunch. A classy guy.

  “I need a favor, my friend.”

  “Whaddya got?”

  Johnny credited me with saving his marriage because I proved his wife was not cheating but really meeting her girlfriends at a diner, and that Sean could also be a woman’s name. His wife worked for police communications and ran background checks on the side.

  “Two plates and an address.” I gave him the information and then decided Tate deserved more attention. “Just for fun. LJI1158. See if he’s got parking tickets. I need locations, days of the week, times of day.”

  “Give Sheila an hour,” Johnny said.

  Before hanging up, I gave Johnny my cell phone number. It was time, I thought. After all, guys like Johnny were the true heroes. Without guys like him, guys like me wouldn’t stand a chance. I prepared a sandwich of textured vegetable protein, wheat gluten, lettuce, tomato, red peppers, and Dijon mustard. Punim got a chicken heart and a kidney from an anonymous donor. I ate while relaxing in the recliner and letting the events of the previous days drift around my consciousness. If they could see me now.

  15

  A young woman sat in The Kitschen chair while Audrey worked on her shoulder. Audrey’s black dress stopped at mid-thigh. I wondered how many short black dresses she owned. Lightning Bolt was there again on the waiting bench, this time paging through Guns & Ammo. “Getting the owl touched up?” I said.

  He turned to me but said nothing. I’d never seen eyes so bloodshot. Then he said, “You takin’ a fuckin’ survey or somethin’?” I didn’t know what shocked me more, his rotting teeth or putrid breath.

  “Be nice, Jason,” Audrey said. Jason threw the magazine down and stormed out.

  I walked to the edge of the work space. “I don’t think he likes me.”

  “He gets jealous when men come in,” Audrey said without looking at me. “He’s a great character.”

  “Your character is a meth-head.”

  “As long as he’s a paying meth-head,” Audrey mumbled. “I think this man has a crush on me,” she said to the girl in the chair.

  “I’m not sure I was supposed to hear that,” I said. “I don’t think you’re my type, but how about having dinner with me anyway? Tomorrow night?”

  Audrey looked up at me. “Ooh! What happened to your eye?”

  “I fell.”

  Audrey gave me her as if face then said, “It’ll be a late dinner. I’m here until ten.”

  “The later the better,” I said. I had no idea what I meant.

  “What do you do?” the girl in the chair said. She was short, cute, with long black hair like Audrey’s, and big blue eyes. She wore a denim skirt with a white spaghetti strap T-shirt. Her eyebrows were bright red and stuck out like neon signs. Her voice matched her appearance—that is, small and trusting.

  “He’s a private investigator,” Audrey said and i
ntroduced her friend, “L.A.”

  “What does L.A. stand for?”

  “It stands for L.A.,” L.A. said. “You don’t look like a private investigator.”

  “And you don’t look old enough to be getting a tattoo. And you should tell your tattoo artist to keep a gun handy with clients like Jason.”

  Audrey stood and swiveled L.A.’s chair toward the mirror. “What do you think?”

  A black-and-white sea turtle flew through the water. On the side of her neck her hair partially covered another tattoo I couldn’t identify. “It’s perfect,” L.A. said. “I’ll be the envy of Echo Park.”

  “Not very kitschy,” I said.

  “L.A.’s not a client; she’s a kindred soul. And she’s old enough to manage her own tattoo shop in Los Angeles.”

  L.A. walked to a stand-up mirror and admired her new reptile while Audrey cleaned up. I felt awkward standing there, but she had yet to question my presence. I saw this as a good sign. Then Audrey said, “I thought you weren’t going to bother me anymore, private investigator. I have a business to run, you know.”

  “I’ll buy an hour of your time.”

  “Sixty bucks an hour. Have a seat.”

  I did as told. L.A. kissed Audrey warmly on the cheek then walked out the front door. Audrey pulled up a padded folding chair.

  “You two are close.”

  “We’re main characters in each other’s stories. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”

  “I don’t get it. Do you write these stories down?”

  “It’s an oral tradition.”

  I stared a moment to make sure she was serious. “Why do you do this?”

  She matched my stare with one of her own. “Because we like telling stories.”