Maxwell Street Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  I laughed. “Two random bullets in his head, three hundred and fifty random dollars still in his wallet, his body randomly lying on a pile of construction debris and showing no random signs of struggle.”

  Silence again until Mildish said, “I feel compelled to ask what your intentions are.”

  “I’m being paid to find Snooky’s killer, nothing else. As long as you’re not lying to me, I don’t care what you do.”

  Mildish stared at me and sort of smiled. “That’s the attitude I was hoping for. I’m not convinced you can maintain it, but for now I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “It would be bad for business to trust you.”

  “Touché!” Mildish said and laughed loudly. Then he reached into his breast pocket and produced a billfold. He counted out some cash and handed it to me. “Will this cover the cost of a new gun?” I looked at the seven hundred-dollar bills, handed two of them back to Mildish. “Now we’re even,” I said.

  19

  I came home with a Glock .40-caliber and called my father. I told him what was up with Kalijero and about my meetings with Baron and Mildish. He sounded tired but enjoyed hearing about Kalijero’s troubles. Mildish troubled him.

  “Mildish scares me. While he’s shaking your hand, he’s picking your pocket.”

  “Tate’s the one that’s really squirming,” I said. “The others might conveniently forget things, but Tate’s the true liar. It sounds like he panicked, and Snooky ended up dead.”

  “Who pulled the trigger?”

  “I don’t know. Guys like Tate don’t get their hands dirty.”

  “You think his kid has anything more to say?”

  “I think she does, but I don’t know when it will come out. Daddy is a professor after all.”

  “Don’t forget blackmail. I doubt Tate had the final say on a multimillion-dollar contract. You said that yourself when I first came over.”

  He was right. Trustees would have to give the go-ahead. I felt a renewed appreciation for my father’s experience in corruption.

  * * *

  Tate’s house was a three-story brownstone across the street from a large park on a bluff above Lake Michigan. A few decades ago, this building housed three middle-class families. Today you would find couples with seven-figure incomes living their renovated fantasies of stainless steel double sinks, kitchen islands, recessed lighting, and home theaters. I didn’t know what I would accomplish by staking out his house on a Saturday afternoon, but the park was well shaded and a nice breeze blew off the lake.

  From a picnic table, I sat and focused my camera on the house. I zoomed in on the enormous plate glass window and then examined the solid wood door. I put myself in Tate’s shoes as a wealthy, educated, middle-aged man running a large public university. An opportunity presented itself for easy money. He got one of the trustees in on it, maybe the comptroller or the treasurer. His Chicago Yacht Club dream was closer than ever.

  Then he started to worry, felt vulnerable. Or the trustee started to sweat, started to wonder who knew what and how it could be used against him. The trustee started leaning on Tate to do something. Tate revealed his fears to Mildish and Baron, who both dismissed the neophyte’s anxiety. He would get no relief from these two seasoned, well-connected veterans of the game. And how did he know he was not being played for the fool? How did he know Mildish and Baron wouldn’t sell him down the river? He lay awake at night thinking his whole life, everything he had worked for, would be destroyed and his name would just be another added to the long list of imprisoned Illinois luminaries.

  Tomorrow I would check Tate’s trail of parking tickets to see if they led somewhere. Perhaps I would have to look Tate in the eye and present his worst-case scenario until he shit himself. I played with these thoughts awhile longer, only to gradually drift far off-subject to the carefree summer afternoons of my youth. I blamed the cooling lake breeze for casting this nostalgic spell, which ended abruptly with a male voice asking, “Mind if I sit?”

  I turned to see a square-headed man with a double chin and one hell of a comb-over sitting on the end of the bench. He wore gray dress slacks and a silk shirt unbuttoned to the top of his protruding belly. A can of root beer could’ve easily balanced on that shelf. His face lit up as if he recognized an old friend.

  “Well, well, well. Run me over with a Cadillac! If it isn’t Private Investigator Landau!” His shrill voice sounded like squeaking brakes—the result of being spiked in the voice box while playing football, I would later learn. I imagined he inspired nightmares in young children. “And there you are sitting all by your lonesome.”

  I remembered Audrey’s description of the cop Kalijero called Voss. Short, fat face, fleshy lips, creepy voice—an unmistakable depiction of the man before me. “You must be Detective Voss. Are you following me, Detective Voss?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. This just happens to be my favorite place to spend a Saturday afternoon.”

  “Of course! Coincidence is your middle name.”

  “Life is full of coincidences, Landau. It’s like bloodlines, you know? Who knows how bloodlines intermingled in the deep dark past?”

  Voss’s eyes appeared unnaturally close together. A rattlesnake would’ve blushed under his stare. “Then I’m in luck because you’re keeping me company today. That’s kind of like intermingling, isn’t it?”

  “Just as you’ve been keeping company with Kalijero,” he said.

  “Not to worry. We have an open relationship.”

  Voss stood and stepped closer. “While playing cops and robbers, I hear you’ve been sniffing around a lot of stinky tattoo snatch. And at the same time, lickin’ Kalijero’s ass. Anything you want to share?”

  I winced at Voss’s raunchy imagery. “What could I possibly share with you?”

  “Did you know carrying a concealed weapon is prohibited in Chicago?”

  I showed him my FCC card, my PI card, my FOID card, and then invited him to fuck off.

  Voss laughed. “Kalijero put your old man away. Why protect him?”

  “I’m investigating a murder you and your pals don’t care about. I don’t give a damn about Kalijero.”

  “It’s not about giving a damn. It’s about dirty cops. And if you’ve got info, you better hand it over. Withholding evidence is a crime, Landau.”

  “And why would I want to withhold anything from you?”

  Voss’s face reddened. “You’re scum, Landau. And I don’t buy your college-boy bullshit. You’ll never be more than a two-bit chiseler like your old man and his old man and all the other fathers in your family. I’m more connected in this town than you’ll ever be, so if you play games—”

  “Arrest me!” I held my arms out straight. “Get out the cuffs and take me!”

  Voss put his hands in his pockets and walked a few feet away before turning and retracing his steps. He had acquired the most condescending of smiles. His incisors emerged from his bulbous lips like some kind of hairless rodent.

  “Frownie taught you well, Landau,” Voss said. “I don’t show all my cards, either. I’ll take my time, wait, and see where you take me. And when the time’s right, I’ll show you what I got, and then you’ll fold like the cocky little shit you are. And I don’t care about your flunky bookkeeper friend. Since I knew that pretty boy collects pretty things, a few months ago I sent him a glass elephant as a warning. A reminder that I got a good memory. I don’t forget who does business with mobsters and how scum like your forefathers can ruin people. They deserve what they get. And, don’t you forget, I know more than you think—about all the people you’ve been talking to—including that little tattoo whore.”

  Voss flicked one of his business cards on the picnic table and walked away, chuckling and shaking his head. I didn’t even try to understand what he meant by his parting comments. But I did know how much his damn smile angered me. And as I drove back to the city, I fantasi
zed what having my fist landing flush against his front teeth might feel like.

  20

  On the way home, I stopped by a one-story building in an office park where a lab bred mice for snake food. The first birth parents I had ever found as a PI were on a job for a client who worked in the lab. For a discount on my rates, he provided me with the occasional box of frozen babies called “pinkies.” Punim loved pinkies.

  At four o’clock, I collapsed into the recliner. I closed my eyes, thought of the disingenuous aspect of this date, and wanted to admit I would be interested in Audrey had we met under different circumstances. But apart from ordinary lust, I couldn’t deny my real motive was to gain more insight into her father through innocent conversation.

  When I returned to Taudrey Tats, Audrey was coloring an enormous red rose between the shoulder blades of a woman lying facedown on a massage table. After she wiped off the excess ink and blood, I saw the black widow crawling out from the center.

  We walked to an Indian restaurant where I had aloo gobi. Audrey had tandoori chicken and insisted on ordering an entire carafe of Riesling. After drinking the first glass as if it were Kool-Aid, she became at ease, if not playful. I kept the conversation on the light side—soliciting stories of peculiar clients, bizarre tattoo requests—until our food arrived and we had taken our first bites. “How often do you see your father?” I said.

  Without looking up she said, “Once in a while.”

  “Not very close, I guess.”

  “Not very.”

  “How come?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Can’t I just be curious?”

  Audrey put down her fork. “Nobody is ever ‘just curious.’ There has to be an ulterior motive.”

  “Bullshit. I investigate. Investigators have a natural curiosity about people.”

  Audrey’s face had become pouty. I thought the conversation might be over, but I was wrong. “My father has no respect for women. As a child, he once told me I’d be nothing more than a one-night stand. He thought it was funny. When I got into art school, he told me how disappointed he was and that I was wasting my time. He constantly cheated on my mother.”

  “Does he live near the campus?”

  “No. Somewhere in Evanston.”

  “You’ve never been to your dad’s house?”

  “I know where he lives. That’s enough.”

  “He wanted Snooky to help you with your finances.”

  “Big deal.”

  “It wasn’t a gesture?”

  “He’s oblivious. Probably racked with guilt and I’m starting to wonder if maybe he was involved in something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a snake, you know? A poisonous snake. He’d bite to protect his ass.”

  “You think he bit Snooky?”

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets arrested for his murder.” Audrey appeared to be searching for words. “You should know I like older men.”

  I paused. “Duly noted. Do you think your dad is capable of murder?”

  “We’re all capable of murder, Mr. Private Eye. Maybe I date older men to piss off my father. I haven’t decided. But it makes the story interesting. I’m good at making things up as I go along.”

  “But your father. Do you really think he could kill someone?”

  “Are you following what I’m saying?”

  “I get it! You like hanging out with daddy types—and I ain’t it. Why did your father lie to me about knowing Snooky?”

  Audrey smiled and giggled. “Daddy’s a liar,” she said as she sipped from her fourth glass of wine. I was nursing my first. “But Daddy loved Audrey. Poor, poor Audrey. He loved her so much that he kept telling her this as she tried to sleep. But Daddy wouldn’t let her sleep—” Audrey stopped and stared into her wineglass.

  Her implication sickened me. “I’m sorry.”

  Audrey didn’t look at me. “He’s sorry, too. He’s tortured with guilt, or so he says.”

  I excused myself and paid the bill at the hostess stand. Audrey waited at the door. Outside she said, “Let’s go to your place.”

  She was drunk, vulnerable, psychologically damaged. She was beautiful. “I’m not old enough for you.”

  She stumbled. “Shut up! Let’s just talk and have coffee.”

  I hated coffee. At my apartment, she sat on the couch. I offered herbal tea. She declined. I sat next to her, but not presumptuously close.

  “Where’s your gun?” she said.

  I laughed, but she didn’t get the joke. Then I pointed to my holstered weapon dangling from a hook on the wall. “I check it at the door.”

  “You put it on when you leave the house?”

  “If I’m on a murder case.”

  “Do you keep it loaded?”

  “It’s ready to go. Your dad lied to both of us about knowing Snooky.”

  “He’s a liar,” Audrey said, then climbed onto my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck. I held her and kissed the side of her face and neck and thought if I squeezed too hard she might break. Eventually our mouths collided, and she pushed me on my back from where I explored the contours of her lovely body. There was no doubt who was in charge of the situation as she opened my pants and guided me into her. By modern standards, my sexual experiences had been few and fleeting, with only one serious relationship under my belt and nothing to match the eroticism of this moment. I wanted only to hang on until she stopped her frenzied gyrations, which she did minutes later before starting up again and continuing until I could hold out no longer.

  We laid there sweaty and panting until she climbed off and walked to the bathroom. She returned with neatly combed hair and said, “I’d better go.”

  As a younger man, I would have given this encounter undeserved significance. As a somewhat older man, I knew better.

  21

  The next morning, my buddy Santiago waved as I approached his food stand at Diversey and Sheridan. On Sundays he always put aside two specially made breakfast burritos and a weekend Tribune. He called me Señor Ojo Privado. I crossed the street and sat on a park bench near the statue of Goethe and ate while watching a group of teenagers play Hacky Sack. I tried reading the paper but had trouble concentrating. It was day five of my investigation, and while I knew I had uncovered a great deal of information, everything was circumstantial. That is, I had enough evidence to cause a political shitstorm but not to convict anyone of Snooky’s murder. Two burritos later, my phone rang.

  “I don’t do that with just anybody,” Audrey said.

  “I should be flattered?”

  “We now have a relationship transcending our common friendship with Snooky. But—”

  “You go for older men.”

  “And you’re now a character in my story. That’s what I want.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I know,” she said and hung up.

  It was ten when I got back to my apartment. The potatoes in Santiago’s burritos demanded I take a nap. Two hours later my father called and asked if he could come over. He sounded tired but pleased I had welcomed his impending visit. When I saw a limo pull up, it hit me that Dad still appreciated the power of money, regardless of how it was acquired. I waited at the top of the landing. Despite leaning heavily on the railing, he climbed the stairs at an impressive clip. Once inside my apartment, he limped to the recliner and tried to hide the pain as he sat. Then he said, “Tell me where you’re at.”

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  He waved me off. “C’mon, talk. What do you got?”

  I told him about my conversation with Voss and my plan to shadow Tate that evening.

  Voss concerned him. “When Voss said he knew a lot, believe him. He’s got one foot in the police station and another in the street—and he’s a prick on top of it all. When he smells blood, he goes crazy. He wants Kalijero’s ass and usually I’d say fine, but if he’s gonna trample you to get to him, that
’s no good. He may even know who killed Snooky and use it so you give up Kalijero.”

  “I’ve got nothing on Kalijero.”

  Dad didn’t respond. I could tell he was somewhere else. Then he said, “There are some things you should know. Frownie has this crazy hatred for Voss. If you mention Voss’s name to Frownie, a valve might pop out of his heart.” Dad leaned back, stared at the ceiling with that faraway look of distraction.

  “Something else you want to tell me?” I said.

  “They found prostate cancer a few years ago but I’m not worried. I’ll probably die of something else before it gets me.”

  It took a moment to process his statement. “Why didn’t you tell me on Wednesday?”

  “Because I told you about Snooky. How much bad news you want in one day?” He handed me another check for two thousand. “Now, don’t read anything into this medical crap. You can call my doc and check with him if you think I’m full of shit. I got a feeling you don’t have much cash in the bank. Always put money away. You’ll never have any money unless you learn to save it.”

  “What about you? You got enough money?”

  He waved me off again. “You saw the limo, right? What the hell do you think?”

  What did I think? A 1920s Tribune article compared Great-Granddad Morris Landau’s bleeding of Maxwell Street vendors to a farmer milking a cow. My grandfather told stories of working as the “Market Master,” the guy who made sure everything operated legitimately. It was just a coincidence the mayor appointed Morris Landau’s son for the job. “I was a first-class grafter,” Granddad often said, then cheerfully described the fear he struck in the hearts of hapless immigrants who had escaped czarist Russia only to be screwed by Americans who also spoke Yiddish. “A cut of beef, a nice pair of shoes, it didn’t matter. I got it for nothing.”

  I said to Dad, “I think you would’ve made Great-Granddad very proud. That’s what I think.”

  Dad smiled and wagged his finger knowingly at me. I knew how to make him happy.