Maxwell Street Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  “What if you gave me a hundred grand?”

  He might as well have said a million. I walked away from Voss thinking there had to be another way without whoring myself out. Wearing a wire for the likes of Voss might get me Snooky’s killer, but my name would be poison in this town, and if I didn’t have my name, I didn’t have anything. I went over my conversation with Tate three days earlier. He had referred to himself as the novice, the outsider who was approached for his access to the trustees. At the time I had trouble believing his innocence, as if he were helpless to resist the forces of greed. But if Tate really was just the victim of his own weak character, then the new channel Frownie suggested I find would have to run through the Honorable Jacob Mildish.

  34

  After consuming sixteen ounces of a cranberry, dandelion root, and juniper berry concoction, I stood in the bathroom waiting to see the result of the remedy. Still a touch pink but no worse. I relaxed in the recliner, exhausted and aching but feeling confident my kidney was on the mend. I needed to stay focused on a strategy for interviewing Mildish. As I drifted off, I imagined my father standing before a judge who read through his rap sheet while weighing the pros and cons of his life. Dad listened patiently while staring at the floor. When he looked up at me, the phone rang.

  “Hi, Julie!” Audrey said. “I haven’t heard from you in two days.”

  “Don’t call me Julie. I’ve been busy.”

  “You sound ticked off.”

  “Sorry. Had a tough day.”

  “All that construction down on Maxwell Street where Snooky was found. Does that have something to do with your case?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  “Well, I just remembered something. My dad served on a committee that had to do with all that. It was called Citizens for the Preservation of Maxwell Street Market.”

  “Interesting. That committee was against the redevelopment, and then he became an active supporter. Ask him what changed his mind.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “You spoke to his housekeeper to make sure she knew what she was getting into, but you won’t ask him a simple question?”

  Deep sigh. “Obviously, someone offered him money to change his mind. It happens all the time.”

  “Doesn’t say much for your father.”

  “He’s a shit. All he cares about is money. He would kill for it.”

  I told Audrey I needed to sleep and she signed off, telling me not to be a stranger. I drifted off still unsure if Audrey really thought her dad was a killer or if she was just telling one of her damn stories.

  35

  I spent the night in the recliner. Wedged between my legs, Punim stared at me. She darted to her food bowl. My side and cheekbone ached but not as bad as the night before. After a week of plum-colored blotches on my face, I didn’t care how I looked. Punim feasted while I showered.

  The Illinois General Assembly wouldn’t be back in session until November, which meant that Mildish would be out giving speeches and kissing the asses of constituents or vice versa. On this day he was scheduled to discuss the ongoing state budget issues at the public library. The talk was to begin at eleven at the Eller Auditorium on the lower level of the colossal building. I arrived an hour early to get a feel for the place and stake out a location to ambush His Honor as he departed. I walked to the back row of the four-hundred-seat room and stared at the enormous mahogany stage that typically accommodated dance or music programs. Had I not known what was going on, I would’ve assumed a foreign dignitary or a rock star was making an appearance. Spaced uniformly throughout the room, beefy bodyguards in ill-fitting suits aired electronic ringtones through two-way radios. I took an aisle seat and watched them nervously gad about their assigned areas. I wondered how a state representative justified such security. But this was Chicago, after all. You didn’t have to be politically astute to know “state representative” was comically euphemistic for a guy like Mildish, whose connections and money put him in a power class that would’ve made Great-Granddad proud.

  One of the bodyguards approached me. “There’s almost an hour before Representative Mildish arrives.” When I realized he had nothing more to say, I thanked him for the information. The secret agent stepped away, alerted a comrade through his radio, and spoke quietly. Moments later, I had an agent on both sides of me and one behind.

  “What is your business here, sir?”

  “I’m waiting for the show to start.”

  “Mr. Mildish won’t be here for an hour or so. How about waiting in the lobby until we’re ready to seat people?”

  “You think you could do me a favor and give him this?” I handed Boss Agent my card. He ignored it.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time to step into the lobby.”

  I found his behavior in a public library shocking, and the smart-ass part of me wanted to pursue a scene of outrage. Luckily, my submissive side knew I had nothing to gain. I retreated to the lobby, where tourists milled about the marble floor and looked at paintings and photographs of local philanthropists. Businessmen and -women clutching briefcases and folders trickled in. They looked nervous, as if scheduled to perform in a talent show. A few ventured into the auditorium, which inspired the rest of the herd to file into the auditorium. I entered last, reclaiming the aisle seat in the back from which I had been ejected. Several dozen empty rows remained between me and the hundred or so people who sat up front. When Mildish finally waddled onto the stage draped in his black pinstripes, I thought stockholders’ meeting or crime syndicate conference—take your pick. This man clearly had no interest in avoiding stereotypes and seemed even to encourage such comparisons with the silk cravat and the bejeweled rings jammed on to his fat fingers.

  Reading from a prepared speech, Mildish reported on community development projects, citing issues dealing with senior housing, abandoned property, landmark designations, and zoning ordinances. The kindliness of his voice defied his mobster appearance; it was as if he were reading a bedtime story. Fifteen minutes later, the speech ended and Mildish exited stage right. As if on cue, his front-row constituents stood and calmly stepped down into the orchestra pit and through a side door. In a short time, a line backed up through the pit and stretched down the aisle, almost reaching the lobby. Apparently His Honor had an office behind the stage where he held private meetings. A real phantom of the opera.

  I approached one of the secret agents. “What’s the password to get to meet with Mildish?”

  “You have to make those arrangements beforehand.”

  I took out a business card and a hundred-dollar bill. “I’ll pay extra for return service.”

  He glanced at the bill then carefully took it from my palm with thumb and forefinger before stepping away to speak quietly into his radio. Agent Two appeared, took the card from Agent One, and left. A few minutes passed before Agent Two returned and handed the card back to Agent One, who stepped closer to me. I handed him another C-note and he gave me my card. On the back was written, “Guild Books, 2 P.M.”

  * * *

  A North Side hangout for aspiring artists—I was surprised Mildish knew such a place existed. I arrived at the appointed time to see His Honor seated comfortably in Guild’s coffee bar, reading a one-act play. A leather folder lay on the table.

  “This place always brings me fond memories,” Mildish said as I approached the table and sat. He put the play, A Marriage Proposal, down. “As a drama student, I was obsessed with Chekhov. Oh, my, now the other eye?”

  I didn’t take the small-talk bait. “Everything’s starting to come together,” I said.

  “With your investigation of Mr. Snook’s murder?”

  “There are only a few people who would have benefited from Snooky’s death. These people were involved in illegal activities involving millions of dollars. Snooky knew about all of it.”

  “As I said at our meeting last week, Mr. Landau, I don’t know anything about Snooky’s murder. If you have some evidence suggesti
ng that’s not true, why don’t we look at it together? We can do it at police headquarters if you like.”

  “Last week I cared only about my friend’s death. But I was naïve to think I could just step over anything laying on the path leading to a murderer. You must have realized this. Whether you’re involved in a killing or not, you’re a big player in a big picture, and if I have to use this information to find out who killed my friend, I will.”

  “Coming from a family well versed in the machinations of Chicago politics, I’m surprised it took you this long to see this big picture. And by implicating me in some transgression, you hope to accomplish what? I didn’t make the rules, Mr. Landau. I’m guilty only of playing the game as it has been played in this town for well over a hundred years. If I were truly a killer, if I were truly worried that you could destroy my life, do you think you’d be alive right now? And do you think you’d make a difference in the big picture?”

  “Well, do you think I could at least get an A for effort?”

  “You have quite the cavalier attitude. Some might say reckless. But humor me if you don’t mind. Let’s use Maxwell Street as an example. If you had been paying attention, you’d know the state’s historic preservation department employed the spouse of a university trustee and two spouses of Baron Construction principals. It was all over the news, but what happened? Maxwell Street was sacrificed with little outrage.”

  For the first time, his casual, cold-blooded manner gave me the creeps. “How many people are you willing to kill to have your precious ass covered?” I asked.

  Mildish stared at the table as if he had not heard me. Then he said, “I guess you’ll always view me as a killer. And I’ll just have to accept this disturbing fact.”

  “What did Tate use to blackmail Linda Conway?”

  Mildish held my gaze before closing his eyes and sighing. Then he started nodding his head. I got the feeling he had been anticipating this question. “Why is that important?”

  “Depends on who killed my friend.”

  Mildish loosened his tie then dragged a handkerchief across his forehead. “Miss Conway is a favorite of wealthy religious conservatives. They trust her with their money because they think she’s one of them. They send her clients. She gets to invest their future earnings, and in return she helps them find the sharpest students—potential converts—who have demonstrated business intelligence and possess the kind of ambition much sought after by these types. It’s a lucrative situation for her. Unfortunately for Miss Conway, Dr. Tate was shown photographs of Miss Conway engaged in activities her clients would not look upon approvingly.”

  “Details, please.”

  Mildish squirmed in his seat and for the first time looked uncomfortable in his pinstripes. “Miss Conway prefers the company of women over men. The Bible-thumpers frown upon that.”

  I took a few seconds to process his words and the images conjured up in my brain. “It’s hard for me to believe someone as professional as Linda Conway would be so careless with her personal life—knowing how much was at stake.”

  Mildish’s face went through several contortions before he opened the leather folder and handed me several eight by ten photographs of two naked women intertwined on a bed. I immediately recognized Anna Piantowski and remembered her tattoo of the letters “LC” inside a heart.

  “You were told these sex photos were going to be used for blackmail?”

  “I had nothing whatever to do with it.”

  “But you knew it was going to happen so you pulled a few strings to get copies for personal use.”

  Mildish ignored my comment. I supposed I should’ve been thankful nude adult women were his fantasy. “There are many aspects to getting a job done,” Mildish said. “Business, Mr. Landau, is a competition like any other race or sporting event. Just as athletes try to find an advantage, so do businessmen.”

  “I see: you work for the same company, just not in the blackmail department. I’m sure Baron didn’t know anything about it, either—although he probably has his own copies.”

  “Men are free to pursue their own self-interests. I won’t take responsibility for the actions of others.”

  “Of course you won’t. Why run the risk of being guilty of something?”

  I stood to leave. Mildish said, “I’m sure you’re a good, decent man, Mr. Landau. And I’m confident that you will do everything in your power to find your friend’s killer without hurting innocent people in the process.”

  “As long as the innocent people don’t interfere with the pursuit of my self-interests, they have nothing to worry about.” I turned to leave then stopped and said, “Do you often take those photos out in public or just in the men’s room with your pinstripes bunched up around your ankles?”

  Mildish had no comment other than the hollow, vacant stare of his black eyes.

  36

  Linda Conway’s door was open. From the hallway, I watched her work on her laptop, analyzing complicated spreadsheets, I imagined, creating profitable investment strategies that would help her clients feel God’s love.

  Without looking up she said, “You might as well come in.”

  I did as told. “You knew it was me?”

  She wore a floral print blazer over a white blouse with a ruffled collar. She looked up from her computer. “You’re the only person who ever lingers outside my office like a criminal. Fall down Rollerblading again? I see you landed on the other eye this time.” She leaned back in her chair with a blank expression.

  I sat down. “I’m in the mood for chili. You ever been to Chili Mac’s? I’ll buy.”

  Conway maintained the same vacant look, although her eyes narrowed. “What the hell do you want, Mr. Landau?”

  “It’s a peace offering. I’d like to buy you a lunch of terrific chili.”

  “I detest chili.”

  I guess she didn’t get Anna Piantowski’s memo informing her she liked chili either with or without onions. I stood and said, “Maybe I should close the door,” and did so without comment from Conway. I retook my seat. “I know why you changed your vote.”

  Conway shrugged. She seemed resigned, defeated. “And what are you going to do with this new information?”

  “You’ve lost your spirit, Ms. Conway. I hope it’s not as bad as you think.”

  “And what do you care about what I’ve lost or what I think?”

  “I have no ill will toward you. I’m just trying to find out who killed my friend.”

  “And I bet you’ll stop at nothing to get what you want.”

  It hurt to be viewed as so insensitive. “I’m not here to intimidate you. Can you implicate Tate in Snooky’s murder?”

  “Information on my personal life would not have shut me up about murder. Snooky was my friend, too.”

  “You don’t think Tate was involved?”

  “I don’t know anything about the murder. And I had no impression Tate knew anything, either.”

  “He was threatening to ruin you!”

  “He was just the messenger! The others are using him as a shield. He’s in too deep to refuse.” That explained why Anna Piantowski would continue working for Tate while her lover was being blackmailed.

  “The others being Mildish and Baron?”

  “I told you Snooky never used names. Tate approached me about the photos and begged me to change my vote. For my own good, he wouldn’t tell me who was behind it all. He had real fear in his eyes.”

  “Did Snooky know about this?”

  “I never said a word to him. I realize now he may have been killed because of our friendship. They couldn’t risk retribution if he found out I was being blackmailed. He knew everything, after all. He kept the books.” Conway pushed a tear off her cheek.

  Had Snooky been a hack bookkeeper, I might’ve believed he was killed to cover tracks. But he had spent over twenty years gaining the trust of bookies, loan sharks, gamblers, and a generic assortment of other lowlife hoods who lived on the fringes. These were his people.
He knew the game and the consequences of breaking the rules—Snooky didn’t have a death wish.

  I told Linda Conway I was convinced her friendship with Snooky had nothing to do with his murder, and she seemed to appreciate my words, although I doubted we would have lunch together anytime soon.

  37

  The phone rang at three A.M. “Your dad asked me if Voss was holdin’ somethin’ over your head,” Frownie said.

  “You couldn’t have held on to this breaking news until seven or eight?”

  “Voss can’t wait. I gotta know. Does that cocksucker got somethin’ on you?”

  “What the hell could he have? And don’t you think I would’ve told you about it?”

  “I don’t know what to think. Your first murder case and I’m thinkin’ you see it all as a game. Well, let me tell you, it ain’t no game.”

  “Frownie, you’re overreacting.”

  “Yeah, sure. You know everything, Julie. But actually, you don’t know shit.” He hung up. Thanks, Frownie.

  I couldn’t get back to sleep. I sat in the living room and studied the streetlamp through the warped windowpane and tried to imagine what Frownie felt. His consciousness straddled Prohibition, the Great Depression, Capone’s rise and fall, and the crime bosses that followed. Great-Granddad’s influence peaked during the tenure of Mayor “Big Bill” Thompson only to crumble with the rising Sicilian population of his Twentieth Ward domain. He was eventually kicked out of politics with—as the Tribune reported—“Scarface Al applying the boot.” Somewhere along the line, Frownie got to know Granddad, then my father, and finally me. How or why the relationship endured had never been revealed. But I knew some people made money while some went to prison. I also knew Frownie was right: I didn’t know shit.

  About four A.M., I took a walk down Halsted. The early August air was damp but pleasant. Produce trucks raced up and down the street, servicing the numerous bodegas and breakfast nooks preparing to open. The smattering of drunks, dope addicts, and whores gadding about were just part of the scenery. When I returned to my apartment, the sky was beginning to lighten.