Maxwell Street Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

“You sound as if you want him to run.”

  “I’m putting myself in his place. Choices are easier when you have money.”

  “What if he went to the police?”

  “He’d run the risk of incriminating himself. The others involved would pull every string they had. But if he’s truly innocent, maybe he’d do it.”

  “But who exactly is going to give my father this ultimatum?”

  “I don’t know, but guys like Mildish have connections for everything. They probably know someone who specializes in giving people lose-lose propositions. Maybe you should consider telling him what’s going to happen.”

  Now she looked past me. I was about to repeat myself when her head began nodding slowly, and she said, “I should go.” After unhooking the enormous bag from the back of her chair, she hoisted it over her shoulder and walked out.

  40

  It was dark when I got home. I left the lights off, fired up the laptop, then grabbed a diet ginger ale and a bag of black market tortilla chips. For some reason, I also grabbed the glass elephant from the windowsill and put it on the coffee table. An elephant’s emotional attachment to other elephants is said to equal that of a human’s. Elephants dwell upon and grieve over loved ones. Their grief is said to last many years.

  I came across a website quoting a British World War II commander who credited elephants with helping defeat the Japanese in Burma. I flashed to orange flames of the diving fighter plane’s guns depicted in the artwork at the firehouse. Next, I found the fighter pilot exhibit at O’Hare International Airport, an airport formerly called Orchard Field but renamed in 1949 after the death of World War II hero Edward “Butch” O’Hare. Then I thought of the strip joint, O’Hare’s Tailspin. Snooky’s alias for Kalijero had just been revealed: Butch.

  The next thirty minutes were spent staring at the shadows on the wall, listening to my thunderous crunching, trying to decide if I should tell Kalijero anything about Butch. When the bag was empty, I gulped the last of the ginger ale and dialed his number.

  “Yeah, well, that kind of crap is standard operating procedure,” Kalijero said, referring to Tate’s predicament.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean when pros like Mildish bring in fledglings like Tate for dirty business, they think of ways to get rid of them if they can’t be trusted.”

  “I don’t believe Mildish really thinks Tate killed Snooky.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you believe. If Mildish decides Tate did it, then he did it. But I gotta be honest, Jules. We’re focusing on larger fish.”

  “A university chancellor being framed for murder by a state rep? Too small? Just toss it back.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Kalijero said. “Look at the overall view. The police brass know what a crook Mildish is. If Mildish doesn’t already know about their secret strip-club/whorehouse, then he could easily find out if he needed some dirt. Voss knows I facilitated the whole thing, and I just found out that Voss has been greasing palms on the Liquor Control Commission, and on and on it goes. Everybody in this town has something on everybody else. It’s a balancing act. When something upsets the balance, you get shifting loyalties, and then bodies start showing up in construction sites. This is how the city that works works.”

  “And an antisocial lunatic named Voss is in charge. Business as usual.”

  “Don’t give me the babe-in-the-woods routine, Landau.”

  “You’re right, Jimmy. Why should I be surprised to hear nothing has changed in a hundred years?”

  “Why should it change? Are people any different? Is greed losing its popularity? Look, if I hear something new, I’ll let you know.”

  “Oh, by the way,” I said. “I figured out who Butch is, the alias in Snooky’s book.”

  The ensuing silence told me Kalijero understood what I wasn’t saying. “Okay,” he finally said then hung up.

  I resumed staring at the shadows and thought that my friend’s murder had become an afterthought sinking into a swamp of big-city political corruption. I needed to find a way to keep the investigation moving forward. I thought I would have to be more aggressive and stop relying on the obvious. A good accountant was an asset to a petty mobster until the accountant made a mistake. What was Snooky’s mistake?

  * * *

  A plan of action eluded me, as did sleep. From the beginning of my investigation, I had always had a plan for the following day. At one A.M. I tried to surrender to an unnamed force I always imagined ran my life. This was my way of dealing with the fear and doubt pounding on the door. The next four hours were spent thinking I would never sleep again. At five A.M. I sat up in bed and vaguely recalled traveling the convoluted paths that had brought me to this station in life. Dreams disguised as sleep.

  I dressed and stepped outside into a warm breeze of early August that felt almost tropical. It was quiet enough to hear the rustling of the ash trees that lined the sidewalk, and for a few moments I understood how people fell in love with cities. I headed south, not feeling at all special or cool despite legally carrying a handgun. By the time I reached the Armitage neighborhood, the sun was above the horizon and I was hungry. I walked into a diner known for its herbivorous fare. Not coincidentally, it was across the street from Taudrey Tats. The restaurant was already half-filled with young, sleepy-faced white kids mellowing out with a good breakfast after a hard night of partying. I sat in a row of two-tops along the front window and watched the neighborhood slowly transform into Saturday morning. My waitress was young and cute and absurdly cheerful for such an early hour. I ordered vegan buttermilk pancakes with fruit sauce.

  I wondered if Tate had learned of the judgment recently passed on his life. A man of wealth and privilege suddenly in a world crumbling into shame. The waitress brought my breakfast. The primeval joy of ravenous hunger meeting hot food temporarily eclipsed my worries. When I looked up from my plate, a woman I recognized as the gaudy Boutique Lady stood on the sidewalk watching me. She wore the same sequined lavender head scarf. She smiled and waved as if we were old friends. I acknowledged her with a nod, and she hurried to the entrance. Moments later, she stood in front of me.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “You really don’t eat meat?”

  I stared a moment. “Have we been introduced? I mean, who are you?”

  She took a seat. “We looked at each other through the window the other day, and we have Audrey in common. And now here you are sitting by yourself eating breakfast.” She reached across the table and offered me her hand. “I’m Susie. I don’t eat meat, either.”

  I shook her hand. “You want to talk to me about something?”

  Susie gave me a blank look. “I know it’s none of my business but I’m really curious about all the screaming and yelling.”

  “What screaming and yelling?”

  “I just assumed Audrey discussed it with you. A few weeks before the murder. Every time he came over, they ended up shouting. I could hear them through the walls.”

  “Who was shouting?”

  “Audrey and that man who was killed.”

  Suddenly, I noticed Susie’s pretty blue eyes and chestnut hair flowing from under her scarf. How did I not notice this before? “That man was called Snooky. What exactly did you hear?”

  “I can’t say for sure. Just a lot of: ‘Why?—Because I can’t!—But why?’ Back and forth they would go until the man would storm out.”

  “Did you ever ask Audrey what was up?”

  “She would just laugh and tell me how her father was trying to run her life, and that he couldn’t accept she was grown up and on her own.”

  “Hang on. She told you that man was her father?”

  “At first she spoke as if he was. But then when I saw how they acted around each other, it couldn’t be her father. I mean, it was too weird. And then she told me he was her accountant sent by her father, who I assumed was the other older man who began hanging around during the same time.”

  “What did th
e other man look like?”

  Susie described Voss, from his comb-over to the gold tassels on his loafers. “Let me make sure I’m getting this. Before Snooky’s murder, fat comb-over-man was visiting Audrey?”

  “Oh, yeah, quite often. Was that her father?”

  “Are you and Audrey friends?”

  Susie hesitated. “I’ve had this shop for ten years. So when this kid moved in next door, I offered her any advice she might need, and we became fast friends. I thought she was interesting. But over time, I became less comfortable with her clientele.”

  “Do you remember a bald guy with a lightning bolt tattooed across his head?”

  “Of course! I don’t know how she could associate with those creeps. Even if it was just business. You know, I kind of assumed you would have stopped by already to question me. I mean, don’t you guys question neighbors of people who knew crime victims?”

  I almost said “not necessarily” or “it depends” but recognized the lame excuse. Instead I said, “Did you tell Audrey I was in love with her?”

  Susie looked horrified. “I said you seemed interested in her. And I said that only as a courtesy because Audrey wanted me to agree with her. She said you were in love with her.”

  I thought Susie might be my age or a little younger, but definitely not older and definitely well educated. I said, “Audrey is a strange one. And we both know she likes to tell stories.”

  “You seem sympathetic to her weirdness.”

  “Well, I know some things about her past. I guess that makes me more tolerant.”

  “Why would you believe anything she told you?”

  Good question. “I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t.”

  I offered to buy Susie a vegan blueberry hand pie, but she politely declined, saying she had come in early to finish several alterations promised at Vagabond Boutique’s nine A.M. opening. She invited me to stop by anytime.

  41

  “So what do you got?” Voss said, once again at Diversey Harbor on the amphitheater steps.

  “I want to test this elephant memory of yours. When did you first meet Audrey?”

  This time, Voss’s entire head turned red. “What the hell is that? You drag me down here to talk about Kalijero and then you start questioning me? Listen, you little bastard, I ask the questions around here, and I’m sick of your goddamn games. You know, I could have your whole face turned into one big purple welt!”

  “Whaddya gettin’ all defensive for? It’s a harmless question.”

  “I told you I traced the phone call to her building after the murder! Now tell me what you got!”

  “You sure about that? You sure you never saw her before the murder? Never been to her tattoo shop?”

  Voss stood up. “Bullshit!”

  “Because I got sources who swear you were hanging around there weeks before Snooky died.”

  “Bullshit! Why would I hang around a goddamn tattoo joint?”

  “I don’t know. But I sure as hell don’t need to be an elephant to remember a face as ugly as yours.”

  Voss made a move toward me and stopped. He looked ready to erupt. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you? This all could’ve been real easy, and you could’ve made a few bucks. But because your name is Landau you think you can just run people over. Just run ’em down, leave ’em lying on the street for someone else to drag away, and with no consequences!”

  “Why don’t you stop talking in your damn riddles? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Now you want to be Sherlock-Fucking-Holmes. And all because of that little scumbag bean counter.” Voss chuckled. “I heard Snook begged for his life like a little bitch—”

  I grabbed his silk collar with both hands and pushed him hard against the stone step, bouncing his head off the concrete. He shrieked, “You’re dead!” and although he outweighed me by at least one hundred and fifty pounds, I sat on his chest thinking how much I wanted to crush his skull like an egg.

  I settled for one more bounce; he screamed something unintelligible and then I put my mouth next to his ear and said, “I may be dead, but you’re forgetting about my family curse, the one that lives in my brain and tells me that dying is no big deal and that neither is killing. So if you’re really going to kill me, you better make sure you do it the first time because I will find you and laugh my ass off as I crack your head wide open.”

  Voss had no response. I slowly shifted my weight off but still maintained pressure on his collar to keep him down. Then I let go and stood over him to see what he would do. He wasn’t wearing a shoulder holster and I didn’t see a gun on his belt, but I had to assume he had a weapon somewhere, maybe on his ankle. If he went for it, I would kick him in the face and be long gone before he could right himself and put me in his sights. But all he did was lie there panting, covered in sweat, eyes bulging. I cautiously walked backward up the steps to where they met the grass. Then I took one last look at Voss and walked into the park crowded with people enjoying an August afternoon.

  * * *

  Over the phone, I updated Kalijero on the morning’s events. He responded with, “Meet me at Area B,” and hung up. An hour later, I was again sitting on the backless wooden bench outside the detectives’ room waiting to be summoned. I read the new postings on the bulletin board, which included an announcement from the Chicago Police Pipes and Drums Club, an order for all tactical gang and area enforcement teams to return to civilian dress, and an official recognition of the Chicago Police Marine Corps League birthday.

  Kalijero opened the door and waved me in. I saw Deputy Chief Hauser, exactly as I remembered him six days earlier, behind a metal desk leaning back in a steno chair, arms folded against his chest—although it looked as if his crew cut and matching mustache had been tidied up. I sat on one of the wooden folding chairs and waited. Hauser said nothing and stared into space while Kalijero sat leaning forward staring at the floor. Finally, Hauser said, “Voss threatened to kill you?”

  “He said, ‘You’re dead.’ ”

  “Why did he say that?”

  “I had just banged his head against a concrete step.”

  “No, asshole, I mean what does he want from you?”

  I glanced at Kalijero and said, “I don’t know.”

  Kalijero chimed in, “Go ahead.”

  “He thinks I have information that will put Kalijero behind bars. But it’s become obvious to me he knows who killed Charles Snook—”

  “It has?” Hauser said. “Do you also got info to put Jimmy in the can?” His stare bored into my skull. I felt a headache coming on.

  “I don’t know anything except my friend is dead, and nobody gives a shit. And I’m pretty damn sure Voss knows—”

  “Landau, do you have any idea what you’re into?”

  “I’m investigating the murder of my friend Charles Snook. That’s all I know.”

  “That’s all you know? Well, you’re gonna need to know more than that if you want to live long enough to find your friend’s killer.”

  I looked at Kalijero and he said, “We’re watching Voss. But it’s like what I was telling you. It’s all a balancing act. And Voss complicates things. He moves around like he’s invisible. He’s so connected he’s taken for granted. He’s a cold-blooded son of a bitch who plays all sides all the time. He’s got so many alliances, fallback options, doomsday triggers, that everyone is afraid of him. So they just let him be. They just write him off as the cost of doing business. You get what I’m saying?”

  “I should write off Snooky?” I asked, just to clarify.

  “Just back off for now,” Kalijero said.

  “There’s a line that has to be crossed,” Hauser said.

  I took turns giving both of them a hard stare. “Okay, so you’re waiting for this line to be crossed. Because when it’s crossed, Voss has gone too far. You take him down and at long last, the curse has been lifted.” Neither commented. “And when you got Voss dead-to-rights, does he tell us who k
illed Snooky and why?”

  Hauser sighed loudly then started massaging his forehead. Kalijero stared at the floor shaking his head. I said, “Oh, I forgot. Snooky’s not a big enough fish—”

  “You can fight the system all you want,” Kalijero shouted. “But that won’t change the fact that you’ll still end up dead! And for what? Is knowing who killed Snooky more important than staying alive? Can’t you just accept that Snooky made poor choices and they finally caught up with him?”

  I stood up. “My god! How did I miss it? Snooky killed himself! He forgot to look both ways when crossing Maxwell Street.”

  I walked out of Hauser’s office with no expectation of shouts beckoning my return. They had done their job. They had warned me I was a discarded cigarette smoldering on the sidewalk of life waiting for an oxford wingtip to grind me into the cement. But Hauser and Kalijero couldn’t comprehend a life driven by the alignment of the reckless gene of my forefathers with the corrupt power brokers of the day. Just as Snooky’s life had no significance, so I knew my life meant nothing to those who pulled the strings. I also knew I had nothing to lose.

  42

  “What did I ask of you?” Frownie said over the phone. I was relaxing on the recliner, trying to keep my eyes open. “Let me die first. That’s all I asked. But I guess that’s asking too much.”

  “Don’t you think this is overblown?” I said. “Like maybe Hauser and Kalijero are trying to scare me so I don’t risk messing up their big score?”

  Frownie called me a son of a bitch under his breath. “It’s no different than when I was your age. Neighborhood tough guys, mobster families, government bureaucrats. All one big crime company. Maybe they’re bluffin’, but I don’t want no more of it. And I don’t want to hear from you again until you’re done with it. If I’m not around when it’s over, then at least I’ll be in the grave before you.”

  Frownie hung up before I could protest. The finality in his voice shook me and left me with a vague feeling of loneliness. The police cared only about Voss, Voss cared only about Kalijero. My investigation had defaulted to Audrey and Tate with Audrey no longer just a sexy, free-spirited artist taking a personal interest in the investigation. I drifted off with the realization that Audrey could not be trusted. I had no idea who she was.