Maxwell Street Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  I said, “Let me guess. He started using his money and good looks to go after the late-teens-early-twenties demographic. So you moved your family from Chicago to Los Angeles and Tate didn’t give a damn.”

  “I got Lisa back and he got his freedom—although he’ll always be a prisoner.”

  “What kind of a relationship does Tate have with his daughter?”

  “No relationship. Not even his name. She’s Audrey Prenevost.”

  “And what’s Audrey Prenevost doing now?”

  Jane repositioned herself in her chair. The question made her uncomfortable. “She’s here in L.A., working as a tattoo artist.”

  While the tattoo-themed coincidence sparked my imagination, Jane waited for the negative reaction she plainly anticipated. “A talented tattoo artist can make great money,” I said. “How did she get interested in body ink?”

  Jane shifted in her seat again. Now she looked downright ashamed. “Apparently it runs in the family. Lisa is a tattoo artist in Chicago.”

  The front door to Taudrey Tats flashed through my brain. I tamed my smile, fearing the satisfaction of being on the verge of solving a puzzle would be misinterpreted. “Just curious,” I said. “Did Lisa take your last name or her stepfather’s last name?”

  “Neither,” Jane said. “She uses her biological father’s name, Moreau.”

  “That’s an interesting name,” I said, still thinking about the front door, how it introduced “The Sole Proprietor and Mistress of Poor Taste, L. Audrey Moreau.”

  * * *

  Now that I wanted to find the little bastard Knight, I didn’t know where to start. I walked around the neighborhood advertising my presence but failed to attract a red sedan with a smashed rear window. I decided to drive my rental back to Adinkra Arts and park on the side street where shattered window glass still covered the ground. Across the street, I saw a bench set back from the sidewalk in the shade of a locust tree. From there I watched a slow but steady stream of people enter the shop for varying lengths of time. The clientele reflected the neighborhood both racially and economically. A yellow cab pulled into the parking lot and honked twice. The neighborhood didn’t strike me as the type where people took cabs, but what did I know?

  An elderly woman joined me at the other end of the bench, and then a handful of kids showed up. A few minutes later, I was surrounded by a small crowd. When the bus approached, the crack detective realized where he was sitting. When the bus pulled away, the crack detective felt two enormous hands gently pressing on his shoulders. I turned my head and caught a glimpse of brown fingers before a sudden increase in pressure inspired images of snapping chicken bones. Then two men with handkerchiefs covering all but their eyes sat on either side of me.

  “That was my car you smashed up,” the voice from behind me said.

  “Knight was trying to run me—”

  His fingers dug into the space above my collarbone, shrinking me down in pain. “Careful,” said the guy on my right. “The dude was walking around like he got tender ribs. Does that hurt?” He jammed his fingertips into my right rib cage. Disappointed by my non-reaction, the other one did the same into my sore ribs on the left side. I howled; they laughed.

  “I want four hundred for the window,” the voice said.

  The guy on my right took the wallet from my back pocket and counted out the money. “Check it out,” he said. “He’s actually got the cash. You just saved yourself a lot of pain.”

  The hands on my shoulders loosened their grip. I stood and looked at the three masked men. I was pretty sure the one who had been behind me was the offensive lineman from Adinkra Arts. Their eyes betrayed the squint of gaping smiles. “Just what the hell is Ellis Knight to you?”

  “He ain’t nothing,” the big guy said. “He just gave you up to save his own ass. You showed up at the right place at the right time. He owes you one.” More laughter.

  “Where is he?”

  “In a cab on his way to the airport.”

  “Give me a break and leave some of the cash.”

  The big guy looked hurt. “We’re just taking what you owe us,” he said. His partner handed me the wallet, four hundred lighter. “You’re smart to carry a lot of cash when you’re snooping around a neighborhood like this. It gives you better odds of surviving a robbery.”

  * * *

  It was dark when I walked into my apartment. Punim lay on the recliner thrashing her tail as if waiting for an explanation of my whereabouts. “It was just a couple of days,” I said and called Susie to tell her I had returned.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I think I got the big picture,” I said and promised to talk again soon. I called Kalijero next. “I’m back,” I said. “What do you got on Knight?”

  “Knight’s a local punk from a wealthy family. Northwestern grad. Wants to be a true-crime writer. He’s gonna expose that corrupt underbelly.”

  “What else?”

  “Tomorrow The Partisan is running a short piece on meth-heads popping up dead. They want to know why the police don’t care. Why they’re not pursuing leads. Your two stiffs will be examples. No names mentioned yet.”

  The resignation in Jimmy’s voice troubled me. I had never really bought his fatalistic façade. The idea of his long and distinguished career at the mercy of Ellis Knight and the two Audreys was probably more than he could bear.

  50

  At nine o’clock the next morning, I drove to The Partisan office, located in a ten-story building of red granite, with huge windows and two stone columns framing the main entrance. One of the country’s oldest skyscrapers, it was the type of building that conjured romantic visions of Great-Granddad’s late-nineteenth-century Chicago—although the black fire escapes traversing the outside walls evoked feelings of desperation and doom.

  The Partisan occupied the fifth floor, where a plaque said carriages were once manufactured by the Studebaker brothers from South Bend, Indiana. I asked the receptionist if Ellis Knight was available. She dialed an extension, waited, and then pushed a button and announced over the intercom that Mr. Knight should come to the reception desk. Someone yelled, “He’s not here,” and she asked if I wanted to leave a message.

  I walked back down the five flights, sat on a marble bench, and watched people breeze through the bronze and mosaic lobby. The thought of sitting there all day hoping a goofy kid made an appearance seemed ridiculous, especially since a journalist could work virtually anywhere he wanted. Then it occurred to me that writers often have a favorite hangout. We had first met at Mocha Mouse. It was worth a shot.

  Driving through bail bonds row, I noticed a sign boasting, “Access to All Public Records—All the Time!” I remembered Knight’s first phone call, when he informed me I was now “part of the public record.” I pulled over and checked the list of recent phone calls on my cell phone. I called the first number I didn’t recognize. Knight picked up on the second ring. “I want to make a deal,” I said.

  Knight hesitated. “Dude, I had no choice. It wasn’t my car. And then you showed up.” He sounded nervous.

  “C’mon, Ellis, getting knocked around is no big deal.”

  Knight chuckled. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t see it that way. But I swear if you hadn’t showed up like you did, they would’ve bashed my head in. I mean, they’re good guys as long as you don’t cross them. And I didn’t think he’d mind if I borrowed his car.”

  “Where are you? Let’s talk.”

  “Just don’t kill me. I’m at the Mouse.”

  Twenty minutes later, I walked into Mocha Mouse and again saw Knight sitting at the corner table farthest from the door. My first thought was how much I still wanted to wipe that cocky grin off his face.

  “You still got that agonized look when you walk,” Knight said. “How can the bad guys take you seriously when you’re so pathetic?”

  I eased myself into the chair across from him. Once settled, I grabbed the collar of his polo shirt and yanked him toward
me. Then I forced the side of his face against the table and lay on top of him. The move sent spasms of pain through my side, but it was worth it to see his glasses go flying and a couple of buttons pop off his shirt.

  “Let me explain something, Knight. I am going to find out who killed Charles Snook. I’m still wondering if you have information that could help me find the killer. I’m willing to make a deal, one that would be mutually beneficial. Or I could make sure you are arrested as an accessory after the fact for having knowledge that a crime was committed. The choice is yours.”

  I pushed myself off the table and watched the pitiful, red-faced Knight grope for his glasses. His shirt hung open from the collar to mid-chest, revealing a stained undershirt. As soon as he had composed himself and retaken his chair, I started feeling sorry for him. Then he said, “For me to be an accessory, you’d have to prove that I received, relieved, comforted, or assisted the killer in order to hinder or prevent the killer’s apprehension, trial, or punishment.” My pity vanished; his grin returned. “But tell me about your deal.”

  “You tell me what you know, answer my questions, and I’ll make sure you get the inside word on what’s happening to all the various parties related to my investigation.”

  “Ha! You think I need your help to get this story? You’re funny. Go ahead, ask a question.”

  Suddenly, I was playing his game. “How well do you know the girl with the red eyebrows who works at Adinkra Arts?”

  “Remember when I asked you if you’d ever been to Los Angeles? That’s where I lived until high school when we moved here.”

  He waited for my response, wild and grinning. I said, “You knew L.A. when you lived in Los Angeles.”

  “Bingo! But I didn’t get to know her personally until she started coming here to visit. I would see her around, but didn’t realize who she was because she looked so different. But she recognized me and we hit it off!”

  “Her name is Audrey, isn’t it?”

  Knight leaned over the table and said, “You’re on the right track, my friend!” He fell back into his chair. “You’ve lit the fuse. Now follow it.”

  “The Audrey that lives here. Her real name is Lisa—”

  “No shit? How did you find out?”

  “I’m not gonna tell you just yet. Do you have any idea how Lisa and Audrey know each other?”

  “Nope. She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “I’m supposed to believe you don’t know anything about Lisa?”

  “It’s the truth! I don’t know how they know each other. Those chicks live for their weird world of secrets.”

  “You giving me all the facts, Knight?”

  “Facts are just by-products of the process. Give me process, Detective Landau! Sniff it down and dig it up, dude! That’s where the story is!” Knight opened his laptop and began typing. His grin was eclipsed by a severely furrowed brow under which this strange kid’s eyes fixated on a hidden world of process. I resigned myself to participating in his game and hoped if I gave him enough process, he’d give me enough facts. I got up and walked away from the table fairly certain that my absence was unnoticed. That week’s issue of The Partisan was stacked on the floor next to the door.

  Sitting in my car, I looked through the stories of neighborhood activism and political misdeeds next to reviews of local hipster bands and art exhibits. On page twelve, my eye caught a sidebar adjacent to an article debating the effectiveness of methadone. The headline read, “The Only Good Meth-Head Is a Dead Meth-Head.” The article described “power-junkies injecting meth into the veins of society, pushing in dreamland and drawing out bloodstained cash from an addicted underclass supplying a steady stream of money to all those attached to the political tit. The infected milk nourishes city hall, police, big business, and then down the line …” There was no byline, but Knight’s voice was unmistakable.

  51

  The significance of my Los Angeles trip to premeditated murder remained in the periphery, although I felt confident that the partial decoding of the two Audreys would somehow help bring my investigation to a conclusion. Despite the abundance of motivation to go around, evil was still the missing ingredient. But I knew evil when I saw it.

  I called Kalijero. “Voss is the engine behind this train wreck, right?”

  Deep sigh. “So what? What’re you going to do about it?”

  “I’m gonna take him down.”

  Kalijero laughed. “Really? You going to arrest him?”

  “That balancing act you were talking about. Imagine the leverage you would have if you could prove Voss played an active role in murder. It’s the ultimate trump card for you and your pals. What’s pimping and money laundering compared to murder?”

  “When the corpse is a meth-head—”

  “I’m talking about Snooky! Voss used Lisa—”

  “Who the hell is Lisa?”

  “The tattoo girl. Her real name is Lisa Audrey Moreau. Voss used Lisa to try to get information on you. Snooky wouldn’t rat you out, but Snooky and Lisa used to joke about the code names he made up for his clients. She must’ve told Voss about the names, which helped him figure out the connection to Mildish, Baron, and Tate.”

  “So why kill Snooky?”

  “After Snooky and Lisa had a falling out, Voss gave up on her. Voss assumed Snooky kept records of everything, and that his murder would be written off as just another mob flunky getting clipped. Voss and his cronies ransacked his house for evidence against you. Plus he could lean on Mildish and get a cut of the Maxwell Street action.”

  “So the tattoo broad—Lisa—unknowingly participated in murder because Snooky wouldn’t go along with her plan to ruin Tate’s reputation?”

  “There’s more to it; I just haven’t figured it out yet. Maybe something to do with meth. By the way, why does Voss have such a hard-on for you?”

  “I was once married, you know. Voss’s sister. Let’s just say we weren’t a good match and leave it at that.”

  “Enough said. I think there’s a real chance Lisa’s life could be in danger. If I give you solid evidence something’s going down, will you act?”

  Kalijero cleared his throat. “She’s a potential innocent victim, a potential character witness, and a potential suspect. Assuming you convince me, I’ll act.”

  52

  From my vantage point at the diner, I could make out Lisa bent over a drawing table. She seemed frozen except when she stopped to erase something and wipe the page clean. A middle-aged man with a gray ponytail entered the shop. Lisa stopped what she was doing and greeted him. Then she walked to a filing cabinet and took out what I assumed was a drawing he had requested. He studied it for a few seconds before sitting down in the dentist’s chair.

  I called Susie. “I’m across the street at the diner. Can you get away for a few minutes?”

  “How important is this? I’ve got a few browsers and my assistant is new.”

  “I would be extremely grateful.”

  She hurried across the street. I waved through the window and moments later she joined me. I said, “I found out in Los Angeles that Audrey’s real name is Lisa and I’m convinced the short, fat comb-over guy you saw in Lisa’s shop played a role in Snooky’s murder. His name is Voss. Lisa appears to have been involved, although probably not intentionally. Things are coming to a head, and it would be a big help if you could keep an eye on Taudrey Tats. Tell me if something seems strange.”

  Susie stared at me wide-eyed. “Everything you just said seems strange. Lisa? I won’t ask. But, like—what is it I’m looking for and how should I look for it?” She seemed equally baffled and annoyed.

  “It’s all about keeping Lisa safe from comb-over man. Ideally, engage her in conversation. Does she seem preoccupied, like someone who feels threatened, or is she the same Lisa? Maybe she’ll confide in you. If you hear any yelling, try to remember what it’s about. Call me if you see her little dark-haired friend with the red eyebrows or anyone else who’s hanging around that’s not a tattoo
customer. I know I’m being vague about what I want, but just trust your instincts.”

  “And what exactly am I getting into?”

  “I just need another pair of eyes and ears. Although, conceivably, there could be a potential for danger.”

  “You want to be more specific?”

  “Voss is a cold-blooded bastard. Others have called him a psychopath or a sociopath. One of the two. Lisa—I don’t know what she is. She may be guilty of something, but I think she’s also a victim—somehow. Either way, I’m going to get the truth and, in the process, if Voss decides Lisa is a liability, her safety might be at risk.”

  Susie drummed her fingers on the table and glanced back at her shop. “I’d best be off,” she said.

  * * *

  I had been going nonstop since nine A.M. and needed some downtime to rest my aching ribs and try to assimilate all the components of my investigation. Once I was on the recliner, Punim wedged herself between my thighs. Her front paws disappeared beneath the white fur on her chest. She stared at me in that neglected-cat way, sending a barrage of guilt darts into my torso. It was just the two of us after all.

  My fear for Lisa’s safety was genuine, second only to my fear of her dubious mental state, which could jeopardize my plan and possibly put her in more danger. If Voss was truly running the show, I had every reason to believe he was aware of my last visit to Taudrey Tats, when I accused her of making a deal with Satan. Lisa didn’t know enough to recognize the sharks swimming around her. But if approaching her was too hazardous, what was my next step?

  I called Knight. “I’ve got some process for you. Are you still at Mocha Mouse?”

  He didn’t try to hide his delight. “All right, my man! You diggin’ in? Gettin’ deep? I knew you’d come through. Get thee to the Mouse!”

  For the second time in five hours, I walked through a coffee shop named for a saxophone-playing rodent and approached the far corner table where Ellis Knight happily waited with his open laptop. “I brought some process with me,” I said and held up a manila folder before sitting down. “Here are some of the details involved in the process, courtesy of a police photographer.” From the folder, I took two pictures of a man facedown on a pile of construction debris. One of the pictures was taken from only a few feet away. Two close head wounds were clearly visible. “Meet my friend Snooky.”