Maxwell Street Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  Knight stared at the pictures. “Why is he wearing a suit?”

  “That’s what CPAs usually wear when they’re working. But here’s a more casual picture.” I showed him the druggie I had fought in my apartment. He was on his back, eyes open. A stream of blood spilled out of his mouth and flowed down his cheek, gathering in a puddle by his ear.

  Knight recoiled, then recovered. “Whoa. What is this?”

  “I just got one more,” I said and showed him the police photo of the druggie who had held me at gunpoint in the alley, lying on his back, eyes open, legs folded queerly to the side. Around his head was a halo of blood, brain, and skull. Knight retreated again but this time didn’t bounce back.

  “Dude, what’s your point? I mean, okay, I’m grossed out, you win.”

  “It’s just part of the process, Ellis. It’s a brutal process, you know? And I’m really scared that Lisa could end up in one of these pictures.”

  Knight frowned. “You’re trying to freak me out. Just because she knew the dead guy means she’s gonna end up dead, too?”

  I thought I was penetrating his juvenile façade, dude! “Why don’t we cut the bullshit and you just tell me what you know.”

  Knight looked agitated. “I know that guy got bumped off, and he worked for Audrey—Lisa. And I know how much she hated that chancellor dude even though she was banging him.”

  “Tell me why she hated him.”

  “She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Who wouldn’t tell you?”

  “L.A.-Audrey. Get it? She started calling herself Los Angeles Audrey and then just L.A. These two chicks have some really weird connection she won’t tell me about. It’s through L.A. that I know stuff.”

  “L.A.’s real name is Audrey Prenevost.”

  “Yeah, that sounds right.”

  “You asked if Snooky was murdered because he was going to expose Chancellor Tate as a meth dealer. That came from Audrey Prenevost?”

  “She suggested the meth thing a few times, but it wasn’t, like, written in stone. I mean, she’s kind of playing with my head, too. She throws out ideas to try to get me to be creative.”

  “Tate has nothing to do with meth. He’s being framed. I have a clue as to why Lisa is trying to destroy his life, but there’s more going on that I don’t know. What do you think she could have against him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about Audrey Prenevost?”

  “She’d know more than I would. You haven’t explained why Lisa might end up with a bullet in her head.”

  “Has Audrey Prenevost ever mentioned the name Voss?” Knight shook his head. “I guess you really don’t know shit.”

  Knight typed a bit and then waited for more. “C’mon, Detective, give me something! I won’t use his real name or nothing.”

  “He’s the Duke of Darkness.”

  Knight’s face lit up. “Awesome! Is he, like, some psychotic meth king? Tell me more.”

  My first inclination was to downplay the meth as just a smokescreen to what was really going on. But I stopped myself. “Get Audrey Prenevost to talk to me and I’ll think about it.”

  Knight stared thoughtfully for a moment and then started nodding his head. “I think I can do that.”

  53

  “What if Voss is trafficking meth?” I said to Kalijero. “Where are you?”

  “I’m home. It makes sense—”

  “Don’t move until I get there.” The line went dead.

  It was rude to hang up on people, and I reminded Kalijero of this fact when he entered my apartment.

  “You’ll get over it,” he said. “Sit down.” I did as told. “Remember what I said about moonlighting at that club out by the airport? Big shots getting all the booze and tail for a night? At some point, I was told to start expecting small packages to deliver to the clients’ rooms. I wasn’t too concerned at first until I found out it was meth. For an extra grand, fat middle-aged men who had forgotten that the thing between their legs had another function besides pissing could screw like porn stars for a night with the girl of their dreams. You can probably guess how popular this extra feature became. My troubles began when I started snooping around, trying to find out where the meth was coming from. I was called into a meeting with some of the heavies at the club. Voss was there. I said we had a good thing going. Why dirty it up with drugs? Voss suggested I could easily be replaced and that my career might suffer a significant setback if I didn’t cool it. I told them this meth thing had me worried. Voss assured me his channel into the police had backups all the way to the top. Shortly after this conversation, Snook told me tattoo broad—Lisa?—had started asking questions about me. Snook got her to confess that this slimy older man began showing up when she was about to close and that he made her nervous. So I staked out the place and, sure enough, Voss paid a visit to her shortly before closing time.”

  “Did you tell Snooky about your meth money?”

  “I’m thinking Voss had Snook killed. He had the motive. He needed that book to make sure I kept my mouth shut. But we need more than a motive to convict Voss. Lisa knowingly or unknowingly played a role in all this. I think her main motive was fear of Voss, although hurting Tate probably helped.”

  “Answer my question. Did Snooky know he was laundering your meth money?” Kalijero avoided eye contact. He reminded me of a little boy too ashamed to talk. “You piece of shit! You didn’t tell him because you knew Snooky would’ve dumped you as a client.”

  “All right! I’m a shit! You don’t think I feel bad about all this?”

  “What if we get proof? He goes down?”

  “If he’s trafficking meth, nothing will stop the state from prosecuting. That’s the line Hauser was talking about. We’re working with the Feds, but they’re letting us take the lead. If we don’t move in, the Feds will take over, and that’ll make us look like idiots.”

  “If Voss admits killing Snooky, you’d get him for that, too?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure they’d throw that in.”

  “Don’t yeah, yeah me, you shit. Get Hauser’s word.”

  “We’ll nail him for murder! I give you my word.”

  I could’ve told Kalijero what his word was worth, but I didn’t. “What kind of time would Voss be looking at?”

  “Five to life, depending on how many grams he was moving and if they get first-degree murder.”

  “What about Lisa? She had nothing to do with dealing meth.”

  Kalijero thought for a moment. “Tough to say. They could still nail her for accessory after the fact—depending on the evidence. When this is all over, move on. If everything doesn’t work out exactly how you want it, just go back to making an honest living and don’t dwell on changing the system or saving the world.”

  The phony resignation in Kalijero’s voice was impossible to resist, and I laughed loudly. I said, “You can’t fight city hall, kid. Just accept the facts of life.”

  “Okay, smart guy, look at your beloved Maxwell Street. All the moral sermonizing about the poor. All the people with their fond memories. All the work put in by historic preservationists begging for landmark status and all. And in the end, Maxwell Street was given all the respect of a ten-dollar whore.”

  “Well, maybe you’ve got a point …”

  Why Kalijero should take a sudden interest in my professional future was a mystery. But the fatherly advice to stay away from a line of work because it stunk or was a lousy way to make a living was nothing new. I did my best to capitulate, to suggest that maybe I agreed with him and that making an honest living did not include tracking down criminals and that the system was hopelessly corrupt and that the seamy side of big-city politics would probably swallow me up and spit me out as nothing less than a criminal myself. By the time he left my apartment, I was fairly certain he thought I was full of crap.

  54

  The next morning a circular saw tore through my ribs as I pushed myself out of bed. I thought of Kalijero controlling the s
pinning blade while reminding me that Snooky’s murder investigation had given my body the same level of respect Maxwell Street had been given. After feeding Punim, I prepared a couple of ice packs and lay on the couch. I dozed off until the phone rang.

  “You weren’t joking about Lisa being in danger of getting clipped, were you?” Knight said.

  “Those pictures I showed you weren’t jokes.”

  “I called L.A.—I mean Audrey Prenevost—last night and told her what you said. She started acting really weird. She said she was going to call Lisa, but I don’t think she will. I’ve seen her this way before. She freezes up and doesn’t do anything, just acts like there’s nothing going on. I told her to come into town so we can discuss stuff. You know, dude, she’s scared of you. She thinks you’re dangerous and angry about what happened at the party with Lisa’s emo-druggie-freak friends.”

  “Audrey Prenevost and Lisa were supposed to be best buds, real soul sisters. Now you’re saying she’s afraid to call her and tell her that I said her life could be in danger? She must have some dark secrets. Get her ass in town, Knight. Think of the story you could write when we find out.”

  I envisioned Knight’s eyes attaining a faraway look before his cocky smile crept back on his face.

  * * *

  The outer drive had just transitioned to Sheridan Road when my phone rang. “That dark-haired girl is back,” Susie said. “Can’t miss the eyebrows, and the giggling is unmistakable. She arrived late last night. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  I maneuvered the car into a loading zone in front of an apartment building.

  “Giggling?” I asked.

  “That’s how they always act together, like little girls.”

  I thanked Susie for the information and told her I’d be in touch. A half hour later I walked through Frownie’s front door. He put his arm around my shoulders and led me into the living room that looked out over the blue expanse of Lake Michigan. “So how was Los Angeles?”

  “It was an interesting trip.” I tried to hide the pain as I sank into his couch. Frownie walked to the bar, took a couple of tumblers off the shelf, and filled each about two fingers high with single malt. Then he walked back to me and offered a glass.

  I dreaded having to bring up Voss’s name to Frownie again, but I was beyond the point in my investigation where I could hold anything back. “I’m going to tell you how I see it,” I said. Frownie stood gazing passively out the large window to my right. “Voss is behind Snooky’s murder.” I paused to let Voss’s name penetrate his octogenarian brain, but besides Frownie’s leathery arm slowly lifting the tumbler to this mouth, he offered no discernible reaction. When I was fairly certain no valves or arteries had dislodged, I continued.

  “Kalijero knew about Voss’s drug dealing. Voss needed Snooky’s book to make sure Kalijero kept his mouth shut. Eventually, Voss thought that if Snooky disappeared, he could ransack his house and maybe find the book with account numbers, et cetera. And if Voss didn’t find what he was looking for, at least Snooky was out of the way.”

  I waited for Frownie to offer some kind of acknowledgment. Still staring out the window, he smacked his lips, nodded his head ever so slightly. After watching his arm once again toggle between his mouth and his side, I thought of those heat-engine toys that imitate the movement of birds bending over to drink from a glass.

  “You think there’s anything you overlooked?” This was Frownie’s way of saying I missed something.

  “Tell me.”

  “So the answer is, you don’t know.”

  “Holy shit! Fine. I don’t know. Now can we just assume I learned something in this investigation and go with it?”

  Frownie paced around a bit in his own world. From the other side of the room he said, “You know what you gotta do, don’t you?”

  “If I can get him on the record taking part in drug dealing and Snooky’s murder, all the bullshit loyalties will disappear faster than those junkies he used up.”

  “So how’re you gonna do it?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  Frownie meandered his way back to me. “You ever see a cornered raccoon? Survival is all they’re thinking about because as far as they’re concerned, you’re there to kill them. With those claws they can climb the side of a brick wall and turn your face into a pile of spaghetti. You trap an animal like Voss, that’s what you gotta expect.”

  55

  I sat at the kitchen table writing down the details necessary to implement my plan. To nail a man like Voss required impeccable witnesses and recording devices. To a jury, his words must sound explicit, his intentions unambiguous.

  The phone rang. “I did it,” Knight said. “I told Audrey Prenevost to get the hell back here and she’s coming in.”

  “She got in last night.”

  “What? How do you know?” Knight sounded hurt.

  “I have spies, Ellis. I need you to arrange a meeting for me with her. I don’t care where. But do it as soon as possible.”

  After I assured Knight of his inclusion in the meeting, he hung up. I called Kalijero and told him my idea. “So you give Voss Snook’s book and he gives you a bullshit story. What about Butch?” Kalijero asked, using his own code name in Snooky’s notebook.

  “Relax, Voss won’t spot it. I have to show him the book, Jimmy. Voss has to think the book is golden.”

  “You’re just going to give it to him? What if he pulls a gun and walks away?”

  “That’s why you have to be watching the whole thing. If he draws down, I’ll do the same. If he shoots me, you’re a witness.”

  “It must be true what they say about the Landaus. You’re all crazy. Get back to me.”

  * * *

  Knight called me a couple of hours later. “She’s coming over at five,” he said and gave me his address. “Try not to bum her out. I’m hoping for a big night.”

  Not until I was on my way to Knight’s condo did his affluent Near North address dawn on me. Somehow, I didn’t see him fitting in with the Magnificent Mile crowd. I parked my Civic in his building’s underground garage between a Porsche SUV and a Mercedes SUV. The doorman phoned Mr. Knight, and I was on my way to the fifty-second floor.

  Knight opened the door holding a cordless phone to his ear. He waved me in. The living room was large and occupied by a brown leather L-shaped couch with matching love seat, chair, and ottoman. Everything was arranged in a semicircle around an enormous television and glass coffee table that held Knight’s laptop. I sank into the couch while my host drifted around the condo in his socks repeating, “Okay, Dad,” every ten seconds. Hanging on one of the walls were black-and-white photographs of industrial parks and gutted buildings. Another wall was covered with a variety of antique maps. Just outside the kitchen, the top third of President Nixon’s head jutted from the ground in a portrait of his unmistakable hairline.

  Knight ended the call in the kitchen and then joined me. “What do you call this kind of photography?” I said and pointed to the photos. He glanced at the wall and shrugged. Then I said, “I like the Nixon head.” Knight seemed confused. “That picture!” I pointed to the head. Knight shrugged again. Why did he annoy me so easily?

  “That’s my dad’s stuff—okay, come here.” He motioned for me to follow him, and we walked to his bedroom, which was off the hallway about ten feet from the door. “Stay in here until she shows up. I didn’t tell her you were coming.”

  I did as told and sat on the bed. Knight left the bedroom door ajar. My annoyance was unjust since she probably would not have shown up if she knew I was here. Ten minutes later the doorman called, and I heard the cylinder of the dead bolt snap open. Knight fidgeted in the doorway. A minute later he shouted, “Over here, La-La.”

  Audrey Prenevost shouted back, “Wow, you live here?” When she entered the foyer she said, “Oh, my god, look at that sofa!”

  From the sound of it she ran into the living room and leaped onto the couch. Then she began talking about the shop in Los Angele
s and that in six months her bosses thought she would be tattooing on her own. I peeked around the corner. Audrey Prenevost was lying on her back. I walked out of the bedroom and stopped where the hallway intersected the living room.

  “Hi, La-La,” I said.

  She lifted her head and stared at me. Then she sat upright. “Hey! That’s not fair. What are you doing here?”

  Not fair? “Don’t get all wigged out. I just want to talk.”

  “He just wants to talk,” Knight said. “You don’t have to freak.”

  Audrey Prenevost glanced at Knight and then back to me. In a low voice, she said, “Who’s freaking? Jeez, you guys.”

  “I know Audrey’s real name is Lisa. Did Lisa tell you about the last time I visited Taudrey Tats?” I said.

  She stared at me. “Why should she?”

  “I thought you two shared everything.”

  She turned back to Knight, who had opened his laptop. “We share what we want to share,” she said.

  “Did she share why she claimed your father—Chancellor Tate—was her father?”

  Knight shouted, “Say what? That chancellor dude is your father?” He had that look of joy one associated with lottery winners. Audrey Prenevost blinked a few times and then pulled her legs up to her chest before burrowing cross-legged into the elbow of the couch. We both stared at her.

  “He wasn’t a father to me,” she said finally. The bitterness in her voice sounded alien, as if someone else had spoken. “I don’t even know him.”

  I said, “But you knew your best friend was your father’s girlfriend! You also knew your best friend told me he was her father. Isn’t that a little strange?”