by Glenn Ickler
“Well, what a lucky coincidence for you. I guess the chief has a really strong interest in that case.”
“Anyway, thanks for the assist.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Have a good day, Mitch.”
So, if Brownie was denying putting the bug in the chief’s ear, no way would I blow his cover. But I would mention to Al that we could use a flattering shot of Brownie at the next homicide scene.
I wondered who else KGB had questioned. Fred McDonald of the Teamsters had laughed me out of his office before I could ask about talking to the investigator. Oscar Peterson of the Northern Exposure had clammed up and walked away before I could ask about meeting with the cops. And even if they hadn’t talked to KGB before I got to them, there had been plenty of time for a subsequent meeting. Was there a diplomatic way of getting back to McDonald and Peterson and inquiring? I couldn’t think of one.
And there was still another possible suspect to consider. What excuse could I use to meet with Vinnie’s cousin Vito. It was too late to use the reaction story scam on him. He’d expressed his reaction, whether it was genuine or not, at the funeral.
Somehow I had to dig up something for a story the next day. Readers’ interest in the Vinnie Luciano murder was waning because I’d written so little about it. Already my stories had been moved from page one to the Local section front. Soon they’d be put in the back pages with the truss ads, which, as Don often told reporters, was the dead-end depository for stories that lacked reader interest.
I did not want my stories to be in the back pages with the truss ads. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure the paper still carried truss ads.
* * *
Martha got home late, wearing a weary look and bearing a box emitting a strong smell of pizza. She had gone to look at an apartment after work and was too tired to cook. She opened the box to reveal a two-way pizza—one side vegetarian for her and the other half crammed with sausage and pepperoni for me.
Martha would have been willing to end the hunt by making a deposit on this apartment, but she was aced out by a another hunter. While the rental agent was showing Martha the kitchen, a woman who’d looked at the apartment earlier in the day called to say she’d take it.
“That’s a bitch,” I said. “You finally find a winner and somebody grabs it right out from under your feet.”
“Story of my life,” Martha said. “But the agent said she’s got something else I might like just as much. I told her we’ve only got thirty days left in this apartment, and we made a date to look at it Saturday so that you can come along.”
“Wonderful. Nothing like togetherness on the weekend.”
“Togetherness is especially good when you’re as sick of looking at apartments as I am.”
“I’ve noticed that the pressure of the hunt is wearing you down.” Martha had been dropping off to sleep the minute she hit the bed, which wasn’t her usual pattern.
“If we put what’s left of the pizza in the fridge and go to bed right now, I might not go to sleep so fast,” she said.
We did and she didn’t.
* * *
“Any more e-mail barks from your favorite tree?” I asked Al as we sipped coffee in the Daily Dispatch cafeteria Thursday morning. I had put in a call to KGB, who once again was “not available” according to her telephone guardian, and decided not to wait by the phone in breathless anticipation of her response to the message I’d left.
“A couple,” Al said. “Willow is psychoanalyzing my pictures, one by one, trying to find what she calls their deeper meaning. She also offered to buy me lunch today. Do you think I should go?”
“Does she know you’re married?”
“I think I’ve made that clear.”
“So maybe she’s after the depth of your psychological meaning and not the shallowness of your physical body?”
“I doubt she’s after this body. But I think I’ll pass on the lunch invitation.”
“You’re probably smart keeping this a cyber friendship,” I said. “Wives have been known to get jealous and do unspeakable things to husbands they suspect of sharing more than a sandwich with another woman.”
“Carol wouldn’t do anything unspeakable,” Al said. “She’d be speaking the whole time she was stabbing me.”
“Sharp words to go with a sharp knife?”
“You get the point.”
The light on my phone was blinking when I returned to my desk. I checked the message, expecting to hear KGB’s icy voice. Instead the caller was a man who said his name was Ozzie and rattled off a number.
“Ozzie?” I said out loud. “Who the hell is Ozzie?”
“Sorry,” said Corinne Ramey, who was at the nearest desk. “I don’t know who Ozzie is.”
“I was talking to myself,” I said. “Sorry I was so loud.”
“Isn’t talking to yourself one of the first signs of dementia?” she said.
“I’d be crazy to answer that,” I said as I punched in the number for Ozzie Whoever He Was.
The voice that answered said, “Vinnie’s Steakhouse, Ozzie speaking.”
Of course. It was Vinnie’s bartender, Ozzie Bergman. Was forgetting the names of people you’ve interviewed another sign of dementia?
“This is Mitch at the Daily Dispatch,” I said. “What’s up?”
“You said to call you if I had anything interesting,” Ozzie said.
“I did. What have you got?”
“A new boss.”
What the hell? Could Vinnie’s family have sold the restaurant that fast? “What happened?” I asked. “Who is it?”
“Vinnie’s lawyer read his will to the family yesterday. Would you believe he left the restaurant to his cousin Vito, the guy he kicked out twenty years ago?”
“You’re kidding. Why would he do that?”
“Don’t know,” Ozzie said. “Vinnie’s oldest boy, Louie, called and told me about it this morning. Said it was a kick in the ass to him and his brother and sister. Last they knew, they were all named in the will to get equal shares in the restaurant.”
“So this must have been a recent change?” I said.
“I guess. Louie said the kids are thinking about contesting the will.”
“Have you talked to Vito since you got the news?”
“He ain’t been in. Me and Max, the manager, are still running the joint.”
“Max and I,” I said.
“What about you and Max?”
“The correct way to say that is . . . oh, forget it. I’m having verbal knee-jerks.”
“Who’d you say is a jerk?”
“Nobody’s a jerk—except maybe me.” I asked Ozzie for phone numbers for Vito and Louie. After reciting the numbers, he said, “Hope this helps with what you’re doing.”
“You don’t know how much,” I said. I thanked him and smiled as I hung up. I now had a story for the next day and a reason to contact cousin Vito. And cousin Vito now had a clear motive for murder.
Chapter 10: Will Power
It’s a goddamn outrage, that’s what it is.” Louie Luciano was shouting so loud I had to hold the phone three inches away from my ear. “The son of a bitch must have tricked Pops or blackmailed him somehow. There’s something crooked going on here. I know damn well there is.”
“Well, there’s murder for one thing,” I said. “Is Vito capable of that?” I had started my day by calling Louie for a reaction and I was getting an accusatory blast that would require a bit of editing for publication.
“That old bastard is capable of anything,” Louie said. “I’m not saying Vito killed Pops, but I sure as hell think he did something dirty to get Pops to change his will.”
“You mentioned blackmail. How could your dad be blackmailed?”
“Ple
nty of ways. You’ve got no idea what goes on behind the scenes in the restaurant business.”
“Such as?”
“Persuasive offers to inspectors for one thing. Under-the-table cash deals with suppliers for another.”
This was getting better and better. “By ‘persuasive offers to inspectors’ do you mean bribes?” I said.
Louie was silent for a moment. “I ain’t taking this any farther with you,” he said in a quieter tone. “If you print anything about inspectors I’ll deny I ever said it.”
“Okay, let’s go off the record for a minute. If I promise not to quote you in the paper, will you tell me what you mean by persuasive offers?”
Louie paused again before he said, “I mean crossing the inspectors’ palms with cash to get them to look the other way if they find a minor violation or two. I ain’t saying Pops ever did that, but it can be done.”
“How would Vito know if Vinnie did that?” I asked.
“He worked at King Vinnie’s for five years,” Louie said. “And I bet you anything he kept tabs on what Pops was doing there even after Pops kicked his ass out.” Again he was shouting and I moved the phone away from my ear.
“Okay, back on the record. When did your dad change his will?”
“Not even two months ago. The new one is dated June 10th.”
“So what are you going to do about the will?”
“Me and my brother and sister are going to meet with a lawyer today to talk about contesting the goddamn thing. The son of a bitch ain’t getting away this shit.”
I choked back my response to his grammar and said, “What time are you meeting the lawyer?”
“Four o’clock. Why?”
“I plan to call you to find out what you decide,” I said. “Or can I count on you to call me?”
“I guess I can call you,” Louie said. “Unless the lawyer thinks I shouldn’t.”
“If I was your lawyer I’d want the public to know about the lawsuit.”
“Well, you ain’t my lawyer so I’ll see what he has to say about it.”
I gave Louie the numbers for my office phone, cell phone and home phone, and wished him the best of luck.
When I put the phone down I realized my head was throbbing, probably from being subjected to Louie’s high-volume remarks. Confident that the headache would go away quickly, I walked over to Don O’Rourke’s desk and told him what I had coming for a story.
“About time you got something worth printing,” Don said. “Make it sing.”
Before starting to write, I called the Falcon Heights PD to get a comment from Detective K.G. Barnes. I was told Detective Barnes was not available at this time. Surprise, surprise. I left a message saying I was looking for her comment on Vinnie Luciano’s will.
The return call from KGB came less than a minute later. This actually was a surprise.
“What about the will?” she asked without wasting time identifying herself.
“Is this Detective K.G. Barnes?” I said.
“You know it is. What about the will?”
“Do you think it has a bearing on Vinnie’s murder?” I said.
“We don’t know anything about the will,” she said, using that damn royal “we” again. “Why should it have anything to do with the killing?”
So the tight-lipped detective of Falcon Heights hadn’t been told about the will. I was tempted to play her game and invite her to read about it in the paper. But I wanted her reaction, so I explained that Vito Luciano had recently replaced Vinnie’s children as inheritor of Vinnie’s Steakhouse.
“Are you sure of that?” KGB said.
“As sure as I am that walleyes poop in the river,” I said.
“That’s disgusting.”
“What, that Vinnie cut the kids out of the restaurant?”
“No, your gross comment about the walleyes.”
“Didn’t mean to shock you,” I said. “Just trying to clearly illustrate a point.”
“The illustration is very clear and very disgusting,” she said. “Now tell us how you think Vito getting the restaurant affects the murder investigation?”
I wondered if she was being deliberately obtuse or if she was as dumb as that sounded. “Don’t you think that gives Vito a motive for murder?” I said. “And isn’t the timing—only about seven weeks after the will was revised—just a little bit suspicious?”
“We think that’s a pretty long stretch.”
“Don’t you think it’s worth questioning him?”
“We’ve already questioned Vito.”
“Really? As a family member or a person of interest?”
“As we told you previously, we’re not identifying anyone as anything at this time. Now if you have no more questions, we’ll say goodbye and have a nice day.”
“I didn’t say I have no more questions,” I said.
“Goodbye and have a nice day,” said KGB.
When I put down the phone, the headache was still there. If anything, it was more intense. Talking to KGB had that effect on me.
“Bitch!” I said.
“Stonewalled again?” said Corinne Ramey.
“Not completely,” I said. “This time she did drop me a pebble.”
“Maybe next time she’ll give you a rock.”
“Only if she can bounce it off my head.”
When I’d finished writing my story, my head still felt like a rock the size of a Buick really had bounced off it, so I hunted through the jumble in my desk drawers for a bottle of aspirin that had to be there somewhere. The hunt proved as futile as a pack of hounds pursuing a fox with a rocket on its tail. Apparently I had consumed the last pill and forgotten to renew the supply. I told Don about my problem and asked if I had time to visit the drug store on Kellogg Boulevard, about three blocks away, before my next assignment.
“We can probably live without your butt in your chair for twenty minutes,” Don said. “While you’re out, take a run up to Candyland and bring back a bag of caramel corn.” Candyland, which produces the world’s sweetest and tastiest caramel corn, is a couple of blocks farther up Kellogg.
“That’ll take at least another ten minutes,” I said.
“We’ll suffer through it. Bring a big bag.” He dug out a ten-dollar bill and thrust it toward me.
“Can I keep the change as a tip?”
“My tip would be to remember that I’m your boss,” Don said.
“Good tip,” I said.
The painkiller display was at the rear of the drug store, close to the pharmacy counter. As I plucked a bottle of the cheapest aspirin off the shelf I heard a male voice from behind the counter say, “Hey, Mr. Mitchell, how ya doing today?”
The owner of the voice had an oversupply of flesh on his belly and a shortage of hair on his forehead. He looked familiar, but a lot of people look familiar to me, and I couldn’t quite place him. “Hi,” I said. “I’m, uh, doing fine.”
The man laughed. “I’ll bet you don’t know me with my clothes on,” he said.
“Would I know you with them off?” I asked.
“You’d know me in square dance clothes. We met at the State Fair the other day. I’m Erik Erickson, president of the Oles and Lenas. Remember?”
I did remember. I also remembered seeing his wife having dinner with his club’s caller in a dark and distant dining room a few nights previous. “Oh, yeah, sorry,” I said. “You do you look different without the red-and-white getup.”
“Yeah, well this is my day job. I try to make enough here to cover what I’m losing with Parkside Players.”
“I hope you’ll get to where you’re breaking even. My fiancée and I are doing our best to help. We’re coming to see your show tomorrow night.”
“Great. You know, there’s a
bar upstairs from the theater. Maybe you’d like to join me and my wife for a drink afterward.”
“Maybe,” I said. “There’ll be four of us. Al, the photographer you saw at the fairgrounds, and his wife will be with us.” Had I really heard this educated man say “me and my wife?”
“We’ll have a party. Just hang around in your seats until I get things squared away after the show. You can keep Joyce company while she waits.”
She didn’t need additional company a week ago, I thought. I thanked Erik for the invitation and said we’d see him then. As I walked up Kellogg toward Candyland, I wondered if Joyce would recognize Martha and me as fellow Saturday night diners.
* * *
The workday was done and I was sitting next to Martha ready to watch the 5:30 news when I realized the Luciano family had not called about their meeting with their lawyer, which should have been finished by this time. I took my cell phone into the kitchen and punched in Louie’s number.
The woman who answered told me that her dad was away at a meeting.
“Do you know where I can reach him?” I asked.
“Probably in O’Halloran’s bar,” she said. “That’s where they usually meet.” She gave me Louie’s cell phone number, and I thanked her, signed off and called the number.
“Yeah?” said the voice that answered.
“Louie?” I said.
“Who else would answer this phone?”
“Good point. This is Mitch Mitchell at the Daily Dispatch. What did your family decide about contesting the will?”
“We’re suing his ass,” Louie said. “We’re gonna get our restaurant back from that thieving bastard.”
“Who is your lawyer?” I asked.
“The Bulldog.”
“Doug Riley?”
“You got it,” he said. Doug Riley was known as the Bulldog because when he got a grip on a case he didn’t let go until he’d won at least a piece of what he was after.
“Is he there with you?” I asked.
“Yeah, we’re all getting shit-faced together.”
