The Maxwell Street Blues

by Michael Raleigh

  “You’re holding it well.”

  Jesse nodded once and then squinted up at Whelan. “What you want with Sam, sir?”

  Whelan thought about telling him a quick story but one look at the candid brown eyes told him that would be foolish. “A family member is trying to get in touch with him.”

  This seemed to amuse the old man. “Everybody got a family member lookin’ for him.”

  “That’s a fact. See you around.” He picked up the drill bits and waved.

  Jesse smiled and nodded and said, “All right, young man.”

  A few feet from the corner, Whelan encountered a pair of white women in their fifties. They had set up a pair of card tables in front of a rusted Chevy van and were selling candy and gumballs and squirt guns and old comics and outdated baseball and football cards. Except for a row of watches at the far end of one table, it was the traveling version of the local candy store.

  Both the women were blond, looked like sisters. The younger of the two had been watching him as he approached, and he got the impression she didn’t like his looks.

  “Morning,” he said, and the women both nodded but said nothing. Whelan looked casually at the items on their tables and asked how much the mixed nuts were.

  “Fifty cents for the small bag,” the younger one said. She had long honey-blond hair shot with gray and large pale-blue eyes. “Dollar for the large one.”

  He handed her a dollar and she pushed a bag of nuts toward him.

  “Thanks. I was looking for somebody who sells down here sometimes. A black fellow named Sam. He’s kinda tall, about fifty-five, sixty. Has a scar over one eye. I was told he sets up around here.”

  “That colored man with the green pickup truck?” the older woman said cautiously. She shot a quick glance at her companion.

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” The younger one moved in front of her. “We don’t know none of these people. We just come down here to sell our merchandise, that’s all.”

  “Okay. I just thought you might know him.”

  “We’re not here every week,” the younger one said, and then she turned away to open a cardboard box with a single-edged razor. “Ask them up by the place on the corner,” she said, without looking at him. The conversation was finished.

  At the next table, a potbellied white man took a puff off an unfiltered cigarette and nodded. His table held an array of pocket knives, fishing knives, kitchen cutlery, and several odd-looking pieces that appeared to be some sort of commando knife.

  “I can do better on prices,” the man said.

  “They’re not bad prices. I’m looking for somebody, though, a guy who sells down here, a black guy named Sam Burwell. Supposed to set up around here usually. Do you…”

  The man was shaking his head before Whelan could finish. “I don’t know him. I just started selling here a couple months ago.” He looked past Whelan as he spoke, at a young Latino man who was eyeing the pocket knives. “I can do better on prices,” he recited, and Whelan walked on.

  At the place on the corner they wanted to sell him tires.

  “See anything you like here, sir, you let me know. I got tires to fit anything. I got semi tires and jeep tires.”

  The speaker was a bald black man in his forties, with a hard round stomach threatening to burst free from his T-shirt.

  “Got new tires, no retreads. Any kinda tire you like.”

  “No, thanks. Next time I need tires I’m gonna buy a car with them. What I need is some information.”

  “Yeah? What about?” The man put his hands in his hip pockets and feigned interest.

  “Sam Burwell.”

  The man shook his head.

  “I was told he sets up right around here. Sells things.”

  A shoulder shrug. “Everybody here sell things, man.”

  “A man in his fifties. Tall, a scar on his cheek.”

  The man shook his head again but had to look up the street to hide the fact that he was lying.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells, huh?”

  “Naw.”

  “Anybody else around here I can ask?”

  The man’s eyes strayed to the blue bus. “Maybe.”

  Whelan held out his hand, palm down. The man reached out and met it and closed his fist tightly around the ten. He peeked at a corner of the bill.

  “You can ask the old man. He know all the pickers. He know everybody. Name’s Nate.” A boy of about twelve appeared at the man’s side.

  “In the bus?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he in there now?”

  The man grinned and looked down at the boy. “The man want to know is Nate on the bus now.” The boy smiled and the man looked at Whelan. “Mister, Nate live on the bus. He always there.”

  He stepped aside to allow Whelan to enter the land of bald tires.

  Whelan made his way through ten-foot walls of tires to the bus. The door was open, and he hopped up onto the first step and knocked on the side panel.

  “Yeah?” The voice was deep and hoarse. “Who’s that?”

  “Nate? My name is Whelan. They told me you might be able to give me a little help.”

  “Yeah?” There was doubt in the voice, and the speaker didn’t invite him in. He went in anyway, up the stairs and past the driver’s seat. It was hot and airless inside, and the windows appeared to be painted shut. Much of the bus was dark, but the back was illuminated by a Coleman lantern. An old black man sat on the back seat. Half a dozen of the side seats had been removed to allow for a card table and a cot and an easy chair. The old man watched him approach and said nothing.

  Nate was eating a cold pork chop sandwich. The meat hung out over the white bread on all four sides: hell of a pork chop. He was dark and very old, bald on top, and after peering at Whelan through a squint he reached for a pair of thick glasses and looked him over again.

  “What you want?”

  “The man outside said you might be able to help me find Sam Burwell.”

  “Ain’t seen him.”

  “The man out there said you might be able to help me.”

  “He was wrong.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  The old man stared at him, and Whelan saw that one lens was missing from the glasses. Nate licked his lips and looked down.

  “I ain’t seen him in a long time. He ain’t been down here.”

  “How long?”

  “Long time. Couple years.”

  “Not what I heard.”

  “Don’t care what you heard.” Nate looked away, and Whelan realized the old man was nervous.

  “Was somebody else down here looking for Sam Burwell?”

  “Wasn’t nobody down here looking for him,” Nate muttered.

  “A white man, maybe.” Whelan pushed.

  Nate looked down at his pork chop and then glared at Whelan. “Only you.”

  Whelan stared at him for a moment, then dropped a card on the table.

  “If you hear from Sam, or if you remember anything, give me a call. I’ll pay you for any information you give me.”

  Nate looked down and said nothing as Whelan left.

  Outside the bus, Whelan gratefully filled his lungs with the acrid air of Maxwell Street, smoke, onions, burning rubber, and all. He walked back to Fourteenth and bought some tamales from a pair of young Mexican women and a can of pineapple juice. The tamales were good, a little light on the meat but the real thing, and the salsa took layers off the inside of his mouth and probably years off his life. As he ate he walked through the rainbow of buyers and sellers. Mariachi music fought with rhythm-and-blues, and people haggled and bargained and lied to one another.

  When he could think of nothing more to eat, Whelan made his way back toward his car. At the very end of the long lines of food vendors, a pair of men, one black and one white, sorted rapidly through a trash can. As far as Whelan could tell, each man was oblivious of the other. They nibbled at the cast-o
ff produce they found, and the white man soon came across the remains of a sandwich. He was in his fifties, five-nine or five-ten, with dark hair and a heavy shadow of beard. He wore a dirty gray hooded sweatshirt, and as he ate he watched the street around him. The other man was much older, perhaps late sixties, and paid attention to nothing but his search.

  When he was finished with the sandwich, the white man in the sweatshirt suddenly spotted Whelan. He froze for a moment, and Whelan found himself looking directly into the man’s eyes. They held an impersonal kind of fear that Whelan knew would be directed at anyone who seemed to be watching the man or spoke to him suddenly. Whelan turned away, and when he looked back the man had gone. They could disappear, these men who lived on the street; they could slip into the cracks in the broken sidewalk. And if a man like this wanted to hide, he could stay hidden for a long time.

  The muddy lot was nearly full of cars now. Whelan got into his and left Maxwell Street. So far, he knew only a couple of things with certainty: that people didn’t have a lot to tell him about the missing street vendor, and that he wasn’t the first white man to come looking for Sam Burwell. And though he couldn’t be certain, he didn’t think he’d find this man on Maxwell Street anymore.

  Five

  Day 3, Sunday Night

  Dinner was liver and onions, and the liver was tough and gristly and he charred the onions.

  Calcified meat and burned onions—great dinner, Whelan, he told himself.

  When he was finished he tossed the dishes in the sink and covered them with soap and warm water. He’d often wondered what it would be like to cover a sinkful of dishes with gasoline and toss in a match.

  He had no idea what to do with himself. He thought of mustering a bit of extra nerve and driving down to the little grill on Rush Street to see Pat. He considered it for a moment, and the idea grew on him.

  Here I am. I want to see you. I have reviewed the facts impartially and have come to the conclusion that my rival is an asshole.

  Why not? Toss the ball into her court, put on a little pressure. No, a little pressure was the last thing she wanted. Last thing he wanted, as well.

  He spent the rest of Sunday evening with the papers, occasionally glancing at a football game. The Bears had a late game on the Coast with the Forty-Niners that became a rout before halftime and threatened to spoil his dinner. Around eight he was thinking of going out for a beer when the police came to visit.

  There were two of them on his doorstep, a tall sandy-haired one in his thirties and a thin dark man of average height. The dark man nodded slightly and said, “Whelan.”

  “Durkin.”

  The man half turned and indicated the taller man behind him. “This is Detective Krause. We need to talk to you, Whelan.”

  “Sure.” Whelan hid his surprise and stepped back to let them in. He looked at Durkin. “I heard you were down at Area Four. When did you transfer up here?” As soon as the question was out, an answer came to him, and the little glimmer of amusement that came into Durkin’s eyes told Whelan he was right.

  The detective shook his head and gave Whelan a half smile. “I didn’t. I’m still out of Four. Violent Crimes. We need to ask you some questions.”

  Whelan heard the emphasis on “questions” and stared at Durkin for a moment. Mark Durkin in his house. A bad day.

  “Come on in. You want a cup of coffee?” He looked from one to the other.

  Durkin shook his head. Krause said, “No, thanks.”

  They sat down, and he noticed that they spread themselves out. He’d have to turn from side to side to address their questions. Solid technique, a couple of pros, even if one of them was Durkin.

  “So what can I do for you?”

  “Some information, like I said. Seems you been down in our neck of the woods, Whelan. You getting tired of the North Side?”

  “Not yet. Go ahead.”

  Durkin doodled on a notebook and pretended to have trouble reading his own writing. “Sa-mu-el Bur-well. You know him.”

  “No.”

  “We have—uh, information to the contrary.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Durkin shrugged. “I say I do.”

  “Show me.”

  Durkin’s dark face got a shade darker. The doodling became scribbling. He was careful not to look up, and Whelan watched his face go taut with suppressed anger.

  Krause leaned forward in the chair to Whelan’s left, elbows on his knees and hands clasped loosely together. “We are aware that you’ve questioned several residents of his neighborhood about this man. You’re investigating Mr. Burwell. That’s right, isn’t it?” He gave Whelan a frank, friendly look, all blue eyes and pale blond hair. He had slightly crooked front teeth that gave him the air of a plowboy asking for directions.

  “Not exactly. I’m trying to find him.”

  “How come?” Durkin shifted on the couch and looked at him. “How come you’re looking for him?”

  “I’ve been hired to find him.”

  “By who?”

  Whelan resisted the temptation to correct Durkin’s grammar. He could tell at a glance that not much had changed since the old days in this intense, angry man, and this would be no time to make fun of him in front of another officer.

  “That is information I can’t give you.”

  “Privileged information,” Krause said, as if reciting.

  “Yes. My client hired me to find Samuel Burwell for him.”

  “You find him, Whelan?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Where’d you look?”

  “Projects where he used to live, a couple of places on the West Side. Maxwell Street.”

  Durkin nodded as though approving and looked at Krause. “That’s where we found him. Maxwell Street.” He turned back to Whelan. “You ain’t gonna find him, though. He’s dead.”

  I see trouble coming, Whelan thought. He sighed. “Where?”

  “Under a sidewalk.”

  “What?”

  “Under one of those, you know…” Durkin shrugged and gave up on his vocabulary.

  “Vault sidewalk,” Krause added.

  Whelan nodded.

  In the 1850s, much of Chicago had rested on a swamp, making the city a crowded, filthy, disease-ridden maze of narrow streets and rickety buildings. To combat the deadly conditions, the city had enlisted the Army Corps of Engineers to pull off a dazzling but simple change: to get the city up from the swamp by lifting it off the ground. For the next year, block by block, building by building, the city had been jacked up off its foundations and resettled at a new height some eight feet above the old level. New streets and sidewalks had been laid, creating little underground caverns between the new street level and the old one. Most of these tunnels and caves had been removed over the ensuing generations, but in a couple of the town’s oldest and most impoverished neighborhoods, the so-called vault sidewalks still existed, dark, dangerous little niches below the rest of the city. Kids played in them, the homeless camped out in them, dogs rooted around in them for food, and vermin staked out a permanent claim.

  “Where was this?”

  “Just north of the viaduct on Fifteenth Street,” Durkin said.

  Whelan didn’t ask whether Sam Burwell had been murdered. If two Violent Crimes detectives come to see you, the guy didn’t die of exposure.

  “How was he killed?”

  Krause opened his mouth but Durkin silenced him with a look.

  “Couldn’t tell you. We haven’t heard from the ME yet,” he said, still looking at his partner.

  “Come on, Durkin, if you don’t know anything, then you don’t know it was homicide. So why are you guys in my house?”

  The other man stared at him for a moment, daring him to let the moment escalate. This was the Mark Durkin he remembered, a man of constant anger, a man who nurtured his injuries and eventually managed to make all of them personal.

  Whelan turned to Krause. The younger man was watching his partner in obvious discomfo
rt. “Relax, Detective. Durkin and I go way back. We always got along like this.” He looked at Durkin. “So the years have really mellowed you out, huh, Mark?”

  Durkin smiled slowly. “I’m as mellow as I need to be.”

  “So let’s try it again. What killed this man?”

  Durkin made a pistol with his thumb and forefinger. “Bullets. Bullets killed him. Couple of ’em, it looked like. Body wasn’t in too good a shape. Dogs or something been at it.”

  “When was he killed?”

  “Like I said, when we talk to the ME—”

  “Give me a ballpark time, okay?”

  “Oh, a while.” Durkin smiled and Whelan knew he wasn’t getting anything else.

  “And I’m a suspect.”

  Durkin pursed his lips. “If you were a suspect, we’d have you down at Area Four. We’re here for information. You don’t give it up, we’ll take you home with us and you can ride the Halsted bus back to the North Side when we let you go around three in the morning.”

  “I’ll give you what I can.”

  “Oh, you bet you will. So who’s your client?”

  Whelan hesitated and Durkin leaned forward, pointing a dark tobacco-stained finger.

  “Come up with a name this time. It’s an open case. You got to cooperate or your license will be in the shitter.”

  “He’s an attorney named David Hill. He hired me to find Samuel Burwell on behalf of a client.”

  “You know the client, Whelan?”

  “No.”

  Durkin looked at him through half-closed eyes. “Know anything you can tell us?”

  “Nope. The attorney doesn’t think it’s any of my business. I think it’s somebody out of state. A ’relative’ is all the man told me.”