The Maxwell Street Blues

by Michael Raleigh

  “Come on, we’ll take my car,” the priest said. His car was a rusting Ford wagon close to death. He saw Whelan studying it. “It runs and it has seat belts.”

  “I have one just like it.”

  “I know,” the priest said. “I saw you drive up.” He grinned as he got into the car. Father Brennan looked close to Whelan’s age, and there was gray in the close-cropped hair. The blue eyes were just as lively up close, but Whelan saw that this man’s face revealed nothing unless he wished it to.

  They drove in a wide, lazy circle and the priest waved or spoke to dozens of different people, adults and children alike. He seemed to know everybody, and they all called him Father Mike.

  “They like you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You like them.”

  “You got that right.” A moment later, he yelled something out to a group of boys playing on the sidewalk, then turned to Whelan. “People don’t understand the lives folks lead here. They think people choose to be poor. You’ve seen the old Sears factory?”

  “Yes.”

  “The day they pulled out, half this community caved in. It was the last major employer. You know why I’m driving you around?”

  “You’re giving me a tour.”

  The priest smiled. “Well, yeah, I am. But I’m also taking you to the nearest restaurant. The nearest restaurant and the only restaurant, Mr. Whelan. There are no businesses, no factories, no banks, no restaurants in this neighborhood. There’s nothing but people: a lot of them out of work, most of them poor, most of them kids. The average age of a person in this area is twenty-two, and a lot of them won’t hit fifty.” He took his eyes off the road and smiled grimly at Whelan. “This ain’t no Bing Crosby movie, baby.”

  “But you like it here.”

  “No. I love it here. They ought to let me stay here forever.” The priest looked straight ahead as he spoke. Then he took a quick glance at Whelan and smiled. “I’d never ask them for anything else.”

  The restaurant was at Madison and Kedzie, just a long fly ball from Marshall High School, whose basketball teams had helped put inner city schools on the sports map back in the fifties.

  The entrance to the parking lot was blocked by a garbage truck, so the priest backed out and pulled his car into a no-parking space. He put an EMERGENCY, PRIEST ON CALL sign on the dashboard and looked at Whelan.

  “See why it’s important to take my car?”

  “Yeah, I don’t have one of those.”

  They went inside the restaurant, and half a dozen black diners greeted Father Mike and nodded politely at Whelan.

  “Welcome to Edna’s,” the priest said.

  It looked very much like a thousand other neighborhood places in Chicago, with Naugahyde booths and Formica counters. To Whelan, the major difference was the color of the diners. He made a quick scan of the menu and looked up to see that the priest was watching him.

  “You’re thinking this is just like a white restaurant someplace else.”

  “Something like that.”

  The priest shook his head. “This is Edna’s. We’ve only got one restaurant but it’s special.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  “I collect restaurants, Father. What do you recommend?”

  “Everything. But you can’t go wrong with the daily specials.”

  “I thought we came here for coffee?”

  The priest gave him a blank look. “We did, but now I’m hungry, and it’s not polite to let somebody eat alone.”

  The waitress came over and took their order, and Whelan asked for the leg of lamb. The waitress nodded. “Good choice,” she said in a quiet voice. “Biscuits or cornbread?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  She gave him the beginnings of a smile and shrugged. “Both of them. I’ll get you a half order of each.”

  Father Brennan ordered the roast chicken. “I don’t eat lamb,” he said.

  “An Irishman who doesn’t eat lamb?”

  “These are changing times, Whelan. We’ve got a pope who doesn’t speak Italian.”

  Lunch came on a crowded cart. Whelan’s took up his entire side of the table: a huge piece of lamb, a side of homemade macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, a bowl of dressing topped with a thin slice of cranberry sauce, a plate of biscuits and flat cornbread cakes.

  Whelan stared at the array of plates, matched by those on the other side of the table.

  “Maybe I can take a room here,” he said, and started eating.

  When they were halfway through, the priest looked at him and said, “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m in love with Edna.” Then, as Father Brennan nodded happily, Whelan asked, “So why are we here?”

  The priest looked up with a forkful of potatoes halfway to his mouth and smiled. “You first. Why are you here?”

  “Ah. Why am I here? So that’s what this is all about. I’m here because I’m on a case.”

  The priest shrugged, looked slightly irritated. This was no Bing Crosby movie. “What case? There’s no case. Just a dead black male, a victim of violence. There are suspects in custody; there is no further investigation.” He recited the facts in a rapid singsong and, when he was finished, fixed Whelan with a sardonic smile.

  “That’s right. There’s no investigation, so I can look around.”

  “Why do you want to? What do you care?”

  “I’ve been hired, Father. It’s what I do.”

  “Hired by whom?”

  “O.C. Brown.”

  Father Brennan nodded.

  “You know O.C.?”

  The priest grinned. “Come on, Whelan, I know everybody. But why do you want to work on this case? I’m sure people ask you to do things all the time that you turn down.”

  “That’s true. I don’t do certain kinds of work. I don’t follow spouses and I don’t work undercover in an office to see who’s robbing the boss blind. And I’m not allowed to work on an open police case.”

  “I think you do anyhow. Just a feeling I’m getting.”

  “But I take on cases that I think need looking into, and I take things on for people I like. I’ve taken a liking to O.C. He really wants to do something for his friend. I think it’s more of a gesture than anything else. I probably won’t come up with anything, but at least he’ll feel—” The look on the priest’s face stopped him.

  “You have something already, and you’re sure the cops are wrong.” Father Brennan flashed a cherubic smile. “I can see it in your face.”

  “I’ve got to work on that.” He lit a cigarette. “So you’re really trying to find out what I’m doing in your community.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Why didn’t you just call O.C.?”

  “Probably tell me it was none of my business. He’s not a parishioner. I make it to the Blue Note more often than he makes it to church. He’s not a member of any church that I know of.”

  “I knew a saloonkeeper once who thought his tavern was a kind of church.”

  “Maybe O.C. does too.”

  The young waitress brought the bill, and the priest grabbed it. “I got this. Thanks, Brenda.”

  An older woman emerged from the back of the restaurant, a tall silver-haired woman, good-looking in an austere way. She made her way toward their booth but still found time to stop both her waitresses and give them instructions.

  She approached the booth with her hand extended. “Why, hello, Father Mike. I didn’t know you were here.”

  The priest indicated Whelan. “This is Paul Whelan, Edna. He’s a friend of mine, a private detective. He’s come to investigate your menu.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Whelan. I hope you’ll be back.”

  “I think it’s my destiny,” Whelan said.

  Outside the restaurant, Whelan looked at the priest. “Did I tell you anything at all you didn’t already know?”

  “Nope.”

  “You just wanted to check me out.”

  “Yep. Besides, Henry
’s old.” The priest got in and slid behind the wheel.

  “You told Edna I was your friend. Am I?”

  The priest gave him a childlike grin that made his face glow. “Sure. Now that I know you’re not an asshole.”

  Whelan laughed. “Okay, so now what?”

  Father Brennan shrugged. “Now we go see Henry. He works at the rectory. He’s the caretaker.” He laughed, a deep, resonant laugh that filled the old rusted Ford and muffled its coughing engine.

  “You play poker, Father?”

  “They won’t let me play anymore.”

  The parish rectory was a forgotten jewel, a dark, stately four-story mansion, top-heavy with age-darkened oak furniture and hand-carved moldings and banisters. It smelled like a home, a mix of soap, furniture polish, and cooking smells.

  “I like your house,” Whelan said.

  “I do too,” said Father Brennan. “Hope they never throw me out. It’d be tough finding another one like this.”

  They found Henry Bridgeman wrestling with a bucket that he’d somehow jammed under a table in the rectory dining room. He pulled at it with only his left hand. In his right, he held a large wet mop that he refused to let go. The mop was dripping gray water onto the magnificent parquet floor and the handle was inching closer and closer to a large statue of a saint, perhaps St. Anna herself. Whelan didn’t think St. Anna would be able to duck.

  The bucket wasn’t coming out, and Henry apparently was willing to stay for the duration. He yanked at it, turned his spindly body one way and then another, dug his old black shoes into the wood, and strained, all the while emitting a low, grumbling stream of near profanity that was not so much an expression of anger as it was background music.

  To his left, Whelan could hear the priest trying mightily to stifle his laughter. He looked at Father Brennan and saw tears forming in the boyish blue eyes. The priest took his eyes from Henry and looked at Whelan.

  “I think we just saved you one question.”

  “Which one was that?”

  “The one where you ask me why we keep Henry around.”

  Whelan grinned. “Is he always like this?”

  “No.” The priest pointed to a broken pane high in one of the living room windows. “Sometimes he’s dangerous.”

  As if to punctuate this thought, Henry went into his finale. The bucket tipped over, and the old man went down on the seat of his pants; frothy wash water from the bucket flooded the dining room, and the handle of the mop bounced off St. Anna’s patient forehead, caromed from there to a wall, knocked a small African carving off a sideboard, and, as it came back to earth from its long journey, whacked Henry in the back of the head.

  The priest helped him up. “You all right, Henry?”

  “Fine, fine. I’m fine, Father Mike. I slipped, is all.”

  “All right. Let’s take a break.” Under his breath, Whelan heard him say, “Give the rectory time to recover.”

  “Something wrong with that bucket,” the old man said.

  “Absolutely. We’ll get a new one.” Father Brennan pointed to Whelan. “Got somebody I want you to meet. Friend of O.C. Brown.”

  Henry Bridgeman winced, shook his head and said, “What?”

  Father Brennan nodded. “I keep forgetting.” He repeated his introduction, much louder this time.

  “Oh. Uh-huh,” Henry said, giving Whelan a look that plainly said, “Since when does O.C. have a white friend?

  “This is Mr. Whelan. He’s a private detective, and I think he wants to ask you some questions about Sam Burwell.” The priest nodded at Whelan. “He doesn’t think those kids killed Sam Burwell either.”

  “No, I don’t. Let’s talk.”

  “You want me to leave?” Father Brennan asked.

  “You can stay.”

  They sat in the reception room and Whelan half shouted his questions. Henry’s responses consisted primarily of short shakes of his head. He and Sam Burwell had lived together for just under two years and during that time, as far as he knew, Sam had had trouble with no one.

  “What about after he moved out, Henry? Did you keep in touch?”

  Henry nodded. “Went to see the Sox couple times. Went fishin’. He liked to fish. Wasn’t no good at it, though.”

  “And he never told you he was having trouble with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “How about a man following him in a car?”

  “Don’t know nothin’ about that.”

  “Ever hear him talk about a man named David Hill?”

  Henry pursed his lips and shook his head.

  “How about the woman he was seeing?”

  “Name was Mary.”

  “I heard that too. What do you know about her?”

  “I just know she live up north there.”

  “How about a woman named Mattie?”

  “Mattie?” Henry scratched behind his ear and shook his head. “Never heard of no Mattie.”

  “How about anyone from the old days, people he might have had trouble with in the old days, like George Covington?”

  “Covington dead.”

  Whelan studied him for a moment. “Do you know when he died?”

  Henry frowned and scratched his chin. “Can’t say I do. Long time ago, though. Must be twenty years.”

  “I spoke to his landlord a couple days ago and got the impression Covington might still be alive.”

  Henry’s expression suggested that Whelan was veering dangerously into the area of fantasy. He took a shot in the dark.

  “How about…trouble with his son?”

  Henry stared at him for an extra heartbeat and then quickly looked away, shaking his head. “No,” he said, but he continued to look toward the window.

  “I know he had some trouble with his son. O.C. told me that. A lot of men have trouble with their sons. Did Sam ever speak of it?”

  Henry turned to the priest for help and Father Brennan leaned forward, politely waiting for Whelan to let him jump in.

  “Father?”

  “They had some trouble as Perry got older. Sam had a drinking problem, you probably know that. And after his wife died, he drank a lot harder. The boy was raised by Sam’s in-laws because Sam didn’t have a steady income. So there was some hard feeling there. And Perry’s not the easiest person to get along with.”

  “I know. I’ve met him.”

  “Well, he doesn’t drink or smoke or understand anyone who does, and as he got older he had more problems with his feelings toward Sam.”

  Whelan nodded and addressed Henry. “Did he ever speak about his trouble with Perry?”

  “On’y time he ever said anything, he was, you know…he drank a bit one night, and he was sayin’ things. Can’t put no faith in what a man says when he drinks, Mr. Whelan.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Said him and the boy probably kill each other one day.”

  The priest was shaking his head. “I can’t imagine Perry hurting him.”

  “I need to talk to him, though. I need to talk to him and I think if I go to his house I’ll get a door in my face. Maybe worse. Can you set something up?”

  “He’ll be here Saturday night for the Fall Festival.” The priest smiled. “A Taste of the West Side. Seven o’clock till the food’s all gone.”

  “And he’ll be here? He’s a parishioner?”

  The smile took on new life now. “No, but his wife is, and if he wants to stay happily married, he’ll be here. She’s working at the festival.”

  “All right. A food fest, huh? Am I welcome?”

  “Why not? We’re not prejudiced.”

  In the late afternoon, Whelan drove up Broadway into New Town and practiced a little textbook surveillance on David Hill.

  When he’d been sitting in his car for almost an hour, the young secretary, Pilar Sandoval, came out of Hill’s office. Whelan had to wait another twenty minutes for the attorney to emerge. Hill walked south on Clark Street and turned at Wrightwood. Whelan started the car and dr
ove up to the McDonald’s, pulled through the parking lot, and came out the Drive-Thru lane. When he got to Wrightwood, Hill was just getting into the dark blue Buick halfway down the block.

  He followed Hill to Halsted and then south, past Fullerton, to a strip of new taverns and restaurants. The attorney parked in front of a place called Grant’s and went inside. Whelan stopped next to Hill’s Buick. He could see clearly into the tavern, a long clean-looking room, well lit, with several rows of small tables parallel to the bar. Hill was sitting at the farthest table from the door, the farthest table from the bar and all forms of human contact, and the bartender, a bearded man in his thirties, came out to take his order.

  Hill had taken off his suit coat. He sat with his chin in one hand, holding a small blue menu in the other. The rigid, arrogant posture was gone, the entire image, cultivated through constant attention to clothing and gesture and facial expression, had evaporated. A newcomer to this dark quiet bar would see someone far different, a tired man in a wrinkled white shirt, eating alone.

  As an afterthought he stopped back at his office and checked in with Shelley.

  “Some day you oughta stay in your office for ten minutes at a stretch, baby.”

  “I take it I have had calls.”

  “Two. Your beloved Detective Bauman. Sounded like he’d been drinking his lunch. He hit on me as usual.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Didn’t say. Just said he’d call you some other time.”

  “The other call?”

  “That guy that sounds like he’s calling from the grave. Mel Torme with a sore throat. That one.”

  “Actually, he sounds like Miles Davis. Did he leave a message?”

  “Yeah, he said he had something for you. He sounded different from yesterday.”

  “Different how?”

  “Like he was in a hurry.”

  “He smells money. Thanks, Shel.”

  Twelve

  Day 7, Thursday

  Clouds were moving in from the west, and the sun was setting in a wash of red. There was no light inside the blue bus, no sign of movement, and no answer as he paused at the step and called out Nate’s name. He entered and moved carefully back through the bus, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light within, he realized that he could hear his heart beating.