The Maxwell Street Blues

by Michael Raleigh

  “And thanks for the tea.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, but he was thinking, Maybe Vietnamese food sometime.

  Fourteen

  Day 8, Friday

  Back at his office, he was sipping at a cup of coffee and paging idly through the newspaper when the phone rang.

  “Paul Whelan.”

  “Mr. Whelan?” It took him a moment to place the woman’s harsh voice. He heard muttered conversations in the background, and the clink of plates.

  “Hello, Ruth. How’re things in the doughnut business?”

  “Aw, shuddup, you just ordered five minutes ago,” she snarled. “You see I’m on the phone?” Then, softer, “Excuse me, Mr. Whelan. These people, they think I’m some kinda slave.”

  The Waitress’s Lament.

  “You can handle them, Ruth. What can I do for you?”

  “She’s here, Mr. Whelan. That Mattie. You said to call you if she came in. Well, she’s here.”

  “Great. Thanks, Ruth.”

  In five minutes he reached the Subway Donut Shop. The air was thick with smoke and grease, and the long narrow counter that ran along the window to Broadway was filled with the shop’s oddly varied crowd. In a far corner, her back to the room, sat a small spindly black woman in a green cloth coat. Whelan spotted Ruth, waited till she finished taking an order, and called her.

  The waitress looked up with a frown, smiled when she saw it was Whelan. He indicated the woman and Ruth nodded. The woman raised a brown mug to her lips, and Whelan held up two fingers.

  Ruth poured two cups of coffee and Whelan gave her a buck and change, then carried the coffee over to the window.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  The woman looked up at him and then down at the stool beside her. “There’s nobody sitting there.”

  “Is your name Mattie?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, more careful now about who she was inviting to sit next to her.

  “Yes,” she said calmly, and he realized she wasn’t going to give away anything else. Her gaze flitted from Whelan to the others in the room, as though to reassure herself that she wasn’t alone.

  “My name’s Paul. I’d like to talk to you about someone.”

  The woman grimaced. She was in her late fifties or early sixties, small-boned and light-skinned. The coat was clean but old, showing little pills of bunched thread everywhere. On the counter he noticed a small pillbox cap that matched it. She wore glasses with light brown frames, and the eyes behind the lenses told him he’d already underestimated their owner.

  “Sir, if you want to talk to me, you best stop talking like you think I’m four. What is your full name, sir, and are you going to sit down? This doesn’t look right.”

  “I’m sorry.” He set the cups down on the counter and slid onto the stool. “My name is Paul Whelan, and I’m a private investigator, and the second cup is for you if you want it. And I want to talk to you about Sam Burwell.”

  She gave a little shake of her head and watched the foot traffic on Broadway for a moment. Just outside the window, a prim-looking young black woman had positioned herself a few feet from the restaurant and faced the passersby. She held a magazine in each hand. Whelan realized she was a Jehovah’s Witness; she’d stand there in her rigid pose for hours, offering her publications to the pedestrians and saying nothing if no one spoke to her.

  Mattie looked at Whelan. “I don’t know anything about private investigators. I don’t know what they do, but if you’ve come to ask anything disrespectful about that poor man—”

  “Private investigators are like cops and bankers and insurance people: some of them serve a basic function, and some aren’t fit to scrub a sewer. I didn’t know Sam Burwell, but a friend of his hired me to look into what happened to him.”

  “What friend?”

  “O.C. Brown.”

  She shrugged. “I heard the name. I never met any of his friends from the West Side. Young man, what is it exactly that you want to find out about what happened? I assume you talked to the police.”

  “Yes. And I believe they know a good deal less than I do.”

  “Got a high opinion of yourself?”

  “At times. I’m pretty sure I’m right about this. Mr. Brown hired me because he wants to know how Sam Burwell was killed. He doesn’t think it had anything to do with the kids the police picked up, and neither do I.”

  “Why? Why does it have to be more…complicated than that?”

  “Because several people had been asking about Sam or looking for him in the few months before his death. People came looking for him, and then he was dead.” Whelan paused. “Maybe the kids did it, but it sure doesn’t look that way to me.”

  Mattie stared out at the passersby and said nothing for a moment. Then a shudder seemed to pass through her.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Whatcha mean, am I all right? You tell me somebody followed poor Sam around and killed him, and it’s not supposed to scare me?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you, but I guess it’s unavoidable.”

  She sighed. “What do you want with me, young man?”

  “I was told that you were”—he fished for tact—“close friends.”

  “That’s not what you heard.” She gave him an accusing look.

  “No, I guess not. I heard he had a lady he was seeing somewhere in the neighborhood, and I was told you knew each other, and I guess I put two and two together.”

  She studied him for a long moment. “It wasn’t any big thing. Wasn’t much to it at all. My husband passed ten years ago. Sam stayed with me a couple times, but mostly we were just friends.” She smiled at Whelan, slightly embarrassed. “I don’t know how that sounds to a young man like yourself, but it’s true. He lost his wife years ago; you probably know about that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we were working at the same place. I was working in a cafeteria in an office building and Sam was working with the janitor. He just came in and did some handyman things, you know. We got to talking, and pretty soon he was stopping by to see me, have a cup of coffee.” She cast a sly look at Whelan. “Must sound pretty boring to a young man. Couple old people acting like fools.”

  “It doesn’t sound boring at all. It sounds pretty normal.” He laughed. “It sounds like a lot more than I’ve got right now.”

  “That’s too bad. Nice-looking man like yourself, good manners, well-spoken. You ought to get out more, maybe.”

  “Maybe. It’s something I’m not very good at anymore.”

  Mattie shook her head. “Sam was a good man, but we didn’t have much in common. That’s why we didn’t stay together long.” She saw Whelan’s puzzled look and added, “Sam was a drinker. In the old days we said somebody was a drinkin’ man, but it was more than that. He drank too much, he was sick from it a lot. I was through that once before, when my husband and I were first married. Wasn’t about to go through it again. So…Sam and I, we were just friends.” She thought for a moment. “Nice company when he wasn’t full of drink. He was nice company.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about anyone he thought was following him? Anyone he was afraid of?”

  She sipped her coffee and pursed her lips. “No. Lord, I don’t think Sam was afraid of anything.”

  “Did he ever talk about his son?”

  “Once or twice. I don’t think they spoke. Not much, anyway. But he didn’t say much about the boy. Said somebody else raised him. He was proud of him, though. Once in a while he bragged on that boy, told me how the boy went away to college. He was proud of himself, too, that he was the daddy of a college man.” She smiled at the memory. “He was a good man, and he was smart, he was a real smart man in his way.”

  Whelan nodded and took a sip of his coffee. He didn’t want to tell her that Sam Burwell’s relationship with his son had been unpleasant and that the boast about Perry being “a college man” was nothing more than a father’s tall story.

  “I
really need to talk to anybody that knew him just before he died, ma’am. I heard that he had a…a friend…”

  She wrinkled her face and then smiled. “Don’t be beating around the bush, young man. You heard he had a lady friend. Besides me.”

  “Yes. Did you know her?”

  “No. No, I didn’t.”

  “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “I never even knew her name. I really don’t know anything about her.”

  “Maybe if I knew where they met.”

  Mattie gave him a blank look. “Where they met? I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir. I know she was a waitress. He told me she was a waitress.” Mattie sipped her coffee. “Poor man,” she said after a moment.

  Whelan knew she genuinely felt pity for Sam Burwell. As he left, he thought about offering her money for her information and then realized she’d probably be offended.

  “Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Whelan,” she said, and when he pushed his way out through the heavy glass door she was still staring out at the street.

  He stood outside his office and measured the heavy grayness that was taking over the sky and decided he needed a walk, a long walk through the neighborhood, a walk to think, to put names to the notions that now tugged at him.

  As he walked a chill came into the air, but he kept walking, head down, trying to make sense of the chaos he’d walked into.

  A man he’d been looking for was dead; another man, a man he’d spoken to, was dead. Two violent deaths with an undeniable connection. Other men were involved, and one of them—at least one of them—meant him harm. He thought about his own vulnerability, saw the many times in a day when he was alone and a killer could get the thing done. He saw himself walking alone down an unlit street, past vacant lots and overflowing dumpsters, then had a sudden image of himself peering into the empty space under the hood of his car. If this killer wanted him, why hadn’t it happened then?

  Why didn’t he try to kill me then? Lost his nerve, Whelan told himself, then immediately shook his head. This one doesn’t lose his nerve. This one doesn’t even have a pulse. For the first time it occurred to him that the killer might be a woman.

  Is that really who I’ve been looking for from the beginning? he wondered.

  In his mind’s eye he saw again Nate’s dark swollen face and wondered if his questioning had led to the old man’s death. Then he thought of Buddy Lenz.

  “Shit,” he said, and turned back in the direction of his office.

  Time to see a lawyer who was not fond of the truth.

  Pilar looked up from a magazine and gave him a half smile. “Hello, Mr. Whelan.”

  “Ms. Sandoval. I’ve got a question for you. Can you at least describe one of his clients for me? An older woman. Fifties or sixties…”

  She’d begun to shake her head before he was through the first part of his question, and behind her stoic adherence to duty he saw something else in her eyes, confusion perhaps.

  “I can’t say anything about Mr. Hill’s clients. I can’t even—”

  “It’s all right. It was a long shot. Is he in? Can I go back there?”

  “Yes and no. He’s in, but you can’t just walk right into his office.” She seemed to disapprove of him for the first time, and he liked her better for it. Too young for the likes of Paul Whelan, but a nice lady.

  “Okay. Would you please buzz him and tell him Mr. Whelan is here to see him, and that if he doesn’t see me we’ll need the police?”

  She shook her head. “You can’t threaten—”

  “It’s not a threat. Just say it that way.”

  She picked up the phone and hit a button, waited, then gave Hill the message, word for word. After a half-second pause, she looked at the phone as though it had bitten her.

  The door to Hill’s office swung open and banged against a chair. David Hill blocked the doorway and glared at Whelan.

  “What the hell do you mean coming here and telling me I’m going to need the police? Just who do you think you are?”

  “No. I listened, and she didn’t tell you that. She said ‘we’ll need the police.’ We, Hill, not you. It wasn’t a threat, it was a statement of fact, at least as far as I can figure the situation out.”

  Hill conjured up a look of puzzlement, then gave an irritated shake of his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Whelan shrugged and said nothing. There was no more intriguing bait than silence. After a few seconds of theatrical gestures to show his fatigue-and/or-irritation, including puzzled looks at the floor, muttering, and finally removing his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose, Hill sighed and took a step back into his office.

  “All right, Whelan. I’ll play along. Come in and let’s get this over with.”

  Whelan followed him in and leaned against the heavy guest chair while Hill sat. The lawyer nodded toward the chair.

  “No, thanks. I’ll stand: I’m not here to camp out.”

  “What exactly are you here for?” Hill leaned back and tried to look bored.

  “This morning the police discovered the body of an old man who lived in a bus on Maxwell Street. This was approximately fifty yards—no, not even that, thirty yards—from where Sam Burwell set up on Sundays.”

  For just a split second, Hill wasn’t bored anymore. He stiffened, sat up, frowned. Then he caught himself. “How does that involve me? Was this a friend of yours?”

  “No. And I didn’t say it involved you. Maybe it does; you’d know that better than I would. But this man was killed after several conversations with me. I went to him for information.”

  “About…Sam Burwell’s death. I follow.”

  “And just before his death he had called me, I assume to tell me something else.”

  “And you believe he was killed to prevent his giving you information.”

  “I sure do.”

  “Did he tell you something so important that someone would kill for it?” Hill sat back in his big chair and gave Whelan a patient look, and Whelan thought he saw why Hill was probably a good courtroom lawyer.

  “No, but then his killer wouldn’t have known what the old man told me.”

  “How would he have known about your contact with this man?”

  “He watched me.” Whelan smiled at Hill and allowed a moment for the remark to sink in. For a five-count he poked around in his vest for his cigarettes. “May I smoke?”

  “Certainly.” Hill slid an ashtray along the desk toward Whelan, then went through his own ritual with the wonderful case and the lovely lighter and joined Whelan in polluting the office air. Whelan allowed himself several puffs on the cigarette and watched.

  The lawyer’s eyes fixed onto the desk blotter. Whelan could almost see him trying on different attitudes and stratagems, till finally Hill settled on one with which he was comfortable. He put his cigarette into the groove of a leather-bound ashtray, sat back in his chair, blew a little gray cloud of smoke into the air, and smiled. It wasn’t much of a smile, there was very little behind it, but he held it for a moment and then sighed.

  “I think I see where we’re heading here, Whelan. I took a chance at watching you on Maxwell Street—after your bizarre intimations about ‘secret information for my client’—and now you think I was watching this old man in a—did you say in a bus?”

  “Yes. An old blue bus.”

  Hill shrugged. “I didn’t even notice any buses. I was watching you, Whelan. I’ll admit that. I believe I said as much when we spoke. But it’s you I was interested in, not your contacts or your derelict friends. Now.” He picked up the cigarette again and flicked a little cone of ash into the tray. “Let’s think what this visit might be about. Money, perhaps. Is that it? That would shock me, Mr. Whelan, because I never made you for a blackmailer. A ne’er-do-well, a charlatan detective, but never a blackmailer.”

  “No, Mr. Hill, it’s not about money. You wish it was about money because people of your sort generally think they can solve all their problems by h
anding people fistfuls of money. This is about a warning. I don’t play games and I’m not going to pretend I understand what your game is in all this, or that I know anything more about your client than I did before. But I’m in this case and there’s nothing anyone can do to get me out of it. It’s a quirk of my personality.

  “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to find out who killed Sam Burwell. When I do, I’ll hand that person to the cops on a dinner plate. In the meantime, I think it’s obvious that somebody will go to great lengths to get rid of anyone who talks to me. I’ve been talking to another person, and now I can’t locate him. I’ve got a bad feeling about that.”

  Hill shook his head. “What does that—”

  “I wasn’t finished speaking. I want you to know that if anything has happened to the person I’m talking about, if he even develops a cold sore, you’d best be looking into the city’s fine vocational training programs because they’ll take your license to practice law and shove it up your ass and you’ll be just another guy with too many college credits.”

  Without allowing the lawyer to respond, Whelan turned and crossed the room. At the door he looked over his shoulder.

  “But that other stuff, about the information that I came across, the stuff I think your client’d like? That was no joke, barrister. You’d be surprised at how much I know. Oh, and now I’ve got something else.”

  Hill glared at him.

  He pointed a finger at the lawyer. “I’ve got somebody who can place a certain lawyer on Maxwell Street before Sam Burwell died. In fact, this lawyer was watching Mr. Burwell.”

  Hill blinked and kept his perfectly rigid pose, saying nothing.

  Whelan nodded. “You have a nice day now, hear?”

  He stood outside for a moment, both pleased and disappointed. Pleased because he’d thrown a genuine scare into Hill—he could see it in the man’s eyes, in his body language—disappointed that he didn’t know where to go with this next. He was pretty certain Mr. Hill would be doing some fast dancing.

  You won’t be dancing so fast when I’m through.

  The phone was ringing when he returned to the office. He caught it in mid ring.