The Maxwell Street Blues
Page 25
O.C. was behind the bar. “Hey, Whelan. You come down to visit with the folk in the hood?”
“Yeah. I need company. Isn’t it a little early to be open on a Sunday? Or is there a new law that says you can start pouring as soon as the sun comes up?”
O.C. laughed. “Just coffee and orange juice till noon. Don’t want to break no laws.” He looked at his customers and indicated Whelan with a nod of his head. “Whelan here used to be the po-lice. Now he’s reformed.” There was a chuckle from one of the old men at the bar, and Whelan took a stool near the front.
O.C. came down the bar. “Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“You might not like it this time, Whelan. I just made it.”
“Well, it’s certainly not what I’m used to here.”
O.C. poured him a mug of coffee and leaned against the bar, watching him drink it. “What brings you out today? I know you come to talk. Got that look in your eye.”
“Buddy Lenz is dead.”
O.C. nodded slowly. “Poor old Buddy. What happened to him?”
“Somebody killed him. They found his body yesterday.”
O.C. watched him.
“And I think he was killed—”
“Because he knew something,” O.C. finished.
“No. Because somebody thought he might know something. Maybe because somebody knew he talked to me.”
“Not your fault, Whelan.”
“Maybe not, but it doesn’t feel good, all the same.”
The older man watched him for a while. “You got anything?”
“Not sure. I feel like I’m close, real close. Close enough to be in a little trouble but…” He let the rest of it go.
One of the men down the bar called O.C., and the tavern keeper sidled back up his bar to pull a beer from the cooler. He smiled over at Whelan.
“Twelve o’clock yet, Whelan?”
Whelan consulted the bar clock. It said eleven-fifteen. “Twelve o’clock exactly.” He watched as O.C. opened the beer, set it on a coaster, and slid a couple of quarters from the man’s pile of change. O.C. tossed the change into the open register.
The tavern keeper came back down the bar and watched Whelan for a moment. “What kinda trouble?”
Whelan shrugged. “I’m close, and that brings you close to trouble.”
O.C. nodded and then made a visible effort to cheer him up with a change of subject. “We got us an argument goin’ here. Talkin’ about old-time musicians. Horn players. My man Curtis here, he think this boy he used to run with was better than a fella used to play for Basie, and I’m tryin’ to educate him. We had plenty of trombone players around here better than your boy, Curtis.”
“Naw.” The man frowned at his change.
O.C. walked over and put his face a few inches from his customer’s. “I know about horn players. Curtis here, he always want to argue with me about horn players. Curtis, my man, we had half a dozen trombone men around here just as good as that boy Henry Green.”
“Name one.”
“Floyd Garnet. Red Willis. Pete McCoy. Frank Rickert, maybe. Had that quartet played on South State. Remember him?”
Whelan was smiling and watching the debate, and then suddenly he wasn’t hearing a word of it. His heart began to pound and he wondered if he looked as stunned as he felt. To calm himself he took another sip of his coffee, then looked at O.C. He’d heard these names before, but now they meant something.
“What was the name of that last trombone man, O.C.?”
“Frank Rickert. White fella. Little crazy like most of them back then, but he was good.”
Whelan forced himself to take another drink of his coffee. “You mentioned those men once before, when you were talking about Buddy Lenz.”
“Right. All those boys from the old days.”
“This man Rickert—was he the one involved with that young girl, the one Sam had been seeing?”
O.C. nodded and was about to say something when he noticed Whelan’s face. He waited a moment and then said, “Yeah, that was Frank Rickert. Why?”
Whelan cursed himself for not noticing the name when he’d run across it again. I should have caught it, he told himself. I should have picked up on it.
Now, standing in a little bar on the West Side, he was seeing the name clearly in his mind’s eye, a name beside a ridiculous photograph that made its subject look cartoonish, the name on a cab license.
O.C. moved closer. “Something wrong, Whelan?”
“Depends on your point of view.” Whelan was silent for a moment. “He was the one with the girl. The young white girl that had been seeing Sam.”
O.C. nodded and watched Whelan.
Images and possibilities washed over him, and one seemed to fit better than all the others. It was a long shot but it pushed its way in and the others cleared out. He held this one and examined it from every angle, and now he understood about the name. They would have recognized her name, all of them.
“And when you heard that the girl died—who told you? Rickert?”
“Naw, that girl’s family made things pretty hot for him. He left town.” O.C. pulled at his lip and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure Sam told me.”
Whelan nodded. O.C. studied him for a moment and then asked, “You think this is all about—that?”
“Yeah, I do.”
O.C. looked around his bar and then at his customers and shook his head. “All these years. All these years, and I can’t even remember that girl’s name. Irish girl, Mc-something. McCann, maybe, but I can’t even think of her first name.”
Whelan looked at him. “How about Tess?”
“That’s it! It was Teresa but she wanted folk to call her Tess. Goddam, Whelan. After all these years. What else you know?”
He finished his coffee. “I know she’s not dead.”
He killed time till the sky began to lose its color. The man he needed to see would just be coming out.
Like a vampire, he thought. It occurred to Whelan that there were only two potential victims left.
Well, let’s make it easy for him.
Whelan tried the cabstand and the restaurant and struck out. No one had seen Frank Rickert since Friday. He got back into his car and cruised, and then he knew where he ought to be: where the big cabbie would expect him to turn up eventually. He headed for Maxwell Street.
The steel gates were up across the storefronts, and the lots where four or five hundred people had been trying to make a buck all day were now empty. The only evidence that they’d been there was the trash that the City of Chicago refused to pick up. A wind had come up and snaked its way through the back lots, sending newspapers and sandwich wrappers swirling into the air and down the streets. As he watched, a sudden gust of wind took a sheet of newspaper and slapped it against a chain-link fence.
He circled the area, slowing down to take a long look at the blue bus where Nate had spent his last days, pausing briefly to gaze at the spot where Sam Burwell had scraped together a few dollars on his Sundays, and finally stopping to study the barren weed-covered spot where they’d found Buddy Lenz. He parked and turned off his lights and had a cigarette, and when he was halfway through the smoke he saw the cab in his rearview mirror.
Just when I thought my luck had run out, Whelan told himself.
He watched the cab approach till it seemed huge in the mirror and wondered how long Rickert had been following him around town. Rickert’s big body seemed to be craning forward, as though he couldn’t quite see what was up ahead. Then the cabbie moved his car up till he was blocking Whelan’s car from behind and killed his lights.
Whelan stepped out of his car and faced the cab. Rickert leaned out the window and grinned.
“Hey, buddy. Whatcha doin’ back here, you lost?”
“You first, Frank.”
The big cabbie shrugged. “I’m just lookin’ to pick up one more fare.”
“Where? Under the viaduct? You get a lot of fares under the viaduct, Frank?”
Whelan smiled. “You mean like when you lifted my battery, Frank?”
The cabbie’s eyes widened. “Me? What the hell do I need with a battery?” He forced a laugh.
“I had that all wrong, Frank. I thought somebody pulled my battery so I’d be stuck down here, so I’d be an easy mark. I thought somebody was trying to kill me, and that wasn’t it at all—at least, not then. The idea was to get me stranded so you could pick me up and see who I was, maybe find out what I was doing down here.”
“What would I care about that? I was just headin’ home, and you flagged me down ’cause you needed a cab.”
Whelan nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now I think something entirely different. I think you noticed me nosing around down here and got nervous. Then after you found out who I was, I think you followed me around, and I think you killed Nate over in that old blue bus after you saw me go in there. And then you killed Buddy Lenz.”
“I don’t even know these fuckin’ people.”
“Yeah, you do. You knew Buddy in the old days. You played the slide trombone. I know a lot about you, Frank.”
“Oh, yeah?” Frank smiled and Whelan saw his hand move slowly down inside the car door. The cabbie would be coming out any second. Whelan took a step back and took out another cigarette.
“Sure. I was just talking with some of your old fans. Seems you were pretty good. Unlucky in love though, huh?”
Something new came into the small close-set eyes. Frank Rickert’s mouth opened slightly. “Unlucky? That supposed to be a joke? You think you’re pretty funny, huh? Unlucky. Tell you who was unlucky. Him. That fucking black—”
“Sam Burwell? Yeah, he was unlucky enough to take your girl.”
“Yeah, he was unlucky all right. He fucked with the wrong guy and now he’s shit outta luck.” Rickert’s face was flushed and his eyes were beginning to bulge. “He knocked her up, that sonofabitch—a white woman—and then they took off. But I found him, and now he’s dead. And she’s here. I know, ’cause I seen her with ’im.”
“I know she’s here. I’ve met her. And she still thinks you’re an asshole, Frank.”
Whelan took a quick step back as the big cabbie came barreling out at him. Rickert’s quickness surprised him but Whelan was already moving, and he made it under the viaduct before Rickert could reach him.
The viaduct light was long gone, and as Whelan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, the street outside began to seem brightly lit. Frank Rickert was standing at the entrance, peering into the dark and listening. He looked like a bear tasting game on the wind.
Whelan moved slowly to the center of the viaduct and, when Rickert didn’t move, realized the cabbie couldn’t see him yet. He crossed the narrow street, crouched low, and watched the man on the other side. Rickert took a few steps into the viaduct, then stood motionless for several moments, and Whelan realized Rickert was letting his eyes adjust.
The cabbie took a couple of slow steps in and Whelan moved along the viaduct wall in the opposite direction, till he was directly across from Rickert. He realized he was now twice as far from his car as he’d been before.
Great strategy, Whelan.
He crouched again and groped around on the broken pavement for a weapon. His fingers stopped at a jagged piece of concrete. He pried at it but it resisted. He put both hands into it, and this time it came loose. Then he waited.
Rickert scanned the viaduct ahead of him and moved a couple of steps farther in. He shook his head, and then he began to turn. Whelan watched the big head scan the viaduct, and when it stopped he felt his heart stop with it. Rickert was looking directly at him.
Whelan remained in his crouch as though rooted in the old concrete. His chest was pounding and he could hear his breath come in gasps, and he would have sworn that Rickert was smiling as he came across the street.
The big cabbie covered ground quickly and changed his course as soon as Whelan began to move, cutting off his retreat. Whelan moved a few feet to his right and saw the other man move that way, like a fighter cutting off the ring, and he wondered if Frank Rickert had ever boxed.
When Rickert was just a few feet away, Whelan saw the knife. He ran at the cabbie, faked a punch at his head and, when Rickert raised his arm to protect himself, dodged by the cabbie’s left. As he moved past, Whelan took a broad swipe with the concrete and felt a surge of satisfaction when it struck home.
Rickert cursed and the curse turned to a snarl. He took a blind backhand swipe with his free hand and got lucky, catching Whelan over the eye. Whelan spun around, moved to Rickert’s left again to avoid the knife, and swung the concrete again. It caught the cabbie in a turn, just at the hairline. Rickert put both hands to his head and moaned. He started to crumple and then broke his fall with one big hand. Whelan moved back toward him and the cabbie almost caught him with a murderous sweep of the knife. Rickert started to get to his feet, wobbled, and then sank to one knee. He dropped the knife, put both hands to his bloody head and dropped back into a sitting position.
Whelan watched him for a moment, then walked back to his car. As he passed Rickert’s cab he brought the concrete down on the windshield, and a starburst of cracks appeared like blue frost.
He jumped in and started his car. It took him four moves to get out from the neat blockade Rickert had set up with his cab but after the longest thirty seconds of his life, he was free. In his rearview mirror he could see Frank Rickert staggering out of the viaduct. His hair was matted at the point of the wound, and the left side of his face was nearly unrecognizable. In the unnatural light of the empty street, the blood looked black.
As he pulled away, Whelan took a quick look at the cab and for the first time noticed the sticker just to the left of the license plate. It said, HOW AM I DRIVING?
Not real well, Frank. And your personality could do with an adjustment.
He made the call from a pay phone on Halsted, giving as many of the particulars as he could to the sergeant who took the call.
“You want to leave your name, sir?”
“Paul Whelan.”
“Phone number?”
“Durkin has it. This’ll be his, right?”
“I wouldn’t know that, sir. But if your information is right, yeah, Detective Durkin and Detective Krause.”
“Good. Just give Durkin a message for me. Tell him I said, ‘Congratulations on a great piece of detective work.’ ”
The sirens were already piercing the night as he hung up, and he watched as blue-and-whites from three different directions converged on the viaduct where he’d left Frank Rickert.
Seventeen
Day 10, Sunday
He drove back north through empty streets, past darkened bars and restaurants all shut down for Sunday night, and listened to some jazz. The disk jockey played an old Wes Montgomery tune, and Whelan decided there was no lonelier, more melancholy sound than a guitar in the night. He wondered what kind of music the woman listened to, what she did with herself on nights like this.
It wasn’t Sunday night in Uptown. There was no calendar here, no clock. The homeless roamed the streets and stood in doorways, and those with places to live leaned out their windows or sat on their stairs and stared at traffic. He parked on the west side of Broadway across the street from the Salvation Army office. A few feet away, an elderly white woman dug through the contents of a trash basket, looking for something to eat or sell.
This time the smell of rotting plaster on the staircase was overlaid with the thick odor of disinfectant. Somewhere in the building someone was frying something, and the place was overrun with smokers, so that the air in the hallway was bluish gray.
He paused outside the door and listened for a moment. Inside, there was music from a radio, and a woman’s voice, surprisingly youthful, joined the song and worked out a little two-part harmony. Whelan remembered she’d been a singer once. He knocked.
/>
The song vanished, both singer and radio went cold. There was silence from within the apartment for a moment, and then he heard her shuffling footsteps just as before. She was less than a foot away now, and Whelan could imagine her craning forward to listen for him.
“Who’s there?” came the hoarse voice.
“It’s Paul Whelan.”
She was silent and he could sense her panic, and the answer when it came was no surprise.
“I’m sick. I can’t talk to nobody now.” There was a groaning quality to her voice and for a moment he felt pity for her, till he remembered her other talent.
“Mrs. Haley, I’ve got to talk to you and it’s got to be now. I have some things you’ll want to hear.”
She was breathing audibly now. “I don’t want to see nobody. Maybe tomorrow—”
“No, tonight, tonight. Now—Tess.” He spoke her name slowly and clearly and then waited.
He heard the sound of the chain being removed and a deadbolt being drawn back, and then the door swung open. The woman gazed at him with a crushed look behind the tinted glasses and said nothing. Her shoulders sagged, her skin had gone pale: a portrait of defeat.
“I haven’t come to cause you any trouble. I came here to tell you that you’re safe now. It’s over. But you have to talk to me, you have to give me some answers: real ones this time.”
She stared at him and ran a hand through her hair and shook her head slowly from side to side, and for just a second Whelan thought she’d refuse to let him in. She was wearing the tattered peach robe but it seemed to have been washed. Then, abruptly, she stepped aside. She sighed.
“Come in. You can sit anywhere you like.” Whelan noted the sudden disappearance of the Bridgeport accent. He stepped past her and lowered himself into an old blue armchair.
The woman stood at the door for a moment as if debating whether to run out, then closed it with a shrug. “Excuse me for a second. I want to comb my hair.”