A Killing Fair (18 page)

 

Chapter 26: Diplomacy

T
he slamming office door had drawn Louie's attention. He was turning to look at me, and I came to an abrupt halt to take stock of my situation. Behind me, at the end of the hall in which I was standing, was the restaurant's back door. Ahead of me was Louie, who was smiling and rubbing his right hand with his left like a jeweler polishing a stone. The right hand was clenched in a fist that looked as big as a cantaloupe to me.

There were two options. One, I could turn and run out the back door or, two, I could try to bluff my way past Louie. A sensible person would have chosen option one, but sensible people don't work as newspaper reporters. I walked slowly forward.

“Nice to see you,” I said when I was about a dozen feet away from Louie.

“Even nicer to see you,” Louie said. His smile widened. “Would you like your head smashed to pieces right here or do you want to take it outside?”

“I'd prefer to stay in here where there are witnesses.” I pointed to three bar patrons and Ozzie the bartender, all of whom were watching with morbid interest.

“You think these birds are gonna help you?” Louie said.

“I think they'll testify against you at your assault-and-battery trial after you beat up a reporter who offers no resistance.”

“What do you mean no resistance? Are you just gonna let me bash your head in without fighting back?”

“I come in peace and offer you an apology for judging you falsely. Also I am by nature a pacifist who does not engage in fisticuffs.” I gave him my most Ghandian look of peaceful serenity.

The smile turned to a look of puzzlement. “So you're just gonna take a one-two punch to the kisser without any kind of fight?”

“That's right, Louie. I am in the wrong and I deserve to be punched in the kisser. And I will not swing at you in return.” This was, of course, pure hogwash. If he came at me I'd break his nose, but I'd rather talk my way out of the conflict.

Louie's fist unfolded. “That wouldn't be no fun.”

I started to say “any fun,” but caught myself in time to say, “Any . . . future investigations on my part will assume that you had no part in your father's tragic death.” All I needed was to have him explode over a grammar correction.

“Damn right I didn't, you goddamn slimy weasel,” he said. “You should have listened to me in the first place instead of getting me sent to jail.”

I had just been demoted from a snoopy pain the ass to a goddamn slimy weasel, but I didn't mind as long as the threat of damage to my head was gone. “You're right, I should have, but I'm a suspicious person by nature. I guess it's just in my genes.”

“Well, you better get your jeans outta here before I change my mind and give 'em a kick with a number thirteen extra-wide shoe.”

Again I accepted the invitation to vanish, walking with dignity past Louie and subduing the urge to run like a rabbit to the front door. “I'm still gonna sue the goddamn paper for slander,” Louie said as the door swung shut behind me.

“Libel,” I said to the air around me as I walked to my car. “You sue newspapers for libel, not slander.”

 

* * *

 

“So how was your day?” Martha Todd asked when I arrived home.

“I was called a snoopy pain in the ass, a lying little creep and a goddamn slimy weasel, all within minutes of each other.”

“I didn't know weasels were slimy.”

“That kind of surprised me, too. I've always thought of weasels as skinny and hairy and dry. Not that I've thought about weasels all that much.”

“Well, if it's any consolation, I was called an overbearing bitch today by a lawyer representing a slumlord our client is suing.”

“We have been the recipients of multiple unseemly slurs,” I said. “We should console each other.”

“I agree. Where do propose that our consolation activities take place?”

“What better place than the bedroom?”

“There is no better place,” Martha said. Supper was late again that night.

 

* * *

 

Next morning I parked my car in the ramp as usual, walked around the corner to the Daily Dispatch entrance as usual and ran head-on into Willow. I tried to dodge past her, but she grabbed me around the waist and pressed her body snug against mine. The top of her head was brushing the underside of my nose. Her shampoo had imparted the smell of lilacs to her straight blond hair.

“We really do have to talk,” she said.

“Not in this position,” I said. She was wearing a flower-patterned, ankle-length, V-necked muumuu, and obviously no bra. I wasn't sure about any other undergarments, but I was guessing there were none.

“Promise not to run away if I let go of your bod?” she said.

“Scout's honor.”

She slid her hands up to my shoulders and stepped back about six inches. I tried to twist away, but she dug her fingers into my shoulders and slammed her warm, soft breasts and belly tight against me. “You lied,” she said.

“I was never a Boy Scout.”

“I was. In fact, I let an Eagle Scout break my cherry.”

“Way too much information,” I said. “Now let go of me and I swear on a stack of journalistic style books that I won't run away.”

“I'll yell rape if you run,” she said as she backed off and removed her fingers from the dents they'd created in my shoulders. I suggested that we walk a couple of blocks to a park with benches. She agreed, latched tightly onto my right hand and towed me along behind her. With each step, the muumuu stretched so tightly against her backside that I was able to confirm my suspicion that she was sans panties as well as sans bra. Of course this observation was made purely as a matter of investigative reporting.

We sat side by side on a bench with Willow's right thigh pressed against my left, transmitting heat through her thin muumuu and my summer-weight pants. I asked why she was so desperate to talk to me.

“Because you're my only hope at getting to Al,” Willow said. “He's got that awful restraining order out against me and I can't get him to respond to an e-mail, even when I show him what he's missing.”

“He's very happily married. He's not missing anything.”

“He's the love of my life. I could show him some things in bed that his wife never heard of.”

“Don't be too sure of that. Carol's a tiger in the sack.” Oh, god, was this me talking about my best friend's wife?

“How do you know what she's like in the sack?” Willow said. “Have you been in the sack with her?”

“Good god, no. Al's my best friend. I wouldn't touch his wife.”

“Even if she came on to you?”

“She never would. You're talking nonsense. And you're wasting your time if you keep chasing Al. He wants nothing to do with you.”

“You could talk to him. Tell him how much I want him. How bad I need him. Tell him that I get wet down there just thinking about him. Tell him he wouldn't have to leave his wife. Tell him that we could just have a really, really wonderful thing going on the side.”

“I would never suggest that to him, and he would never do it,” I said.

“He might,” Willow said. “If you told him I'm ready to kill myself if I don't have him deep inside me soon.”

“That's pure bullshit. Any way, if I told him he'd probably say hurray.”

“He wouldn't say that. He's too kind and loving and sensitive. I can see that in his photos. He'd come to me with open arms if he thought it would save my life.”

“Forget it. I'm not going to tell him any of this foolishness and you're not going to kill yourself. Go find some other man to pester—somebody single who can give you all the screwing you want.”

“There's nobody like Al,” she said. “It's not just the screwing. I want his tenderness and caring.”

“You're right, there is nobody like him,” I said. “And you're not going to ever get near him.” I stood up and walked away without looking back. Willow did not follow.

I rode up the elevator to the newsroom with Corinne Ramey, who looked flushed and a bit disheveled. “We're both late,” she said. “I overslept; what's your reason?”

“I'm going to have to make one up,” I said. “My real reason is so bizarre nobody would believe it.” I was tempted to ask her who she'd overslept with but I decided to let it go. I'd already received more than a full day's quota of reports on female sexuality.

As we passed the receptionist's desk, Rhonda Riley called my name. “I've got a message for you from a woman who didn't know your extension,” she said. She handed me a yellow slip of paper, which I carried to my desk. Written on the paper was “Call Zoom-I-Yah at city hall, ext. 404.”

I translated Zoom-I-Yah to mean Zhoumaya. Wondering what my landlady wanted to talk about during working hours, I called the main City Hall number and followed the directions to reach extension 404.

 

Chapter 27: City Hall Surprise

A
fter five rings, Zhoumaya's voice mail kicked in, telling me she was away from her desk just now, etc. I left a message with my extension number, put down the phone and turned to find Al sitting on the corner of my desk.

“You're late,” he said, handing me a cup of coffee. “I had to heat it up again in the microwave.”

“I was detained by a crazy lady who says you're the love of her life, poor thing,” I said. “Willow literally grabbed me outside the front door and wouldn't let go until I listened to her whine about how devastated she is by your failure to answer her e-mails. She says she'll kill herself if you don't accept her invitation for a rendezvous in bed.”

“Tell her I'll send flowers to her funeral,” Al said.

“You tell her. I've already killed too much time with her.”

“Well, I'm dead certain I'll never open any of her e-mails.”

“You'll just let them pass away?”

“Better yet, I'll kill them. And speaking of killing, how'd you make out with cousin Vito yesterday?”

“He called me a lot of uncomplimentary names when I told him we talked to his chemist buddy,” I said. “He didn't deny what Lymanski said about still getting together but he threw me out when I asked him where he was when Vinnie ate the poison pill on a stick.”

“You really think it's Vito?” Al said.

“Even more so after yesterday's performance. Who had more to gain from having Vinnie dead?”

“Is your pal at the Falcon Heights PD getting anything more from the guy who delivered the naughty stick?”

“My Falcon Heights PD pal was her usual self yesterday. The old ‘we can't answer that at this time' routine.”

“Well, I have to go shoot a feature with John Boxwood,” Al said. “See you at lunch if you're around.”

I waved goodbye and centered my thoughts on Vito Luciano. I'd just taken the last sip of coffee when my phone rang. It was Zhoumaya.

“What's up?” I said.

“I don't know if this is in your territory, but something hush-hush is going on in the Public Health Department,” she said. “The department head, the mayor and the city attorney are in a huddle and rumors are flying. What might be of interest to you is that I heard Vinnie Luciano's name mentioned by two women talking in the ladies room.”

“That does interest me. Did you hear what they were saying about Vinnie?”

“No, they clammed up real quick when they saw me come out of the stall. I'll keep my big ears open and let you know if I find out what's going on.”

“Please do that. Meanwhile I'll call somebody I know in the city attorney's office. Thanks for the tip.”

My contact in the city attorney's office was Marilee Kohl, a law school classmate and friend of Martha Todd. I knew Marilee because she and her husband had shared several late-night dinners with us during the women's grind through law school. Marilee had been working for the city attorney since passing her bar exam, and she had tipped me to a couple of newsworthy city legal actions that the paper might have missed without forewarning.

I looked up Marilee's extension and made a call. Naturally I got a voicemail recording saying she was away from her desk, etc. Why should she be at her desk when nobody else I call ever was? I left a message and went back to wondering how I could trap Vito Luciano. Don O'Rourke interrupted my musings with an assignment that took me out of the office, away from my desk and my phone. The nerve of the man.

When I returned at about 11:30, I found a voice mail message from Marilee. This time she was at her desk when I called, and I told her about my tip from an anonymous friend in City Hall.

“Whoever your anonymous friend is, he's got good ears,” Marilee said. “I can't talk about it right now, but there is some­thing going on with a health inspector, which might explain Vinnie Luciano's name being mentioned.”

“Was Vinnie in trouble with the Health Department?” I asked.

“I'm sorry. I can't say any more about it now without risking my job. There's nothing you can write about yet, but I'll let you know the minute something can be made public. Gotta go. Bye.”

Don O'Rourke was intrigued when I told him about my two calls. He suggested I go wander around City Hall with my eyes and ears open. “Then have lunch at Callahan's,” he said.

Callahan's restaurant was only a couple of blocks from the City Hall and Courthouse, so many city officials, lawyers, and judges hung out there at noon. City Attorney Myles Walters was a regular customer.

Off I went to City Hall. I rode the elevator up to the Public Health Department's office floor and stepped out. The first person I saw in the hall was Vito Luciano.

“Jesus,” Vito said. “Ain't there no place a guy can get away from you?”

“Any place,” I said. Yet another stupid knee-jerk response.

Vito clenched his fists. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. Nothing important.” I gave him my most disarm­ing smile. “What brings you here?”

“If you don't know, I sure as hell ain't gonna tell you.” Vito turned away and went through the door marked Public Health Department, slamming the door so hard that the glass panel rattled.

While I was debating my next move, the elevator beside the one I had just vacated opened and another unexpected visitor stepped out. He looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I might ask you the same,” said Detective Lieutenant Curtis Brown, the police department's chief homicide investigator.

I pointed to the Public Health Department door. “I heard something was going on in there. Do you know what it is?”

“I do but I can't tell you,” Brownie said. “Have a good day, Mitch.” And through the Public Health Department door he went. I tried to follow, but Brownie put up a hand to stop me and shut the door inches from my nose. Before the door closed I saw two uniformed police officers inside.

The chief of homicide? In the Public Health Department? Had some restaurant's food killed somebody? And was that restaurant King Vinnie's Steakhouse? Why else would Vito be in there?

I was still staring at the door when a voice from behind me caused me to spin around. “Hi, Mitch. Trish Valentine reporting live.”

Sure enough, it was Trish and her cameraman. “Do you know what's going on?” I asked.

“All I know is that my source called and said that somebody from public health might be going to jail,” she said.

I pulled out my cell phone and called the desk. “Get me a photographer here at the Public Health Department right now.”