An Eye for Murder (19 page)

I stood up too. “I think my father knew her. A long time ago. During the war.”

“Good heavens. What a small world.” Her shoulders were hunched, her muscles tense. Her casual air had vanished. Even the air in the room seemed stiff.

The nerves under my skin jangled, like the discordant notes of a Schoenberg piece. “How did that happen?”

I answered cautiously. “Oh, it was a family matter.”

“I see.” She snapped her purse shut and patted my hand, her composure suddenly restored. “Well, thank you for doing such fine research. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen film of my father before.”

The chill I felt had nothing to do with the studio air.

I was trying to figure out how to avoid cooking dinner that evening when the phone rang, and a clipped female voice asked, “Is this the residence of Ellie Foreman?”

“Yes.”

“This is Iris Spencer, the librarian from the Rogers Park branch.”

Miss Finkel redux. “Yes. I remember.” I looked out the window. The late afternoon sun shimmered through the locust tree, its fronds swaying gently in the breeze.

“I found your number behind the counter. You wanted to talk to Clarence Ramsey.”

Boo Boo. “That’s right. It was thoughtful of you to remember. But I did—”

She cut me off, her voice quavering. “We got some bad news today. Clarence was shot. About three blocks from here. He’s…he’s in critical condition.”

The afternoon sun suddenly turned garish and hard.

“The police believe it was gang related.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I forced out words. “Boo Boo wasn’t in a gang.”

“It was a drive-by.”

Black rimmed the edges of my vision. Through the window I was dimly aware of a small child racing around on a tricycle, followed by another hauling a red wagon. The librarian went on. “I have such little time with them, you see. There’s only so much I can do.”

I heard the pain in her voice. “You did more for him than you know.”

“It’s never enough.” She drew in a breath. I asked what hospital he was in.

“Do you expect you’ll come for a visit?”

“I…I don’t know.” My head felt light and spongy, too big for my body. I rubbed the back of my neck. I pictured Boo Boo on the computers at the library, tapping into virtual worlds of knowledge. I’d assumed words and books and ideas would somehow gild him, protect him from the life in the ‘hood. The roar of an airplane droned overhead. “But when you hear something, could you let me know?”

“Of course.”

There was a moment of silence. I broke it with a question. “Do they know who did it? Were there any witnesses?”

“A couple across the street apparently saw a beige or tan car. The police are looking for it.”

I gripped the phone so hard that a sharp pain shot through my fingers. “A Cutlass?”

“I’m not sure of the model.” There was another moment of silence. “Well, I thought you’d want to know.”

“Thank you.”

Hanging up, I wrapped my arms around my knees. Ever since I’d taken Skull’s cartons, bad things were happening. Ruth Fleishman was dead. My house had been robbed. Now Boo Boo was fighting for his life. And the one link among them was a tan car.

Chapter Twenty-six

I stopped by the village florist and sent flowers to the hospital, then went to
shul
to say a
Misheberach
, a blessing. When I got home, there was a message from David Linden, wanting to know whether my father was better and when they could meet. I wasn’t much in the mood, but I called Dad, who declared he still wasn’t interested.

“Dad, he didn’t know that Kurt died in Douglas Park. His mother told him his father was killed on some mission in Europe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“David said that according to Lisle, Kurt came home in June of forty-five but left again a short time later. To take a final OSS assignment, she said. Surveillance on some Nazis escaping to South America. It got all screwed up, and Kurt was killed.”

“No way. He came back in late July, just a week or so before Hiroshima. Why would she tell him something different?”

I had my suspicions. “I don’t know, but he called again today.” I looked through the window at the deepening dusk. “Dad, he needs to hear it from you. It would mean a lot.”

I heard him sigh through the phone “Thank you. I won’t forget this.”

“What have you gotten me into, Ellie?”

I ignored the question. “Just to give you a heads-up, Dad, I don’t think he knows about you and Lisle. If you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you, too.”

I heard the click as he disconnected. Then I heard another click.

“Dad?” Silence. “You still there?” More silence. First my E-mail. Now the phone. Had I suddenly been sentenced to technology hell? Or was it something else? Frowning, I put the receiver back in the cradle.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I introduced David to my father in the lobby of The Ritz. I knew Dad would be polite, but it had to be an emotional moment for him. Subdued, almost solemn, he stood at military attention. When he saw David, he took his hand and gazed at him, as if comparing the features on the son’s face to his memory of the mother’s. Discomfited, I played with my hair. If things had been different, Dad might have been David’s step-father, and I wouldn’t even be on the scene. Just as I thought this, Dad gave me a tender smile and brushed his hand across my hair.

David was in khakis today, with a light blue shirt that picked up the contrast between his eyes and white hair. Something stirred inside me. Had Paul Iverson been this handsome? If so, I could understand Lisle’s attraction. We sat down in a grouping of upholstered chairs on a Chinese silk carpet. From our angle off the lobby, we had an excellent view of the fountain. Though it was still morning, soft piano music tinkled nearby.

“So.” Dad shifted toward David. “Ellie says you trade foreign currency. That must be a lucrative line of work.”

“Not as lucrative as you might imagine, sir.”

“No?”

Nice touch, Dad, I thought.

“Back in the Eighties, the spreads were so wide you could make good money. If you knew what you were doing. But that’s all changed.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Like everything else, as information has become more available, people see opportunities where they didn’t before. There’s a lot more competition today.” He smiled. “More global players too. Spreads are tighter and profit margins are thinner.”

My father nodded. He understood. I didn’t.

“Don’t get me wrong,” David said. “Foreign currencies will always be part of our portfolio. But if a banker’s being really honest, he’ll tell you the only reason we trade is to service our customers. To help them hedge or finance new ventures.”

“I thought the objective was to play the market.”

“Not anymore. That’s what I’m saying.” David leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “Let’s say you’re Toyota USA, and you know you’re going to buy a thousand cars from Toyota Japan six months from now. And let’s say the dollar is stronger than the yen.”

“Meaning…”

“Meaning your dollars will buy more yen than they might six months from now.”

“Okay.”

“In that case, it would make sense to hedge your yen obligation and lock in the cost of those cars now, rather than waiting six months. That way, you know today the actual cost of your cars out then.”

“So I would buy the yen now?”

“Not exactly. You’d contract to take delivery of the yen six months from now, but the price would be fixed today.”

“Okay.” I sounded tentative.

“See, companies want the security of knowing their actual cost in advance—their cost of goods sold.”

“But what if the yen
drops
six months from now?” I said, thinking about Barry’s stocks. “Things can go the other way, can’t they?”

“Of course.”

“So,” I said, “in a sense, you’re still gambling that the price of yen will go the way you want it to.”

He shook his head. “No. We aren’t speculators. Our clients understand that. What’s important to them is knowing the cost of what they’ve contracted for, before they take possession of it. Foreign currency trading gives them a tool to do that. They’re able to lock in the cost—no matter which way the yen goes.”

“Sounds simple when you put it that way.” David shrugged.

“But what about that guy in Baltimore—the one who worked for the Irish bank—who lost almost a billion dollars? He was a currency trader, wasn’t he?”

“He was trading the bank’s money. He made a bad trade and then made it worse by hiding what he did. Then he tried to make it all back before anyone discovered his losses, but it blew up in his face, as it always will, when people fall into that trap.”

“So he
was
speculating.”

“That’s what got him in trouble.”

“I don’t get it. You just said you don’t speculate.”

“I don’t. What I do is help the bank’s customers hedge their foreign currency risks. I’m more of an advisor, in that respect. I don’t trade the bank’s money.”

“But others do.”

“That’s right.”

“Who?”

“My colleagues in the trading group.”

I hoped they were better at it than Barry.

A waiter carrying a silver tray drifted over toward us, a question on his face. David waved him away.

“I graduated from the Wharton School, but I learned most of it on the job.”

“Philadelphia, you say?”

“And London, Geneva, Tokyo.”

Dad notched his eyebrows. “You speak all those languages?”

“God no. I don’t even speak German. My mother always talked to me in English.”

“That sounds like Lisle.” Dad smiled.

David’s expression suddenly grew serious. “Mr. Foreman—”

“Call me Jake.”

“Is it true what Ellie told me? That my father died here in Chicago?”

Dad’s face softened. “In Lawndale,” he said gently. “Douglas Park. I was there.”

“Jake?” His tongue seemed to trip over the word. “Would you take me there…to the place where it happened?”

Chapter Twenty-seven

By the time we got off the Eisenhower on the West Side, Dad and David were chatting like old friends. As we turned south, Dad rubbed his hands together. He hadn’t been this animated in years.

“This is Lawndale, son,” he said. “Used to be the heart of Jewish life in Chicago.”

We passed scorched buildings and abandoned lots filled with trash, rusty barrels, and in one case, a cardboard appliance box. Lawndale had been ground zero during the riots; forty years later, the scars were still palpable.

“Would you look at that?” Dad cranked down the window as we cruised past a McDonald’s. Its sanitized cheerfulness clashed with the detritus of the community. “Miller’s pool hall used to be right there.” He pointed to the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. “This is where I first met your mother, David. Roosevelt and Kedzie. On a Sunday afternoon.”

I slowed so David could take a look. “You met my mother at a pool hall?”

“She was just passing by,” Dad said hastily.

I stole a glance in the rearview mirror. David’s mirrored shades hid his expression. We continued south on Kedzie to Ogden, where a sign on a large shabby building said it was the Church of the Lord Jesus Christ. Once upon a time it must have been an elegant addition to the neighborhood, but its cornices and grillwork were now crumbling, and initials in loopy iridescent letters covered the walls.

“This was the Douglas Park Auditorium. Home of the Yiddish Theater. I knew an actress who worked here.”

“Skull’s girlfriend?” I asked. “The one who was killed by the Nazi Bund officer?”

Dad nodded. I shaded my eyes. The inside walls had collapsed, leaving wooden studs with exposed pipes and wires. Sunbeams danced off shards of glass where windows should have been.

Dad grew more subdued as he directed me to Albany Avenue. We stopped in front of a long brown brick building with a cross on the front. The sign above said it was the Sacred Heart Home. “It’s still here,” Dad breathed. “This used to be the Jewish Orphans Home. Your mother lived here, David, before she moved into Teitelman’s.”

David leaned his head out the window.

We headed back up to Douglas Boulevard, a broad fourlane street separated by an island and flanked by leafy, graceful trees. I imagined couples sauntering down the sidewalks years ago, the women in dresses with parasols, children scampering behind.

“Look.” My father pointed to a boxy brick building called the Lawndale Community Academy. “This was the Jewish People’s Institute. Your mother and I danced on that roof in the summertime.”

“You and my mother?” David’s voice was laced with doubt.

I grimaced. Dad shouldn’t have let that drop.

He must have realized it, too. “Before she met your father,” he stammered, “your mother and I…we spent some time together.”

I stole another glance in the rearview mirror. David’s face was blank. “Look across the street, David,” I cut in. “That used to be the Hebrew Theological College.” I pointed toward a granite building with Doric columns framing the entrance. “We shot it for
Celebrate Chicago
.”

“Boys came from all over the Midwest to study here.” Dad picked up on my strategy. “But they moved north twentyfive years ago. Like everyone else.” I drove on. “So. Did my daughter tell you what a talented director she is?”

“Producer, Dad, and I told him.”

“She tell you who she’s working for now?”

“Dad—”

“She’s making a video for Marian Iverson,” he said proudly.

“The one running for the Senate.” Dad seemed to have gotten over his antipathy that she was a Republican.

“My mother worked for a man named Iverson,” David said. “He owned a steel mill. Is this woman a relation?”

“His daughter,” I admitted.

“My mother spoke highly of him. And you’re doing a video for his daughter?” His face lit. “What a coincidence.”

I turned a corner, thinking about the coincidences that had cropped up in my life. Skull, Lisle Gottlieb, and now the Iverson family. It was all feeling very Jungian.