Gold Coast Blues (9 page)

At the top of the landing Eddie said, “So you got info on Tanya?”

He followed me in and took a seat on the couch. I returned to the recliner and said, “How’s business?”

He raised his eyebrows but ignored the question. “What have you found out about Tanya?”

“Don’t get your hopes up. I want to tell you about yesterday evening’s events. Maybe something will come to mind—something you’ll want to tell me.”

Eddie took a breath and let it out. Then he unclenched his jaw. “Okay, start talking.” I pretended he didn’t just give me an order.

“After our lunch yesterday, I got a call. Someone wanted to pay me a grand to pick up a package in exchange for a pile of cash. I’ve dropped a lot of business cards around town so it’s no big surprise to get a call for a job, although this type of job was a first.”

“What was in the package?”

“An expensive bottle of wine. So I showed up at the meeting spot, got hit on the head and relieved of the cash. I found out later the wine had been stolen from the wife of the guy who ran off with Tanya. The same woman who told me Tanya was dead.”

“You don’t know Tanya ran off with him. He might’ve kidnapped her or blackmailed her to go.”

“We already discussed this. Tanya leaving willingly is the working theory.”

Like the previous day, Eddie’s cold, blue-eyed stare put me on guard. The image of him diving at me with a knife clenched between his teeth flashed through my brain.

Eddie said, “So what about Tanya?”

“This
other stuff
you’re involved in. Would that include theft?”

Eddie’s face reddened. “I know you think I’m a scumbag, but I do what I gotta do to survive. You don’t understand how I grew up—”

“Lots of people grow up in crummy neighborhoods and don’t become criminals.”

“It—it’s more than that. Trust me.”

“I’m trying to keep the trust thing simple. Can I trust that what you’re
not
telling me has nothing to do with Tanya disappearing?”

“I got nothin’ to do with stealin’ wine. I don’t know what that’s about.” He pulled an envelope from the breast pocket of his leather jacket and laid it on the coffee table between us. “You been workin’ hard. You gotta know I ’preciate it.”

I could clearly see the well-defined rectangular outline of cash stuffed in the business-sized envelope. Eddie leaned back on the couch, looked around the room. I stared at him until he met my eyes then averted his gaze—just like he did at yesterday’s lunch.

“I’m going to ask you this one time. And I’m going to
trust
that you’ll tell me the truth. Is that cash drug money?”

“No way! I swear to Christ that money is clean.”

He leaned forward, stared at the floor between his knees, began flexing his hands open and closed. I said, “We’ve got Doug, Tanya, and Doug’s wife, Margot. Margot says they’re both dead. Margot has an expensive bottle of wine stolen. We know Doug tried to convert his beer joint into a wine bar. How the hell is Tanya connected to this?”

Either Eddie knew the question was rhetorical or his fidgeting indicated he didn’t know what to say. “I never even saw Tanya drinkin’ wine,” he said. “You order wine where I’m from and you might get your ass kicked.”

“Let’s go back in time. How often did Tanya visit you in prison?”

“I don’t know. Couple times a month.”

“What did you guys talk about?”

Eddie scratched the back of his neck. “Just how I was doin’, how she was doin’; family and friends.”

“You said nobody stayed in touch with her after she left?”

“Yeah.”

“Bullshit. One of her friends told you Tanya was in Chicago—but you claim none of her friends know anything.”

Eddie stood up. “Word got around and I heard somethin’, so what?”

“So you
heard
she went to Chicago. That’s all you heard?”

“Yeah.”

“And then later, word got around that she was working at a wine bar—but none of her friends knew anything.”

Eddie started pacing around the room. I sensed the danger.

“You don’t even know what a pathetic liar you are, do you?” I said. He stopped walking and glared at me. “It’s over, Eddie. I know you’re full of shit. So why should I trust you? Tell me why I should even consider continuing this investigation.”

“I’m payin’ you!” he shouted.

I picked up the envelope. It weighed like four months of income. “Take your fucking money,” I said, then tossed the envelope his way.

Eddie watched it slide across the floor and hit the wall. I thought any second his head would explode. Then he rested his hands on his hips and stared out the window. I stretched out on the recliner. Eddie desired my help but knew he didn’t deserve it. It was not in his nature to slink away like a frightened child, and he knew beating the crap out of me wouldn’t remedy his pain either. We stayed in our respective positions for a few uncomfortable minutes before I attempted to put him out of his misery.

“If you leave and take the money, we’re done. If you leave and don’t take the money, I’m still working for you. But it also means you acknowledge and accept I will go anywhere I want and ask all the questions I want, if only to find out if you’re lying to me. And, yes, in my rules of the game, withholding information is the same as lying. Take it or leave it.”

Offering the only acceptable option had a cathartic effect. There was a difference between acting reckless and acting dumb. I didn’t mind being reckless. If Eddie wouldn’t tell me everything he knew, I could justify acting reckless to find the truth on my own. But if Eddie wouldn’t pay me to snoop around his old neighborhood, I would be dumb to keep him as a client. Fatigue followed closely behind the catharsis. My transition into dreamland assimilated a closing door and Eddie’s feet pounding down the steps. I could’ve lifted my head to see if he had taken the money, but the effort seemed pointless.

Chapter 15

Knuckles banged against solid wood then stopped for a few seconds before starting up again. I sat up and surveyed the empty room. Through the lingering haze of an afternoon nap, I reconstructed the scene that had taken place about a half hour earlier. Once out of the recliner, I saw the envelope still on the floor against the wall and then opened the door to stare into the face of retired police detective Jimmy Kalijero.

“Are you going to let me in or not?”

I stepped aside. “You could’ve called first.”

Kalijero lumbered in and fell back into the recliner. He still looked rather dashing for a man past sixty, his silk shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal a gold Parthenon dangling above his sternum. His head of wavy silver hair also lent Kalijero a sense of mythical Greek nobility. I picked up the envelope then sat across from him on the couch.

“When are you going to put some pictures on the wall? This place depresses me.”

“It seems having too much time on your hands brings out the useless critic. What’s next, you don’t like my haircut?”

Kalijero frowned. “That kid who left a little while ago. Jersey boy?” I walked to the kitchen, took two cans of ginger ale from the fridge, then handed one to my guest. “No Tanqueray?” Kalijero said.

“Funny. What were you doing out there?”

Kalijero held his gaze on me longer than I liked. He looked worried. “Where are you in the investigation?”

“Since we talked last night? The package was a bottle of wine stolen from Margot Daley and worth about twenty grand.”

“How did you figure that out?”

“Margot told me.”

“What else?”

“I have a cork one of the pirates dropped in the alley. It had once plugged a bottle of some other pricey vintage. Someone was using it as a key fob.”

Kalijero laughed. “That was awfully convenient. No business card with it?”

“I can’t think of any reason why they left it there intentionally.”

“To lead you to the broad with money—Margot.”

“Then they must’ve known I was investigating Tanya Maggio. Otherwise, how could they assume I would make the connection to Margot?”

Kalijero’s expression said he had moved beyond wayward corks. “How does the missing girl figure in?”

“No idea.”

“What does Margot think?”

“She thinks both her husband and Tanya are dead. I told you that.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Why shouldn’t I? She showed me the newspaper article, crash photo and all. Jimmy, what are you doing here?”

Kalijero nodded, hesitated, then said, “I got curious about Cooper, the cop I knew years ago. The one in Newark who told the kid Eddie to find me. It appears the rumors were true—only more so. He’s now King of the Shithole. The arrogant prick holds court out in the open, in a strip joint surrounded by suckling guidos. Here, a buddy of mine sent me this because I thought he was kidding.”

Kalijero reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, then slid it across the coffee table. I unfolded a somewhat pixelated fax machine photo of a man sitting with a bunch of guys at a booth.

“Do you think your buddy could email me a JPEG of this photo?”

Kalijero looked horrified. “Do what?”

“Never mind. How dirty are we talking?”

“Start with a certain product that holds its value—especially in ghettos. Think of the cash it brings in. From there, who knows how dirty.”

“Things that hold their value. I have a feeling you’re not talking about Warhol paintings.” I tossed the envelope on the table. It landed flat with a loud “thwack.” “The sound of money crashing.”

Even Kalijero seemed surprised at the potential sum suggested by the envelope’s mass. “You may want to rethink this client.”

“Thanks a lot. After you sent him to me. And he swore to Christ the money was clean.”

“Oh, yeah? I swear to Christ I’m Archbishop Ieronymos.”

“This picture will come in handy if I go out there and check things out.”

“Go out where? Irvington? You’re out of your goddamn mind if you go snooping around Cooper’s territory!”

“You can’t just
assume
Eddie is drug-connected with Cooper! If I have to go to Irvington to find out, I will.”

Kalijero slowly ran both hands through his hair. “Just listen! You don’t have to go to Irvington. Word is, Cooper is branching out. Wants to make inroads into other city shitholes.”

“And you think that’s Eddie’s assignment, here in Chicago?”

“He’s loaded with cash, Cooper’s known him his whole life. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“But what about Tanya? And since Cooper is from Chicago, you’d think he’d already have connections here.”

“He might.”

“A cop?”

Kalijero pretended not to hear me. “When I suggested rethinking this client, I wasn’t joking.”

“I’ve got almost ten years in this biz including two solved murder cases. Remember? When are you going to stop talking to me like I just got a junior G-man badge from a box of cornflakes?”

Kalijero pushed himself up from the chair. “You got anything to eat?”

He walked into the kitchen and started opening cabinets. After he found my sourdough pretzels he leaned back against the counter and started eating out of the box.

“You always were cocky. I don’t know where it came from because your old man wasn’t like that. Even after—”

“Stop with the guilt over putting my dad away. Forget it. You were just doing your job. I’ve said that a hundred times. I liked you better when you thought I was just a punk with a two-bit hoodlum father. This sentimental side of you is nauseating. Especially since Frownie died—”

“You’re really determined to be a prick, aren’t you, Landau? Your dad didn’t want you in this business and neither did Frownie. But Frownie knew you’d do whatever you goddamn wanted no matter what others said. So he took the time to train you, to make sure maybe you wouldn’t get killed—right away. And, yeah, since Frownie died I feel a little more responsible. So what? You got any friends, Landau? What I hear is you got nobody. I’m probably the closest thing you have to a friend and I don’t even like you!”

Kalijero stood his ground, angrily crunching on pretzels. I saw a divorced, childless man figuring out where he belonged after a law enforcement career had justified his existence for forty years. He had a lot of experience to offer, but if access to knowledge required adopting a de facto father figure, I’d prefer taking my chances with fate.

I said, “You should know by now that I’m not going to drop a case for you or anyone else. So why bring it up? I mean, either you help me or you don’t, Jimmy. And if you do want to help, there can’t be any conditions attached.”

Kalijero said nothing as he walked back to the chair, pretzel box in hand. I watched him get comfortable, then stare straight ahead in a chomping trance. About ten minutes later, he placed the empty box on the coffee table next to the envelope of cash and stood. Before walking out he said, “Enjoy the kid’s money while you can. Eventually, the stink will rub off on you until you can’t even stand yourself anymore.”

—

Kalijero’s exit left an ache in my gut. I thought of him making the effort to drive here, taking the time to watch my apartment, thinking about what he wanted to say. I should be flattered to get that kind of attention from a man with his experience. His career had spanned the last decades of my family’s peripheral involvement with small-time crime syndicates, ending abruptly with my father’s imprisonment when I was a teenager. Maybe his retirement had allowed the connection he felt with the past to fill the void police work left behind. Maybe I should ask myself why I cared what Kalijero thought.

Chapter 16

From across the street of Pâtisserie Grenouille, I stood in the languishing afternoon light, taking little comfort in the feeble warmth, but feeling unexpectedly lighthearted from the promise of March sunshine.

Brenda Gallagher stepped outside for a smoke. A few puffs later she flicked the cigarette into the street and returned to the café. I waited awhile longer for business to pick up before slipping through the crowd and sitting at a table in the center of the room. Brenda pulsated joy as she ran her business, her smile never wavering as she fluttered about serving various desserts, chatting with devoted patrons, or offering advice on the best white wine with a puff pastry or lemon soufflé. Once again, I noticed the old, white-bearded man wearing the black beret, sitting by himself at a table against the far wall.