Maxwell Street Blues (13 page)

I called in her license plate to Johnny Bonds, who called me back with the name Anna Piantowski. Her car was still registered in Pennsylvania. A short time later, Anna Piantowski emerged from the house holding a piece of white paper. I leaned against an enormous oak tree directly across the street from her car. When she crossed the sidewalk, I walked quickly to block the driver’s side door.

“Hi, Ms. Piantowski. I’m a friend of Audrey’s.”

She seemed unimpressed with this fact. “She’s probably at work.”

“I’m also a private investigator.” I showed her my license. She took it from my hand, studied it, handed it back. I noticed the cell phone on her belt. “I’m investigating the murder of Charles Snook. He did some work for Dr. Tate. Audrey said you take phone messages during the day. Do you remember a man named Jason calling in the last two weeks?”

“I don’t remember, and I’ve got a lot of errands to run.” She held up the piece of paper and then stuffed it into her pocket. On her forearm I noticed a tattooed outline of a heart enclosing the letters “LC.”

“Each call lasted less than fifteen seconds. The time it takes to ask if someone was home and then leave a message. Maybe he asked for Dr. Tate.”

Anna Piantowski’s jaw muscles momentarily popped up. “I don’t keep a message log. If someone called for Dr. Tate, then ask Dr. Tate if he got the message. Now, do you mind getting out of the way?”

“I don’t mind, but first let me tell you some facts: Three calls were made in the afternoon hours to this house; three calls were answered. The drug addict who made the calls has since had his brains blown out the back of his head. And here’s a
possible
fact: if the drug addict wasn’t calling for Audrey or Tate, then maybe he was calling for
you
.”

Anna Piantowski was now a wolf about to tear out my throat. “Someone called and hung up,” she said. “I said, ‘Hello, hello?’ and they hung up. It happened a few times.”

“And you were not going to tell me this because …?”

“Because I’m in a hurry and didn’t think about it.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not surprised to see me?”

Anna Piantowski pursed her lips, and I noticed her hands had become fists that accentuated her forearm muscles. “Look, mister, I have work to do. I’m going to ask you one more time to get out of the way.”

I did as asked. As she drove away, I saw her left arm bring the cell phone to her ear.

* * *

I walked back to the picnic table and called Kalijero. “I’m across from Tate’s house,” I said. “I just had a not-so-friendly chat with his personal assistant, who’s in his house five days a week. She just called someone from her cell.”

“You want to know who she’s been calling?”

“I want to know who she’s calling
right now
.”

“I need proper legal authority to track someone.”

“She lied to me when I asked if a recently murdered drug addict had called the house.”

I heard a grunt, then, “I guess that’s justifiable. Give me a couple hours.”

The phone rang as I walked back to my car. “Do me a favor,” Dad said. “Meet me at Halsted and Maxwell.” He sounded troubled. I asked if the end of a barrel was pushed against his head. “Just shut up and meet me there,” he said and hung up.

Forty minutes later, I once again stood at the appointed corner amidst the anarchy of a construction zone. The chain-link fence had advanced another fifty yards or so. For several minutes, I watched the backhoes dig up enormous buckets of dirt before I noticed an apparition of a man in an argyle sweater standing on the opposite corner leaning heavily on a cane. I crossed the street and Dad surprised me by hooking his left arm around my neck and pulling me into an embrace. I carefully hugged him, fearful I would crush the bones of his back.

“I didn’t mean to sound sore on the phone,” he said. I suggested we sit in the shade. Dad gestured for me to lead the way, and he followed me to the front stoop of an abandoned three-flat—soon to be demolished. I helped him lower himself to the third step.

“Why here?” I said.

“First, tell me what’s going on.”

I told him about meeting Tate at the barely-legal-teen bar, the dead junkie, my
encounter with Voss at the lakefront, the conversation at Area B headquarters, my get-together with Linda Conway, and that morning’s conversation with Tate’s personal assistant.

“You didn’t say how the junkie got dead,” he said.

“Old age.”

“Funny. And what about that young broad?”

“What about her?”

“Don’t let your prick think for you.”

“Snooky adored her.”

“Those nicknames in Snooky’s book, the names I didn’t know. Figure them out yet?”

“All but one. Butch is still a mystery. I don’t think Butch was part of the Maxwell Street scam.”

Dad let out a heavy sigh. “You once referred to our family as a bunch of petty criminals.”

“Sorry. Maybe petty was the wrong word. How about small-time?”

Dad surprised me with a laugh. “In 1887 a Clark Street saloon keeper knew someone in the recorder’s office who owed him a favor, and my grandfather got his first job making phony real estate sales in return for kickbacks. When he was city collector, bribes from property owners magically transformed unpaid taxes into paid taxes. As city sealer of weights and measures, he saw that cash gifts resulted in accurate scales. As ward committeeman, he had poll watchers kidnapped to make sure the elections were fair. By this time he was making good money. Enough to get his son elected to the superior court at age thirty. Enough to get his chauffeur off a homicide charge after he ran over a woman from Highland Park.”

Dad took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Then a broad grin spread across his face and, as if under a spell, he continued. “But the Maxwell Street Market,” he said and laughed again. “That’s where Granddad was king! He had his own handpicked policemen. The peddlers feared him and paid him regularly or they were out! He created permanent market stalls and sold and resold them for hundreds of dollars. At the height of his power, he threw himself a fiftieth birthday banquet and was presented with a diamond star purchased by the grateful merchants of the Maxwell Street Market!”

Dad turned to me and said, “To this day, you can find books about Capone or Hymie Weiss, and somewhere you’ll find your great-grandfather’s name. He’s even mentioned in Bellow’s
Humboldt’s Gift
—I got the book if you don’t believe me.”

My father looked pissed off. His voice had acquired enough edge to instantly
explain how this skinny apparel salesman could also collude with people who never mourned the loss of an associate’s finger because of a delinquent payment. He had that certain chromosome required of men who had no impulse to rationalize how they acquired wealth or dwell on who got hurt in the process. It was the American way to make money; the fact he had hoodlum blood in his veins was a badge of historical honor and fuck you if you had a problem with it. I supposed I had a segment of that same chromosome but only enough so that I could go through life emotionally neutral about having a felon for a father or, perhaps, being a tad proud of it.

“These people he sucked dry,” I said, “these were
his
people.”

“He was a man of his times. Some he helped and others he didn’t. But he always took care of family. You don’t think Capone shafted other Italians?”

“Capone was a killer.”

Dad eyed me suspiciously. “Your great-grandfather was a highly respected man.
You
should command such respect one day.”

Dad looked away. I wanted to remind him of the difference between respect and fear, but his last comment provoked an unexpected insight. His 1934 birth situated his consciousness astride two spheres: the poor immigrant world that equated money with reverence and the newer, enlightened world that valued integrity over wealth. It seemed Dad would go to his grave with the former world still holding sway in his deep brain regions.

I said, “Why are we here talking about this?”

“Your investigation, Julie. There’s nothing new here. They’re all involved. Politicians, contractors, accountants, trustees, chancellors. The junkie sticking needles in his arms, the broad scratching out tattoos, they’re all involved. It’s the same old story being told over and over for a hundred years.”

“You think it’s a waste of time? You hired me, remember?”

Dad shrugged. “Find out what happened to Snooky and make them pay. If you do that, nothing’s wasted. But don’t think you’ll change anything. One corrupt official goes down, another takes his place. That will never change.”

Dad stared straight ahead with both hands resting on top of his cane. I studied his profile trying to find a hint of myself in his face but saw only those sunken cheeks and hollowed-out eyes.

“What’s the deal with Voss?” I said. “He’s talking in riddles. Is there some bad blood I should know about?”

Dad looked as if he was considering my statement. “I don’t know of bad blood with Voss. And if there was, I think I would know about it. Either way I don’t give a shit
what that prick thinks. He can’t touch me. Fuck him.”

“I was more worried about him touching
me
.”

Another dismissive wave. “He’s got nothing on you. That’s the key. Just don’t give him anything to use against you. I think you know what I mean. Cross the t’s and dot the i’s.”

“You need a ride home or what?”

“I have a ride,” Dad said and pointed at the limo parked down the street. Then he took a folded manila envelope from his sweater pocket and handed it to me. “Here’s another installment.” This time it was in hundred-dollar-bills. Thirty of them.

Dad made a comical effort to raise himself. I lifted him up from behind with my hands under his arms. He had the weight of an aluminum lawn chair.

I said, “Are you sure this prostate thing isn’t more urgent?”

“This isn’t about my goddamn prostate! I’m just old, that’s all. But I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.” Dad waved at the limo. “We’ll talk soon.”

The limo stopped in front of us. The driver helped Dad into the car. They pulled away a few feet then stopped. Dad’s window lowered. “And don’t worry about Voss, I mean it. Just don’t give him anything.”

I watched the limo disappear into traffic and wondered how long an old guy in Dad’s physical shape could live. My cell phone rang.

“You’re in luck,” Kalijero said. “Piantowski’s phone had GPS technology. Her call to someone named Linda Conway connected before she left Tate’s street.”

30

According to cell phone records, the majority of Anna Piantowski’s calls originated from a location on Pulaski Avenue in the Polish Village neighborhood. Driving down the street, you were challenged to find a sign that didn’t include “Polski,” “Waclawowo,” or “Jackowo.” Piantowski lived above the Zapraszamy Bakery. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Behind the counter, a girl about sixteen wore a bright red dress under an embroidered white vest covered in sequins and pearls. Partially covering her golden blond hair was a matching headscarf. She smiled sweetly, and I smiled back. I was thinking she might not speak English when she said, “We got free samples.”

She offered me a large platter of bite-sized pastries full of fruit. I asked if they
sold anything similar to a burrito. She thought for a moment, then pointed to a list of ingredients on a chalkboard and said, “We can make a giant pierogi and put anything you want in it.”

“Perfect,” I said, having no idea what a pierogi was, but from the list picked potatoes, onions, and cabbage. She disappeared into the back and then returned to take care of someone else. When the customer left, I asked her if she knew the lady who lived upstairs.

“Nope. I don’t know nobody up there.”

“Who owns this place?”

“I dunno.” She smiled again.

A few minutes later, a man emerged from the back holding a large fan-shaped dumpling and handed it to the girl. I paid for my pierogi and walked around to the alley where the stairway to Piantowski’s apartment was located. I loitered in the area while eating and keeping an eye out for a blue Subaru. It was about two o’clock when I finished the potato pie. By two-fifteen, my eyelids weighed ten pounds each. I found a small park in an adjacent neighborhood of brick two-flats and spent a drowsy hour waiting for my blood sugar to stabilize before walking back to the bakery and climbing the steps to Piantowski’s apartment. There was no answer to my repeated knocking, so I sat on the landing and waited. One hour later she appeared in the alley holding a bag of groceries. Apparently preoccupied, she kept her gaze downward as she climbed the steps and practically stepped on me.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

“Really?” She stepped over me to open the door. “You try to come in and I’ll knock your skinny ass down the stairs.”

I needed a different approach. “Look, I’m sorry for being abrupt. I just want to talk a little more. I’ll give you twenty bucks, and I’ll stay right here and talk through the door.” I took out a twenty from my pocket and held it up.

Anna Piantowski looked at the money. “Wait here.” She returned empty-handed, grabbed the twenty from my hand, and jammed it in her pocket. Then she took out a cigarette and leaned against the door. “Okay, what do you want?”

She was about to flick her lighter when I said, “You called Linda Conway after driving off this morning.”

Her arms dropped. “You’re a cop! You’re supposed to tell me that!”

“I’m working with a cop trying to find out who killed Charles Snook, a man who knew Linda Conway and Jerry Tate. Along the way I’ve come across drugs, money
laundering, and dead people. That combination gives cops lots of snooping power.”

Anna Piantowski lit her cigarette then took a deep drag. “You said the druggie that called the house is dead. Finding his killer will help you?”

“I know who killed the junkie. Why was Tate’s home phone number on his cell phone?”

“No idea. Tate’s not into drugs, if that’s what you’re thinking.”