Maxwell Street Blues (20 page)

“I had a hunch people didn’t sleep too late after killing someone.”

I didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded young. “Who is this?”

“I mean no harm, sir. My name is Ellis Knight. I’m writing a story for
The Partisan
about the growing meth problem, and I thought maybe you’d like to share your
thoughts.”

“How did you get my number?”

“You’re part of the public record, sir. Meet me at Mocha Mouse, ten o’clock. How about it?”

“How about you go fuck yourself?” I hung up.

I prepared more ice packs, fed Punim, and lowered myself onto the recliner. It was Sunday, and my left cheekbone was once again a throbbing plum. I needed to get the door fixed. Punim leaped onto my lap. The pain caused me to jump, which sent her dashing down the hall and probably onto the porch landing, where she often slept during the cooler hours of a summer morning.

I thought about Tate. He should have aged thirty years by now. His frame of mind would tell me if he was the novice in over his head or playing some other kind of game. My apartment’s door knocker bounced. I shouted, “What!?” An assassin would not have bothered knocking. Audrey walked in, her face red and tear-streaked.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to get hurt, I swear. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”

“You knew about all this?”

“They had it all planned out. I heard about it yesterday morning, and I couldn’t get them to change their minds. They would’ve hurt you, so I wanted to get you out of the way. They were supposed to just take a few things and go, but you left the party early.”

“You sick bitch. You couldn’t have warned me? Don’t you think I could have stopped them?”

“If they thought you would be here, they would’ve ganged up on you! They could’ve killed you! They saw you at the party, so just one went. I couldn’t stop it from happening, I swear.”

I waited for the sobbing to subside and said, “He thought I had money stashed away. Where did he get that idea?”

Audrey wiped her eyes and then gave me a confused look. “I don’t know.”

She may have been telling the truth for a change. Voss most likely told the meth-heads I carried around a lot of cash. “I guess I should thank you. I could’ve been beaten up by
two
meth-heads instead of one.”

“Let me pay for the door.”

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. “Very thoughtful. You may leave now.” I had no interest in parting smiles or thoughtful stares or any other ambiguous gesture. She was good, all right, so good that her motives were buried deep within the bowels of a story that had yet to be told. Had my character’s chapter ended as a lifeless
bloody pulp—then so it was written. But what part of her story would reveal why she colluded with Voss?

* * *

Leave me the fuck alone
was my only thought when the phone rang again a couple of hours later.

“Christ almighty, you didn’t take the money from Mildish?” Dad said. “And I gotta hear this crap from someone else?”

“I’m not walking away. Fuck the money.”

“You think Snooky wouldn’t want you to take the money?”

“Dad, you hired me. Remember?”

“Don’t use that against me! If I had known how complicated it all was, I would’ve let it go.”

“And when I didn’t hear from Snooky and found out he was dead? I would’ve gone after his killer. Money or no money.”

“And now you’re a marked man. Too stupid to see how many people would profit from you being dead.”

“But not Voss, the most important of them all. He wants something from me. If I’m dead, he doesn’t get what he wants.”

Dad said nothing, only breathed roughly through his old man lungs. I hated when he thought so loudly. I imagined him holding the phone with one hand while massaging his forehead with the other. “Dad, c’mon. What did you think a murder investigation would be like?”

“I don’t know. Not so complicated.”

“A couple of days ago you told me nothing has changed, that it was the same old story.”

“It’s true.”

“Then why are you surprised? You know all the stories from the old days. You read the same articles I did. The
Tribune
called Great-Granddad a terrorist eighty years before it became a household word. Kidnapping poll watchers, threatening jurors, extorting money from peddlers, his chauffeur killing a pedestrian, and the guy that was gunned down in the primary—”

“He was innocent! It was a frame-up; even the papers said it was Capone’s gang who shot that guy.”

“That’s not the point. Was the boss of the ‘Bloody Twentieth Ward’ all those years ago really any different than today’s Voss of Internal Affairs?”

This time only a short silence. “Maybe not. But for god’s sake, don’t be reckless. Don’t go getting killed over this. Think about what that would do to me and Frownie—”

Dad’s voice broke off. I had never heard or seen him cry. God forbid a Landau should show such weakness.

45

You were never sure who knew what in this business. That’s what Frownie always said. For that reason, I decided to follow up with the phone call invitation to Mocha Mouse, arriving at a quarter to ten.
Kind of Blue
played over the sound system of the jazz-themed coffee shop. At the corner table farthest from the door sat a kid with black horn-rimmed glasses and a mop of dark wiry hair piled high. He was staring into his laptop. His powder-blue dress shirt and stupid smirk gave him a nerdy, smart-ass appearance that fit perfectly with the voice on the phone. I walked toward him, and as if he had planned the whole scene, he looked up and smiled just as I approached the table. Knight introduced himself. “You look like a walking car wreck.” Affecting a Bogart accent, he then said, “Of all the coffee shops in all the towns in all the world, he limps into mine.”

“Ever had cracked ribs?” I said.

“Is that a question or a threat?”

“I’m not sure.” I sat down.

“Dude! How does it feel to be a tragic hero after killing two meth-heads in two weeks? You think you can kill ’em all, Detective?”

I studied his idiotic grin for a moment and said, “Why do you say
two
meth-heads?”

“I read the police blotters and I thought I’d take a chance. Am I wrong?”

“A deranged addict pushed a gun into my back and another one wanted to bash my brains out. But Ellis Knight would have talked them down, right? Maybe get them some therapy?”

“Whoa, I’m not
blaming
you, dude. I’m just asking. Should they all be killed?”

“I’m here, Knight. What do you want?”

“I want to know if you think meth addicts should be killed. It’s not an unpopular stance these days.”

“Thou shall not kill.”

“Thou
shalt
not
murder
.”

“I killed in self-defense. That’s the only reason to kill.”

Knight lowered his head and started typing on his laptop. When he was still typing a minute later, I said, “What’re you writing?”

“Sometimes ideas pop into my head, and I have to get them down. What you just said, ‘the only reason to kill,’ conjured up a lot of ideas.”

“How about you get to the point of why you think I have anything to add to your article.”

Knight leaned back and folded his arms. “There’s a lot of money to be made in meth. And there’s a lot of possible angles to consider. You think Charles Snook got clipped because he was gonna expose a high-ranking university employee as a meth dealer?”

“Who put that crap in your head?”

“Or how about some payback involved with your family? Snook was like family, right?”

“You’re just making this shit up.”

“You know I can’t reveal my sources, Detective.”

“There’s no story here.”

“Then why was Snook killed?”

“I don’t know yet. And what does his murder have to do with anything?”

“I’ve been given ten thousand words to describe the big meth world out there. That’s a lot of room to stretch out and see all the different microcultures affected by it. You got the scumbags with hot plates cookin’ themselves to death. You got suburban assholes looking for kicks, and now I think you got mobbed-up operations eating their own to protect profits. And with all those wheels spinning, a couple of meth-heads get spit out toward Detective Landau, and Detective Landau wastes them.”

Had I entered the Twilight Zone? “I get it. You’re developing a plot for a book.”

Knight laughed. “It’s human interest, dude. Los Angeles. Ever been? You should go, dude.”

“It’s not human interest, it’s bullshit. And what’s Los Angeles got to do with anything?”

“I gotta feeling you can find
some
truth if you look hard enough over there. I mean it’s
Los Angeles
, dude. Film noir, right? Unsolved murders like that black-dolly thing. That was a real black-haired chick who got hacked up. Never solved.”

“Black Dahlia, you idiot. Is there a Los Angeles connection to all this you’re not
telling me about?”

“I’m just sayin’—”

“Audrey’s friend lives in Los Angeles. She’s even called L.A. Long black hair. Red eyebrows. You know her?”

Knight ignored my question but couldn’t hide his unease. “I mean, like, it’s possible Mr. Snook’s death is related to meth. It’s possible you subconsciously want to kill these druggies—hell, I’d like to kill them. Or maybe there’s an old score being settled, something to do with the Landau heritage. And it’s an opportunity for you, too! The article will give you some street cred. You’ll get a name as something more than a son of the Chicago Landaus, more clients. Dude, I’m gonna make you famous!”

“Okay, Knight. I like to kill scumbags. And that includes lying tabloid journalists. If you print any bullshit about me or Snooky, you’re a dead man.” Cursing through the pain, I pushed myself up and walked away, knowing Knight still wore that same smirk on his face.

* * *

I opened the outside door to my building and saw a man on his knees in front of my apartment. He hummed loudly while chipping away at what remained of my doorjamb. He didn’t notice me until I had almost reached the landing. “Audrey sent me,” he said and stared at my purple eye. “The guy upstairs let me in. You’re pretty trusting to leave your place wide open like this.”

“I got nothing of value, except my cat, and she wouldn’t go quietly.”

He didn’t hear a word. “I just gotta clean up the rest of the broken wood, cut a new piece, measure everything up, reattach the hardware, and I’m done.”

“Great,” I said and spent the next two hours listening to the alternating sounds of carpentry and the whistling of unidentifiable tunes. I popped a couple of Tylenol and tried reading the Sunday
Trib
, but my mind was under siege from physical pain and a growing anxiety over the sluggishness of my investigation. Frownie had warned me that when such feelings arose it was important to revisit a main character to see if anything about their story had changed. A lot had happened since I last spoke with Tate. It was time to renew our acquaintance.

46

Low-hanging clouds had turned Lake Michigan slate gray. Driving to Evanston, the heavy sky reminded me of November, when temperatures dropped into the forties and the humidity remained at seventy-five percent to make you as uncomfortable as possible. Add a little wind to the mix and you wondered why du Sable, the “Father of Chicago,” didn’t hightail it back to Hispaniola during his first November.

As expected, the park across from Tate’s house teemed with people picnicking, throwing a ball around, or just looking out over the lake. I thought my chances were pretty good of catching him at home on a Sunday, although there was no sign of life in or around the house. I rang the doorbell. Tate answered in his robe and slippers.

“I see by the lovely colors on your face you’re making friends again,” Tate said. “Bluish purple suits you.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“I doubt it.” Even in a robe he looked dapper, as if he
belonged
in silk.

“We haven’t spoken in a while,” I said. “What do you say?”

Tate stepped aside, and I followed him into the living room. I sat on an elegant wood-trimmed love seat in front of the huge picture window that looked across the street to the park. Tate sat opposite me in a matching chair. “How’s the investigation going?” There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice, and his body language appeared genuinely calm.

I said, “You had any interesting offers lately?”

“Offers for what?”

“I’ll phrase it differently. How about choices? Have you been given any choices lately?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You haven’t spoken to Mildish or Baron recently?”

“They can both go to hell.”

“How about Audrey?”

Tate’s face darkened. “I told you to leave her out of this. She knows nothing about my personal dealings.
She has nothing to do with anything!
” Tate stood and walked to the other end of the room. He stared out the window that looked into the backyard. After several minutes he returned to his chair and said, “You have something to tell me?”

Suddenly, I wondered if I was set up to tell Tate of the ruinous choice he would face. Mildish assumed I’d run to Tate with the bad news, and Tate would run away and disappear on his own. Instead, I ran to Audrey, thinking she would break the news to him. Another mistaken assumption. Audrey preferred her old dad got the news directly from Mildish operatives.

I noticed his leather and satin slippers matched his pajamas. “Actually, I hoped you had something you wanted to share with
me
—just in case you had planned on going somewhere. Something about Snooky’s murder, perhaps, like how your phone number got on a dead meth-head’s cell phone?”

“What are you talking about?”

“A junkie attacked me. Your business card was found in his pocket.” Tate laughed. “You really think I associate with dope addicts?”

“No. But Audrey does.”

Tate laughed again. “Audrey? You’re suggesting Audrey had something to do with Snook’s murder? What was her motive?”