The Fifth Floor (16 page)

I put out a hand and pushed against the soft body. Woods fell back against my car, slipped down the side, and nuzzled up to the grille. Leaking oil in more than a few spots and looking at me over his shoulder. Still trying to swear but not getting the words entirely right. He was pissed. Just too tired to do much more about it.

“Take it easy, Woods. You can take another run when you get your breath back.”

Johnny took my advice and sat back against the bumper. I leaned against a tree and waited. Part of me wished he could actually hit, make it worth my while to hit back. But that part wasn’t going to make Johnny Woods any tougher, any more or less of a man than he already was. Besides, the guy spent his spare time beating up women. He was lucky I didn’t take a swing or three just for fun. He’d have more than a busted nose to worry about.

“Fucking tough guy, huh, Kelly?”

“Not tough. Just trained. If you don’t know how to do it, hitting people can be a hard job.”

“You enjoy tagging my wife.”

“Let it go, Woods.”

“I don’t fucking think so.”

“I do.”

I dropped to a knee and got close enough so even Johnny would understand.

“Your wife’s got a face full of pain. And it’s not the first time. She’s been documenting every beating you put on her. Now she’s going to take her little girl and get the fuck away from you. And you know what? You’re gonna let her go. You know why?”

I held two fingers close to his face.

“Two reasons. First, ’cause if you try to stop her, she goes public. One press conference, and the mayor dumps you quicker than the sack of steaming horseshit you actually are. Second reason is even simpler. I don’t like cowards. And I especially don’t like cowards who beat up women. Anything from you, anything at all, and I find you. No matter when, no matter where. I find you and I beat you till you beg for the gun. And that’s when you get it. I bust your teeth open with the butt, put the barrel in until it hits the back of your throat, and pull the trigger. Last thing you see is my face. You got it?”

He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, looking at the ground, wiping at the blood as it dripped off his face.

“Take a look at me, Woods.”

He did.

“Just give me a reason. I won’t think twice about it, and I won’t miss a minute’s sleep afterward. You understand?”

Woods nodded. Once, twice, three times. Then he paused. First it was the lower lip. After that, the chin began to tremble. He jammed his eyes into his fists, sniffled, and sobbed. The pity party had started. Looked like it was going to take a while so I stood up and considered my ruined windshield. A mom walked by with her kid. Probably heading off to school. I smiled. The two of them took a look at us and kept walking.

“Why did she have to do that?” Woods spoke with an aftertaste of sorrow that was as self-serving as it was considerable.

“Do what, Johnny?”

“You know what.”

Woods didn’t care about my threats. And he certainly didn’t care about his wife’s bruises. It was the role of cuckold that Woods couldn’t stomach. The idea that his wife would take another man. In his own house, even. Cowards, especially ones who prey on women and kids, always have the biggest egos. The mayor’s man was no exception. Just the latest and sorriest example.

There was a steadier trickle of cars coming down the block now. A few more people on the street. Most of them were noticing us. Some talking. I knew it was just a matter of time before the police showed up.

“Nothing happened with your wife, Woods. She hired me because she wants to be rid of you. We were talking last night and it got late. I slept on your couch. Believe me or don’t, I don’t much give a damn. Now get in the car.”

I got behind the wheel. Woods probably figured he wasn’t making the greatest impression on his neighbors and found his way to the passenger door. The glass was spidered halfway across my side, but I could see well enough. We drove to a White Hen. I bought a bag of ice, a bottle of water, cotton, and bandages.

“Here, clean yourself up.”

Woods washed off the blood. I took out a handkerchief and wrapped up some ice.

“Press this on your face. Keep the swelling down.”

Woods took the compress and swung the rearview mirror his way.

“How’s it look?” he said.

I swung the rearview mirror back.

“Your nose is fucked, so forget about it. Unless you want to go to the hospital and have it set.”

Woods had the ice on the side of his cheek and shook his head.

“Good idea,” I said. “Leave it the way it is. If you want to breathe better, they can break it and reset it later.”

Johnny rolled an eyeball my way. Guess he didn’t like the idea of rebreaking a part of his face.

“Relax,” I said. “I had my nose busted six or seven times. Never went to the hospital. Not a big deal.”

Woods pulled the compress away and felt his face. Carefully. Then he put the ice back in place and leaned back against the headrest. I turned on the radio. Woods decided he wanted to talk some more.

“Where’d you learn to fight, Kelly?”

“We didn’t fight.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You fought. I didn’t throw a punch.”

“That’s what I mean. Man kicks my ass without throwing a punch. Tells me he knows how to fight. Where did you learn?”

“Here and there,” I said. “Growing up.”

“You fight for fun?”

“Never fun. Not if you know how to do it. It’s work. And it’s mean. And it’s for keeps.”

“Which means what?”

“Which means it’s usually for money.”

“So you’re a pro?”

I glanced at the edge of my reflection in the driver’s side mirror. “Used to be,” I said.

“So I didn’t have a chance.”

I looked across the car and shrugged. “Fighting’s like anything else. You go up against a man at his profession and you’re probably going to lose. You may get lucky. More likely you get your head busted in.”

I clenched and unclenched my fist, settled it back against the steering wheel.

“Moral of the story,” I said. “Know who you’re fighting. And don’t raise your hands unless you’re willing to go all the way.”

Woods didn’t say much after that, which was okay with me. I turned up the volume on the radio. Mike amp; Mike was on ESPN. Talking about how they bickered off air like an old married couple. Then they proceeded to bicker about that for half a minute, just like an old married couple. I kept waiting for them to talk about sports. Just a mention. In passing, even. I looked over at Woods.

“This sound like sports radio to you?”

He didn’t answer. After a few minutes, I gave up and turned it off. Then I started up the car as Woods spoke again.

“So what have you found out, Kelly?”

I turned off the car. “About what?”

Woods’ face looked better now, cleaner. He laid a bandage across the bridge of his nose and smoothed it down with his fingers as he talked.

“The thing on Hudson Street. What we talked about in my office the other day. What have you found out?”

His voice had softened and carried a subtle edge. The cuckold was gone. In his place, the mayor’s fixer. Inside his comfort zone. The world of Chicago politics. Leverage and power. Shadows, bluff, deceit. That was okay. My investigation into Bryant’s murder thus far had turned up nothing more than nickels and dimes. I needed someone with some expertise. Someone who could turn my loose change into real money. Someone who might be scared enough to talk.

“I know about the Chicago Fire,” I said. “I know the mayor’s great-great-grandfather probably started it. Helped along by the guy who ran the Chicago Times.”

Woods yawned at my initial bombshell, stretched his arms, and cracked his knuckles. Then he craned his neck from side to side and resettled in his seat.

“Sounds like a good movie to me, Kelly. Got any proof?”

“Property records. Tying John Julius Wilson to the land. Maybe along with Charles Hume.”

I thought the names might bother Woods. I was wrong.

“It’s not a crime to own property. That all you got?”

“I also know about the Sheehan’s,” I said.

Woods flinched at the book’s mention. Just a single movement along the left side of his upper lip. But it was enough.

“I know you went to the house on Hudson to get the book, and I know Allen Bryant was killed for it.”

“I told you, Kelly. I had nothing to do with Bryant. He was dead when I got there.”

“What about the book, Woods? Was that gone too?”

Whatever bluff the mayor’s guy had been hoping to play was crumbling pretty quick. I was getting dangerously close to some version of the truth, and Woods needed to get his side out.

“I told them this was a bad idea,” he said, and shook his head. “I fucking told them.”

“Told who?” I said.

Woods’ fingers were as overweight as fingers could be. One wore a gold wedding band. Another had a Claddagh ring squeezed onto it. He looked at them for a long time. Didn’t see anything he liked and looked back at me. I don’t think he saw anything he liked too much there either, but what the hell.

“Fuck you, Kelly. You know who.”

“They want the book pretty bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Is it true?” I said.

Woods looked up again.

“Is what true?”

“John Julius Wilson. The Chicago Fire. Is it true?”

“Oh, Jesus. Are you going to talk about this?”

“I told you, Woods. I’m only about the murder. Allen Bryant was found dead inside his house. His first-edition Sheehan’s was the only thing found missing.”

“Shit.”

“That’s one way to analyze it. What I need to know from you is how the book fits into this whole thing. I know about Hume. I know about John Julius Wilson. I know about the land scam and the fire. Now tell me about the Sheehan’s.”

Woods smoothed his eyebrows and massaged the skin at his temples. I started up my car and began to drive. Maybe a change of scenery would help things along.

“There was supposed to be a letter,” Woods said. “Have you heard about that?”

He moved his eyes across the car. I flicked my head. Neither yes nor no. Just enough to tell him I was in control and was going to get everything he had. This morning. Right now. Woods looked away and kept talking.

“Hume and Wilson supposedly drew up a letter after the fire. Laid out the whole thing: the plan to burn out the Irish; the land grab; how it all spun out of control. Then they signed it. Each kept a copy.”

“Why?”

Woods chuckled, as if he understood this part of the story all too well.

“Fuckers didn’t trust each other for nothing. The letter prevented either from talking.”

“The letter was protection for Wilson,” I said.

“Probably. He was the poor Irishman. Needed a handle on Hume.”

“Shrewd,” I said.

“Runs in the family.”

“So what happened to the letters?”

“That’s the thing,” Woods said. “This is all rumor. Urban legend. Who the fuck knows. But the Fifth Floor believes it. So they sent me out to track them down.”

“The letters?” I said.

“Yeah, the letters. At Hume’s request, all his papers were burned at his death. Supposedly his copy of the letter was burned then.”

“Why?”

“Maybe he figured it wasn’t his problem anymore, so fuck it.”

We were back in Sauganash. Woods cracked a window and watched his neighborhood slide by. I turned onto a street called Keene and pulled up to Queen of All Saints. The sign out front said it was not just a church but a basilica.

“What’s so different about a basilica?” I said.

“You Catholic?”

“All my life.”

Woods shook his head and grunted. “Jesus Christ. A basilica’s a big church. Sometimes it contains a crypt, a place in the church where they keep the bones of a priest or a saint.”

“Huh.”

“You better get some religion, Kelly.”

“You think so?”

I parked in front of a large green lawn, stretching out and away. Toward the basilica’s twin spires, soaring, and its granite faзade, impressive. Beyond that, a flourish of marble steps. Expensive. Inside the church, presumably, salvation. Or at least a chance to contribute some cash.

“What about Wilson’s copy?” I said.

“Of the letter?”

“Yeah, Johnny. Wilson’s copy of the letter.”

“What about it?”

“That’s the one you’re looking for.”

“If it ever existed. The mayor claims he knows nothing about it.”

“Officially,” I said.

“That’s right,” Woods said. “Unofficially, it goes something like this. The year was 1920-something. One of the mayor’s horny ancestors went into a cathouse over on Skid Row.”

“This was before the Wilson family had taken up politics?”

“Just before,” Woods said. “They were just filthy-rich pig-fuck land barons. Anyway, this guy is in there with one of the lovelies. They have a moment between rounds and he pulls out the letter. Showing off or some fucking thing. Just about then Chicago’s finest raid the place. All hell breaks loose. Did I tell you the Wilson guy was married?”

“I’m shocked.”

“I’m sure you are. Anyway, he jumps out a second-story window, half naked.”

“And leaves the letter behind?”

Woods cocked a finger my way and fired. “Bingo. He went back the next day but the girl had skipped town. Family never saw or heard about it again. Over time, everyone forgot about it.”

“Until recently?”

“Yeah, recently. No one is sure where the rumor started but it’s out there. The letter is legit and the mayor is nervous.”

“Tell me how the Sheehan’s fits in.”

Woods held out a hand. “I’m getting there. You know the first editions are numbered?”