Warshawski 01 - Indemnity Only (24 page)

I ordered a small butt steak, an undressed salad, and a tall gin fizz and took my time over the food when it arrived. No one would ever write it up for
Chicago
magazine, but it was a simple, well-prepared meal and mellowed my spirits considerably. I ordered coffee, and lingered over that, too. At 1:45 I realized I was procrastinating. “ ‘When duty beckons, “Lo thou must,” Youth replies to Age, “I can,” ‘ “ I muttered encouragingly to myself. I put two dollars on the table and carried my bill over to the cash register. The plump hostess bustled up from the back of the restaurant to take my money.

“Very pleasant lunch,” I said.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Are you new to this neighborhood?”

I shook my head. “I was just passing by and your sign looked inviting.” On impulse I pulled out my folder, now grimy and wilted around the edges. “I wonder if these two men have ever come in here together.”

She picked up the pictures and looked at them. “Oh, yes.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Are you sure?”

“I couldn’t be mistaken. Not unless it’s something I’d have to go to court for.” Her friendly face clouded a bit. “If it’s a legal matter you’re talking about—” She shoved the pictures back at me.

“Not at all,” I said hastily. “Or at least, not one that you’ll have to be involved in.” I couldn’t think of a plausible story on the spur of the moment.

“If anyone sends me a summons, I never saw either of them,” she reiterated.

“But off the record, just for my ears, how long have they been coming here?” I said, in what I hoped was a sincere, persuasive voice.

“What’s the problem?” She was still suspicious.

“Paternity suit,” I said promptly, the first thing that came into my mind. It sounded ridiculous, even to me, but she relaxed.

“Well, that doesn’t sound too dreadful. I guess it’s been about five years. This is my husband’s restaurant, and We’ve been working it together for eighteen years now. I remember most of my regular customers.”

“Do they come in often?” I asked.

“Oh, maybe three times a year. But over a period of time, you get to recognize your regulars. Besides, this man”—she tapped McGraw’s picture—”comes in a lot. I think he’s with that big union down the road.”

“Oh, really?” I said politely. I pulled Thayer’s picture out. “What about him?” I asked.

She studied it. “It looks familiar,” she said, “but he’s never been in here.”

“Well, I certainly won’t spread your name any further. And thanks for a very nice lunch.”

I felt dizzy walking out into the blinding heat. I couldn’t believe my luck. Every now and then you get a break like that as a detective, and you start to think maybe you’re on the side of right and good after all and a benevolent Providence is guiding your steps. Hot damn! I thought. I’ve got Masters tied to McGraw. And McGraw knows Smeissen. And the twig is on the branch, the branch is on the tree, the tree is on the hill. Vic, you are a genius, I told myself. The only question is, what is tying these two guys together? It must be that beautiful claim draft I found in Peter Thayer’s apartment, but how?

I found a pay phone and called Ralph to see if he had tracked down the Gielczowski file. He was in a meeting. No, I wouldn’t leave a message, I’d call later.

There was another question, too. What was the connection among Thayer, McGraw, and Masters? Still, that shouldn’t be too difficult to find out. The whole thing probably revolved around some way to make money, maybe nontaxable money. If that were
so, then Thayer came in naturally as Masters’s neighbor and good friend and vice-president of a bank. He could probably launder money in a dozen different ways that I couldn’t begin to imagine. Say he laundered the money and Peter found out. McGraw got Smeissen to kill Peter. Then Thayer was overcome with remorse. “I won’t be a party to it,” he said—to Masters? to McGraw? and they got Earl to blow him away, too.

Steady, Vic, I told myself, getting into the car. So far you only have one fact: McGraw and Masters know each other. But what a beautiful, highly suggestive fact.

It was the bottom of the fifth inning at Wrigley Field, and the Cubs were rolling over Philadelphia. For some reason, smoggy, wilting air acted on them like a tonic; everyone else was dying, but the Cubs were leading 8-1. Kingman hit his thirty-fourth homer. I thought maybe I’d earned a trip to the park to see the rest of the game, but sternly squashed the idea.

I got back to the clinic at 2:30. The outer room was even more crowded than it had been in the morning. A small window air conditioner fought against the heat and the combined bodies and lost. As I walked into the room, the inner door opened and a face looked around. “Mean and stupid” summed it up exactly. I went on across the room. “You must be Paul,” I said, holding out a hand. “I’m Vic.”

He smiled. The transformation was incredible. I could see the bright intelligence in his eyes, and he
looked handsome rather than brutish. I wondered fleetingly if Jill was old enough to fall in love.

“Everything’s quiet here,” he said. “Everything but the babies, of course. Do you want to come out and see how Jill is doing?”

I followed him to the back. Lotty had moved the steel table out of her second examining room. In this tiny space Jill sat playing with five children between the ages of two and seven. She had the self-important look of someone coping with a major crisis. I grinned to myself. A baby was asleep in a basket in the corner. She looked up when I came in, and said hello, but her smile was for Paul. Was that an unnecessary complication or a help? I wondered.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Great. Whenever things get too hectic, Paul makes a quick trip to the Good Humor man. I’m just afraid they’ll catch on and squawk all the time.”

“Do you think you could leave them for a few minutes? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

She looked at the group doubtfully. “Go ahead,” Paul said cheerfully. “I’ll fill in for you—you’ve been at it too long, anyway.”

She got up. One of the children, a little boy, protested. “You can’t go,” he said in a loud, bossy voice.

“Sure, she can,” Paul said, squatting easily in her place. “Now where were you?”

I took Jill into Lotty’s office. “Looks like you’re a natural,” I said. “Lotty will probably try to talk you into spending the rest of the summer down here.”

She flushed. “I’d like to. I wonder if I really could.”

“No reason not, once we get this other business cleared up. Have you ever met Anita’s father?”

She shook her head. I pulled out my package of pictures and took out the ones of McGraw. “This is he. Have you ever seen him, either with your dad, or maybe in the neighborhood?”

She studied them for a while. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. He doesn’t look at all like Anita.”

I stopped for a minute, not sure of the least hurting way to say what I wanted. “I think Mr. McGraw and Mr. Masters are partners in some scheme or other—I don’t know what. I believe your father must have been involved in some way, maybe without realizing what it was he was involved in.” In fact, I suddenly thought, if Thayer had been obviously a party to it, wouldn’t Peter have confronted him first? “Do you remember Peter and your father fighting in the last week or two before Peter’s death? ”

“No. In fact, Peter hadn’t been home for seven weeks. If he and Daddy had a fight, it had to be over the telephone. Maybe at the office, but not out at the house.”

“That’s good. Now, going back to this other business, I’ve got to know what it is your father knew about their deal. Can you think of anything that might help me? Did he and Mr. Masters lock themselves up in the study for long talks?”

“Yes, but lots of men do that—did that. Daddy did business with lots of people, and they would often come over to the house to talk about it.”

“Well, what about money?” I asked. “Did Mr. Masters ever give your father a lot of money? or the other way around?”

She laughed embarrassedly and shrugged her shoulders. “I just don’t know about any of that kind of stuff. I know Daddy worked for the bank and was an officer and all, but I don’t know what he did exactly, and I don’t know anything about the money. I guess I should. I know my family is well off, We’ve all got these big trusts from my grandparents, but I don’t know anything about Daddy’s money.”

That wasn’t too surprising. “Suppose I asked you to go back to Winnetka and look through his study to see if he had any papers that mention McGraw or Masters or both. Would that make you feel dishonest and slimy?”

She shook her head. “If it would help I’ll do it. But I don’t want to leave here.”

“That is a problem,” I agreed. I looked at my watch and calculated times. “I don’t think we could fit it in before dinner this evening, anyway. But how about first thing tomorrow morning? Then we could come back here to the clinic in time for the baby rush hour.”

“Sure,” she agreed. “Would you want to come along? I mean, I don’t have a car or anything, and I would like to come back, and they might try to talk me into staying up there once I got there.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” By tomorrow morning the house probably wouldn’t be filled with police anymore, either.

Jill got up and went back to the nursery. I could hear her saying in a maternal voice, “Well, whose turn is it? ” I grinned, popped my head in Lotty’s door, and told her I was going home to sleep.

I set off for the University Women United meeting at seven. I’d slept for three hours and felt on top of the world. The fritata had turned out well—an old recipe of my mother’s, accompanied by lots of toast, a salad constructed by Paul, and Paul’s warm appreciation. He’d decided his bodyguarding included spending the night, and had brought a sleeping bag. The dining room was the only place with space for him, Lotty warned him. “And I want you to stay in it,” she added. Jill was delighted. I could just imagine her sister’s reaction if she came back with Paul as a boyfriend.

It was an easy drive south, a lazy evening with a lot of people out cooling off. This was my favorite time of the day in the summer. There was something about the smell and feel of it that evoked the magic of childhood.

I didn’t have any trouble parking on campus, and got into the meeting room just before things began. About a dozen women were there, wearing work
pants and oversized T-shirts, or denim skirts made out of blue jeans and with the legs cut apart and re-stitched, seams facing out. I was wearing jeans and a big loose shirt to cover the gun, but I was still dressed more elegantly that anyone else in the room.

Gail Sugarman was there. She recognized me when I came in, and said, “Hi, I’m glad you remembered the meeting.” The others stopped to look at me. “This is—” Gail stopped, embarrassed. “I’ve forgotten your name—it’s Italian, I remember you told me that. Anyway, I met her at the Swift coffee shop last week and told her about the meetings and here she is.”

“You’re not a reporter, are you?” one woman asked.

“No, I’m not,” I said neutrally. “I have a B.A. from here, pretty old degree at this point. I was down here the other day talking to Harold Weinstein and ran into Gail.”

“Weinstein,” another one snorted. “Thinks he’s a radical because he wears work shirts and curses capitalism.”

“Yeah,” another agreed. “I was in his class on ‘Big Business and Big Labor.’ He felt the major battle against oppression had been won when Ford lost the battle with the UAW in the forties. If you tried to talk about how women have been excluded not just from big business but from the unions as well, he said that didn’t indicate oppression, merely a reflection of the current social mores.”

“That argument justifies all oppression,” a plump
woman with short curling hair put in. “Hell, the Stalin labor camps reflected Soviet mores of the 1930s. Not to mention Scheransky’s exile with hard labor.”

Thin, dark Mary, the older woman who’d been with Gail at the coffee shop on Friday, tried to call the group to order. “We don’t have a program tonight,” she said. “In the summer our attendance is too low to justify a speaker. But why don’t we get in a circle on the floor so that we can have a group discussion.” She was smoking, sucking in her cheeks with her intense inhaling. I had a feeling she was eyeing me suspiciously, but that may have just been my own nerves.

I obediently took a spot on the floor, drawing my legs up in front of me. My calf muscles were sensitive. The other women straggled over, getting cups of evil-looking coffee as they came. I’d taken one look at the overboiled brew on my way in and decided it wasn’t necessary to drink it to prove I was one of the group.

When all but two were seated, Mary suggested we go around the circle and introduce ourselves. “There are a couple of new people here tonight,” she said. “I’m Mary Annasdaughter.” She turned to the woman on her right, the one who’d protested women’s exclusion from big unions. When they got to me, I said, “I’m V. I. Warshawski. Most people call me Vic.”

When they’d finished, one said curiously, “Do you go by your initials or is Vic your real name?”

“It’s a nickname,” I said. “I usually use my initials. I started out my working life as a lawyer, and I found
it was harder for male colleagues and opponents to patronize me if they didn’t know my first name.”