Windy City Blues (7 page)

“Jimmy, where do short-timer cops waiting for full pension eligibility piss away their days?” I listened to the ensuing silence while testing the reclining limits of my executive desk chair, feet on my desk, staring at the cracked paint on my office ceiling.

“Oh, right, I forgot. I’m supposed to instantly recognize Landau’s voice ’cause we’re such good pals.”

“You said that last time I called. Christ, Jimmy, after all we’ve been through, can’t you pretend to like me just a little bit? Can’t you pretend to respect me just a tiny bit for not becoming a career criminal despite a genetic predisposition to corruption? Would it kill you to think maybe I’m a good guy?”

“Daddy spent too much time in the pen, didn’t give you the approval you wanted? So now you want it from me?”

“Yes, Daddy. Getting in touch with your paternal side might be good for your heart.”

Kalijero mumbled something in Greek. “What do you hear from Frownie?”

“You asked me that last time, too. His mind is clear, but his body is on its way out. Where can I find Detectives Abbott and Costello?”

“What about your old man? Happy his kid investigates murders?”

“We’ll see when I talk to him next. Now, what about—”

“Calvo and Baker are both divorced, I think. So try Reilly’s on Milwaukee. That’s where the over-fifty badge bunnies still hope to land a cop husband.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? Maybe I’ll be able to help you out someday.”

“You can help me out by leaving me alone.”

This time, he didn’t hang up on me. I took that as a sign he was only half serious. “Why are you so damn depressed? How about I tell you where I am with the investigat
ion?”

“Stay in this business long enough and you’ll understand depression. Go ahead, tell me what you’ve got.”

“I got a lot of weirdness shouting at me to do something…” I gave a chronological report starting with Palmer and ending with a chronic scofflaw named Gordon Baxter. “I thought I’d talk with Calvo and Baker and see if they’ve looked up this Baxter guy.”

Kalijero laughed. “Don’t expect much from those two. The newspaper editor is a better bet. Either the CEO is the biggest control freak ever to exist or something caused him to impulsively phone this guy. That call is a flashing red neon sign. I suggest you keep your newspaper boy safe.”

Kalijero’s sudden interest flattered me. Maybe we would be friends one day. “I’ve got to find a link between an immigrant parking officer and the CEO of a media corporation. Agree?”

Long pause, then, “Yeah, it looks that way. That editor. You expecting him to get
involved
in your investigat
ion?” Kalijero’s tone had suddenly sharpened.

“I don’t expect anything. It’s up to him. He’s interested in finding a financial aspect.”

“But he knows it’s about murder because he was told to play it down.”

“What’s your point?”

“
Responsibi
lity,
Landau! He’s a civilian. You gotta make sure a civilian knows what he’s getting into! And the fact I have to tell you this really pisses me off!”

Kalijero’s volatile mood pissed me off. It was my turn to hang up on him.

Besides the scratchy green shamrock hanging above the door, nothing about Reilly’s reminded me of an Irish pub or anything much removed from a tool and die maker’s basement bar. The metal stools with their torn plastic cushions, the chipped Formica tables, the folding aluminum chairs suggested décor that had not changed since the last of the department stores and small industries shut down decades earlier. The only food offering came from a vending machine holding three bags of corn chips. I wondered how Reilly’s survived among this neighborhood’s art galleries and upscale microbrew pubs serving ten-ounce prime beef burgers.

Behind the bar, a scrawny elderly man stood watch over five middle-aged women sitting evenly spaced along the bar, each sipping from a martini glass and steadfastly ignoring each other. The bartender reminded me of the guy behind the counter in that famous Hopper painting
Nighthawks
. I decided his name was “Philly.” A few of the tables had a male occupant bent over a glass mug. The only sign of life came from a table in the far corner where four men of ample girth, each wearing a different colored polyester sport jacket, chuckled and snorted around three pitchers of beer.

I stepped up to the bar and ordered a bottle of Bud. In one fluid motion Philly reached under the counter, popped off the lid, and slammed down the bottle. “Two bucks,” he said in the unpolished accent one expected from an old guy named Philly.

Even though I rarely drink alcohol, I sat at the table closest to the four men and sipped from the bottle as if I were just a regular Joe kicking back with a cold one. After struggling a moment with my gag reflex, I caught bits of conversation from the raucous table evoking a reminiscent tone as the men took turns asking “Remember when?” Their overhanging stomachs and patterned sport jackets demonstrated why stereotypes linger through the generations. With references to ’Nam, hippies, and the 1968 Democratic Convention, I safely guessed their age group as late fifties to early sixties.

I waited for a lull and said, “Gentlemen, may I interrupt a moment?”

Two of the men glanced at me. The other two tipped their heads back and drained their glasses. After a refill from the one full pitcher, the group ignored me and returned to stories of their gloried past.

I slid my chair close. They reacted as if strangers often joined them as they got plastered at two o’clock in the afternoon.

“Hey, guys, I’m looking for Detectives Calvo and Baker.”

At that, they all glanced up. A Latino-looking cop in a brown polyester sport coat that probably fit him in 1980 said, “So are we,” provoking a collective roar of laughter.

“Guys, please. I just have a couple questions about a murder investigat
ion.”

Another cop with closely cropped gray hair and wearing an orange “Illini” sport coat stood and said, “I’m Calvo.” Then another stood and said, “No, I’m Calvo.” Then the same routine took place for Baker and the four stomachs jiggled with joy.

I tried not to be disgusted by watching veteran cops straight out of an old TV sitcom howling like fools in a dive bar. While I waited for calm, the violent aspect of my genetic profile leaned over the table and swept away the glass mugs and half-full pitchers, transporting the mess either across the room or into someone’s lap. The Latino cop lunged at me. A sidestep and shove—barely a nudge—sent him to the filthy tile floor. The other three stared at the scene, looking confused. Philly and the girls watched impassively.

“Listen, assholes, you’re all fat and shit-faced, which means I’m in charge. I need to ask Calvo and Baker a few questions. If one or both of them are present, squeal for me.”

“The one on the floor is Calvo,” orange jacket said. Then the same man said, “I’m Baker.”

Calvo struggled to his knees and managed to push himself up to a chair. The seam on the back of his jacket had opened up. I almost felt sorry for the slob.

“Hey, tough guy,” one of them said, “one day we’ll see how tough you really are.”

“I’m not tough. I’m sober. How about Calvo and Baker join me at that table over there?”

“How about you go fuck yourself,” Calvo said.

“I didn’t come here to piss you off. I just need some info.” I walked over to the bar and held up a fifty-dollar bill. “Here’s fifty bucks for the bartender. It’s a prepayment. Fifty bucks’ worth of booze in exchange for ten minutes with Calvo and Baker.” I put the fifty on the counter. Philly glanced at it, then looked back at me.

I walked to a table on the other side of the room. My four friends stayed put. They looked exhausted.

“C’mon, Ray,” Baker said. “Let’s see what the little shit wants.”

My two new buddies wobbled over to the table. It amazed me how booze turned a middle-aged face into a puffy, bloated mug after just a few hours of drinking. They looked like bulldogs with receding hairlines. I tried to picture them twenty years younger and failed. I said to Calvo, “I’m going to pay for a new jacket and the cleaning bill for the slacks.”

“Go to hell.”

I looked at Baker. He seemed the more sensible of the two. “Gordon Baxter,” I said. “A well-known scofflaw. Did you interview him regarding the Gelashvili murder?”

Baker’s vacant expression suggested they hadn’t bothered. Then he said, “Who told you about Baxter?”

“Rich Jones, the parking officer you spoke with.”

Calvo jumped in. “It’s none of your goddamn business. And we told them meter maids to keep their mouths shut.”

“Baxter’s under surveillance,” Baker said. “We don’t want his name circulating. He might disappear before—” The two dicks glanced at each other. “Before we want him to.”

I waited a few beats to let the awkwardness fester. “Before you want him to what? Is this about the Gelashvili murder or something else?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Calvo said. “This is police business. You got no say in it, so fuck off.”

I decided to drop Jimmy’s name. “Kalijero tells me you both got retirement in your sights. Couple months or so?”

Calvo grinned. “Hey! You must be Landau! Jimmy puts your old man away and you become his little bitch?”

“Just stay away from Baxter,” Baker said. “If he takes off, you’re going to piss off a lot of people. That’s all you need to know.”

“Yeah? Do those people I will piss off also spend their days getting wasted in sleazy watering holes while they’re supposed to be conducting surveillance?”

Icy stares. Then Calvo said, “I gotta hand it to you, Landau, you crack one case and that’s enough to get a reputation as a smart-ass punk. How many murder investigations you think you can survive being a cocky little shit? And don’t bet on Kalijero being your pal too much longer. He put his papers in before we did. Any day now he’ll be running some greasy spoon in Greek Town.”

Not wanting to wear out my welcome, I thanked my new friends for their hospitality and bid them farewell. I walked back to my car with two competing thoughts: linking a dead immigrant to a multimedia corporation just became more complicated, and it hurt to find out secondhand that Jimmy had put in for retirement. I needed a place to sit, eat, and reflect. Tamar had mentioned she worked at the Georgian bakery around Devon and California.