The Chicago Way (11 page)

“Can I help you?”

The accent was West Coast. More like Galway. The face was sharp Irish, with a high forehead, brown hair in wisps, and ears sculpted close to her head. The eyes were blue and moving.

“Guinness,” I said.

I sat back to enjoy the ritual. The glass was fresh and held tight against the brass fitting. The pour was clean. She drew it three quarters full and placed it on a wooden box atop the pump. While the pint settled she wiped an ashtray, took an order for an Irish breakfast, and drew off a Smithwick’s. Then she pulled again on the Guinness and topped the pint with a froth slick and sweet as morning cream.

“Brilliant,” I said.

“Ah, fuck off with the brilliant. You’re a Yank and that’s all there is to it.”

I winked and Megan curled a smile my way. She was the best the Hidden Shamrock had to offer and one of my favorites. I hadn’t been through the door in over a year, but it didn’t matter. The Guinness was still the finest in the city. John Gibbons knew that and made the Shamrock his local. I caught Megan’s attention and asked about my former partner.

“Indeed, John was in,” she said. “Last Thursday night, it was. Sat just a bit down from where you’re at now.”

Megan sipped at a cup of Barry’s tea. She drank it strong with milk and two sugars.

“Was there a blonde with him?” I said.

“There was. She’s been coming in most nights. Nothing but fucking trouble.”

I pulled a phone number from my pocket, the one Elaine Remington had scrawled on my bedroom mirror.

“This still the bar’s number?”

“It is.”

“The pay phone?”

A shake of the head. Megan pointed to a phone behind the bar.

“We don’t have pay phones anymore what with the cell phones and that load of crap. Like a fucking switchboard in here on a Friday night.”

“I bet,” I said. “How well did you know John?”

“As well as I know any customer. No more. He in trouble?”

“He was found dead Sunday morning. Down by Navy Pier.”

Megan stared at the dregs in her mug for a moment. Then I followed her gaze up and across the bar. Elaine Remington stood in the doorway.

“That would be her, Michael.”

“Yes, it would.”

I got up from my stool. Elaine met me halfway across the bar. She didn’t have a gun this time. At least not one pointed my way.

“About time you got here,” she said.

“Expecting me?”

“I’m in here most nights. Figured sooner or later you’d show up. How about buying me a drink?”

Megan was waiting at the bar, bottle of Jameson in hand.

“The usual?” she said.

Elaine nodded. Megan set up two whiskeys, neat. My client took the first in one go. Then she leaned up against me. I guess in case I was cold.

“I drink seven of these every night,” she said.

“Whether you need it or not.”

She called for number three, knocked back two, and giggled.

“You’re cute,” she said.

“You talk too much.”

“You’re still cute.”

I had heard this conversation, between a blonde and a detective, somewhere before. Elaine lit up a cigarette, blew smoke in my direction, and continued.

“Gibbons was more like a father figure. You know, that whole thing. Want one?”

I moved back a bit and watched her work. Just the slightest tremor in her hand as the shot glass went up and back down. It didn’t look easy.

“Why do you do that?”

She wiped her mouth, then at a trace of moisture at the corner of one eye.

“Keeps me straight. You know some peeps have their latte. Me, I have seven lattes. After that I look for some company.”

The bar was quiet now. Not really, but it seemed that way. She filled my eye, and I shaped my mind around it. I didn’t want to but still felt the heat. Some women were just that way with men. The crazy talk continued.

“Let me ask you something, Mr. Detective. How much do you know about rape?”

I shrugged.

“You ever know a girl who’d been raped?”

“Plenty,” I said.

“I mean really know, as in romantic.”

I shrugged again. She whetted the knife.

“Think you could, you know, be with her after something like that? No, let me rephrase, after someone had her like that?”

I took a look down the bar. Mostly because I didn’t know where else to look.

“Thought so,” she said and drained number four.

I jumped in and tried to make it better.

“You were brutalized and almost murdered, Elaine. That’s an act of violence, plain and simple.”

“Textbook answer, Mr. Kelly. They teach you that at the police academy?”

Her voice was a bit louder but still controlled. She was drunk. Just not as much as I expected.

“I know you were a cop. Gibbons told me.”

She nodded with the smallest of smiles. Looking sly for no apparent reason. Then she picked up her cigarette, almost guttered in the ashtray and drew down. I blinked and saw her at fifty-three. Alone, in a hotel bar. Still able to catch the occasional eye. Still on the hustle. She exhaled and the smoke filtered through a shaft of light coming in from the street. Now the face was relaxed repose. At fifty-three, she was pure class. On the beach, brown and healthy, she had a car with a driver, freshly cut flowers in all her rooms, and lunch on a patio with drinks. Two paths. Her future in the balance. Like everyone else, she’d make her choice. Some small decision would set the events in motion, lead her down one path or the other. Lung cancer in a trailer park or a home in La Jolla. The choice was there. Like everyone else she’d make it and never even know it.

“Your friend was trying to help me,” she said. “At least that’s what he told me. Now he’s dead.”

“You’re thinking it might be the guy who attacked you?”

“Thought about it.”

I sipped at my pint and stared at a sign that said GOOD DAY FOR A GUINNESS with a black toucan underneath.

“Makes you wonder,” I said.

She smiled again, in a way that was neither warm nor tender.

“Makes me lock the door at night.”

Megan came by. Elaine seemed better now and asked for a glass of water. I took out a notebook and a soft black pencil.

“Going to write me a letter?” she said and shook her hair free.

“Just trying to organize some thoughts here.”

“You should get a laptop.”

“You should be on a leash.”

“What’s the matter, Kelly? We’re on the same team here. You need to find the killer. If I’m right, the killer needs to find me. It works.”

“Using you as bait is a bad idea.”

“Because?”

“For one thing, dead clients tend not to pay their bills.”

“I still have a gun.”

I was delighted to hear my client was still packing and told her as much. She chewed at the corner of a fingernail and looked at herself in the bar mirror. It took her a while to get sick of that. Then she finished off numbers six and seven. Not a bother.

“Point is, Mr. Kelly, I can handle that end of it.”

For what it was worth, across a drift of smoke and chatter, she fit the part. At least on this night, in a warm bar, where talk was talk and not a matter of consequence.

I looked over my client’s shoulder, across the Shamrock, and through the front window. A dusting of snow fell quickly and softly, covering up the gray of Halsted Street. Lake-effect snow, Chicagoans called it. Beyond the white was the glare of neon, a tangle of traffic and people. A gust of wind blew the weather clear, a gap appeared between cars, and a single figure scooted across the street. Her head was covered with a newspaper. She leaped across a flow of ice and slush half congealed in the gutter and landed on the sidewalk. I was about to look back into the bar when the woman pulled her head up. For a moment, it seemed like Diane Lindsay knew exactly where I was and why I was there. For just a moment. Then surprise flooded her features. She waved, slipped toward the door, and into the Shamrock.

“Excuse me a second.”

I got up from my chair and intercepted the journalist before she got too close to my client. I wasn’t sure if I wanted them to meet. And was even less certain why I wasn’t sure. No matter, Diane was past me, Elaine already out of her chair and rearranging herself in a single movement.

“Hi, I’m Diane Lindsay.”

The two shook hands as if they had been expecting to all along. Diane sat down. Elaine sat with her. Diane talked to me, but kept her eyes on Elaine.

“The new client, Michael?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Aren’t you on television?” Elaine said.

Diane pulled off a pair of leather gloves, leaned back in her chair, and considered my client like she might a warm glass of milk on a hot summer day. Only when she was done did she speak.

“Yes, I’m on television. And your name is?”

“Elaine. Elaine Remington.”

“Nice to meet you, Elaine.”

Diane stuck a thumb my way.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you need this guy for?”

“I don’t mind at all. I was raped when I was still pretty much a kid. Mr. Kelly is helping me find the bastard.”

“May I ask why?”

“Mostly so I can look him in the eye, show him the scars, and let him know I made it.”

Elaine took a sip of water.

“After that, of course, I’ll say a small prayer, pull out my gun, and blow him straight to Judgment Day. Amen.”

Elaine laughed so hard water came out her nose and she nearly choked. I glanced at Diane, who shrugged. My client continued.

“Just kidding. I was born country Baptist. Love that righteous vengeance sort of thing. You brought up religious, Miss Lindsay?”

“Not so you’d notice.”

“Well, I was. Me and all my sisters. We stay close even today. Religion will do that to a family.”

“I bet,” Diane said. “Let me ask you something, Elaine. You remember details of the attack?”

“Some. Why?”

“Just seems funny. After all these years, you show up here, looking for the bad guy. Even find yourself a hero.”

Diane leaned forward. Elaine leaned with her.

“Seems like maybe it’s a lot of bullshit, Elaine. If you know what I mean.”

Diane smiled. Elaine smiled back and slipped the shirt off her shoulder, just enough to catch a corner of her scar, still purple, still angry.

“Gotcha, Diane. Except they don’t give these out in ‘Let’s pretend we got fucked by a pervert’ class.”

Diane leaned back, pressed her lips together, then managed a sip of her pint.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes reporters need to test a little bit.”

“No problem, Miss Lindsay.”

The two women touched glass. Then Elaine stood up. Diane followed suit.

“I‘d actually love to hear the whole story someday,” she said. “So would my viewers.”

Elaine shrugged on her coat, slipped on a set of earphones, and powered up an iPod she had in her pocket.

“Maybe,” she said. “Let’s see how things shake out. Here’s a number where you can reach me.”

Elaine scribbled out the information for Diane. Then did the same for me.

“Don’t forget about me, Mr. Kelly.”

“I won’t,” I said.

My client reached out and hugged me. It was awkward but brief. Then she was gone. Diane held up a finger.

“I need a second with her,” she said and followed Elaine Remington into the snow.

I sipped at my pint and watched through a funnel of wind and white. Diane Lindsay stood at the corner of Halsted and Diversey, her back to the lakefront, taking the brunt of the storm off her head and shoulders. Elaine huddled close, shifted her weight from side to side, and stamped her feet in the night. Now Diane leaned forward as she spoke, filling the gap between them with a tangible sense of energy. Elaine moved away, subtle but certain, her back foot taking the weight of her body. She didn’t seem to be saying much, mostly listening as Diane gestured. I wondered what was taking so long. I wondered how the reporter was doing. It looked like hard work.

Ten minutes later Diane returned to the bar. I had moved to a booth in the back and was working through a plate of bangers and mash. To my left was the notebook and pencil. On the pages were assorted thoughts, such as they were.

“What’s in the notebook?” she said.

“You’re in my light.”

Diane sat down. Megan took her drink order.

“This is my booth, you know.”

“Would you like me to move?” she said.

“No, you can stay.”

“So what’s in the notebook?”

I turned it around so she could read my scrawl.

“I’m just trying to figure out how many people have hired me in the past two days and for what. Best I can figure, I have at least two new clients.”

“One of whom is dead.”

“Exactly. And then there is you.”

“Am I in there?”

She pulled the notebook closer. I pulled it back. Her fingernails were painted a dark red and scratched across the page. It was a small sound but violent in its own way.

“Get your own notebook,” I said. “How did it go with her?”

Diane shrugged.

“Not bad. There are a couple of different things I could do with her story. I just wanted to let her know what some of the options were. Get her thinking about it.”

Megan put a hot whiskey in front of Diane. From across the booth I could smell the Jameson, scented with cloves. Nice drink on a cold night.

“What did you think of her?” I said.

“Your client?”

I nodded.

“She has some issues.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

“Why did you go after her so hard?”

“Why not? Sometimes it catches them off guard. Brings out the truth whether they like it or not.”