The Undertaker (21 page)

There was a big, round clock on the far wall that showed it was 6:45. The ticket booths lined the near wall and a bank of telephone booths were on the opposite side. As I walked across the room, I saw two glassy-eyed hookers sizing me up. One was young and white, with dull, dishwater blonde hair and too much baby fat. She looked to be one Greyhound bus ride out of Kentucky. The other was black and lean, with a short, red party dress and the half-closed eyes of a young, but very old pro. When I did not respond, her eyes went dead again. I had to smile as I remembered the Carl Sandburg poem they drilled into our heads about another, earlier Chicago, “They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps, luring the farm boys.” Well, I didn't see any gas lamps or farm boys down here, and I preferred to start my mornings with Starbucks, but the custom could be different in the Midwest.

I dug into my pocket and even with the change I'd gotten at Uncle Ike's, I only had five quarters and that wouldn't get me very far on a pay phone these days. I could ask one of the hookers to break a buck, but that didn't seem like a good idea. Most of the ticket booths were empty. The agent in the middle one appeared half-asleep, leaning on one elbow as he read the day's Racing Form so I pushed three one-dollar bills under his window. He wasn't happy about being disturbed, but he pushed three stacks of quarters back at me and went back to the ponies.

The phone was missing in the first booth I tried. I looked in four others before I found one where the phone worked and most of the thick Chicago phone book was there. Opening it to the Ks, I found almost a column of Ka
Z
mareks, but only a couple of inches of Ka
S
mareks. The clerks at Ellis Island had to have been the original Beta Test group for “Spelling by Phonics.” Edward J. Kasmarek's name was ninth on the list. I dropped in two quarters and dialed his number. I heard a couple of clicks and, “We're sorry, but the number you have dialed is no longer in service in Area Code 312.” That told me Edward J. had probably lived alone, or at least he had no wife or immediate family still living there, which confirmed the obituary. Not bad for my first call, and I even got my quarters back.

I looked at the address: 3182 North California. I turned to the city map at the front of the phone book and saw it was on the near north side. Apples usually don't drop too far from the tree and people usually don't move far from their old, familiar haunts. I went back to the Kasmareks, dropped the quarters back in the phone, and tried Alice and Rupert, the first names on the list. Midwesterners were supposed to be the hard-working “salt of the earth.” At 7:00 AM, I figured they'd give me a straight answer just to get me the hell off their telephone.

The phone rang and rang, but I never did get an answer. As I worked my way down, I got another “We're sorry…”, some no answers, an irritated, half-awake, “Who?”, and one, “You mean that boy of Karl and Lurleen? Haven't seen them in years, him either... No, no I ain't got no idea.”

This was not going as well as I had hoped. With my next quarters however, I got a woman on the other end of the line who was willing to talk.

“Who? Oh, you mean Little Eddie. Let's see, last time I seen him he was working at the service department of Fishinger's Chrysler up in Lincolnwood, not that it matters much now, 'cause he's dead.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, I'm with Acme Mutual Life and there's an old insurance policy he took out. I really need to find his family or next of kin.”

“Next of kin? Well, his folks is both dead, died a few years back. He was an only child, you know, so ...”

“Isn't there anybody?

“Well, you could try that little Wop girl he married, Sandy what's her name.”

“Little Eddie was married?”

“Some might call it that, but the way I heard it, she tossed him out on his butt long before they got divorced. Of course she never did get along with the Kasmareks.”

“And her name's Sandy?”

“Yeah, she's I-talian, and as hot-tempered as a scalded cat, but what do I know. I'm an in-law myself. All them Kasmareks came from Budowicze back in the old country, and everybody knows what shits them people are.”

“Little Eddie too?” I asked.

“Oh, especially that Little Eddie. For all I know, she was the one who shot him.”

“Shot him?”

“Yep, a real mess. He got himself shot in the parking lot of a bar in Old Town a while back, but I didn't see nuthin' in the papers about her getting arrested for it.”

I hung up and looked down at the phone book again. Yep, “salt of the earth.” I didn't see any Sandra Kasmarek on the list, but toward the bottom there was a listing for S. A. Kasmarek, Photographer, at 1412 N. Clark. I looked at the map again. Clark was a couple of streets over and the 1400 block was maybe mile and a half north of where I was standing. There was no hawk-eyed librarian watching this time, so I tore the map out, stuffed it in my pocket, and nodded farewell to the two hookers. They didn't even blink.

Up on the street, the early summer air was crisp and the sky a clear, high blue. I walked north on Michigan Avenue crossing over the Chicago River to where the trendy stores were: Saks, Tiffany's, Gucci, FAO Schwarz, Bloomies, even Nieman Marcus. So much for the “city of big shoulders” and the “hog butcher of the world.” If it wasn't for the lake and the Tribune Building, this could be Rodeo Drive or 5th Avenue. I turned west on Division, walked over to Clark, and swung north again. There was a wall of tall, trendy apartment buildings along the lakefront, but 1412 Clark wasn't one of them. Older and shorter, it had six floors of brick and glass, and being several blocks back from the lake made all the difference.

As nonchalantly as I could, I walked to the entrance. The outside door wasn't locked. I stepped into the tiny vestibule and quickly scanned the names on the mailboxes. There were twenty-four apartments, four per floor. S. A. Kasmarek's name was on 3-B. I tried the doorknob but the inner door wouldn't open. I peered into the first-floor hallway and saw apartment 1A was on the left and 1B next to it on the front. Satisfied, I went back out and walked back up the street. There was a small deli at the corner with a pay phone. I ordered a cup of coffee and a thick, gooey Danish and dialed Doug's direct line in the office in Boston. It was 7:45 AM here, which meant it was 8:45 there. Sharon answered.

“Hey, Sharon, it's Pete, is ...”

“Jesus Christ, Petey! Where you been? Hang on a sec, I'll put him on.”

It only took a minute before I heard, “Three people dead, including a sheriff, for Chris’ sake! They said...”

“Who said?”

“The godamned FBI, Pete! They called me in the middle of the night.”

“Doug, that's all bullshit. I didn't kill anybody, I didn't hurt anybody, and I doubt the people who called you were FBI.”

“Okay, okay, but where the hell are you?”

“On the road, on my way to Atlanta,” I quickly ad-libbed. “But they probably have your phone tapped, so I don't want to say too much.”

“Atlanta? My phone tapped? What did you get yourself into, man?”

“I can explain everything. I just need some time.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah, there is. Do you know any good criminal lawyers in Boston? I mean a
big
one with some heavy-duty political connections?”

“I'll find one.”

“Good. I'll call you tonight, but you be careful.”

“Me? You're telling me to be careful?”

“Yeah, and get some good techies to check the phones for bugs. Your house too, and be careful. These people are dangerous.”

I hung up and stood there thinking. If Tinkerton had already contacted Doug, he'd already moved to shut off Boston. If he had, tossing in Atlanta was probably a good ruse. It might buy me some time, but if he truly did have unlimited resources and had already sent men to Chicago, then he was putting on a full-court press and I was in real trouble. I pulled out the page from the train station phone book. Time to try S. A. Kasmarek. On the sixth ring, I got an answer.

“Hi, is this Sandy Kasmarek?” I asked in a bubbly and friendly voice.

“Yeah, wuzzit?” I heard a thick, sleepy female voice at the other end of the line.

“My name's Talbott, Pete Talbott, and I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah? 'Bout what?”

“About your former husband, Edward J. Kasmarek. It's very important.”

Dead silence. “’Portant? 'Bout Eddie, huh? Lez see, it's what? Not even 8:00 in the goddamn morning? I was out on a shoot all night, got in bed about 3:00, and you got the balls to call me up and tell me you gotta talk to me about that dip shit Eddie?”

“Look, I'm really sorry, but ...”

Click. She hung up. I gave her a few minutes to calm down before I dialed her number again.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Bad time?”

“I know...”

“You don't know squat.”

“I can imagine how difficult it is for you.”

“Difficult? Difficult!”

“I mean for you to talk about.”

“Eddie? Difficult? That bastard is dead: D-E-A-D dead and buried, and the only thing I regret is that I didn't get a chance to pound a stake in his heart before they stuck his sorry ass in the ground.”

“A real love muffin, huh?”

“Love muffin? It was bad enough I caught him in the sack with my best friend Annie. When I caught him with my own sister, I could a killed ‘em both right then and there. When I caught him with Raoul, the waiter from the Happy Pancake in Old Town, well, that was it... But why the hell am I telling you all this? Who are you?”

“Talbott. Peter Talbott. And we really do need to talk.”

“I don't think so.”

“What if I told you I owed him money?”

“Then I'd
know
you're full of shit. Nobody ever owed Eddie Kasmarek a damned thing except trouble, 'cause that's all anybody ever got from him.” Click.

This time, I didn't wait as long to call back.

“Mrs. Kasmarek, you are absolutely right,” I confessed. “I was lying to get my foot in the door so I could see you.”

“Why?”

“Because your life may be in danger. Mine already is, and if I'm right, they'll be coming after you next. So don't hang up on me again. Please.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm out of quarters.”

“No, dumb-ass. Why would somebody be after me?”

“When did Eddie die? His funeral? What was the date?”

“I don't know, I wasn't there. Last year. It was hot out. Maybe August?”

“Nope. They buried him in Columbus, Ohio, in February. And they buried me there two days ago.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Five minutes. I can explain the whole thing. You name the place.”

More silence. “I gotta be nuts to even talk to you.”

“Anywhere. On Michigan Avenue, the Hancock Building…”

“All right. In front of the Water Tower. The park on the west side in a half hour. But what do you look like?”

“Me? I'm about 5' 8” and 200 pounds. I'm wearing a dark blue pinstriped suit, glasses, and a red striped tie. What about you?”

“Look for a tall, leggy blond in a pale-green business suit, carrying a brown leather attaché case. You can't miss me. But remember, I have a black belt and I'll have a .38 in my jacket pocket, so don't mess with me.”

I walked back toward her building and found a spot up the street in a doorway where I could hide and watch her building. At 8:15, her curtains moved and I saw a haunting, pale-white face with large, dark eyes look out. She had short, black hair, styled fashionably “messy” with sprigs and clumps sticking out in every direction. Her only concessions to color were a big slash of cherry bomb red lipstick, a wide, bright-red watchband, and bright red nail polish. From the window, she glanced up and down the street, searching for someone or something, then she let the curtains drop back into place and she was gone.

Five minutes later, she came bouncing out the front door. A leggy blonde in a pastel business suit? Hardly. She couldn't be more than five feet tall, slim, and athletic. In the bright morning light, her black hair shone like a raven's wing. It hung down over her forehead and ended at a pair of dark, oversized sunglasses that completely hid her eyes. I smiled. Her “pale-green business suit and brown-leather attaché case” looked like a short, black-leather skirt, bold-patterned, gray hose, a frilly, white-silk blouse with a scoop neck and lots of lace, and a huge, black leather over-the-shoulder bag. Well, she got the leather part right. Considering my dark-blue, pinstripes suit and red striped tie had morphed into a plaid shirt, stonewashed jeans, and Briggs and Stratton hat, I figured we were about even.

When she hit the sidewalk, her head tracked back and forth like radar as she checked out the street, looking for something or someone. Finally, she gave up, pushed a shock of black hair out of her eyes, and set off speed walking south on Clark. If I had to guess, I'd say she was in her mid-twenties. The big, black-leather shoulder bag she was carrying was big enough to pass for an overnight bag. Over her left shoulder hung a thirty-five millimeter camera with a long telephoto lens. Well, at least she wasn't bull shitting me about being a photographer. She had on a pair of old fashioned, black-and-white high-top Keds gym shoes. Like most big- city secretaries, she probably carried her dress shoes in the purse, but the rest of the clothes weren't exactly “going to the office” togs. What did she call it? A late night “shoot” at 3:00 AM? The clothes were too nice for the day shift at the train station, but I wondered what she really did do for a living, and who or what was it she was ‘shooting’ in the middle of the night.