Windy City Blues (18 page)

On the Brown Line heading back to my office, I tried to imagine the city, the mob, and the Republic Media Group conspiring to murder a parking officer. Too many big fish demanding too much in return for silence. Too many irresistible blackmailing opportunities.

Absorbed in thought as I ascended the third flight to my office, I almost didn’t notice Izzy leaning against the wall in his customary pose, arms folded tightly against his chest.

“You are deep in reflection,” Izzy said as I opened the door. “I see this as a good sign.”

I pretended to ignore him as I entered and sat behind my desk. Izzy remained on the landing. “How long have you been waiting?” I said, not looking up.

“Long enough,” Izzy said strolling in, hands engulfed by pockets. He took the guest chair. “Point is, I’m here, after all—and so are you.”

“As usual, well said.”

“You have much to tell me, I’m sure, and I refer not only to your black eye.”

I recapped the days since we last spoke. Izzy appeared to listen intently while leaning forward, elbows on knees, chin resting in hands. When I stopped talking, he remained in that position several moments longer. “Damn it!” I said. “Are you even listening?”

“I have something I want to show you.” Izzy took some folded sheets of paper from his back pocket, unfolded them and put them on the desk. “This will be published in tomorrow’s
Partisan
.”

Reluctantly, I reached for the pages. My stomach clenched as I saw an Ellis Knight byline with the title “When Gordon Baxter Went Off His Meds.”

As he did with my first murder case, Knight stretched the definition of journalism to include an omniscient narrator revealing the motivations of all involved, interspersing his fictional thoughts with rhetorical questions.

“Picture Farragut Avenue on the last day of Gordon Baxter’s life, where he sits on the bed in his basement studio apartment located in a four-story brick cube as ordinary as Baxter’s life is pointless, balancing his daily pill dispenser on his thigh, calmly deciding how many of the taupe pills he will swallow, little round tablets he assumes are the same meds that for most of his life have tamed the electrical forces crashing through his brain like a constant procession of suicide bombers. Picture Gordon Baxter,
sans
meds, a terrorist….”

Knight’s rambling narrative of facts affixed to conjecture and assumptions first told the story of an immigrant tragically colliding with a schizophrenic who periodically stopped taking his medication. The story appeared sympathetic to the official conclusion until Knight’s sudden ghetto slang about-face. “…But let’s break it down and quit buggin’, dig a little deeper, see there’s nothing but a busta-crew who don’t give a damn….”

While I read, Izzy rose from his chair, stood next to my desk, hands back in pockets, waiting for my reaction.

I said, “You’ve been feeding Knight information?”

Izzy shrugged. “So what of it?”

“Because you don’t show the world what cards you’re holding! Because then perpetrators cover their tracks!—wait a second. How the hell do you know Knight?”

“That you did not figure this out right away I find astonishing. At our first meeting I said the article in
The Partisan
had made me aware of your talents. Then a mangled corpse the authorities don’t care about shows up in my backyard. Who else would I trust to feel my outrage but the journalist who wrote that article?”

“Knight put you up to this. You’re paying me with his—”

“Knight put me up to nothing! We are partners in a common goal. The money is irrelevant and none of your business.”

I had trouble seeing two strange personalities like Knight and Izzy cooperating, regardless of the circumstances. “Knight gets his article, I get paid to solve another murder. Tell me again what’s in it for you?”

“How many times must I say this? Nothing is
in it
except to know why a man is dead, although now I can confirm that corporations and city machine politics have life-and-death control over us. That a man who knows too much is much feared and often dies prematurely.”

Izzy waited for a response. To escape his scrutinizing stare, I closed my eyes and massaged my eyebrows with the tips of my fingers while praying Izzy would leave. When I opened them again, there he stood, gazing at me with an expression of intense curiosity.

“Are we done?” I said.

He remained looking at me several more seconds before taking something from his breast pocket. “Here,” he said handing me an envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Twenty-five hundred,” he said. “A balance of twenty-five hundred remains.” Without another word, Izzy walked out.

The key had barely touched the lock when the door pushed open to reveal the wreckage of what had been my couch, coffee table, bookcases, and contents of the kitchen cabinets and drawers. My bedroom had suffered the same fate, with the addition of dried blood smeared across the floor.

I called Punim’s name repeatedly while piling up the pieces and tried to prepare myself for her body when I turned over the larger chunks of debris. After the dread had welled up through my abdomen and stuck in my throat, I sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall opposite my opened door. It was times like these when one appreciated friends. I thought of calling Tamar, but fear of sounding vulnerable to a woman I had just slept with stopped me.

I shouted for Punim a few more times and then thought of what Tamar had said three nights ago while cooking dinner: how I was without family, without blood relations. Two nights ago she had described feeling so alone just standing next to me and said that I exuded loneliness. I wondered if Frownie sensed a pathetic lonesomeness or even thought of me as forsaken somehow. I wanted to ask him, and it hit me hard that I would never ask him anything again. Tears spilled out of my eyes. Punim, my roommate, my house companion, was missing. Just ten pounds covered in cottony fur, a living, breathing being who acknowledged my existence, if only by her choice to stay with me, had met with violence of an unknown nature. Why? Because my cash was in a safe deposit box instead of a shoebox? Because destroying my apartment wasn’t enough? Then the sobbing began, slow at first but gradually engulfing me in loud, heaving convulsions, turning me into someone I had never met. Who was this boy sitting on the floor, alone, feeling as if the world had deserted him?

A black-and-white cat sat calmly watching me from the space between the wall and the edge of the opened front door. Instantly, my grief subsided. I crawled toward her and she allowed me to pick her up and run my hands over her body. I found no signs of trauma nor did she react as if injured, although I did notice the white tips of her paws were stained pink and a crusty substance resembling dried blood stuck to her claws. I put her down and watched as she began meticulously cleaning herself. My furry friend had made sure the perpetrator had not escaped unscathed and, perhaps, had even been scarred for life.

“You don’t sound too good,” Kalijero said. “Rough night?”

Lying on my back, staring at the ceiling from the futon mattress, I let the phone rest against my ear. I was not accustomed to morning sunlight, but the blinds had been included in the mischief, so there it was. “You could say that.”

“You mind if I stop by? I got some things to show you.”

“I’d absolutely love to see you, Jimmy. Seriously. I really, really, want to see you. Bring bagels.”

No response, then, “Are you fucking with me? Landau, want me to come over or not?”

“Yes! But bring some fucking bagels.” I hung up and wondered why I had just acted like a prick. Kalijero was a good guy. We were friends—sort of. An hour later, holding a brown bag and leather briefcase, he stared in disbelief from the doorway.

“What the hell happened?”

“I’d offer you a seat, but I don’t have one.”

We stood at the kitchen island and ate while I filled him in on yesterday’s events.

“This looks like someone in a rage,” Kalijero said, wiping away a schmear of cream cheese. “The parking officer with the drug problem. He’s the one I’d keep an eye on.”

Kalijero opened his briefcase and took out some papers. “Frownie had a will. He left everything he owned to various labor unions. Except one item. This is yours.”

Kalijero handed me a picture of Frownie’s most prized possession, a 1933 Cadillac V-16 once owned by the king of Denmark. I stared at the photo unable to comprehend that I would own this vehicle.

“What am I going to do with it? This is a rich man’s hobby.”

Kalijero started laughing. “Sell it, dumb ass! You don’t think he expected you to drive the damn thing?”

I said, “The day Frownie died, I was snooping around his place. I found a photo album. There’s a kid, a dead ringer for a young Jimmy Kalijero. Frownie’s got his arm around his shoulders.”

“So what?” Kalijero stopped chewing. “What do you care? I’m not in his damn will. That tells you something, doesn’t it?”

“What’s with the secrets?”

“Just because you don’t know about something doesn’t mean it’s a secret.” Kalijero closed his eyes a few moments then opened them. “I told you some already. About when Frownie begged me to let your father plea for a shorter prison sentence. I said I didn’t realize how close he had been with your family. That’s a lie. I knew.”

I waited for more. “And?”

“When I was a kid in the fifties, Frownie was like an activist type. He always was trying to help working people, especially immigrants. Everyone loved him. That’s how he got to be so good at his job, because he had so many friends. Lots of those people became contacts for his detective work, including your grandfather over on the West Side. Us kids loved listening to Frownie’s stories about gangsters and pool halls full of hoodlums. After my dad died in a car wreck, he took a special interest in me. Kept an eye on me, made sure I didn’t skip school. He became close to my mom, even though she barely spoke English and Frownie sure as hell didn’t speak Greek.” Kalijero, laughing, shook his head. “He tried to learn a few simple sentences but always got so tongue-tied and pissed off that he’d start cussing.”

“This is all very scandalous. I can see why you didn’t want me to know about it.”

“I’m not done, smart ass. Word got out about plans to build the interstate through our neighborhood. We all knew this meant the end of Greek Town. A hundred years of history bulldozed under. Frownie organized against it. He used every contact he knew, trying to find out who to beg or bribe or make some kind of deal with. But this was the Feds we’re talking about. Even though I was only about seventeen, I knew it was hopeless. And that pissed him off.”

“He didn’t like your attitude.”

“Yeah, especially so readily taking the compensation money. He wanted me to at least fight first. He stopped talking to me for a while. Then he told me how disappointed he was. Gradually he warmed up. A few years later, I disappointed him again when I went to the police academy. He had his heart set on me going to college. I had already been in uniform a couple of years before we started talking again. We kind of developed a more professional relationship. I gave him tips if I heard something at headquarters; he’d use his contacts for me if I asked. When I made detective, he congratulated me and I think he might have even meant it. When I started working vice, Frownie was pretty much retired, but he heard about a gambling sting I was conducting. When it all went down and he found out it was your father, he came to me. When I refused to go light with the charges, that was the last straw. Glad you asked?”

“Sure, why not? I’m always glad to learn something new. I got something to show you.” I walked to my bedroom and returned with the photo of Tamar’s boss and Jack Gelashvili. “You know anything about this guy?”

Kalijero looked at the photo and frowned. “Where’d you get this?”

“Who cares? Just tell me if he’s someone I should know.”

Kalijero scratched his head. He looked tentative. “He’s pissed off a lot of the community because he feeds the bums and lets them sleep it off in the bakery. More and more bums are coming to the neighborhood because of him, they say.”

I waited for more. “He feeds the poor? That’s all you know?”

“I didn’t say that’s all I know! But we don’t have anything concrete on him. He’s one of those characters—it doesn’t matter. He’s known to us, but that’s as much as I can say right now.”

“I’m starting to think the Russian mob might have been involved in Gelashvili’s murder. So does his former boss at parking. No real evidence yet, just a story.”

“Well, if you do get evidence, don’t pursue it. You’ll end up as dead as Gelashvili. Now I got something to show you.”

From his briefcase he took out two enlarged photos of a rectangular copper or bronze object. Embossed on one side was a bearded man with a crown. On the other side, the king’s sunken image along with three ornate characters of an exotic alphabet etched into a corner.

I said, “You want to tell me what I’m looking at?”

“Help me figure it out.”

“Where did you get it?”

“For now, it’s better you don’t know.”

“Did you check with one of the
eighty
universities in Chicago?”

“I did.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“I want you to show it to that girl, Gelashvili’s cousin. It’s a way of confirming what we suspect.”

“Holy shit, Jimmy! Just tell me what you suspect! Is it relevant to Gelashvili being dead? I’ve got kindling for furniture. I’m not in the mood for games.”

“I’ve been pretty damn straight with you, Jules. In fact, I’ve gone out of my way to be a good guy when I sure as hell don’t have to be. So why don’t you pretend I have more experience in these matters than you? Why don’t you pretend I’ve been doing police work for over thirty-five years?”

Kalijero was great at reminding me that he was in charge and would always be in charge if we worked together. It still didn’t make sense for him not to tell me what he suspected. But it also didn’t matter.

On the phone at the bakery, Tamar sounded tired but glad I called. “I didn’t hear from you yesterday,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if something was wrong.”

It was true we had not spoken since I dropped her off at the bakery the morning after we had sex—a potential mixed signal if there ever was one. I apologized for not calling and told a brief story of yesterday’s adventures at city hall. I did not mention the sacking of my apartment. She suggested I stop by after the late-morning rush.

After I filled several garbage bags with wood scraps and stacked the larger pieces along the wall, I set out to a Salvation Army thrift store down the street where, in fifteen minutes, I had picked out suitable replacements, paid for with cash. Then I left five C-notes with a carpenter-locksmith guy I trusted to repair my door and install a dead-bolt. I enjoyed sharing the wealth.

I loaded the Civic with the refuse and drove to a West Side wood recycler before doubling back to the Kutaisi Georgian Bakery. Despite the absence of the double-parked white van, I recognized the heavyset Hispanic driver sitting at a table near the door, relaxing with coffee and a pastry. Maybe he figured out there was a loading zone in the alley. For the first time, I noticed a patch on the left breast of his jacket identical to the IIPD snake-eating bald eagle decal on the windshield.

Tamar greeted me with a warm hug and led me to a table with two pastries. The booths were empty except for Boris stoically smoking a cigarette, flicking the ashes in a coffee cup. Three hammered guys at the drunk table, one snoring loudly. “Why does your boss put up with that?” I said.

Tamar seemed not to know what I meant. Then she said, “My boss is very compassionate. He understands hard times.”

“What about that guy? Is he supposed to be smoking in here?”

Tamar frowned. “No!” she said then stood up, walked to Boris, and said something. Boris initially had no reaction other than to drop the butt into the coffee cup without even acknowledging her presence. After Tamar turned to walk away, Boris said something out loud in what I assumed was Russian. Tamar stopped momentarily, but didn’t turn around. Then she continued walking back to our table and sat. She didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead looking troubled.

“Are you okay?” I said. Tamar nodded. “What did he say to you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said quietly.

I tried to lighten things up a little. “I’m gonna get fat if you keep pushing these tarts or turnovers or popovers or whatever they are on me.”

“Pakhlava,”
Tamar said, trying to sound cheerful. “And you could use a little fattening up. What’s that?” Tamar pointed at the manila envelope I’d brought with me.

I handed her the photo of the kingly figure embossed in metal. “Do you know what this is?”

Tamar needed only a glance. “It’s an ornament of King David IV. Georgians are known for their metal-working skills.”

I handed her the photo of the flip side of the ornament. Her eyes bounced around the image until she focused on the inscription and brought the photo to within inches of her face. She mumbled a word I assumed was in her native Georgian.

“I’m guessing those are letters. Maybe somebody’s initials?”

Tamar looked deadly serious. She turned to glance at Boris. “Where did you get this?”

“A cop gave it to me,” I said. “He wants some kind of confirmation before he tells me anything more.”

Tamar put the photo down. “You’re right. Those are initials written in
Mkhedruli,
the Georgian alphabet. The letters are the equivalent to the English B, D, and G. King David’s likeness is common on these metal ornamentat
ions. One carves their initials so it won’t get mixed up with someone else’s ornament. That’s what my cousin Bagrat Dogonadze Gelashvili did.”

I said, “This is more evidence that the bracelet with Baxter’s phony suicide note was planted. This ornament was found somewhere else—or on someone else. It’s time to find out.”

Tamar slouched in her chair and stared at the table. Her eyes filled, but she wiped them with the back of her hand before a single tear managed to spill out. I moved my chair closer and put my arm around her. She leaned into me and said something in Russian. “That means,
It was over quickly, they say.
He didn’t suffer. Be thankful.
That’s what the gangster-asshole said to me.”

Kalijero picked up on the first ring. “Well?”

“It’s an ornament of a Georgian king. Where did you get it?”

“Meet me at Area B in an hour,” Kalijero said. I agreed and we hung up at the same time.

Tamar stared at the photo of Jack’s initials as if in a trance until she looked at me and said, “You didn’t tell him it belonged to Jack.”

“I got a meeting right now at police headquarters. But first there’s something else I want to talk to you about.” I took out the photo of the baker and Jack. “This is your boss, right?”

Tamar looked at the photo and back to me. “What’s this all about?”

“There are people who suspect this man might be connected to the Russian mob. Some even think he runs a human smuggling operation.”

Tamar handed the photo back to me. The look in her eye told me she wasn’t happy. “And do you think my uncle Gigi is a criminal?”

The word “uncle” hung in the air over Tamar’s head. For a moment I pictured death rays shooting out of her eyes. “You heard what that gangster just said! He’s implying he knows something, maybe even
participated
.”

“That doesn’t mean
Gigi
is involved!”

“Then why does he let these scumbags hang out in his bakery?”

Tamar looked horrified, but I couldn’t say from what. “Because, because, he has no choice! They’re
gangsters,
they don’t give you a choice, and Gigi goes along. He has to! You don’t think Gigi had anything to do with Jack’s murder, you can’t!”

The proverbial can of worms covered me. “I don’t know what to think. Everyone knows I’m not buying the murder-suicide story. Maybe they’re throwing in your uncle to perpetuate the phony mafia theme.”

“Let me guess. You want me to spy on the most generous man who ever lived. A man who made sure I had a job and that most of the people who’ve made this bakery a huge success had jobs.”

Her anger was palpable. “I’m not asking you to spy. But if you notice something that might seem weird—”

“Weird? Like what? Crates overflowing with rifles and grenades or bags of white powder lying around the warehouse? Or how about my uncle sitting around with a bunch of guys named Khaber or Sergi or Zakhar performing ancient initiation rites and guzzling vodka while playing Russian roulette?”

“You’re overreacting—”

“Am I? If this bakery were run by white Americans, would you be taking this photo seriously? Or does the word ‘smuggling’ cause your brain to create the image of a scheming Central Asian connected to an international arms or drug dealer?”

“You’re calling me a racist? You really think—”

“Just get away from me!” Tamar stood, knocking the chair over. “Get out of our bakery. Just leave. Leave me alone!”

She stormed away and disappeared into the prep room. I left the bakery with a knot in my stomach. I knew what kind of pain it was, but I had to focus on the latest developments. On my way to Area B, I wondered if I was as insensitive as Tamar suggested.