“Do I have what?” Lew said.
Little Duke looked very patient. He held out his hand palm up. There was a thick gold band on one of his fingers. Lew reached into his back pocket and came up with Santoro’s appointment book. He handed it to Little Duke, who tapped the edge of the notebook on the table and opened it.
“He didn’t have any appointments until ten,” Lew said. “We were gone by then.”
“You didn’t have an appointment?”
“No.”
“So what were you doing there?”
“He was looking for me,” said Lew.
“Why?” asked Little Duke.
Franco’s eyes moved back and forth between the detective and his brother-in-law, amazed at Lew’s sleight of hand.
“Hey,” said Franco, “we didn’t kill him-”
“What’s in the book?” asked Little Duke, ignoring Franco.
“Dinner and bar appointments with Bernard Aponte-Cruz,” Lew said. “Appointments with people, dinners, addresses and phone numbers of theaters, friends, restaurants, bars…”
“Gay bars,” said Little Duke, sitting back.
“I didn’t check-” Lew began.
“I will, but we found enough from Santoro’s apartment town house to figure it out.”
Franco wiped his chocolate fingers on a napkin.
“Hey,” said Franco. “Let’s say Santoro wanted to break out of the relationship. Right. Aponte-Cruz is a hit man, right? People who hire him who are not exactly sympathetic to alternative lifestyles, right? Santoro threatens to expose him and-”
Little Duke looked at Lew and said, “Bernard Aponte-Cruz was not a hit man. He was the security guard at the door of the Chelsea.”
“The disco place,” said Franco.
“Disco is as dead as Santoro,” said Little Duke. “The Chelsea’s the right-now hot spot, painful music, kids looking for drugs or sex they won’t find. Gays of both genders looking for sex which they will find, and Bernard Aponte-Cruz at the gate.”
“Aponte-Cruz and Claude Santoro were queer with each other,” said Franco. “I mean they were lovers or something?”
“Yes,” said Little Duke.
“Him and his brother-in-Law? Okay,” tried Franco, rubbing his lower lip with a thick finger and coming up with, “Aponte-Cruz threatened to expose that Santoro was gay and-”
“Exposure wouldn’t mean much to Santoro,” said Little Duke, looking out the window. “In this city, inside the Loop, it might bring him more business. Outside the Loop, a successful good-looking guy like Santoro, it would make him very popular.”
Three men in their late teens or twenties saw him and hurried by.
“Okay,” said Franco. “So Aponte-Cruz killed Santoro? You just go pick him up, right?”
“Aponte-Cruz is dead,” Lew said.
Little Duke drank some coffee and nodded.
“Right. Aponte-Cruz was shot about four hours ago in his apartment,” said Little Duke. “No gun found. Bullets are 9 mm. Odds are it’s the same gun that was used on Santoro.”
“Why?” asked Franco.
Lew looked down and then met Little Duke’s eyes.
“Maybe someone didn’t want Santoro to talk to me. Maybe someone who was responsible for my wife’s death.”
“Possible,” said Little Duke.
“Why are you on Santoro’s case?” Lew asked. “It’s not your district.”
“I asked for the case,” said Little Duke. “People downtown behind desks owe me favors. I called one in. Claude Santoro was my wife’s brother, her only brother. We’ll forget about where I got this,” Little Duke said, tapping the appointment book inside his pocket. “One condition. You find anything, let me know.”
Little Duke, got up from the booth and dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table.
“Thanks,” Franco said.
Little Duke, eyes still on Lew, nodded, walked to the door and went outside. The chatter level at the other booths and tables became louder.
“You palmed the appointment book in Santoro’s office,” said Franco.
“Yeah.”
“We’re partners, Lewis.”
“I thought you’d be better off not knowing,” said Lew. “You could say you never saw the appointment book, and you’d mean it.”
“Lewis,” Franco said, shaking his head. “We’re family, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve gotta trust me a little here,” Franco said. “You know?”
“I know,” said Lew.
The limping waiter came to the booth, pocketed the twenty and asked if they were finished.
“Cops pay for their food here?” asked Franco.
“Some do,” said the waiter. “I’d pay Little Duke to eat all his meals here. Nobody messes with this place. All but the dumb ones, the really dumb ones. I can handle them. Anything else I can get you? On the house.”
“Half a dozen donuts to go?” asked Franco.
“Done,” said the man, who limped away.
The tow truck was parked at the curb. A quartet of men was leaning against it, side by side. They were all in their twenties or thirties, all needing shaves, all with chins up, and all with T-shirts and attitudes, all of them black.
Franco stepped up to the one blocking the passenger side door and politely said, “Pardon me.”
“I don’t think so,” said the young man softly, meeting Franco’s eyes. “You are not pardoned, not for any fuckin’ thing you did, are doing, or will do for the rest of your motherfuckin’ life.”
“We were with Little Duke,” Lew said.
“I don’t see no Little Duke,” the man blocking the door said, looking around. “I don’t see no duke, baron, earl or king. I just see two white guys shitting their pants.”
Franco shook his head and grinned.
“You find this funny, chubby?” asked the man at the door.
In answer, Franco handed Lew his bag of donuts, grabbed the man by the neck and hurled him toward the restaurant. The man had trouble keeping his balance, doing a trick dance to keep himself from falling. Two of the others against the truck cursed as they took an angry step toward Franco. Franco was ready, arms out. The man he had hurled was heading back to join the others.
“Okay,” said the fourth young man, still leaning back against the truck. “That’ll do.”
The three men facing Franco stopped.
The fourth man, the one they had heeded, was short, teeth even, serious.
“We were just having some fun,” the young man said. “No one has to get hurt either side and we don’t want a visit from Little Duke. Get back in your truck, thank your God, and play with your rosary on your way home.”
Franco was breathing heavily now, leaning forward, arms at his sides, eyes moving back and forth from face to face. Franco wasn’t sure that he wanted to go.
“Let’s go,” Lew said.
Franco shook his head, lowered his arms, took the bag of donuts back from Lew and moved around to the driver’s side. Lew reached for the handle of the passenger side door. His eyes met those of the leader.
“Eric Monroe,” Lew said.
“No,” said the young man. “I’m his kid brother.”
“You look just like Eric Monroe,” Lew said.
Monroe let out a small laugh and turned his head.
“You can tell black men apart?”
“It’s what I do,” Lew said. “What’s your brother doing?”
“Playing for some team in France, hanging on, signing autographs, playing first base now, getting older, saving nothing.”
“He was good,” Lew said.
“Telling me?” Monroe said, tapping the brim of Lew’s Cubs cap. “He was the best. Still pretty damned good, but-”
Franco started the engine.
Lew reached for the door.
The young man gave him room to climb in.
When he lifted his leg, the shot came. The first pop of a Fourth of July rocket. The bullet thudded into the door.
The four men ran to the wall of the Tender. Lew looked up.
“Get your ass in that truck and get down” shouted Monroe. “Someone’s shooting at you.”
Lew climbed in and closed the door. Franco hit the gas.
As they pulled away, Lew saw an old woman across the street. She had a shopping bag in one hand. With the other she was pointing.