“In case I don’t live through the night I want someone who’ll follow my trail to know where it’s been taking me. I’d like that person to be you, since you’re better able to think ill of the gods than the cops are, but the hitch is, I need to talk to you before one-thirty.”
“What happens at one-thirty?”
“I strap on my six-guns and walk alone down Main Street.”
After some more poking, to see if matters were as urgent as I claimed, Murray agreed to meet me near the newspaper for a sandwich at noon. Before leaving the Pulteney I sorted my mail, tossed everything but a check from one of the clients I’d done a financial search for, then called a friend to replace my office door. He said he’d get to it by Wednesday afternoon.
Since it was close to twelve already, I headed north to the river. The air had thickened to a light drizzle. Despite Lotty’s dire words, my shoulders felt pretty good. Another couple of days-If I stayed a jump ahead of Gustav Humboldt -and I could start running again.
The Herald-Star faces the Sun-Times from the south side of the Chicago River. A lot of that area is getting trendy, with racquet courts and chichi little restaurants springing up, but Carl’s still serves a no-nonsense sandwich to the newspaper people. Its scarred booths and deal tables are packed into a dingy stone building on Wacker where it runs under the main road next to the river.
Murray swept into the tavern a few minutes after me, raindrops making his red hair glint under the dim lights. Lucy Moynihan, Carl’s daughter, who took over the place when he died, likes Murray. She let us jump the crowd to take a booth at the back and stayed for a few minutes to kid with Murray about the money he’d lost to her in last week’s basketball pool.
Over a hamburger I told him much of what I’d been doing the last three weeks. For all his flamboyance and conceit, Murray is an intent listener, absorbing information through every pore. They say you remember only thirty percent of what anyone tells you, but I’ve never had to repeat a story to Murray.
When I’d finished he said, “Okay. You got a mess. You have your old childhood brat wanting you to find who croaked your teammate, an indigestible young Jurshak, and a strangely behaving chemical company. And maybe the Garbage King. You be careful if Steve Dresberg is really involved. That boy plays very much for keeps. I can see him being tied in with Jurshak, but what’s Humboldt got to do with it?”
“I wish I knew. Jurshak handles his insurance, which isn’t a crime as much as a misdemeanor, but I can’t help wondering what Jurshak’s doing for Humboldt in return.” The elusive memory I’d been trying to force since Saturday swam across the surface of my mind again and disappeared.
“What?” Murray demanded suspiciously.
“Nothing. I thought I remembered something but I can’t quite get it. But I wish I knew why Humboldt is lying about Joey Pankowski and Steve Ferraro. It’s got to be something really important because when I went to his office today to ask him about it, I got hefted out by some enormous security apes.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like you buzzing around him,” Murray said maliciously. “There are times when I wish I had security apes to kick you out too.”
I faked a punch at him but he took hold of my hand and held it for a minute. “Give, Warshawski. There’s no story here yet. Just speculations that I can’t put in print. Why are we having lunch together?”
I pulled my hand away. “I’m doing some research. When I have some results I may have a better idea of why Humboldt’s lying, but right now I’m off to meet with Art Jurshak. I’ve got a major club to use on him, so I hope he’ll cough up what he knows. So that’s what I want from you. If I somehow die, talk to Lotty, to Caroline Djiak, and to Jurshak. Those three are the key.”
“How serious are you about being in danger?”
I watched Murray drain his stein and signal for a third. He weighs two-forty, maybe two-fifty-he can absorb it. I stuck with coffee-I wanted my head as clear as possible for Jurshak.
“More than I like. Someone left me for dead five days ago. Two of the same hoods were waiting outside my apartment on Friday. And today Gustav Humboldt sounded strangely like Peter O’Toole trying to get his barons to do in Becket. It’s pretty real.”
Of course Murray wanted to know the club I had on Jurshak, but I was absolutely determined not to let that get public. We fought about it until one-fifteen, when I got up and laid a five on the table and headed out. Murray hollered after me, but I hoped to be on a southbound bus before he could extricate himself and follow.
A 147 bus was just closing its doors as I reached the top of the stairs. The driver, a rare humanitarian, opened them again when he saw me running for the curb. Art had said two-thirty instead of two-I just wanted to make sure he didn’t show up early with some kind of armed escort. I hardly knew young Art and I sure didn’t trust him-he might have lied to me about fooling his father. Or maybe Big Art didn’t trust his kid, either, and discounted the story. Just in case, I wanted to get there ahead of a trap.
I rode down to Jackson and walked the three blocks east to the fountain. In the summer Buckingham Fountain is the showpiece of the lakefront. Then it’s shrouded by trees and crowded with tourists. In the winter, with the foliage dead and the water turned off, it makes a good spot to talk. Few people visit it, and those who do can be seen a good way off.
Today Grant Park was desolate under the dull winter sky. Empty potato-chip bags and whiskey bottles mixed in with the dead leaves provided the only signs of human presence in the area. I retreated to the rose garden on the fountain’s south side and perched on the base of one of the statues at its comers. I stuck the Smith & Wesson in my jacket pocket with my thumb resting on the safety.
A light drizzle kept up intermittently during the afternoon. Despite the relative warmth of the winter air, I was chilled through from sitting still in the damp. I hadn’t worn gloves so that I could handle the gun more readily, but by the time Jurshak showed up my fingers were so numb, I’m not sure I could have fired.
Around a quarter to three a limo stopped on Lake Shore Drive to deposit the alderman and a companion. The limo moved on up the drive to Monroe, where it circled and came to a halt about a quarter mile from the fountain. When I was sure no one was getting out to take a bead, I scrambled down from my perch and made my way back to the park.
Jurshak was looking around, trying to find his son. He paid only passing attention to me until he realized I was planning to talk to him.
“Art won’t be able to make it, Mr. Jurshak-he sent me instead. I’m V. I. Warshawski. I think you’ve heard my name from your wife. Or from Gustav Humboldt.”
Jurshak was wearing a black cashmere coat that buttoned up to his chin. With his face set off by the black collar, I could see an overwhelming resemblance to Caroline-the same high round cheeks, short nose, long upper lip. Even his eyes were the same gentian, a bit faded with age, but that true blue that you rarely see. In fact, he looked more obviously like her than he did young Art.
“What have you done with my son? Where are you holding him?” he demanded in a forceful, husky voice.
I shook my head. “He came to me on Saturday afraid for his life-said you’d told his mother he was as good as dead for letting me get that report you filed for Xerxes with Mariners Rest. He’s someplace safe. I don’t want to talk to you about your son, but your daughter. You may want to ask your friend to step aside while we speak.”
“What are you talking about? Art’s my only child! I demand that you take me to him at once, or I’ll get the police along quicker than you can blink.” His mouth set in the angry stubborn line I’d seen on Caroline’s face a thousand times.
Art had been a power in Chicago since before I’d started college. Even without his clique controlling the City Council, there were plenty of police who owed Jurshak favors and would be happy to run me in if he wanted them to.