“Enough!” I shouted. “Enough bloodshed. Put your gun down, Lazar.”
“They killed my girl,” Lazar said to me, his voice calm, just explaining the situation. “They killed my princess.”
I stepped behind him and chopped my hand down on his arm, hitting the nerve hard enough that he dropped the gun.
“One of you, call 911!” I cried. “Don’t sit there like stuffed frogs!”
I shoved the gun out of reach with my bare foot. “You’re such war heroes when kids are dying far away, do something now! Fold a napkin into a pad for the wound. Call an ambulance.”
Neither of the men seemed able to move. They stared at me glassy-eyed. I put a finger to Cowles’s neck. He still had a faint pulse. The bullet had gone through the side of his head and come out through his jaw. I grabbed a couple of napkins from the table, made pads, and started pushing them against the two wounds. It was a nightmare, a repeat of the scene in the alley when Nadia died. I kept screaming for someone to call 911.
Behind me, I heard John Vishneski come up to Lazar. “Man, it isn’t worth it,” Vishneski said, “spending your life in prison for these scum. You go back to your wife. She’s been through enough, okay?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him ease Lazar away from the table.
Marty Jepson materialized next to me. “Vic, what do you need?”
“Call 911. Get a medical team here. Page Dr. Herschel over the loudspeaker. Get me more linen.”
Jepson took out his cell phone. He started to explain our emergency to a 911 dispatcher, then I heard the phone drop.
“That man,” Jepson said. “He was outside Plotzky’s that night. Chad left early, and I saw that man come over and start talking to him.”
I looked up. “Which one?” I demanded.
Jepson pointed at Scalia. “And what the fuck are you doing with an Iraq service medal?”
Vishneski stared from Jepson to Scalia. It took him a moment to realize what Jepson meant, but he suddenly roared with anger and flung himself across the table. Glassware crashed, and bourbon spilled across my bare thighs.
“Was that you?” Vishneski grabbed Scalia’s neck. “Was that you who killed that gal and tried to kill my boy? You chicken shit, you fucking coward, you send my boy and his friends to war without protection so you can make a few extra bucks and then you flaunt a medal?”
I was struggling to my feet when a welcome voice bellowed through the room.
“This is the police. We have closed the doors. Return to your seats. And one of you people behind the bar, turn up the lights.”
It was Terry Finchley, standing under the spotlight on the stage with a bullhorn. Officer Milkova was behind Vishneski, pulling his hands from Scalia’s throat. Terry tossed the horn to the floor and came to our table.
“An ambulance is on its way, Warshawski. Go put on some clothes. And then you’d better be prepared to tell me all about it.”
53 After the Brawl
As the night wore on, events began to blur. Ambulance crews came for Cowles and for a woman who’d been shot when one of Anton’s thugs tried to kill the Body Artist. Someone-it might have been the Renaissance Raven-wrapped me in a big furry coat. I never did learn who it belonged to.
Terry Finchley had set up operations at the end of the bar. He demanded I give him the names of any key players, besides the group at Tintrey’s table, but I had told him only about the Body Artist and Anton’s creeps. I was pretty sure I’d seen Rodney in the crowd, but he’d managed to slide out ahead of the cops along with Anton. They’d left Konstantin and Ludwig to take any heat coming Anton’s way.
Jarvis MacLean demanded that Finchley arrest Lazar Guaman for shooting Cowles. When MacLean turned to me, insisting that I confirm that Guaman had shot Cowles, I shook my head.
“Can’t help you there, Mr. MacLean,” I said. “I had my back to your table when the gun went off. I didn’t see it.”
“Damn it,” MacLean said, “he was holding the gun. You made him drop it.”
“Still can’t help you,” I said. “Gilbert Scalia might have shot Cowles, the way he shot Nadia Guaman. He framed Chad Vishneski for Nadia’s death, and now he could be trying to frame Nadia’s father for shooting Rainier Cowles.”
That got Terry’s attention in a hurry. He had been prepared to let MacLean and Scalia rush off to their waiting limo, but he ordered me to repeat the accusation.
“What are you basing that on, Vic?” Terry asked. “Your woman’s intuition or actual evidence?”
I gave a tight smile. “Marty Jepson ID’d Scalia as a man who accosted Chad outside Plotzky’s bar the night Nadia Guaman was shot. And one of Mona Vishneski’s neighbors saw him and a second man escorting Chad home about half an hour later. The neighbor recognized Scalia’s Iraq service medal. Maybe he can pick Scalia out of a lineup.”
“I have major responsibilities in a war that the U.S. is waging against our most ferocious enemies,” Scalia said. “I can’t be bothered with this kind of crap.”
Terry’s eyes narrowed. “Murder is a kind of crap, Mr. Scalia, the worst kind. If you’ve shot someone in my city, then you’ll have to take time away from your heavy duties to answer my questions.”
Terry told Milkova to see that Scalia and MacLean were driven to his office at Thirty-fifth and Michigan. “Let Captain Mallory know what we’re doing. And, of course, let them call their lawyers. I gather their chief counsel is over at Northwestern getting his head sewn back together, but they must have other lawyers at their disposal.”
Finchley told me I could sit down until he was ready for me, and I retreated to the stool the Renaissance Raven had used. After that, I remembered things only episodically. Jepson and Radke smuggling the Raven out of the bar through the basement service door. Perhaps she was afraid a police inquiry might keep her from her European tour.
Petra shrieked at the blood from my left foot pooling on the floor. I hadn’t noticed it until then. “Vic! You’ve been shot!”
I pulled my foot up and looked at it under the spotlight. A piece of glass was embedded in the ball. I hadn’t even felt it when I walked away from Rainier Cowles.
“Don’t worry about that now. What I need is for you to make sure the Body Artist hasn’t left.”
Petra gulped. “Vic, you can’t just sit there with glass in your foot.”
“Then pull it out and go find the Body Artist.”
Petra disappeared into the crowd, which was sounding like the herd in one of those old John Wayne movies: low mooing, restless movement, prelude to a stampede. Now that I knew about the glass in my foot, I couldn’t bring myself to get up to look for the Artist. I tried to scan the crowd to see if I could spot her, but it was impossible with so many bodies crammed together.
I must have dropped off to sleep, because the next thing I remember was Lotty holding my foot while Vesta pointed a flashlight at it. “Yes, it is just glass, not a bullet. And Sal has a good first-aid kit. This will hurt: I don’t have any topicals with me-I don’t go to nightclubs expecting to need them. Vesta, a little lower and to the right.”
The pain as she pulled the glass out shot through me like an electric current. Lotty’s expert fingers probed the area, didn’t find any more fragments. She swabbed the wound with antiseptic, which jolted me again, and pieced the gaping pieces of flesh together with tape before wrapping the foot up.
“Thank you, Lotty,” I said weakly. “Sorry the evening’s entertainment took such a shocking turn.”
“Why would I expect otherwise when you’re in charge? God forbid that the Chicago Symphony ever hires you to run a program for them.”
The words were harsh, but her tone was affectionate. She squeezed my shoulder and ordered Petra, who’d hovered, white-faced, behind her, to bring me a hot, sweet drink. No alcohol! Lotty waited until Petra returned with some hot cider and stood over me while I drank it.