“You’re probably right,” I agreed. “But do you know what Joel was so afraid of that he agreed to represent Stella?”
“Leave now, Ms. Warshawski.”
She stared at me implacably until I left.
INTO THE GAP
Who had held Joel’s feet to a fire that scared him worse than Stella? I hoped it wasn’t Spike Hurlihey—the Illinois Speaker had a phalanx of protectors around him thicker than any wall I could penetrate.
I bet that Eunice knew, or at least guessed. The way she dismissed me—Joel might be a worry and a disappointment, but he was still her tiger cub, she was still protecting him. I also bet that I could bring down Spike Hurlihey before I persuaded Eunice to confide in me.
Joel came out of the office while I was brooding over his unknown sins. He didn’t see me, but beetled straight to the Pot of Gold. My stomach turned: I had browbeaten him and he was turning to his tried-and-true consolation, the Grey Goose.
I thought of the scroll hanging in Rafe Zukos’s living room, the geese in flight. Rafe, the boy wonder, Joel had bitterly called him. Rafe had moved far away from his unhappy South Side adolescence, the geese in flight, but Joel had been pulled earthward by some unhappy mix of family history, personal issues. Maybe Stella Guzzo’s trial, as well.
Joel was sure Spike hadn’t known about his and Rafe’s sexual fumblings, but bullies have a way of sniffing out secrets, or at least their targets’ weaknesses. As Rafe had reminded me yesterday, twenty-five years ago, even a whiff that a lawyer was gay could have derailed a career. Spike could have taunted Joel with the possibility—but twenty-five years ago, Spike was still a pretty young lawyer himself. He wasn’t in charge of the office, Mandel and McClelland were, so no matter how much tormenting Spike did, he wasn’t the person who decided what cases the firm took or who the partners assigned them to. How had it happened? That was what no one could tell me.
I was like someone trying to get over a video game addiction: just one more hand and I’ll give it up for good. One more conversation and I would let the Guzzos pickle in their own brine. I’d spoken to Stella’s current priest, to her trial lawyer, to the manager at the firm that had taken over Mandel’s practice. And I’d spoken to her son. I hadn’t talked to Betty, the woman Frank left me for when we were back in high school. I hadn’t seen the restraining order yet, but I didn’t think it included Stella’s daughter-in-law.
My route to the East Side, where Frank and Betty lived with her father, took me past the west side of St. Eloy’s, the side where the school and the playing fields stood. Boys were playing baseball. I stopped to look. These were high school teams, St. Eloy in silver, the visitors from St. Jerome in scarlet.
The bleachers were full of kids and parents from the two schools. It was the parents who were engaged by the action on the field; the kids were mostly listening to their devices rather than watching the action. Father Cardenal was in the front row, clapping enthusiastically.
St. Jerome’s was batting in the top of the third. The first batter reached on a routine single, the second hit a sacrifice fly to right field, but when the third kid hit a line drive headed to left field, the St. Eloy’s shortstop leapt into the gap, lay almost horizontal in midair to make the catch, and turned to double up the kid on second.
As St. Eloy’s trotted off the field, his teammates pounded the shortstop’s back, knocking his cap off. I didn’t need to see the crown of red-gold hair to know this was Frank’s son. It wasn’t just the grin, like his father’s at the same age, but those fluid moves.
Frank had covered the gap like that at sixteen. My stomach twisted. No wonder he was bitter, and wistful, seeking vindication through his son. It might happen, too, if young Frank got the right coaching, if he caught the eye of the right scouts, if he didn’t injure himself, if he continued to mature—if all the imponderables of luck and talent came together in him, Frank was right, his son had a ticket out of South Chicago, to college for sure, maybe even to the show.
The priest got up from his seat to fist-bump the kids, then started climbing the stands. I picked up the sweet-acrid smell of weed a second after he had, and saw the users bunched together on the top row. I watched the comedy play out, the desperate extinguishing of roaches, the taking of names, the promises of detention. Cardenal stayed up on the top of the stands, rummaging in the boys’ backpacks, while St. Eloy’s took the field. As he looked around he caught sight of me.
“Hola, Detective, come on up and sit down.”
He was messing with his dopers by calling me a detective, but I threaded my way up through the rows of students and parents.
“What should I do with these children smoking on my school yard?” the priest asked, jovially grabbing one of them by his shirt collar. “Set up a trace on their bank accounts, find out who they’re buying from and selling to?”
“You’re confusing me with the FBI, padre. I can’t do magic tricks with people’s money.”
“Ah, but you could follow them, right?” He slapped their shoulders. “Keep an eye behind you, this is one crafty detective. We never know whether she’s going to be on the North Side or the South Side, so you have to look in both directions.”
I didn’t say anything: I didn’t want to be part of his intimidation scheme. He let the boys sweat for a beat or two, then said, “So, Detective, come with me, tell me about your North Side investigations.”
I followed him back to the ground, looking at the action on the field while he stopped to talk to parents and children. I was hoping young Frankie would come to the plate while I was there, but St. Eloy’s already had an out and Frankie was still in the dugout.
When Cardenal finished glad-handing, he took me a short way away from the stands. “What is it you really want down here, Detective?”
I looked at him steadily. “Some slice of the truth, padre.”
“But which slice? And what do you plan to do with it?”
“Certainly not intimidate a bunch of high school kids. If they are drug-dealing gangbangers, they belong to the cops. If they’re bored, undermotivated kids with no future, you can do more for them than I can.”
“Oh—those boys up there. Yes, they’re a worrying problem all right. If they’re bored and undermotivated then they will inevitably become gangbangers. That’s why I don’t expel them for smoking dope in the ballpark—I don’t want to move them faster into gangland than they’re already going. I don’t expect you to take them on. I’m more interested in why you are looking at people in my church and then up at Wrigley Field.”
I stared. “Who— Oh. Uncle Jerry? He complained to you?”
“‘Uncle Jerry’?” Cardenal repeated. “He didn’t tell me you were a relative.”
“I don’t know his real name,” I said. “The first time I saw him, he was expostulating with a young woman; she called him ‘Uncle Jerry.’ I bumped into him this morning, quite literally. It was only five or six hours ago, but it’s fascinating that he came running to you. What did he say?”
“He says you taunted him about being in church.”
“Taunted?” I gaped. “I reminded him that we’d seen each other at Saint Eloy’s. I couldn’t find the utility closet when I was trying to stow your ladder; I lugged it all over the place and ended up in the church, where Jerry was arguing with a young woman. This morning, Jerry claimed he’d never been in church. He seemed terrified of the guy he was with, so when he denied all knowledge of Saint Eloy’s, I let it go.”
I pulled out my phone and opened the photo I’d taken of Jerry and Gravel. “This Uncle Jerry?”
Cardenal peered over the screen. “Yes, that’s Jerry. The other guy I don’t know. Who is he?”
I shook my head. “No idea. Who is Jerry?”
Cardenal paused before answering, as if trying to decide whether I wanted him to violate the confessional. “Jerry Fugher. He sometimes works on the electrics for us. He’s a kind of handyman, I guess. I don’t think he has a regular job, although his work for us is always good enough. Not creative, but functional, if you know what I mean. Maybe Bagby hires him to take care of wiring on the trucks.”