I looked back at the busted concrete steps leading into the tavern. He’d got two-for-one saviors, a pair of hefty guys who might be well into middle age but could still bust heads without any difficulty.
‘Over here, Billy. This asshole is givin’ me grief.’
But the other one, in a faded Levi’s long-sleeved shirt, said, ‘Hang on, Frank.’
‘Thanks, Sonny.’ Then to me, ‘Now you’ll get it.’
They kept their arms wide of their torsos the way movies and TV taught us the old gunfighters did. Then they pasted on their best psychopath smiles as they started down the steps. Billy went up on the moment by stumbling into one of the cracks on the concrete steps. He fell against Sonny, who pushed him off as if his buddy was carrying at least cooties, if not leprosy.
Now that they were on the pavement they squared their shoulders, readjusted their gunfighter stances and walked over to us.
‘You givin’ Frank a problem, man?’ This close Billy smelled of cloying beer, cigarettes and sweat. He was ready. His hands were fists. Sizable fists.
‘Frank’s an old dude,’ Sonny said. He’d recently run through the place where they sprayed you with Aqua Velva for four or five minutes. ‘Have to be a real chicken-shit motherfucker to pick on an old dude.’ He nodded, not to Frank but to Billy. They’d had this act going since second grade.
‘The police would like to talk to him.’
‘And you’re the cops, huh?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ A Billy-to-Sonny glance. ‘And here I was all ready to bow.’
Sonny obliged with a chuckle.
‘He’s got me confused with somebody else, Billy. That’s why he’s hasslin’ me.’
‘Who’s he think you are?’ Sonny said.
Three enormous dump trucks boomed past. We stood silent like children in awe of all mobile and metal things that big.
Apparently Billy had had time to figure out a solution to Frank’s dilemma. ‘You wanna get in your car and drive away, Frank?’
‘You bet I do. But he won’t let me.’
‘This asshole, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
Sonny did a little acting. He shook his head as if he’d just been told that I’d set fire to a children’s ward. ‘Well, that kind of bullshit ain’t gonna stand, Frank. You wanna get in your car’n drive away, that’s your business.’
‘You fuckin’ right it is.’
Billy and Sonny had taken several steps closer to me. They had also separated so they could, if necessary, come at me from both sides.
‘Frank,’ Sonny said, ‘you get in your car, start it up and go home or wherever you want to go.’
‘What if he follows me, Sonny?’
His smile was a shiv. ‘Oh, he won’t be followin’ you. We’ll see to that.’
‘I really appreciate this, boys. You know I’m not in the best of health and then to have some slick bastard like this get on my case—’
‘Go, Frank,’ Billy said, ‘and be sure to say hello to Cindy for me.’
Frank’s wince told me that Billy shouldn’t have used the name ‘Cindy’ — or ‘Frank,’ for that matter. I had the license number and two names. Unless his two friends decided to crack a few of my ribs, I was satisfied with this trip.
Frank managed to drop his keys as he tried to unlock the Ford. No, he wasn’t as helpless as he’d pretended to be last night, but he was not in good shape. He almost pitched over as he retrieved them.
The three of us watched him get his car going and drive away.
‘So who’re you supposed to be?’ Billy said.
‘I work for Congresswoman Bradshaw.’
‘That bitch,’ Sonny said. ‘She’s a socialist, for one thing, and she wants to teach little kids a load of bullshit about our country.’
‘And she likes fags.’
‘So what the hell are you botherin’ old Frank for?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘He can’t say.’ They were doing their road show act again. Bouncing lines off each other and grinning.
‘Because he’s important. That’s why he can’t say.’
‘He works for Bradshaw. And he admits it.’
I guess you’d call it a chortle. They traded them back and forth.
‘I’m going now.’
‘You go when we say so.’
‘I’m betting you’ve got some kind of criminal record, asshole,’ I said to Billy. ‘You’re holding me against my will. And I’ve got the kind of lawyer who’d love to put you away for a long time. Both of you.’
Sonny moved on me. But he was out of shape and a brawler rather than a fighter. He swung so wide at my head that I was able to use his considerable belly to plant my fist so deep I wondered if I’d be able to yank it back out.
He stumbled, dropped to his knees and started the kind of gagging that meant he’d soon enough be puking.
Fascinating as the prospect of watching it was, I decided that now would be a good time to leave.
Seventeen
I called a friend of mine in the Chicago Police Department. I’d needed him for several different jobs in the past and paid him so well for them that he’d usually oblige me. I gave him Frank’s license plate and asked him if he’d run it for me. Hopefully the computer would yield a viable address.
I spent half an hour checking out the internals from our other campaigns. A couple of calls were warranted. I always feel that I owe my associates civility and the benefit of the doubt. I only get argumentative when one of them tries to evade responsibility for a mistake, or worse, tries to blame it on someone else. All I want to do is solve the problem, not denigrate somebody. My final call was to Ted.
‘I’m still pissed about Showalter this morning, Dev.’
I decided against upsetting him even more. ‘I’m just checking in to see how Jess is doing.’
‘She’s really up for the fundraiser tonight. She even had her hairdresser come out here this afternoon.’
‘You didn’t mention anything to her about this “staged” business, did you?’
‘Hell, no. That’d be all she needed to hear. She’ll be having nightmares about it the rest of her life. And then some asshole police chief—’
‘I’ll do my best to make it tonight, Ted. But there’s a good chance I’ll be busy working.’
‘You’re kidding. People always want to meet you, Dev. Especially the important people. They know your track record, so they’re impressed.’
‘I’ll do what I can, Ted. Give my love to Jess. Right now I need to go.’
‘I just hope you’re there. You and Jess are the stars.’
Ted’s flattery was amusing. I’d managed to talk the director into letting Ted wear his black turtleneck and I’d sided with Ted against Showalter. For at least a few more hours I’d be in the Wonderful Guy category.
I peeked into Abby’s office to see if she’d join me for a pizza down the street but, like the rest of the staff, she’d gone. Those salmon-colored clouds were in the windows again. I had too many things grinding on me to get my usual dusk depression.
I’d just gotten back from the john when the phone rang. It was my Chicago P.D. friend. The man was Frank Grimes. Age 71. Retired. 2731 36th Street Southwest, Danton.
I didn’t have any specific reason to link Grimes and my mystery caller, but the more I thought about last night, the more his sudden appearance out at the dock seemed less and less coincidental. And then he’d tried to run away when he saw me today. I needed to find out a lot more about Frank Grimes.
The area was mixed race and tumbledown.
At twenty minutes after seven a sparse number of yellowish street lights revealed the disrepair of the homes and even of the corner gas station and drugstore. The houses and the businesses were tightly packed and busted up both by time and the kind of battering rendered by the teenagers who’d lived here. The music, the clothes and the slang might have changed over the years but the contempt of the young men and women for the debris and rubble of the place had not. They knew it was a shithole; why not make it even more so?