I gave Bysen and Linus Rankin my most brilliant smile. “So here’s my modest proposal. Don’t fight Sandra Czernin’s workers’ comp claim for Bron’s death. It should be the full $250,000 payout: that would take care of April Czernin’s medical bills, and maybe give her a nest egg for college. Second, get Rose Dorrado a job in your operation at the same wage she was making with Frank Zamar. She’s an experienced supervisor. Hire her full-time, so she gets whatever measly health benefits your full-time workers get. And, finally, fund the basketball program down at Bertha Palmer High School, that $55,000 I came asking you for a month ago.”
“Oh, yes, cut a dollar bill into forty thousand pieces, or whatever fool idea you had, hnnh?” Bysen said, some of his bluster returning. “And for that truck driver, even though he was stepping out on his marriage vows, I’m supposed to cut another bill into a quarter-million pieces. That’s like saying I should give people money for sins-”
“Now, dear.” May Irene put a reproving hand on her husband’s knee. “And what would you do for us, Miss Warshawski, if we did that for you?”
“I’d support your statement that your son and daughter-in-law acted behind your back, that you weren’t a party to all that bloodshed on the South Side.”
“That’s nothing, young woman!” Linus Rankin said. “That’s ridiculous!”
I leaned back in my chair again. “It’s the deal on the table. Take it or leave it, I don’t care, but I’m not going to dicker over it.”
“It doesn’t matter, Miss War-sha-sky,” Billy burst out, his cheeks flaming. “Because I’ll pay April’s bills if they fight Bron’s work comp claim, and I’ll put the money up for the basketball program. I’d have to sell some stock, and I need my trustees’ permission to do that, but if they won’t allow it, well, I guess a bank would lend me money, because they know I’ll get my shares when I’m twenty-seven. I guess I can pay interest that long.”
“That will make a wonderful headline.” I smiled at him. “‘Bysen Heir Borrows Money to Meet Grandpa’s Moral Obligations.’ You all go home and think it over. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving-you can call me on Monday with your decision, after the long weekend.”
Uncle Gary thought he would prove he was the tough son by arguing with me, but I said, “Good-bye, Gary. I need a rest. You go on now, all of you.”
The Bysen party filed out, muttering to each other. I heard Buffalo Bill snap at Gary, “Jacqui was bad news from day one. Claimed to be a Christian, hnnh, I guess if you’d been in Eden, you’d have listened to the snake, too, because-”
May Irene cut him off. “We have enough worries now, dear, let’s cherish what’s left of our family.”
My team stayed a little longer, hashing over the meeting, trying to guess which way the Bysens would jump. Finally, Morrell and the Loves left to visit Marcena. Amy was driving down to St. Louis to spend Thanksgiving with her family. I got up on my wobbly legs and hobbled out with Mr. Contreras and the dogs, heading to my own home for the first time in a week. We were going up to Evanston tomorrow, to have Thanksgiving with Lotty at Max Loewenthal’s house, but this afternoon I was glad to fall into my own bed.
48 Dancing Rhino
Morrell and I joined a cast of thousands at Max’s for Thanksgiving dinner. He always has a big crowd-his daughter flies in from New York with her husband and children, his and Lotty’s musician friends show up early and stay late, and Lotty always invites stray interns from her service at Beth Israel. Mr. Contreras came this year, happy to escape his petulant daughter’s house. As soon as Max heard about the Loves, he opened his doors to them, and even suggested I invite Billy and Mary Ann McFarlane-he hated to think of Billy, estranged from his family, spending Thanksgiving alone. But Billy was helping Pastor Andrés serve turkey dinners to the homeless, and Mary Ann said her neighbor was bringing dinner over and she’d be just fine without me.
Marcena was still in the hospital, of course, but she was recovering fast and her spirits were good. I’d gone to visit her before driving up to Max’s. I’d run into her parents in the ICU. The Loves had been silent and anxious since their arrival, but Marcena’s rapid improvement was making them almost effervescent.
We all had to put on protective masks and gowns before going into Marcena’s room, so as to make sure we didn’t spread germs into her vulnerable new skin. Her parents left me alone with her, since she couldn’t have more than two visitors at a time.
I tiptoed into the room. Marcena’s head was shaved and bandaged; she had a fading bruise on her left cheekbone, and her body was hidden in a kind of box with sheets draped over it, to protect her new skin, but her eyes held a hint of their usual spark.
Marcena pointed out that we were matching ghouls, with our shaved heads and bruises. “We should have done this for Halloween, not for your Thanksgiving Day dinner. What was that thing that skinned me?”
“A hand-operated conveyor belt,” I said. “Didn’t you ever see it in Bron’s trailer? They use them for getting big loads on and off; it should have been tied up, but they were either careless or hoping it would do serious damage. Although they planned for you to be dumped at the landfill, as they did me-it was just Mr. William, ineffectual idiot, who took you to the golf course by mistake.”
“And Mitch was my hero, leading you to the rescue, Morrell says. The hospital is rotten not to let dogs in. I’d like to give him a big, slurpy kiss. How come you got away with less damage than me?” Her eyes might sparkle, but her speech was labored; among the paraphernalia around her bed was a morphine pump.
I shrugged awkwardly. “Luck of the draw. You took a horrible knock on the head when the forklift went over; you couldn’t maneuver the way I was able to.”
I asked if she remembered anything about her time at the factory, such as how she got clear of the falling forklift, but she said her last coherent memory was driving up behind Fly the Flag in Billy’s Miata-she couldn’t even remember who all had been present-if Aunt Jacqui had been there, or Buffalo Bill himself.
I told her I had her recording pen, but wanted to hang onto it, at least until we saw how the endless legal battles were going to shape up. “The state may try to impound it. I’ve actually put it in a bank vault to keep the Bysen mafia from stealing it out of my office, but, of course, their legal team is trying to suppress the recordings altogether.”
“You can keep it if you let me have a copy of the contents. Morrell says that William and Pat Grobian were arrested for Bron’s death. Is there any chance they’ll be found guilty?”
I made an impatient gesture. “The whole legal process is going to be a long and dreary battle; I’ll be amazed if it even comes to trial before Billy is married with grown grandchildren of his own…Marcena, how much of this business did you know, before Bron’s death. Did you know he was sabotaging the factory?”
Underneath her shroud of bandages she blushed faintly. “I got too caught up in it-it’s why I always get the best in-depth stories wherever I go, because I do get caught up in my subjects’ lives. Morrell says I manipulate the news I’m covering, but I don’t. If I take part, I don’t make suggestions or pass judgment, I just watch-it’s no different than Morrell going on a raid with a tribal chief in Afghanistan.”
She stopped to catch her breath, then continued in a more muted voice, “That factory owner-what was his name, Zabar? Oh, right, Zamar-he wasn’t supposed to die. And when Bron decided to use that bloke, that gang member, Freddy, I did say Freddy wasn’t the strongest filament in the bulb, but Bron said he couldn’t go into the factory himself, because his kid’s best friend’s mum worked there, and she’d recognize him if she happened to see him. But I did help make the little gadget over at his house-his kid was at school, his wife was at work.”