“By the way,” Bobby said casually, “we got a call last night from Riley’s Gun Shop down in Hazelcrest. Said a V. I. Warshawski had bought a small handgun down there and he was worried-she looked rather wild. That wouldn’t be anyone you’d know, would it, Vicki?”
I got out of the car, shut the door, and looked in through the open window. “I’m the only one by that name in my family, Bobby-but there are some other Warshawskis in the city.”
For once Bobby didn’t lose his temper. He looked at me very seriously. “No one ever stopped you when you had your mind set on something, Vicki. But if you’re planning on using that gun, get your ass down to City Hall first thing tomorrow morning and register it. Now tell Sergeant McGonnigal where you’re going to be until your place is fixed up again.”
While I was giving McGonnigal my address, a squawk came in on Mallory’s radio about my office: the place had been ransacked. I wondered if my business-interruption insurance would cover this. “Remember, Vicki, you’re playing hardball with a pro,” Bobby warned. “Get in, McGonnigal.” They drove off.
9
Filing a Claim
When I got to Lotty’s it was afternoon. I had stopped on the way to call my answering service-a Mr. McGraw and a Mr. Devereux had both phoned, and left numbers. I copied them into my pocket phone book but decided not to call until I got to Lotty’s. She greeted me with a worried head shake. “Not content with beating you, they beat your apartment. You run with a wild crowd, Vic.” But no censure, no horror-one of the things I liked in Lotty.
She examined my face and my eye with her ophthalmoscope. “Coming along nicely. Much less swelling already. Headache? A bit? To be expected. Have you eaten? An empty stomach makes it worse. Come, a little boiled chicken-nice Eastern European Sunday dinner.” She had eaten, but drank coffee while I finished the chicken. I was surprised at how hungry I was.
“How long can I stay?” I asked. “I’m expecting no one this month. As long as you like until August tenth.”
“I shouldn’t be more than a week-probably less. But I’d like to ask the answering service to switch my home calls here.”
Lotty shrugged. “In that case, I won’t switch off the phone by the guest bed-mine rings at all hours-women having babies, boys being shot-they don’t keep nine-to-five schedules. So you run the risk of answering my calls and if any come for you, I’ll let you know.” She got up. “Now I must leave you. My medical advice is for you to stay in, have a drink, relax-you’re not in good shape and you’ve had a bad shock. But if you choose to disregard my professional advice, well, I’m not liable in a malpractice suit”-she chuckled slightly-”and keys are in the basket by the sink. I have an answering machine by my bedroom phone-turn it on if you decide to go out.” She kissed the air near my face and left.
I wandered restlessly around the apartment for a few minutes. I knew I should go down to my office and assess the damage. I should call a guy I knew who ran a cleaning service to come and restore my apartment. I should call my answering service and get my calls transferred to Lotty’s. And I needed to get back to Peter Thayer’s apartment to see if there was something there that my apartment smashers believed I had.
Lotty was right: I was not in prime condition. The destruction of my apartment had been shocking. I was consumed with anger, the anger one has when victimized and unable to fight back. I opened my suitcase and got out the box with the gun in it. I unwrapped it and pulled out the Smith & Wesson. While I loaded it, I had a fantasy of planting some kind of hint that would draw Smeissen-or whomever-back to my apartment while I stood in the hallway and pumped them full of bullets. The fantasy was very vivid and I played it through several times. The effect was cathartic-a lot of my anger drained away and I felt able to call my answering service. They took Lotty’s number and agreed to transfer my calls.
Finally I sat down and called McGraw. “Good afternoon, Mr. McGraw,” I said when he answered. “I hear you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”
“Yes, about my daughter.” He sounded a little ill-at-ease.
“I haven’t forgotten her, Mr. McGraw. In fact, I have a lead-not on her directly, but on some people who may know where she’s gone.”
“How far have you gone with them-these people?” he demanded sharply.
“As far as I could in the time I had. I don’t drag cases on just to keep my expense bill mounting.”
“Yeah, no one’s accusing you of that. I just don’t want you to go any further.”
“What?” I said incredulously. “You started this whole chain of events and now you don’t want me to find Anita? Or did she turn up?”
“No, she hasn’t turned up. But I think I flew off the handle a bit when she left her apartment. I thought she might be wrapped up in young Thayer’s murder somehow. Now the police have arrested this drug addict, I see the two weren’t connected.”
Some of my anger returned. “You do? By divine inspiration, maybe? There were no signs of robbery in that apartment, and no sign that Mackenzie had been there. I don’t believe he did it.”
“Look here, Warshawski, who are you to go around questioning the police? The goddamn punk has been held for two days now. If he hadn’t done it, he’d have been let go by now. Now where the hell do you get off saying ‘I don’t believe it’?” he mimicked me savagely.
“Since you and I last talked, McGraw, I have been beaten and my apartment and office decimated by Earl Smeissen in an effort to get me off the case. If Mackenzie is the murderer, why does Smeissen care so much?”
“What Earl does has no bearing on anything I do,” McGraw answered. “I’m telling you to stop looking for my daughter. I hired you and I can fire you. Send me a bill for your expenses-throw in your apartment if you want to. But quit.”
“This is quite a change. You were worried sick about your daughter on Friday. What’s happened since then?”
“Just get off the case, Warshawski,” McGraw bellowed. “I’ve said I’ll pay you-now stop fighting over it.”
“Very well,” I said in cold anger. “I’m off the payroll. I’ll send you a bill. But you’re wrong about one thing, McGraw-and you can tell Earl from me-you can fire me, but you can’t get rid of me.”
I hung up. Beautiful, Vic: beautiful rhetoric. It had just been possible that Smeissen believed he’d cowed me into quitting. So why be so full of femalechismo and yell challenges into the phone? I ought to write, “Think before acting” a hundred times on the blackboard.
At least McGraw had agreed to knowing Earl, or at least to knowing who he was. That had been a shot-not totally in the dark, however, since the Knifegrinders knew most of the hoods in Chicago. The fact that he knew Earl didn’t mean he’d sikked him onto my apartment-or onto killing Peter Thayer-but it was sure a better connection than anything else I had.
I dialed Ralph’s number. He wasn’t home. I paced some more, but decided the time for action had arrived. I wasn’t going to get any further thinking about the case, or worrying about intercepting a bullet from Tony’s gun. I changed out of the green slacks into jeans and running shoes. I got out my collection of skeleton keys and put them in one pocket, car keys, driver’s license, private investigator license, and fifty dollars in the other. I fastened the shoulder holster over a loose, man-tailored shirt and practiced drawing the gun until it came out quickly and naturally.
Before leaving Lotty’s, I examined my face in the bathroom mirror. She was right-I did look better. The left side was still discolored-in fact it was showing some more yellow and green-but the swelling had gone down considerably. My left eye was completely open and not inflamed, even though the purple had spread farther. It cheered me up a bit; I switched on Lotty’s telephone answering machine, slipped on a jean jacket and left, carefully locking the doors behind me.