“Well, you’re never going to have social justice until you get some basic political and economic inequalities solved,” a stocky woman, whose name I thought was Ruth, said. “And political problems can be grappled with. You can’t go around trying to uproot the fundamental oppression between men and women without some tool to dig with: laws represent that tool.”
This was an old argument; it went back to the start of radical feminism in the late sixties: Do you concentrate on equal pay and equal legal rights, or do you go off and try to convert the whole society to a new set of sexual values? Mary let the tide roll in for ten minutes. Then she rapped the floor with her knuckles.
“I’m not asking for a consensus on NOW, or even on the ERA,” she said. “I just want a head count of those who’d like to go to Springfield.”
Gail volunteered first, predictably, and Ruth. The two who’d been dissecting Weinstein’s politics also agreed to go.
“What about you, Vic?” Mary said.
“Thanks, but no,” I said.
“Why don’t you tell us why you’re really here,” Mary said in a steely voice. “You may be an old UC student, but no one stops by a rap group on Tuesday night just to check out politics on the old campus.”
“They don’t change that much, but you’re right: I came here because I’m trying to find Anita McGraw. I don’t know anyone here well, but I know this is a group she was close to, and I’m hoping that someone here can tell me where she is.”
“In that case, you can get out,” Mary said angrily. The group silently closed against me; I could feel their hostility like a physical force. “We’ve all had the police on us-now I guess they thought a woman pig could infiltrate this meeting and worm Anita’s address out of one of us-assuming we had it to worm. I don’t know it myself-I don’t know if anyone in here knows it-but you pigs just can’t give up, can you? ”
I didn’t move. “I’m not with the police, and I’m not a reporter. Do you think the police want to find Anita so that they can lay Peter Thayer’s death on her? ”
“Of course,” Mary snorted. “they’ve been poking around trying to find if Peter slept around and Anita was jealous or if he’d made a will leaving her money. Well, I’m sorry-you can go back and tell them that they just cannot get away with that.”
“I’d like to present an alternative scenario,” I said.
“Screw yourself,” Mary said. “We’re not interested. Now get out.”
“Not until you’ve listened to me.”
“Do you want me to throw her out, Mary?” Annette asked.
“You can try,” I said. “But it’ll just make you madder if I hurt one of you, and I’m still not going to leave until you’ve listened to what I have to say.”
“All right,” Mary said angrily. She took out her watch. “You can have five minutes. Then Annette throws you out.”
“Thank you. My tale is short: I can embellish it later if you have questions.
“Yesterday morning, John Thayer, Peter’s father, was gunned down in front of his home. The police presume, but cannot prove, that this was the work of a hired killer known to them. It is my belief, not shared by the police, that this same killer shot Peter Thayer last Monday.
“Now, why was Peter shot? The answer is that he knew something that was potentially damaging to a very powerful and very corrupt labor leader. I don’t know what he knew, but I assume it had something to do with illegal financial transactions. It is further possible that his father was a party to these transactions, as was the man Peter worked for.”
I stretched my legs out and leaned back on my hands. No one spoke. “These are all assumptions. I have no proof at the moment that could be used in court, but I have the proof that comes from watching human relationships and reactions. If I am correct in my assumptions, then I believe Anita McGraw’s life is in serious danger. The overwhelming probability is that Peter Thayer shared with her the secret that got him killed, and that when she came home last Monday evening to find his dead body, she panicked and ran. But as long as she is alive, and in lonely possession of this secret-whatever it is-then the men who have killed twice to protect it will not care about killing her as well.”
“You know a lot about it,” Ruth said, “How do you happen to be involved if you’re not a reporter and not a cop?”
“I’m a private investigator,” I said levelly. “At the moment my client is a fourteen-year-old girl who saw her father murdered and is very frightened.”
Mary was still angry. “You’re still a cop, then. It doesn’t make any difference who is paying your salary.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “It makes an enormous difference. I’m the only person I take orders from, not a hierarchy of officers, aldermen, and commissioners.”
“What kind of proof do you have?” Ruth asked.
“I was beaten up last Friday night by the man who employs the killer who probably killed the two Thayers. He warned me away from the case. I have a presumption, not provable, of who hired him: a man who got his name from an associate on speaking terms with many prominent criminals. This man is the person Peter Thayer was working for this summer. And I know the other guy, the one with the criminal contacts, has been seen with Peter’s boss. Ex-boss. I don’t know about the money, that’s just a guess. No one in that crowd would be hurt by sex scandals, and spying is very unlikely.”
“What about dope?” Gail asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But anyway, that is certainly an illegal source of income for which you might kill to cover up.”
“Frankly, V.I. or Vic, or whatever your real name is, you haven’t convinced me. I don’t believe Anita’s life could be in danger. But if anyone disagrees with me and knows where Anita is, go ahead and betray her.”
“I have another question,” Ruth said. “Assuming we did know where she is and told you, what good would that do her-if everything you’re saying is true?”
“If I can find out what the transaction is, I can probably get some definite proof of who the murderer is,” I said. “The more quickly that happens, the less likely it is that this hired killer can get to her.”
No one said anything else. I waited a few minutes. I kind of hoped Annette would try to throw me out: I felt like breaking someone’s arm. Radicals are so goddamn paranoid. And radical students combine that with isolation and pomposity. Maybe I’d break all their arms, just for fun. But Annette didn’t move. And no one chirped up with Anita’s address.
“Satisfied?” Mary asked triumphantly, her thin cheeks pulled back in a smirk.
“Thanks for the time, sisters,” I said. “If any of you changes her mind, I’m leaving some business cards with my phone number by the coffee.” I put them down and left.
I felt very depressed driving home. Peter Wimsey would have gone in and charmed all those uncouth radicals into slobbering all over him. He would never have revealed he was a private detective-he would have started some clever conversation that would have told him everything he wanted to know and then given two hundred pounds to the Lesbian Freedom Fund.
I turned left onto Lake Shore Drive, going much too fast and getting a reckless pleasure from feeling the car careening, almost out of control. I didn’t even care at this point if someone stopped me. I did the four miles between Fifty-seventh Street and McCormick Place in three minutes. It was at that point that I realized someone was following me.
The speed limit in that area was forty-five and I was doing eighty, yet I was holding the same pair of headlights in my rearview mirror that had been behind me in the other lane when I got on the Drive. I braked quickly, and changed to the outside lane. The other car didn’t change lanes, but slowed down also.