“I won't say another word.”
“Fine. If you want me to pick you up later and take you to dinner, stay silent.”
“I'd rather be burned alive.”
“We can do that after we've eaten.”
“No. I think you're annoying and repulsive.”
“How about a few drinks? The more you drink, the less repulsive I get.”
She folded her arms and her voice went from sultry to frosty. “Employees of the Salieri Academy don't drink, Mr. McGlade.”
“I understand. How about we take a handful of pills and smoke a bowl?”
“I'm calling security.”
“No need. I'm outtie. Catch you later, sweetheart.”
I winked, then headed back to my office. When I arrived, I spend a good half hour on the Internet, digging deeper into the Salieri story, using a reverse phone directory to track a number, and looking up the words insinuating, plebian, ignoramous, and taxidermist. Then I gave Morribund a call and told him I had something for him.
An hour later he showed up, looking expectant to the point of jubilation. Jubilation is another word I looked up.
“Did you get the pictures, Mr. McGlade?”
“I got them.”
“You're fast.”
“I know. Ask my last girlfriend.”
We stared at each other for a few seconds.
“So, are you going to give them to me?”
“No, Mr. Morribund. I'm not.”
He leaned in closer, the whiskey coming off him like cologne. “Why? You want more money?”
“I'll take all the money you give me, but I'm not going to give you the photos.”
“Why not?”
I smiled. It was time for the big revealing expositional moment.
“There are a lot of things I hate, Mr. Morribund. Like public toilets. And the Red Sox. And massage girls who make you pay extra for happy endings. But the thing I hate the most is being lied to by a client.”
“Me? Lie to you? What are you talking about?”
“You don't want to get your daughter into the Salieri Academy. You don't even have a daughter.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You're insane. Why would you think such a thing?”
“When I went to the Academy, I ran into some kid in a Salieri uniform, and he was uglier than a hatful of dingle-berries with hair on them. If he got in, then the school had no restrictions according to looks. Isn't that right, Mr. Morribund? Or should I use your real name... Nathan Tribble?”
He sighed, knowing he was beaten. “How did you figure it out?”
“You didn't pay me with a check or credit card, because you didn't have any in the name you gave me. But you did give me your real phone number, and I looked it up in the Internet. I also found out you once worked at the Salieri Academy. Fired a few weeks ago. For drinking, I assume.”
“It never affected my job! I was the best instructor that stupid school ever had!”
I didn't care about debating him, because I wasn't done with my brilliant explanation yet.
“You came to me because you found me on the Internet and thought I liked dogs. That's why you wore that Save the Dolphins tie tack. You said Sousse was a hunter, to make me dislike him so I'd go along with your blackmail scheme.”
“Enough. We've established I was lying.”
But I still had more exposing to expose, so I went on.
“Sousse isn't a hunter, Tribble. He's a taxidermist. And you're no animal lover either. You can't be pro-dolphin and also eat tuna. Tuna fisherman catch and kill dolphins all the time. But your breath smelled of tuna during our last meeting.”
“Why are you telling me things I already know?”
“Because that's what I do, Tribble. I figure out puzzles by putting together all the little pieces until they all fit together and form a full picture, made of the little puzzle pieces I've fit together. Or something.”
“You're a low-life, McGlade. All you do is take dirty pictures of people. Or you make up dirty pictures when there are none to take.”
“I may be a low-life. And a thief. And a voyeur. And an arsonist. And a leg-breaker. But I'm not a liar. You're the liar, Tribble. And you made a big mistake. You lied to me.”
Tribble snorted. “So? Big deal. I got fired, and I wanted to take revenge. I figured you wouldn't do it if I asked, so I made up the story about the daughter, and added the pro-animal garbage to get you hooked. What does it matter? Just give me the damn pictures and you can go play Agatha Christie by yourself in the shower.”
I stood up.
“Get out of my office, Tribble. I'm going to make two calls. The first, to Sousse, to tell him what you've got planned. I bet he can make sure you'll never get a teaching job in this town again. The second call will be to a buddy of mine at the Chicago Police Department. She'll love to learn about your little blackmail scheme.”
Tribble looked like I just peed in his oatmeal.
“What about the money I gave you?”
“No give-backsies.”
He balled his fists, made a face, then stormed out of my office.
I grinned. It had been a productive day. I'd made a cool twelve hundred bucks for only a few hours of work, and that was only the beginning of the money train.
I got on the phone to my tech geek, and told him I was forwarding a photo I needed him to doctor. I think Sousse would look perfect Photshopped into a KKK rally, wearing a Nazi armband and goose-stepping.
Sure, I wasn't a liar. But I was a sucker for a good blackmail scheme.
Not bad for a pre-school drop-out.
Overproof
My friend Libby Fischer Hellmann edited an anthology called Chicago Blues, published by Bleak House in 2007. I wrote a Jack story for her, based on a premise I thought of while stuck in traffic downtown. Why do cars get gridlocked? Here's one possible answer...
The man sat in the center of the southbound lane on Michigan Avenue, opposite Water Tower Place, sat cross-legged and seemingly oblivious to the mile of backed-up traffic, holding a gun that he pointed at his own head.
I'd been shopping at Macy's, and purchased a Gucci wallet as a birthday gift for my boyfriend, Latham. When I walked out onto Michigan I was hit by the cacophony of several hundred honking horns and the unmistakable shrill of a police whistle. I hung my star around my neck and pushed through the crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk. Chicago's Magnificent Mile was always packed during the summer, but the people were usually moving in one direction or the other. These folks were standing still, watching something.
Then I saw what they were watching.
I assumed the traffic cop blowing the whistle had called it in—he had a radio on his belt. He'd stopped cars in both directions, and had enforced a twenty meter perimeter around the guy with the gun.
I took my .38 Colt out of my purse and walked over, holding up my badge with my other hand. The cop was black, older, the strain of the situation heavy on his face.
“Lt. Jack Daniels, Homicide.” I had to yell above the car horns. “What's the ETA on the negotiator?”
“Half hour, at least. Can't get here because of the jam.”
He made a gesture with his white gloved hand, indicating the gridlock surrounding us.
“You talk to this guy?”
“Asked him his name, if he wanted anything. Told me to leave him alone. Don't have to tell me twice.”
I nodded. The man with the gun was watching us. He was white, pudgy, mid-forties, clean shaven and wearing a blue suit and a red tie. He looked calm but focused. No tears. No shaking. As if it was perfectly normal to sit in the middle of the street with a pistol at your own temple.
I kept my Colt trained on the perp and took another step toward him. If he flinched, I'd shoot him. The shrinks had a term for it: suicide by cop. People who didn't have the guts to kill themselves, so they forced the police to. I didn't want to be the one to do it. Hell, it was the absolute last thing I wanted to do. I could picture the hearing, being told the shooting was justified, and I knew that being in the right wouldn't help me sleep any better if I had to murder this poor bastard.