THIRTY-SIX
Down in the lobby, I realized I’d hustled out of the turret without grabbing my wallet or cell phone. I thought about calling up to Krantz, demanding a ride home, but his demeanor suggested he didn’t consider us to be pals. One of the guards in the lobby let me use the desk phone to call Leo’s cell.
I hoped this was one of the mornings he’d slept at Endora’s, because her condo was close by. She is young and beautiful and his time with her is not to be interrupted, especially by someone who had recently trashed his Porsche and then slipped away without explanation. But this was no ordinary morning.
He answered on the third ring. ‘This had better involve my winning a lottery.’ His voice was scratchy with sleep.
‘Even better. It’s your friend for life, abducted this morning by the IRS, now stranded downtown with no money in his jeans and a real hungry expression on his face.’ I gave him the address. ‘Come pick me up, buy me breakfast, and drive me home.’
He said he would. Or at least that’s what I hoped he might have said after he swore and clicked me away. I didn’t know for sure until he roared up forty-five minutes later.
‘Do not speak,’ he said as I slid in. Beard stubble smudged his pale face.
I started to do just that.
He held up a hand for silence. ‘And do not rest your shoes on the carpet. Someone disgusting fouled the interior of this fine machine, and clumsily attempted to clean it himself. I shampooed it myself last evening, but it’s still damp.’
‘I’ll pay for a proper detailing-’
‘And leave your window down. The whole car smells like an over-treated urinal.’
‘I told you: I’ll pay-’
‘Exactly how much money are you packing these days?’
‘I have potential.’
He downshifted, turning onto LaSalle Street. ‘Tell me when we get to Min’s and I’ve had coffee.’
Greasy spoon, spotted vest; no term can do proper justice to Min’s Café. No words can accurately describe the impact the fat-cat pols and business types who’ve warmed Min’s plywood and pink vinyl booths have had on Chicago, nor can words convey the artery-clogging magnificence Min piles onto her chipped green plates. In a town renowned for its massacres, from Fort Dearborn through St Valentine’s, to the latest gang shoot-outs in public parks, Min’s entrees have felled more crooks, saints and just plain ordinary folks than any gun-wielding hoodlums or gang bangers ever have. It was an appropriate place to discuss murder. We took a booth under a paint-by-number picture of a forest and ordered Eggs Bud.
Leo held me off until he finished his first mug of coffee. After the waitress came by with a refill, he took another sip and said, ‘Now talk.’
‘I got picked up on video tape illegally entering Arthur Lamm’s office.’
His eyebrows tangoed at my foolishness. ‘What the hell were you doing there?’
‘Hoping for a peek at his appointment book.’
‘You fiddled with locks…?’
‘The door was open.’
‘And inside was a federal crew with video cameras?’ He grinned, lighting the morning with a thousand bright teeth. Dumb was dumb.
Before I could answer, our Eggs Bud came. Bud had been the grill man at Min’s for ten years. His masterpiece was four over-easy eggs piled atop two English muffins, slathered with sausage, melted cheddar and mushroom gravy the thickness of porridge. Bud died young. No one wondered why.
Leo smacked his considerable lips, lifted a dripping forkful and asked, ‘So, you passed yourself off as prospecting for that five per cent Debbie Goring will give you?’
I nodded. ‘I said I think Arthur Lamm attended those secret Tuesday night get-togethers.’
‘As a killer, or as a victim?’
‘I think Lamm’s alive,’ I said.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because I think that’s why Wendell fired me. I think Wendell is covering up for Lamm.’
‘How much of this have you told Amanda?’
‘She knows her father is withholding.’
‘How is it, being close to Amanda again?’ he asked, a little too gently.
‘We’re getting along,’ I said. For now, that’s all I would allow aloud.
‘And Jenny?’
I gave him what I could manage in the way of a grin. ‘We’re getting along, too.’
‘What’s next?’ he asked.
‘Finish my Eggs Bud.’
‘And then?’
‘Wait for inspiration.’
He sighed.
THIRTY-SEVEN
My wait for inspiration wasn’t long.
The younger agent who’d sat wordlessly with us in the IRS conference room, before Krantz sent him out for something, stopped by before noon. He opened a large white envelope and took out a sheaf of photocopied calendar pages. ‘All we have is this year’s. We think he destroyed the previous ones.’
It was Lamm’s calendar. I flipped through the sheets. ‘He’s got the same notation for each of those second Tuesdays,’ I said. ‘“Sixty-six.”’
‘As you can see by his other entries, he noted all his appointments with numbers, sometimes followed by a letter or two.’
‘Abbreviations for addresses?’
‘We think so. Lamm didn’t use a driver. He drove himself around. Those entries were the properties he visited. On those second Tuesdays, his last stop was always a place with a number sixty-six street address. It’s meaningless and irrelevant to our investigation, but Special Agent Krantz thought you’d appreciate a first-hand look.’
He held out his hand, I gave him back his copies, then he said, ‘Mind giving me a quick tour of one more floor? I’ve never been inside something like this.’
It surprised me. Unlike most first-time visitors, he’d paid no attention to the craggy walls. ‘Sure,’ I said, and led him up to the second floor.
‘That cabinet isn’t quite level,’ he said in the kitchen. He was looking at the one that had been vexing me for days.
‘I’ll get it right,’ I said.
He stepped out into the large area that would one day be something more specific, like a living room or a study or maybe both.
‘This is your office?’ he asked, walking up to the card table where I keep my computer.
‘Things are simple here,’ I said.
He touched the torn vinyl covering on the card table, smiled, and said, ‘I’d best be going.’
I don’t remember whether it was Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison or Bozo the Clown who said genius was one per cent inspiration and ninety-nine per cent perspiration. I’m guessing it was Bozo, because he had to stomp around in huge shoes, something sure to make him sweat like crazy. Stomping around, sweating, was all I could think to do next, though mercifully I wouldn’t have to do it in two-foot-long floppy red footwear.
I drove to the corner of Michigan and Walton in Chicago, where Jim Whitman had been dropped off that last evening of his life. I parked the Jeep two blocks over, just off State Street, and headed west on foot. State Street is the dividing line for east and west addresses, and I figured Arthur Lamm’s number sixty-six would be a block or two east or west of it, and similarly, only a block or two north or south, since it had to be within easy walking distance for Whitman, a dying man.
North of Walton, I walked east and west along Maple, Elm, and finally Division Street. There were four properties numbered with a sixty-six address: a Thai restaurant, an adult bookstore, a day spa and a private, three-story graystone residence.
I turned around and walked the streets south of Walton. There were only two properties numbered sixty-six down there. Both were three-story graystone homes.
I’d seen nothing, but I knew somebody who might know somebody who knew more. I walked west to Bughouse Square. Its real name is Washington Square Park, but to generations of Chicagoans it’s always been Bughouse Square, the place where soapbox orators used to stand on crates to rant about the inequities of the day, real or imagined. For decades it was a welcoming place for activists, lunatics and those who simply liked to watch.