Then the neighborhood went upscale, like so many in Chicago. Some of the old graystones were renovated, but more were bulldozed to make way for concrete towers of condominiums, beige and bland inside and out. Sadly, Bughouse Square became gentrified along with everything else. Its worn, grassy expanse was professionally landscaped and cut with diagonal concrete walks, its loonies chased away to AM talk radio where they wouldn’t have to stand on boxes – or for that matter, even wear pants – to orate.
Fortunately, the Newberry Library, across the street from the north of the square, remained untouched. I sat on one of the new benches the city had installed for trendy ladies and well-clipped dogs to share with homeless people and looked up at the fine old building.
I called Endora’s cell phone. ‘Who do you know that’s a wiz on finding obscure private clubs in Chicago?’
‘Me, of course. I have access to wonderful computers.’
‘I know it’s Saturday, but would you care to swing over to the Newberry?’
‘I’m already there.’
Her office faced the park. ‘Look out your window,’ I said, waving.
‘I see.’ She laughed and said she’d meet me in the third-floor reading room in fifteen minutes.
I tell Leo that the reason Endora adores him can be fathomable only to aliens from more twisted civilizations. She is in her early thirties and has magna cum laude degrees in history and anthropology that she’d financed by modeling upscale clothing in national women’s magazines. At graduation, she’d turned down longer contracts with the big New York agencies to work at the Newberry. Beautiful, brilliant and quirky, Endora was devoted to two things: the study and preservation of historical documents, and Leo.
That she loved Leo pleased me immensely.
That she worked at the Newberry assured me that occasionally there is perfect symmetry in the universe. For the Newberry Library, too, is quirky. It was planned on a promise of funding in the 1880s by a Mr Newberry, one of the richest men in Chicago. Unfortunately, before ground for the new library could be broken, Newberry died on board a ship en route to Italy. His traveling companions persuaded the captain not to deep-six the influential Newberry, as was the custom then for on-board expirations, but instead to preserve him in a barrel of whiskey. And so it went. Newberry completed his journey, to Italy and back to America, bobbing in a cask. In fact, even returned to Chicago, Newberry never left his barrel. He was rolled up the hill to Graceland Cemetery and buried in it, pickled and, by then, undoubtedly puckered.
Newberry’s heirs squabbled over honoring his commitment to build the new library. Compromise was reached: exactly half of the library would be built. And so it became. Its front and sides are ornate, built of fine stone exactly as planned, but the detailing along its sides ends abruptly, like an ornately frosted rectangular cake sliced smack down the center. The upper cornice work stops crudely, and the back of the building is walled with the cheapest common bricks. Half was half.
Such rudeness aside, there is nothing half-finished about the Newberry’s resources. It is renowned for its collections of arcane history, especially about Chicago.
The third-floor reading room is a great old hall of golden oak, arched windows and massive tables lit by pull-chain, green glass lamps. It is a sturdy, safe place. I pulled out a book of old maps of Europe, brought it to a table, and looked at ancient geographies while I waited.
Ten minutes later, a hand lightly touched my shoulder. Endora wore her usual dark, concealing work clothes. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she wore no makeup. Even dressed so sternly, she was lovely, and I had no doubt that many of her male colleagues spent much time each day imagining what naughtiness with Endora might be like.
‘What’s up?’ she whispered, sitting down.
I handed her the piece of paper on which I’d written the addresses of the buildings I’d just checked out. ‘What information do you have about these locations?’
‘For ownership or tax records?’
‘I’m trying to find a private club.’
We went to one of the computer kiosks where she typed in a query. A moment later, she keyed in another question, and a couple of minutes after that, she motioned for me to follow her out into the hall.
‘There might have been such a club, a hundred years ago, at Sixty-six West Delaware, though I can find no current description of it. There’s someone else who may know more, and he’s in today, too.’
We went through the double doors leading to the private offices. At the end of the corridor, Endora knocked on the wall next to an open door, and leaned in to speak to someone inside. After a second, she stepped back and motioned for me to go in ahead of her. ‘Mickey Rosen, Dek Elstrom,’ she said.
The office was the size of a utility closet. It was crammed with bookshelves, a small metal desk and a tiny old man seated on a swivel chair. Mickey Rosen was at least eighty-five, and dressed in a pilling orange polyester sweater and maroon pants. He stuck out a small, leathery hand. ‘Any male friend of Endora’s is an enemy of mine,’ he said, leering up at her.
‘Dek’s got a question about properties around here,’ Endora said. ‘Specifically, private clubs, with street addresses numbered sixty-’
‘Stop!’ Mickey held up a liver-spotted hand to silence her, then moved it to his forehead like a psychic. He closed his eyes as a big grin split his face, exposing yellowed teeth. ‘Nobody say anything. I’ll divine what your friend wants to know.’
I glanced at Endora. She looked stricken.
I cleared my throat. ‘Mr Rosen, all I’m looking-’
He moved his hand from his forehead, opened his eyes, and finished my sentence. ‘You’re looking for an organization of influential people that meets only six times a year, does so secretly, is named with a word that begins with a “C” and has a street number of sixty-six.’
He dropped his hand and looked at Endora. Satisfied with her look of stunned admiration, he asked her, ‘Will you sleep with me now?’
‘No.’ She laughed.
‘Just as well,’ he sighed. ‘My heart beats best in boredom.’ He turned to me and winked. ‘Do you know a man named Small?’
I shook my head.
‘Certainly there’s nothing small about him. A heavy man, heavy breather, destined for a coronary event,’ he said. ‘Anyway, this Mr Small came to see me. Edward, I think he said his name was, or Edwin.’ Mickey shook his head. ‘He too wanted to know about a property around here numbered sixty-six.’
‘How recently?’
‘Late February, or maybe the beginning of March.’
‘Was he a cop?’
‘He didn’t show a badge.’
Small might have been the investigator Wendell had hired. ‘Were you able to help him?’
Mickey Rosen smiled. ‘The Confessors’ Club,’ he said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Sixty-six West Delaware was one of the graystones I’d seen south of Walton, an old, narrow, three-story with high steps leading to a black-painted front door. It was in the middle of a mix of residences, boutiques and bars.
I didn’t spot any security cameras outside, but some might have been mounted inside the windows. Remembering my obviousness at Lamm’s office, I didn’t linger, and ducked into a bar directly across the street instead. It was one of those places that catered to the slim, hip, wanting to be noticed. Its front wall was almost all glass, so that people inside could be admired from outside, and people out on the sidewalk could be admired from inside. But all that admiring was for later, after it got dark. Now the bar was almost empty. I stood at a high table close to the window, ordered coffee, and pretended to be slim and hip, but really wishing I had a doughnut to go with the coffee.