“He offer you a deal?”
“Oh, yeah. And he let me know why too. Said I should have kept my nose out of the fire. Didn’t belong there. And now I got burned. Then the fucker smiled. Thought that was funny as all fuck.”
I pictured a young O’Leary, making his bones with the city’s power brokers, stretching out Smith’s hide on the wall.
“I quit the Sun-Times; they dropped the charges. Course they made sure my wife knew all about it. Walked out on ten years of marriage with my two kids. I packed up my typewriter and hit it. That was the deal. Flush one life down the tubes.”
“What about the other big papers?”
“There was a saying on the Fifth Floor back then. When old man Wilson hates, he hates good. They put out the word. I was untouchable. No one would hire me. Finally sneaked under the wire here. Don’t know why, but I didn’t ask any questions. Thirty years later, the check still clears. I drink my beer, defrost dinner, and watch ESPN. That’s about all I want out of life.”
“Hell of a story.”
“Make a great movie,” Smitty said. “Unless you have to live it.”
“Why’d they do it?” I said.
“Well, that’s the kicker, isn’t it? The whole lot of them running scared from nothing but a rumor. Mickey Finn’s fucking fairy tale.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
Smitty shrugged. “Who knows? Who cares? Long time ago. What was it you came down here for, anyway?”
The table between us was now full of old records, clippings, and handwritten notes. Somewhere in there was a threat. Heavy enough to scare someone important. Heavy enough to ruin the career and then the life of the man before me. I pulled my copy of his article from a pocket and laid it on top of the pile. Smitty looked at it and then me.
“So you knew about this all along?”
I nodded. Then I told him about the old land records and the corporation bearing Wilson’s initials.
“The corporate records were destroyed in the fire?” Smitty said.
“That’s what my guy told me.”
Smitty rubbed the back of his thumb along his lower lip. I could feel the reporter’s instincts beginning to stir.
“Convenient,” he said. “If any of it’s true, they would have dumped all the property into different hands immediately after the fire. Never reincorporated J.J.W.”
“And the whole thing would have disappeared.”
“Could be. There must have been a hell of a lot of confusion after the fire. Here, grab a seat.”
Smitty pulled up two chairs near a computer terminal and began to type away.
“I can access the corporate records for Illinois. Let’s run a search on your company.”
Smitty typed in the initials J.J.W. The wait was not a long one.
“The only J.J.W. I get was incorporated in 1983. Looks like they sell rugs.”
“Not our guys.”
“Nope.” Smitty turned from the terminal. “Your company seems to have disappeared.” He was breathing a bit harder and reached for the cup of booze to settle himself.
“You okay?” I said.
“Sure. Just haven’t had the thrill in a while. Nothing in the world like sniffing out a story.”
“Fun, huh?”
“More dangerous than fun, son. Least from where I sit.”
Smitty put his cup down. “Let me ask you a question,” he said. “Why are you digging all of this up? I mean, if it were true, it’d be a hell of a story.”
“But you think there’s more.”
Smitty nodded. The air felt suddenly close. As if something was being offered. Something that, once accepted, could never be undone.
“You really want to know?” I said.
“Someone’s dead, aren’t they?”
“You think they’d kill over this?”
Smitty licked his lips dry and pressed his palms flat against the side of his pants. “Come on.”
He led me back to his cubicle. The newsroom was almost empty, a single reporter tapping away on his computer halfway across the room. Smitty put the whiskey away, found a key, and unlocked his bottom drawer. I looked inside and saw the black butt of a. 38 with gray tape on the grip.
“Illegal and unregistered,” Smitty said. “Year in jail, mandatory, just for having it. But I carry it with me everywhere I go. Had something like it with me ever since I left Chicago.”
“Thirty years ago?”
“The boys who saw me out of town suggested it might be a good idea. Don’t know if they were doing me a favor or just trying to keep me up nights.” Smitty nodded down at the gun. “But there it is.”
He slammed the drawer shut and locked it. Like that might be the end of it. The past, however, doesn’t go away that easy.
“Got one more thing to run past you, Smitty.” I pulled out a scrap of paper. “Ever hear of this book?”
“Sheehan’s History of the Chicago Fire.” The reporter scratched the side of his jaw and shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
I nodded and we stood there. If Smitty was wondering how the book fit in, he didn’t ask.
“Thanks for the help,” I said, and stretched out a hand. Smitty took it and we shook.
“No problem, son. You need anything else, let me know.”
“Really?”
“Sure. I just ask two things. First, keep my name out of it. Like I said, all I want is a comfortable hole in the ground and the dignity to go there without much of a fuss.”
“And the second thing?”
“If you go after the Fifth Floor, don’t go halfway. Otherwise they’ll eat your balls for breakfast and laugh when they’re done.”
Of all the things the old reporter told me, the last was one of which I had no doubt.
CHAPTER 18
I got back into the city at a little after four p.m. A woman was sitting in my lobby. She had a long blue coat on and a brown bag of groceries by her feet.
“Rachel Swenson.”
“I got tired of waiting. Besides, my number’s unlisted.”
“I would’ve found it.”
“Yeah, right.”
I picked up the bag of groceries and led the way through my lobby. “How are you?” I said.
“Cold, tired, and hungry.”
“How’d you find out where I live?”
“I’m a judge, remember? Thought we’d make some dinner. Maybe you could figure out the rest of the night for yourself.”
“Really?”
“No, not really, Michael. You think your life gets that great?”
I looked back over my shoulder and found a smile. Thought that was good but had no idea why.
“We need to talk,” Rachel said. “I was giving you ten more minutes, then it was going to be a phone call. Now open up the door and let us in.”
I fumbled for the keys to my apartment, trying to remember the exact state of disarray on the other side. The images I had were not good, but that couldn’t be helped. I took a deep breath and pushed in the door.
“Not bad, Michael. Not bad.”
Rachel took a quick and kind look around. Then she moved past me. I kicked clothes, shoes, newspapers, and at least one Giordano’s pizza box under the couch. A beer bottle rolled out the other side. I grabbed it and put it on the coffee table. Then I followed the judge back toward my kitchen. She stood in profile, coat off, bag of groceries on the counter, and a couple of cabinet doors open.
“You know where anything is back here?” she said, without looking my way.
Rachel was wearing jeans and a pale blue sweater. Her eyes matched the sweater. Her teeth were white and her hair carried a hint of honey. She had some sort of shiny lipstick on and a touch of blush across her cheekbones. Her nails were hard and clear with white tips. They tapped a tattoo on my kitchen counter and waited.
“That’s a refrigerator,” I said, and pointed in the general direction of the large white box growling silently behind her. “It’s got some beer in it, if you’re interested.”
Rachel closed the cabinets and turned her attention my way. “You ever cook for yourself?”
“Actually, Judge Swenson, I do.” I moved past Rachel and pulled the cabinets open again. “Breakfast is my specialty. I can make an omelet out of just about anything.” I stopped and looked at her. “Seriously, anything.”