“What’re you doing up here, Kelly?”
“Just visiting a friend.”
“A friend, huh?”
The mayor got up and returned to the soft chair behind his big desk. I found my way to a hard wooden seat.
“You don’t have any friends up here, Kelly. You understand that?”
“Business, then.”
“Business. Okay.”
The mayor hesitated, smooth eyelids closing to half mast, considering my fate. I didn’t say anything.
“It’s not that I don’t like you,” the mayor said. “Not at all. In fact, I admire you. Know why?”
“Why?”
“Good question. ’Cause you got balls.”
The mayor held his hands in front of his face, palms up, like he was holding a couple of casaba melons. At least that’s the way I saw it.
“Big fucking balls. Sure, you got taken down off the force. No more needs to be said. But you didn’t whine and complain. Didn’t go to the press. Didn’t file another fucking lawsuit to make me puke. You took it like a man, understood it for what it was. And you came back. You’re a player again. Not with a badge, no. But you’re someone people talk about. Someone people fear, just a little fucking bit. So when I see you on my floor, I wonder. What is Kelly with the big balls doing here? Does he have a problem with me? Does he think I destroyed his career? Is there something here I need to attend to?”
I smiled. Carefully.
“Mr. Mayor, I’m not out for you. Or anyone else. Like you said, what’s done is done. I understand that. On the other hand, you’re right to be concerned. A guy like me has nothing to lose. Been ruined once. Won’t hurt so much the second time.”
Wilson pointed a long finger my way. “Exactly. Which makes you a dangerous person. You hear about my Olympic bid?”
I shrugged. “Who hasn’t?”
“Got a conference room across the way. Have the entire village laid out in miniature. Next time you come back, I’ll show it to you.”
The mayor made a move to get up but stayed put behind his desk. “You didn’t answer my question, Kelly.”
“Sir?”
“Am I having a problem with you?”
Wilson tipped forward as he spoke, eyes slitted again, mouth slightly open, circling his object of interest, trying to decide if what he saw was a threat or just another meal. To be honest, I wasn’t sure myself.
“All I can promise is, I’ll play it straight,” I said. “Right down the line.”
“And let the chips fall where they may?”
“Something like that, Mr. Mayor.”
Wilson’s chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. “Don’t suppose you’d come work for me?”
“Don’t suppose I would.”
The mayor offered a chuckle that dried up and died from a lack of enthusiasm. Then he got up from behind the desk.
“My old man would have loved you. Don’t really give a damn who you tell to fuck off. And you’re even polite about it. I envy you.”
The mayor moved to the door of his office. I was just on his shoulder when he turned.
“I hear you know some Latin.”
I nodded.
“Took some myself,” the mayor said. “Even remember a phrase or three.”
I waited. The black eyes were busy, crawling over me, taking stock.
“Verbum sapienti satis est. You know what that means, Kelly?”
“A word to the wise is sufficient,” I said.
“That’s good. They told me you were a smart fuck. Guess they were right. I could find out why you were up here today. But I think I’ll let it lie. For now. A word to the wise, however. Stay the fuck out of my way. I might like you, but I’ll still cut off those big balls and broil ’em up for breakfast.”
“A friend suggested that was a distinct possibility, sir.”
Wilson jiggled a jowl at that one and seemed about to pursue the matter. Instead, he opened the door to his office and walked out. I followed. Two minutes later, I was on the elevator, a Wilson aide on either side, sinking fast toward the street.
CHAPTER 26
J anet Woods lived in a section of Chicago known as Sauganash. On the northwest edge of the city, Sauganash was more suburb than city, more Irish than WASP, and tight-knit to the point of incestuous.
A lot of cops lived in Sauganash. A lot of firemen. A lot of people like Johnny Woods. People who worked for the city and had to live there in order to keep their job. Homes in Sauganash rarely went on the market. When they did, prices started at a half mil, which was okay since no one got to buy in the neighborhood unless they “knew” somebody. Like I said, a tight-knit group.
Johnny and Janet lived at the squared-off end of a neat block of colonials. The lawns were green, the streets clean. Kids played basketball in the driveway and probably had nice teeth. All in all, the place was safe. Boring, yes. And everyone seemed to look alike. Still, it was Sauganash. A daily celebration of a certain kind of life, preserved under glass and, in the minds of its residents, the only state of mind in which to live. Unless, of course, you could afford Winnetka.
I parked around the corner with a view of the front door. It was just past three on a Thursday afternoon, and I needed to have a word with my client about her daughter. The same daughter who wanted me to kill her step-dad. I had thought about calling ahead of time but decided against it. Sometimes, it was better to just show up.
I was about to get out of the car when I saw a black Saab back out of the driveway. Janet was behind the wheel, wearing a scarf and sunglasses. I was going to flag her down. Instead, I turned the engine over and followed.
A couple of minutes later, we were out of Sauganash and into the grit along Lincoln Avenue, past two blocks’ worth of Korean restaurants, a couple of motels that rent rooms by the hour, and an all-night bail bondsman. Ten minutes after that, Janet Woods pulled to the curb inside the 1800 block of West Winona. She got out, took a quick look behind her, and headed for a place called Big Bob’s Saloon. I didn’t know much about Big Bob’s except that it sponsored Chicago’s only live turtle races. They happened every Friday night. Six turtles with numbers on their shells, a man with a microphone, and a hundred or so screaming fans. You could bet on a turtle, win a pitcher of beer, and basically get hammered as the green guys crawled across the floor. I had gone once with a woman. Won seven of eight races and lost my date halfway through. All in all, not a bad night.
I pulled up to the curb and watched the afternoon sun paint shadows across the tavern’s front windows. Janet walked in and took a seat at the end of the bar. A moment later, the man pouring booze shifted his bulk her way. He fixed her up some sort of drink and lingered. The two talked, heads together, like they’d done it before. The talk continued for the better part of ten minutes. Then the bartender moved away and my client sat alone, sipping her drink and looking straight ahead. I locked up the car and walked into the tavern.
At four in the afternoon, the race track wasn’t quite what I remembered. Looked more like a dump, with a long narrow bar made of thin plywood, cracked Formica tables, and the faint smell of dead rodent wafting from somewhere near the bathrooms. Up close and personal, the bartender looked like an ex-jock from a very local high school, maybe six feet and long gone to fat. He was wearing a 1985 Bears Super Bowl sweatshirt with cutoff sleeves, and inhaling an order of Chinese takeout. The rest of the place was filled up with an old man at a dark corner table, nursing a bottle of Miller High Life as if it were the champagne of beers and staring at his life from the wrong side.
Janet drank from a plastic cup and was almost done when I walked up. She still had her sunglasses on, and the scarf bunched around her neck and lower face. She watched me approach in the mirror behind the bar.
“You come here a lot, Michael?”
“Been here for the turtle races.”
Janet sniffed at that and rattled the ice in her cup. The barkeep got up with a groan, dumped some ice in another cup, and filled it up with ginger ale. He slid the drink in front of Janet, took a look at me, and asked what I wanted. I ordered a Bud and sat down without being invited.