Dark Blonde (12 page)

I pushed in the door and took two long strides to Brockway. His feet flew off the desk. He jumped a little and jerked around to see me, his mouth nearly swallowing the receiver. I pried it from his manicured fingers and slammed it down.

 
His manner quickly shifted to arrogant outrage with a hint of fear crackling behind his eyes. Surprise stuck in his throat. I had his attention, so I leaned back into a chair next to his desk. He waved Miss Humboldt out and she slipped noiselessly out to her little typing post to count the rest of her paper clips.

I rifled in my pack, fed myself a Lucky and looked him over while I lit up with a wooden match struck on my thumbnail. I got that trick from the movies. I hate it when it misfires.

Brockway was a dapper man about six two, carefully dressed, with heavy dark eyebrows not yet gray and one of those moustaches you can lose under your fingernail. Shaving around it was most likely the only honest work the guy did in a day. The photo in the outer lobby was at least a decade old; deep creases now lined his face and the piled hair at the front of his forehead had migrated down the sink long ago. What was left was buzzed cut. Still, Brockway had the sort of face that said he wasn’t a man to waste time with. So I didn’t waste time. I pulled out the financial summary and slid it across his empty desk. His physique looked like he worked out regularly. Twenty years younger he’d be tough to beat.

“I won’t take up more than a minute of your expensive time. I realize the rent here isn’t cheap. I’m in the hire of the Gateswoods. You’ve heard of Henry Gateswood?”

“What the hell do you mean barging in here? Do you know who I am?”

I blew a cloud of blue smoke in his face and showed him my famous smartass grin. He didn’t seem impressed. They never are, but for some reason I keep doing it. “Oh, yes. I saw your picture in that lineup out front. By the way, you any relation to that Dearborn guy?”

“Who?”

“Not a history buff, eh? Never mind — I waited out there over an hour, a big vacant waste of time in a big vacant waste of space. At least you might put in a bowling alley. I wouldn’t wait that long for an itchy blonde in a black peignoir with two snifters of brandy. It seems your firm’s having a bit of a slow day. Miss Humboldt has to look for things to do, like count paper clips.”

“Knock off the sarcasm. What do you want? I shouldn’t talk to anyone representing Jacob Whipple’s opponent, as I’ll have you know I’m representing — ”

“Save it. Yeah, I know. Whipple’s overpaid mouthpiece, one thing I wanted to ask you about. You make a nice wage doing those election filings and taking a few phone calls, showing up at high roller dinners. Too nice a wage. With a nice big smell. Just what else do you do for the big amounts on that summary? It can’t be connected to legitimate election activity, not unless inflation’s gone up and it’s a national secret.”

He stiffened. “That’s client privilege. Perhaps you’re too dumb to know that. What I charge a client and for what is no one else’s business.”

“The word would be stupid, not dumb. It’s obvious I can talk plenty, and will, too, if you don’t level. I’d look brilliant before I’m finished singing to the news boys.”

“Henry Gateswood paid you to do this?”

“Not to visit you, no. That’s called initiative. Some things I do for my own curiosity. You might use some in your line of work when you’re done sucking the campaign marrow of a man who’s withdrawing from the race.”

“Now see here! Just what do you mean? Withdrawing? Jacob Whipple isn’t withdrawing.”

He frowned and leaned back and examined his fingernails, waiting for the punch line, twisting the point of a gold letter opener in one palm, a point I could tell he would more than love to use on me. He was steady, in control now, I’d only tipped him off balance temporarily, like one of those inflatable bozo dolls with sand in its ass.

I laughed loud enough for the elevator man to hear. Brockway didn’t expect that and didn’t care for it either. The man recovered well and probably rarely lost his balance. I could picture him in a courtroom, jury under his spell. He had the right presence for it, the slick arrogant sort that intimidates the common Joe until they think all lies are merely slick presentations of the truth.

I looked around into his inner office: as dead as an Egyptian tomb. I wondered where Wakefield and the other boys were. There hadn’t been any rush of support troops to throw me out.

“If you don’t get out of my office I’ll call building security or the police,” he barked. “They’ll be here in less than two minutes. Real police, not the sleazy private kind. I’ll also file a complaint against the licensing board and with my influence you’ll be peddling papers.”

“I imagine you’re expert on sleaze. I also imagine the papers will be very interested in those itemized campaign expenses of the councilman’s, but that’s only starters.” I took the photograph out of my jacket, unfolded it and placed it within an inch of his hand. “I’d also more than imagine they’d be rabid about this. I’d lay heavy odds.”

He did a double take on the picture, then lifted it and looked at it backlit by the window. He put it back on the desk and looked over at the expense ledger page. Small beads of sweat began to form just above his silly moustache. He was taking his time about saying anything. He picked up the phone and told Miss Fashion Plate not to disturb him for the next thirty minutes, except to get Jacob Whipple on the phone. Maybe the guy forgot how to dial a phone.

“Your card says detective. I assume you can document that?”

I pulled out my wallet and handed him the paper to prove it. He looked at the license card and flipped it back in disgust, the corner of the leather and glassine window hitting me in the chest. He didn’t say he was sorry. He didn’t look sorry. He looked like a cornered ferret.

“How do I know this photo isn’t fake?”

“You don’t know, but my partner’s an expert on these matters and he doesn’t think so. The
Sun-Times
won’t know either, until they get the whole set and verify them.”

His head jerked slightly. Bozo tipped again.

“Yes, there’s more. I would have brought them but it was too close to lunchtime. Not much lower dog than some pervert who’ll do that to kids, don’t you agree, counselor?

“So Henry and Julia are blackmailing us? Or just your initiative?”

“Don’t be stupid, Kermie, Gateswood’s squeaky clean and you know it, something you and your clients have never been. This isn’t something they’d stage, and I don’t blackmail. It’s called exposing the truth. A woman was killed over what I’ve shown you, and I’ve been hired to dig into it. What else do you think I’ll find?”

“You mean . . . the Gorovoy woman? She was killed for unloading Christy French, not these. It’s all over the street.”

“Oh, you know all about the Gorovoy matter? My, you do get around.”

“I’ve followed it. One of my partners represented French a couple of years ago. Henry canceled the debate over the mess.” He frowned and looked at the picture again as if his glare might change the content. He looked up at me, fight still in his eyes. “You do know the election’s in a few days? There won’t be enough time to clear Whipple should these documents be bogus.”

I swung for the fence: “With the boys’ testimony this is open and shut. Even with you helping Whipple. How much hard time you think he’ll get?”

Brockway slumped back in his chair his wide shoulders falling. He looked every one of his fifty-six years plus about twenty. The lines in his face seemed to deepen as he mulled it over, a rat looking desperately for a way out of the maze.

Finally he said in a small toneless voice: “And you have testimony? From these boys?” He was grasping at straws now and he knew it, because I’d come through on the documentation and wouldn’t mention testimony unless I had that too and wouldn’t likely drag some eight-year-old Boy Scouts in his office to show him. There weren’t merit badges for this sort of thing.

I smiled. A confident, secure, queen to bishop-six checkmate smile, a straight flush beats a full-house with all the chips in the middle smile. A Mike Angel enjoying his work smile.

Miss Humboldt’s velvet tones on the intercom announced Jacob Whipple on the line. I wondered if she might be moving on once the story broke. A scene flitted through my mind as Brockway chewed his cud, a scene of me comforting Miss Humboldt over whiskey sours. Molly barged into the scene, snatched up a drink and downed it, then did a hip throw on Miss Humboldt and took her seat. I missed Molly, but had been so busy I’d almost forgotten how much. She even invaded my daydreams with strange attractive women. My libido was evolving, all right. I fantasized the redhead-fluff waiting for me in the main lobby. So much for fidelity to Molly.

Brockway told Miss Humboldt it would be a minute, to have Whipple hold, then said, “What do you want? How much for all the pictures and negatives?”

“Not a cent. Only this — Whipple withdraws within 24 hours. You so advise him and I’ll hand this material to the police without giving copies to the press. You can advise him before he turns himself in and hold his nasty little hand when he posts bail. I’d wash afterward, if I were you. If he sniffles a little and acts contrite, maybe you can keep him out of stir. But he holds out, so help me I’ll send this filth to every newspaper in the country. New York’s
Daily News
eats this kind of thing up. They think we’re all perverts out here, as strange as it seems. Play along and it might give him time to dispose of any more smutty pictures he might have, although I’m not recommending you recommend destroying evidence, no matter how practiced you are at such things.”

He nodded. His eyes were emptier than a Volkswagen gas tank in the middle of the Sahara.

I left him staring at the photograph and speaking somberly into the phone. We didn’t shake hands.

Kup agreed to hold the envelope in his safe deposit box at Chicago National. He didn’t ask questions. He was grabbing a flight for Los Angeles to visit his daughter who was breaking into pictures. He offered to share a steak at George Diamond’s, one of his favorite haunts, or a later drink in the Cloud Room at Midway Airport. He knew from the stories on the Gorovoy murder and Henry’s cancellation of the debates that there was a lot more fire under all the nasty smoke. I decided to pass the invitation until he got back. I wanted to keep things under my hat until I had more, or could see which way Brockway and Whipple might tilt. We agreed to meet in the Pump Room of the Ambassador East in a week, if I still needed his shoulder. It was fancy digs and Kup was treated like a sultan there.

I reached Rick at eleven p.m. He’d just driven back from Harwood Heights to interview one of the Scout leaders, Charles McNamara.

“Looks like we’re out of work, although I have a sizeable check here,” he said.

“Congressman get cold feet?”

“Icebergs. However, it was evident that the fair member of the team wasn’t in full agreement. Compliant, but smolderingly so. Henry directed us to stop all investigations of Gail’s murder forthwith.”

“Gerard get to him? Or Whipple?”

“I doubt it. Henry’s a politician. Feels publicity from hiring us shows lack of support for the vaunted police force. Plus, O.W. Wilson, the new Superintendent, is an old school chum of Henry’s. I think he simply wants to do the politically expedient and not lose 11,000 votes in uniform. Things have tightened considerably in the two years since O.W. took over the corruption scandal.”

“So — you don’t feel I should talk to them? Or does it matter that we don’t have a client?”

“Not to me, if you want to sniff out what leads we already have. It might bother the boys with the funny checkered caps and their diminutive voice of justice, El Gerardo.”

“Gerard. It might. Big deal. What’d you learn in Harwood Heights?”

“I talked to a father who’d just lost his son over this mess, Charles McNamara. His boy, Joey, hanged himself a few days ago in their basement. The family’s pretty shook over it, and I think the father will tell what he knows. The best part is Joey left a note. Couldn’t live with the shame. Named Whipple. Evidently this has been going on a year or so. Charles copied me the note and promised us some time to get to the bottom of it. Seems he doesn’t have much faith in city hall.”

“Any others?”

“I was only able to reach one other Scout leader. A real clam. Denial personified. Scout’s honor must be a bit shredded nowadays. When Joey McNamara’s note gets out the clam might come on board. We can try. I planned to visit another leader in our neck of the woods tomorrow.”

I said good night, hung up, put on some Stan Getz and poured myself a Gibson. I was in that level of nervous fatigue where I knew I’d toss if I tried to sleep. I wanted to gauge Julia’s attitude and if possible push Henry Gateswood to a more reasonable position. No one would have to know should they rehire me. If not, I’d try to finish what I started and hand another package with a bow to Gerard. One of the things a private dick offers is privacy, although on this case it was like hoofing down LaSalle Street naked with mega-value bearer bonds pasted to my privates.

Kup always said Chicago started out as a swamp and in some ways still was, but a beautiful swamp. The radio was making noise about the big 125th birthday of the city. Mayor Daley was windbagging around town with his puss in the newspapers and on television. The man’s demeanor, his sneer, might as well have put a neon sign “CROOK” on his forehead.

Big cities harbor big crime. Chicago from the ’29 Valentine’s Massacre to “Machine Gun Jack McGurn, Paul “The Waiter” Ricca, Louie “Little New York” Campagna, and Al “Scarface” Capone, to the recent scandal involving police actively helping burglars was no exception. A famous line started by some Iowa farm-fresh kid was “Goodbye, God, we’re going to Chicago.”

Not much had changed. Still a swamp. Now it was filled with money, a lot of it feeding crooked businessmen and politicians, police and attorneys and accountants. It was untamable, yet full of good, hard-working families too. Still, the time of open big city corruption where everyone was on the take was fading. Maybe in 1962 we were still ridding ourselves of the sickness that Prohibition brought. It’s easy to blame large social movements and blunders like Prohibition. Much tougher to cut the rotten parts of the apple away.

I made another Gibson and turned off the music. The paper was full of the upcoming senate race and a few more articles on the Gorovoy murder with another posed picture of Gerard pointing a midget finger at two detectives.

On page six some advertising executive did a study of wind currents in various US cities, and announced he’d dispelled the ancient canard that Chicago is the nation’s “Windy City.” It seems there are 18 cities that are windier. Topping the list was New York, with an average hourly wind speed of 14.5 miles per hour, compared to Chicago’s zephyr-like 9.8. I supposed the next thing he’d set out to prove was that mid-winter wind off Lake Michigan was as balmy as he was.

After two Gibsons, sleep whispered to my brain. I kicked off my shoes and threw on a blanket. I lay there listening to night street sounds, waiting for the ticker tape that buzzed my mind to a crawl, and hoping I might get another golden message from Dad — this time about life, and not about a shooter around the corner. I thought about Chicago, about the unique sort of place it was and how Kup talked about it. “Independent as a hog on ice,” he’d quoted Carl Sandburg. For some reason that image played on my dark stage right before I went to sleep. Good metaphor for this case. Hog on ice. The damned pig didn’t stop squealing for an hour. Dad didn’t show.