Gold Coast Blues (3 page)

“Once we started talking, I saw that she was very curious. We talked about all kinds of stuff. She asked me a lot of questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Oh, about politics or world events. Then she started asking questions about me and my life. But it took a while for her to talk about herself. It was like she didn’t understand why anyone would be interested in her. Gradually, she opened up to me.”

“What did you learn about her?”

“Well, she grew up in a kind of scary place, near Newark, New Jersey. She said it wasn’t terrible but I don’t know. It sounded pretty bad to me. Her dad was in prison for selling drugs and her mom was a hopeless drunk. She tried to take care of her, but she wouldn’t stop drinking—or couldn’t stop. Finally, it killed her. Tanya won’t touch alcohol. Some of the waitstaff teased her for that. It’s stupid.”

“What happened to your relationship?”

James readjusted himself in his chair. “I don’t know. After a couple of months, she just started cooling things down. She wasn’t mean or anything, but she wouldn’t tell me what was going on. And it got really hard to work with her. Before I knew it, it was like I didn’t exist anymore.”

“What about Spike?”

“Assistant manager. Douchebag. Acted like a guido/wiseguy around Tanya.”

“What did Tanya think of him?”

“She would imitate him and do a more convincing guido. It was hilarious. At first, he got angry, but after a while, he laughed too. Spike was actually nice to her and Tanya seemed to be the only one who didn’t hate him.”

“And the boss? How old was he?”

“Doug? I don’t know. Maybe fifty-something.”

“Besides being a moron, what kind of guy was Doug? What was he like to work for?”

James thought about it. “He was a stupid clown, actually. With me, he’d say, ‘Hi, how’re you doing?’ like we were good friends, even though he didn’t know my name. And he was always hitting on the chicks or joking around to see how they would react. He liked to shock people with bloody magic tricks, like pretending to carve his leg up with a steak knife or sticking this huge needle through his arm. The guys thought he was a jerk.”

My first murder case also involved a man in late middle age clinging to a fantasy of youthful vitality that was irresistible to younger women. “Was Doug married?”

“I don’t think so. He didn’t wear a ring.”

“You think he could’ve been doing anything illegal, like using the bar as a front?”

“I don’t know. And he didn’t talk business with us before a shift like most bars or restaurants do with their staff. He just did what he wanted. No discussion. A lot of times he would be the bartender so he could try out his magic tricks. Tanya said he had a magic-tricks supply business on the side—although I promised not to tell anybody. He was also very involved with some kind of wizard society. That’s the stuff he really cared about. I think the bar was mostly just a hobby. I mean, he was rich, so I don’t think he gave a shit if the place lost money.”

“He hit on Tanya, I assume?”

James didn’t like my question. “Yeah? So? He hit on everybody.”

“Take it easy. She was cute, right? Personable. Inquisitive. Doug was rich, I assume not hideous—”

“She wasn’t fucking Doug!”

“Relax! I’m not saying she was. But I have to ask these kinds of questions.”

Neither of us spoke. James stared at his lap while visions of Tanya having sex with Doug tore into his heart.

I said, “Don’t let idiotic scenarios take over your mind. Trust me. I’ve been there. Some women are vulnerable to an older man with money—it’s a security thing. A desire to be taken care of, they say. But everything I heard tells me Tanya wasn’t like that. She took care of herself. She didn’t want to be kept by some asshole just because he had money. She probably thought the guy was a joke.”

James looked at me. “I saw her sitting in his BMW—once.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I lied. “Do you know where Doug is now?”

“No idea.” He looked around the café. “I’d better get back.”

As he stood to leave I put another fifty in his hand and said, “I’m sure she’s fine and she’s nowhere near that dumbass boss. So don’t waste your time on it.”

James put the money in his pocket and pretended he didn’t think I was full of shit.

Chapter 4

Toxic chemical stink assaulted my nose as I opened the door of the converted Old Town walk-up where I rented an office. New paint, updated lighting, and durable industrial carpeting depressed me. I had grown attached to the original Art Deco time warp of a lobby. I found comfort in the murky light and moldy smell of neglect.

I leaned back in my ergonomically designed high-back chair and felt the pressure release from my lower spine and thighs. It seemed unfair that not everyone could afford a chair like this. I dialed Kalijero’s number.

“Hey, Jimmy, I apologize for interrupting your retirement, but do I owe you a finder’s fee?”

Silence, then, “What the hell are you talking about, Landau?”

“The Jersey kid looking for love.”

“Oh, yeah, Cooper’s guy. You take it?”

“I didn’t think I would, then he showed me a pile of cash. You got anything you want to share?”

“I don’t know anything, I’m retired.”

“How are you spending your retirement?”

“Let’s see. Today I’m watching some TV, then I’m going to cut my toenails.”

“You sound depressed.”

“Fuck you, I’m not depressed.”

“Fine, you’re
joyous.
Your cop buddy in Jersey—”

“Buddy? Cooper’s a prick.”

“Okay, your cop prick in Jersey. Tell me about him.”

“Here’s the short version. Detective Cooper is the son of a guy I met at the academy and served with until he got killed responding to a domestic. I tried to help his mom bring up the kid. Smart little shit. Got good grades. We convinced him to go to college. Graduated from Northwestern! And then I don’t know what happened. He became a rebellious prick. He could’ve done anything he wanted with that brain of his. Suddenly he wants to be a cop. Go figure. Went to New York and wound up in Jersey.”

“And that was the end of him, huh?”

“Before he left, he knocked up a nice Irish girl. I knew the family. We almost got him to do the right thing. He hung around long enough to name the kid after himself, then ditched her. But he wasn’t shy about using his dead-cop father as a reference. It got him on the force.”

“Where in Jersey?”

“A crap-hole called Irvington. Mostly poor blacks and Puerto Ricans. Gang and drug infested. I hear he drives a nice car. Years ago, rumors got back to me that he makes extra money working with the local businesses—if you know what I mean.”

“You want to help me on this or are you too deliriously happy being retired to do anything else?”

“Tell me, Landau, why is it that every time you get a murder case you and I become old pals?”

“Who said anything about murder? Tanya Maggio’s a missing person and I got a feeling she’s missing on purpose. And apart from you putting my father in prison, we have nothing to talk about except when I’m investigating something.”

“But that’s what I don’t get. You think I
want
to talk to you. I’ve got plenty of people to hang out with. They may drink a little too much, but I sure as hell don’t
need
Jules Landau trying to pull me back into the murder—I mean missing
bodies
—game.”

“I worry about you, Jimmy. Guys like you can never really retire, so when an interesting case comes up—” The call dropped. It was our way of saying goodbye.

I called Tasty Harmony and ordered their Bigboy Burger—rice, bean, and soy patty on a toasted roll—which would be waiting in front of my apartment. The place was just down the block. I was such a good customer they billed me monthly and ran the food over. Then I called a little
carniceria
also in my neighborhood and told them Señor Gato needed a delivery. Eddie’s number was next. A male voice mumbled, “Jackson Hotel.” That dump rents rooms by the hour. I hung up and dialed again. Same result.

“You have a guest named Eddie?”

“I don’t know.”

I described him.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you what. If you see a guy that looks like him, tell him to call Jules Landau. He’s got my number. Okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

While driving home I wondered why a guy with a load of cash would stay at a slum like the Jackson. A prison cell was five-star compared to the Jackson. After lucking out with a parking spot only three blocks away from my place, I walked past Tasty Harmony and waved at the guys who kept me properly nourished. As expected, two packages waited outside my apartment. Seconds after picking up the bags, I heard the thump of Punim’s paws hitting the floor before she ran to the door.

From one of the bags, I took a plastic container of small animal organs and dropped a few into Punim’s bowl. While she dug in, I fell into the recliner, tore into my sandwich, and replayed the day’s events. On one hand, there wasn’t much I liked about Eddie. His heartbroken aloofness annoyed me. Go back to Jersey and suffer in silence if you want to act like a tragic hero. However, I couldn’t deny that the bankroll and his lousy first impression made me pretty damn curious. On the other hand, I liked what I’d learned about Tanya. She was cute in a blue-collar kind of way. And she was smart. In my book, curious people are smart because they
want
to learn. I found this incredibly sexy, combined with her working-class sensibility. I wondered what she saw in a jerk like Eddie.

—

Unlike many of Chicago’s historic enclaves that have lost their ethnic flavor, the Near West Side neighborhood of Greektown had maintained its culture primarily through food and festivals, the popularity of which had helped foster gentrification. For prices starting in the mid-$300,000s, one could buy a condo in the surrounding blocks and live only steps from a Hellenic gastronomic paradise.

And then there was the Jackson Hotel. The stench of urine and tobacco greeted me in the lobby. A skinny man with sunken eyes sat behind a glass counter, holding a comic book in trembling hands. I stood at the counter several seconds before he blinked a few times and looked at me.

“Yeah?”

“I’m looking for someone. You got a guest register?”

“No.”

The last surviving quaalude addict was my guess. “Cool. Then I think I’ll just walk around and see if I can find him.”

Ten stories made up this horror hotel, but I chose the stairway over the ancient phone booth of an elevator. Shouting Eddie’s name down the hallways of shabby carpeting, cigarette butts, and dead roaches, I felt not the least bit self-conscious. Besides the occasional grunt or television chatter behind closed doors, there was no sign of life. By the seventh floor I started wondering if Eddie gave me this number as a ploy to avoid unwanted attention—like a real control freak might do. As I opened the door to head up to number eight, I heard my name shouted from the lower part of the stairwell in that unmistakable Jersey accent. I shouted back, “Meet me downstairs,” and began my descent.

Once in the lobby, Eddie Byrne showed not the slightest expression of surprise or contrition for putting me through this trial. “He told me you were lookin’ for me,” he said.

I put a twenty on the counter and thanked Quaalude Man. “You gave me the front desk phone number because you don’t have a cellphone?”

“Nah. Don’t need one.”

“C’mon,” I said and pulled Eddie by the arm outside. “Why the hell are you staying in that dump?”

Eddie looked hurt. “It ain’t so bad! You shoulda seen where I been livin’ the last three years. How would you like a roommate takin’ a crap five feet from where you sleep?”

I guessed having a room to yourself was an incomparable luxury. “Okay, sorry. How the hell did you expect me to get ahold of you? You think that walking-dead phantom behind the counter was going to take messages for you?”

“I was gonna call you. Why you so mad?”

“You’re getting a cellphone just so you can talk to me. When we’re done working together, throw it away if you want.” I dragged him down the street to the first discount appliance store I saw and bought a prepaid phone. A burner, the criminal element called it. He took it without complaint. Then I suggested we find a place to talk. We ended up in a Greek coffee shop. They served us dark brown sludge and a plate of white cheese, olives, and cucumbers. A small sampling of the bitter goo convinced me to forgo any ambition of developing a taste for it. Eddie took several sips, each a little larger, as if defying the flavor, challenging it to defeat him.

I said, “You had no contact with Tanya during the final six months of your prison stretch. Right?”

He sipped. His mouth no longer puckered from the flavor. “Yeah.”

“I spoke to a guy who worked with her.”

He looked alarmed. “Just workin’? Was he datin’ her?”

“They were friends. Nothing more.”

Serial killer face returned. “How do you know? Where is this guy?”

“Listen to me, Eddie. You have to fucking grow up if you want my help. If I say they were just friends, then believe me. If you can’t, we’re done. And if I thought they were more than friends, I would’ve said so. Got it?”

Back to street kid. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Mr. Landau.”

I let several moments pass, hoping Eddie would snap out of his pathetic posture. “I’m going to tell you what I believe are facts. And you’re going to have to deal with it like a big boy. Tanya’s friend said the owner used to flirt with the chicks—including Tanya. One time he saw Tanya sitting in the boss’s BMW. That doesn’t mean anything, but we have to look at this equation. You know what I mean?”

“No. What?”

I took a deep breath and let it out. “You grew up in Newark?”

“Irvington.”

“A white boy in Irvington? Must’ve been rough,” I guessed. “How’d you land there?”

“My dad was born there and never left. The neighborhood changed but we stayed. It was just the way things were.”

“Tanya too?”

“A few towns over. Not great but nothin’ like Irvington.” He looked around, drummed his fingers on the table.