So Like Sleep (19 page)

But I thought he didn’t seem to have a motive.

“He didn’t. And doesn’t. But there’s some indication that Jennifer was interested in him romantically. Unfortunately, there’s no real proof of it, and the doctor was very good at covering his emotions if anything ever came of it. The only person around who seems to have been Jennifer’s confidante was killed Thursday.”

How?

“Made to look like an interrupted burglary, but my guess is the confidante drew some conclusions from whatever Jennifer told her and then confronted Marek, or somebody else, with them.”

Which is why you’re going to Chicago?

“Yeah. That’s the last place before Boston that Marek worked. He also worked in Philly and New York. I’m working my way backward through his career, betting that if he had something going with a female patient here, he may have a history of it somewhere else.”

Which would give him a motive to kill Jennifer?

“I grant you, not much of a motive in this day and age, I suppose. But right now I don’t have anything else. And William’s got nothing.”

He’s got you.

The cabbie honked twice. I looked over at him and nodded.

Rude guy, she said.

“He doesn’t like cemeteries.”

So stiff him on the tip.

“No pun intended?”

We laughed and said good-bye.

O’Hare Airport might be bigger than the town in which you grew up. I remembered having to fly in and out of there maybe six times in my days at Empire Insurance. The terminals are designed so that every gate is at least three miles from its airline’s corresponding ticket counters when you’re departing and from the baggage carousels when you’re arriving. I carried my bag outside and waited on the taxi line for nearly an hour as a dispatcher of some kind filled only one cab at a time. Most of the travelers around me seemed resigned to the system, so I didn’t see the sense in complaining.

When my turn came, I just climbed into the rear seat and told the back of the driver’s head, “The Raphael Hotel, please. On East Delaware off Michigan.”

He said, “You bet.”

I settled back into the seat, looked up at the cab’s roof, and saw a glossy eight-by-ten autographed photo of Nat King Cole. Except it wasn’t Cole.

“That’s me,” said the cabbie, adjusting his inside rearview mirror so that I could see his face.

It was uncanny. The features, the hair, even the easy, relaxed smile.

“I’m a professional impersonator. I just drive the cab between gigs.” He reached into the glove compartment and passed me a recent copy of
Newsweek
. “That’s me there, up at the head table.”

I could barely make him out, along with four others, seated at a table on a stage and looking down at an auditorium containing several hundred burly white men wearing white T-shirts and sporting bald heads.

“They asked me to judge the Mr. Clean contest.”

“How did you get started in all this?”

“Well, when I was growing up, my family saw the resemblance. Then I entered one of these celebrity look-alike contests and came in third, and that was without any … they call it ‘cosmetic advantage.’ ”

“Meaning surgery?”

“No. That is, not for me. I’ve heard some of the Elvis impersonators have done that, but my bone structure and all were already okay. I just needed some teeth capped and a little work on my hairline is all.”

“And what do you do? Photographic modeling?”

“Yeah, yeah. Some of that. A lot of us have this agent here in town who sets that stuff up. I do parties sometimes too. You know, the host’ll get in touch with my agent ahead of time and like hire three or four different look-alikes. Then we come to the party and just mingle with the guests and the host gets a kick out of the way they react to us. Course, I don’t do all that many parties.”

“How come?”

He shrugged. “Some folks think it’s kind of weird having a dead celebrity walk up to them with a drink in his hand, you know?”

“I guess I can see that.”

“Yeah, so it’s the live ones that get the most party gigs, like the Queen Elizabeths and the Michael Jacksons and so on.”

I was hesitant to ask him about his voice, but I didn’t have to.

“That’s why my agent has me taking singing lessons. The real money for this stuff is in putting on a nightclub act, say maybe three of us each doing a set, you know, like a Bing Crosby and me wrapped around maybe a Jack Benny. Of course, I never …” He looked up in the mirror at me, then continued. “Were you old enough to remember his TV show?”

“Cole’s?”

“Yeah.”

“You bet.” In the mid-fifties, the King was the first black I recalled having really his own program, not counting the stereotypical situation comedies like
Beulah
and
Amos and Andy
. On a nondescript gray stage setting, Cole would introduce his guests, play his piano, and sing his songs, all with an effortless grace under what must have been the incredible pressure of being both the first and the only.

“I wish I could have seen that. But I got a few of his TV spots from later on tape, and I’m really trying to get his mannerisms down. My voice won’t ever be close to his, but if I can get my head to tilt right and my hands to work right …” The cabbie gave a sort of half wave with his right hand, the way I thought Cole signed off his programs. “Well, they say if you can get the mannerisms, the people, y’know, the audience like, they’ll hear what they want to hear, and they’ll leave happy because of me being able to do that.”

“Sounds like you can justify your job a lot better than most guys I know.”

“Thanks.”

We pulled up to the Raphael. I tipped him five dollars on a twenty-dollar fare, and we wished each other luck.

As I checked in, the desk clerk offered me the literature on the other Raphaels, which I already had. There are only three in the chain, and I had stayed only at this one and the one in San Francisco. If the Kansas City entry is as well run and well located as the other two, the Raphael family should be making a well deserved fortune.

I was shown to my room, mixed a screwdriver from the honor-system stocked bar and refrigerator, and flopped on the king-sized bed. I decided to call Jim, the law school dean, just to let him know I was in town. I punched what I’d been given as Jim’s home phone number.

After three rings, a voice answered, “City Morgue.”

“I’m sorry, I must have dialed the wrong—”

“Hold on, hold on. Is this Karen’s friend from Boston?”

“Yes, is this—”

“Yup, it’s me. I thought I recognized the accent. We get a few Boston-area people coming out here to school. Where are you staying?”

“The Raphael. I—”

“Hey, nice place. Karen said you were a runner?”

“Just to stay in shape. Listen—”

“Did you bring your running gear?”

“No, I didn’t. I’m just going to be here today and tomorrow.”

“Oh, no. That doesn’t give me much time.”

“Time?”

“Yeah. To show you the city. Chicago, my adopted homeland.”

“Listen—”

“I’m from Toledo, originally. What’re you doing this afternoon?”

“I just got in and I thought I’d—”

“Well, look. I’ve got to go set something up at the school for this afternoon, but I’ll be free by five—no, by four-thirty. Meanwhile, you … Do you like museums?”

In spite of myself, I thought back to Beth and me roving through the Boston Museum of Fine Arts and realized I hadn’t been there since she’d died. “Yes.”

“Great. There’s a terrific exhibit called the Treasury of San Marco at the Art Institute of Chicago. Just down the street—Michigan Avenue, that is—from where you are now. Just tell a cabdriver to take you there. It’s at the corner of Adams, maybe a three-buck ride each way. You’ll love it. Then I’ll be by your hotel to pick you up at four-thirty. Wear something you won’t mind getting stained.”

“What?”

“You can’t miss my car. It’s a Rabbit that looks like a square pumpkin. See you then. Gotta run. Bye.”

I sat on the bed, stared at the phone, and finished my drink.

The Art Institute looked the part from the outside. A massive, apparently granite building with a broad set of steps flanked by two impressive but greened-over bronze lions. There was a long but courteous line of people waiting to buy tickets for the San Marco exhibit. I paid my $4.50 and was gently ushered along with them into a veiled room of splendor.

The exhibit consisted of maybe fifty display cases, set off individually with enough vertical electronic security cables to discourage a remake of
Topkapi
. All four sides of each case had identical plaques, briefly explaining the treasure within the glass enclosure. Most of the items were renderings of communion chalices and other religious artifacts in gold, enamel, and jewels. As I wound my way through the labyrinth of hanging cloth and indirect lighting, a number of things struck me. Most amazing was the quality of the craftsmanship, including a number of crystalline vessels from the tenth and eleventh centuries. Most unfortunate was the inescapable conclusion that the Treasury of San Marco was really the spoils of the sack of Constantinople, carried back to a persuasive pope by somewhat overzealous crusaders.

I spent the balance of the afternoon at the museum wandering through some East Asian, architectural, and photographic galleries. I’d forgotten how enjoyable that could be, and I grudgingly admitted I’d have to thank my maniacal substitute host for suggesting it.

It did look like a square pumpkin.

“Hey, how are you?”

I shook his hand and climbed in. “I’m fine and the museum was great.”

Jim pumped his head and ground his gears. “Yeah, Karen and I saw it last week and loved it. The crusaders ever hit this town, there won’t be a slice of bread left on the shelves. You know much about Chicago?”

“Not really.”

That was all he needed.

We covered neighborhoods, transportation, politics, universities, restaurants …

“And this,” he said, doing a U-turn to catch an opposite-side empty parking space, “is like a memorial to dead brain cells everywhere.” He pointed to the sign over a tavern door, THE ULTIMATE SPORTS BAR AND GRILL.

Erect and walking, Jim was about an inch taller than I. He had shortish black hair, a beard, and a brow that shrouded his eyes so that you weren’t immediately sure where he was looking at any given time. He was wearing tattered running shoes, baggy olive-drab fatigue pants, and a river boatman’s collarless long-sleeved shirt. He was not what you’d call a slave to fashion, and I could imagine him helping to run a law school about as easily as I could imagine me piloting a spaceship.

“You’re gonna love this place,” he said over his shoulder as he led me in.

Jim saved my nodding head from being taken off as he caught a basketball humming on a bullet pass six feet off the ground.

“Oh, sorry, Jim,” said somebody.

“No problem,” he replied, dribbling the ball toward a side wall. The management had hung a basket and then encased the shooting approach to it in a clear plastic sleeve. The effect was that a person could launch foul shots at the rim and the sleeve would control and channel the ball, swish or rebound, back down the sleeve to the shooter.

As Jim approached the foul line, a bartender called out, “Seven in a row wins a free pitcher of house tap.”

Jim acknowledged the challenge, took his stance, and sank twelve in a row before he said we needed a drink.

We stayed there about two hours, watching a late Cubs day game from the coast on the eight overhead TVs. We moved around the several drinking and eating areas, including a mock elevated boxing ring with cocktail tables and chairs inside it, as Jim introduced me to friends and acquaintances of his. It was the best bar afternoon I’d spent since the army, and I said so.

Jim smiled. “Tip of the iceberg. You getting hungry?”

I said yes, and he said let’s go.

The next place was called the Twin Anchors, a more neighborhood place. It had one long bar and an informal dining area in the rear. Jim walked up to the head waitress.

She said, “At least half an hour for a table, Jim.”

Jim said, “But I have my friend here from Boston, and I’ve been telling him all day what great food you’ve got, and—”

“And it’s still half an hour.”

Suddenly Jim doubled over and said, “Beat me, whip me, make me write bad checks …”

“All right, all right. Enough, okay?” She blew out a breath, looked to me. “You know that’s one of his routines, right? You know I’m saving you and me both at least twenty minutes of shtick, right?”

Before I could say anything, she looked behind her and said to Jim, “There’s a table open next to the kitchen. Probably nobody else’d want it anyway.” Then she smiled. “Connie’s having a shaky night. Maybe she’ll spill something on you.”

As she got us menus, Jim turned to me and said, “That woman is one of the many reasons I love this town.”

We gorged ourselves on barbecued baby back ribs, french fries, and Heileman’s Old Style beer. Between watching him in the bar and talking to him over dinner, I could see why Jim would be a popular and effective administrator. Bright and well-informed, he was the rare storyteller who knew the value of listening appreciatively to other people’s stories.

As I was using a Handi Wipe on my fingers, Jim said, “You like comedy? Improv stuff?”

“Yes.”

“We’re outta here.”

I insisted on paying the check for dinner. Jim insisted he’d make it up later.

As we drove, he said, “This is Old Town. It was pretty rough until a few years ago, when the gentrification started. Now it’s getting pretty trendy, but this place has always been great.”

He pointed to a red-brick building with a red and white flag as we parked across the street. The flag said THE SECOND CITY.

“Is this the place the
Saturday Night Live
people came from?”

“And then some. C’mon, I’ve got a friend in the group.”

We walked into the building and up the stairs. While Jim arranged for tickets through his friend, I walked along the rogues’ gallery of former members of the troupe. It was truly incredible. Mike Nichols and Elaine May, Jack Burns and Avery Schreiber, John Belushi, Bill Murray, Betty Thomas from
Hill Street Blues
, George Wendt from
Cheers
, and a dozen other familiar faces from over the years.