The Ninth Man (18 page)

“Yeah?” I asked, knowing the answer full well. “How’s that?’

He proceeded to show me.

*

The flight to Chicago was smooth, on time, and thor
oughly
enjoyable. For Ed, it was like a family reunion. He spent almost half the flight joking with the stewardesses—and with the stewards, at least one of whom was, I got the definite impression, something more than a casual acquaintance.

As an airline employee traveling on company business, he couldn’t drink, but he saw to it that I was pleasantly high by the time the plane touched down at O’Hare. I was all for taking a cab to the hotel until Ed pointed out just how far O’Hare is from downtown Chicago and suggested we take an airport bus, which would drop us off right in front of the hotel. We took the bus.

The Wellington Inn, as I might have guessed from knowing Ed even the short time I had, could have been designed with him in mind. Modern without being garish, comfortably elegant without being snobbish, efficient without being impersonal, it was what a hotel should be and so few are. Our room, on the 28th floor, overlooked a good part of the city. The fact that it had a single king-size bed wasn’t lost on me, although Ed feigned mild surprise. I had, in fact, the impression that this whole thing had been set up for my benefit, and I was duly flattered.

We hadn’t discussed my return flight, though with luck I could wrap up my business with Klaus Schmidt—and, hopefully, the entire case—the following day. My excitement at the prospect of finding the kid with the ice-blue eyes and the killer made me uncharacteristically hyper, and I was vaguely annoyed with myself for having such a good time.

After we’d unpacked, Ed suggested we have dinner at his favorite Chicago restaurant, a place called the Carriage House. He could have suggested McDonald’s and it would have been all right with me.

A quick (for me) shower took care of whatever remained of my booze high from the plane but didn’t do all that much to calm me down. Thoughts were flashing through my mind like fireworks, all coming and going with such speed and in such disarray I couldn’t make any sense of any of them. Rholfing, Phil, the painting of Gary Miller and the actuality of Gary Miller, a little dog named Big Kano, Brad the tattooed day manager at the El Cordoba, the phone number that led to my meeting with Ed, the kid with the ice-blue eyes—everything zipping, whizzing, and spiraling through the night sky of my mind.

“How do you do it?” Ed asked, looking at me from the corner of his eye as he made clean, smooth paths through the shaving cream on his face with deft strokes of his razor.

“Do what?” I asked, rubbing vigorously with a towel.

He rinsed his razor in the hot water flowing from the sink faucet.

“Stay in there so long and not come out looking like a prune,” he said, returning his eyes to the mirror and the progress of his shave.

“I think someone in my family was part duck,” I said. “Besides, showers are my only vice. This one was practically an in-and-out.”

He snorted and swept the last remaining swath of shaving cream from his face. Leaning closer to the mirror and jutting out his chin, he made a careful visual and fingertip inspection of his cheek, chin, and neck. A quick frown announced the finding of a few stray whiskers in the vicinity of his left sideburn, which he dispatched quickly with a few short strokes. Another finger inspection, a satisfied nod to the mirror, and he was through.

“I called for reservations while you were in the shower,” he said. “Think we can make it in forty-five minutes?”

“How far is it?”

“Three blocks.”

“We’ll make it,” I said.

*

The Carriage House turned out to be just that—a small
but
very nice little restaurant in a converted carriage house behind a former mansion now used as offices by several prestigious law firms. The whole place sat exactly sixteen people; the ground floor also held a small bar with six stools. We had to wait about forty-five minutes then were led upstairs to our table. The clientele, though mixed, was predominantly what Tim refers to as “Our People.”

We ordered a bottle of wine while we looked at the menu, and when the waiter had left with our order, I raised my glass in a toast.

“To tomorrow,” I said.

Ed raised his glass and touched it to mine.

“To many tomorrows,” he amended.

Neither of us said anything for a few moments, but looking at Ed’s face, I could tell he had something he wanted to say.

“Something the matter?” I asked.

He looked at me and smiled.

“No, not really… Well, I don’t know.”

He had me puzzled.

“So talk,” I said. “God knows I’ve done enough of it in the past several days.”

I’d never seen him look like that before—his face reflected a mixture of doubt, determination, and trouble. I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t for a long moment. Then he heaved a deep sigh and plunged in.

“Dick, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time now—since shortly after I met you, as a matter of fact, although I guess that hasn’t been all that long, really, has it?

“Anyway, I know this may not be the right time or the right place—you have a lot on your mind right now, a lot of problems with this case you’re on. I just want you to know that, no matter how it turns out, I…”

I watched him struggle with his words, and my stomach and chest were full of butterflies.

“Damn it, Dick, I’m not some fluffy-sweatered, lint-brained little twink. I don’t go bouncing around from one little faggot-novel romance to another. I don’t gush, and I don’t bullshit.

“I told you I’ve only had one lover in my whole life, and when I lost him, I swore to myself I’d never have another. I don’t—shit!…I don’t quote love unquote you—you can’t love somebody until you really know them and we just haven’t known each other that long yet.

“But, damn it, I like you better than anybody I’ve met in a long, long time. Since Glenn. I care about you. I don’t know why, but I do, and you’ve got to believe that.” Abruptly, he picked up his glass and drained it. “I just wanted you to know.”

My ears heard him, but my head felt as though it were a balloon on the end of a long, long string. I tried to say something, but nothing came out. Finally, I did manage a typical Hardesty bit of wisdom.

“Wow,” I said, and drained my glass.

I poured us both another. I could tell Ed was almost excruciatingly embarrassed, but I kept my eyes on his face. He had trouble meeting my eyes, but after several tentative split-second contacts, our eyes finally locked on each other.

“I didn’t do that very well, did I?” he said with a quick, weak little grin.

“You did it just great,” I said. “I couldn’t have done it better myself…and I would have said exactly the same thing.” I hadn’t felt this giddy since I made it with the captain of my high school swimming team in a cornfield when I was fifteen. “I’m not a gusher or a bullshitter, either. I’m not much of a talker, when it comes right down to it. Let’s just say I feel we’re going in the right direction, and I’ll be damned happy to go just as far with you as either of us wants to go. Deal?”

Ed smiled, and I felt the same way I had when Gary Miller smiled at me—only Ed’s was even better.

“Deal,” he said.

Chapter 10

I was awake, as always, at six-thirty. Ed was
dead to the
world; he’d left a wake-up call for seven o’clock with the front desk. I lay there beside him, staring at the ceiling, searching for faces in the textured plaster as I’d done with clouds when I was a kid. I wanted a cup of coffee and a cigarette, but the comfort of being where I was outweighed my urge to get up.

I found myself watching Ed sleep, my eyes moving slowly over his hair, his face, his neck, down his chest, partly exposed where he’d tossed back the covers in his sleep. I had the strangest sort of ache in my chest. I’d always thought he was handsome, but as I watched him sleeping, I suddenly realized I thought he was beautiful.

He rolled over in his sleep and draped one arm across my chest, murmuring strange little animal noises that made me think of a hibernating bear.

At seven o’clock sharp, the phone rang, and I reached over to answer it.

“Good morning,” the operator said in her professionally cheery voice. “It’s seven o’clock. Today will be clear; temperatures will range in the mid-seventies. Have a very pleasant day.”

I grunted a “Thanks” and hung up. I was a little startled, when I glanced at Ed, to see his eyes were wide open, staring at me.

“Jeez, mack, I musta really been smashed last night. I don’t remember anything. Where the hell am I?” he said with a grin.

I stared at him in mock seriousness.

“A good line,” I said. “Use it often?”

“No.” He leaned over to give me a quick kiss then turned on his back and stretched. “But I’ve heard it a couple times.”

“You, me, and the rest of the world,” I said. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty—you said you’re supposed to be at the airport before ten.”

“We’ve got time.”

“Probably.” I punched him on the arm. “But after last night, I’d kind of like to be able to stand up today.”

He grabbed me in a bear-hug, growled, then pushed me away and rolled out of bed.

“Yeah. Work, work, work.” He padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower then reappeared briefly in the doorway. “Me first,” he said, indicating the shower with a jerk of his head. “Then you.”

“Yowsah, boss,” I said as he disappeared again.

*

“Any idea how I can get to forty-eight-fifty-one Win
chester?
” I asked as we finished breakfast in the hotel coffee shop.

He wiped some toast crumbs from the side of his mouth with his napkin.

“Yeah. Let’s see…you could take a Lawrence Avenue bus west and get off at Winchester, I think. Or the Ravenswood El to Damon, then take a bus on Damon. It shouldn’t be too hard—just check with the bus driver or the ticket booth on the El if you have any problems. Chicago’s a pretty easy place to get around in, once you know the main streets. I’ve been here so often I feel like a native.” He glanced at his watch. “Uh-oh! I’d better shag ass. I’ll meet you here later this afternoon. Hopefully, I’ll be done by around three.”

I grabbed the check as he was reaching for it.

“Go on—I’m going to finish my coffee. See you later.”

He smiled, waved, and left.

*

Forty-eight-fifty-one Winchester was what I was
coming to
think of as “typical Chicago” in architecture—three stories set on a narrow lot with maybe four feet of space between it and its neighbors on both sides. Dark-red brick, enclosed porches, neat but tiny front lawn. Apparently, a three-flat, with each apartment having its own entire floor. The mail box listed a P. Swietzer, a Weiler/Swanson, and K. Schmidt. No indication as to who occupied which floor.

On a hunch, I rang the bell on the separate door for the ground-floor flat, thinking as I did so that I might be engaging in an exercise in futility—if Schmidt was deaf, he probably couldn’t hear the bell. But then I saw movement behind a curtain in the bay that had once been the porch; and seconds later the door was opened by a wizened little man in a white shirt, baggy black pants and suspenders. A wire ran from his left ear to a lump in his shirt pocket, and he squinted at me through thick glasses.

“
Ja
?” he said, looking me over much as Mrs. Breuner had.

“Klaus Schmidt?” I asked, suddenly aware that my shoes probably needed polishing.

“
Ja
?”

In deference to his hearing aid, I spoke a bit louder.

“Mr. Schmidt, my name is Dick Hardesty. I’m a private investigator, and I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes about a building you owned until about three years ago.”

Schmidt intensified his squint, as though that made him hear better.

“
Ja
?”

I’d better try something to win him over
, I thought.

“Oh, before I begin, Mrs. Breuner sends her very best regards.”

Schmidt brightened perceptibly.

“
Ach
, Anna! How iss my dear Anna?”

“She’s just fine, Mr. Schmidt, though she does miss you very much.” He beamed—so far, so good. “Would you have a few minutes to talk to me?”

“
Ja
!
Ja
!” he said, stepping back and opening the door wide for me. “A friend of Anna’s! How nice! Do come in, young man. Come. Come.”

I followed him into the apartment, closing the door behind me. Like Mrs. Breuner’s house, the apartment was neat and cluttered with tangible memories.

“You sit here,” Schmidt said, stopping in front of an overstuffed chair. Then, he shuffled into the adjoining dining room and dragged in one of the chairs. Positioning it directly in front of me, he sat down.

“Now you tell me about Anna,” he said, his head bobbing gently in pleasure.

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t know Mrs. Breuner very well,” I said in one of my classic understatements. “I was mainly hoping you could tell me something about the building you owned at two thousand-twelve Hutchins Avenue. I’d like very much to know something about the people who lived there.”

Schmidt looked momentarily confused, as if searching his memory. When he found what he was looking for, his face brightened again.

“
Ach, ja!
Ja. A beautiful building. Beautiful.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “It had eight apartments, is that correct?”

He thought then nodded.

“Eight,
ja
. So nice a building. Such nice boys liffed there. All uff dem. Vonderful tenants. Vonderful.”

I felt my stomach beginning to tighten.

“You remember them all, then?” I asked hopefully.

Schmidt gave me a rather sad smile.

“
Ja
. Sure. But you see, my memory, it iss not as goot as it vas once. I am eighty-two dis year. Vhen de mind hass eighty-two years uff memories, some uff dem get lost now und den.”

“Well, I’m thinking of people who lived in the building just before you sold it. Perhaps you remember them. Kyle Rholfing, for example?” I searched his face, watching as his thoughts washed over it in almost visible waves.