38
A Pleasant Chat with Olympia
Mr. Contreras was torn between relief that nothing serious was amiss and disappointment that I couldn’t be confined to quarters for a month or two while he looked after me. He rode with me in the taxi down to my office so I could collect my car. When I told him I wasn’t going home, he tried to argue with me at first, then decided he should drive me.
“I’m going to pay a surprise visit to Olympia Koilada,” I said. “You sure you want to come along? I can’t have you breaking her neck, or anything, just because you don’t like the way she treated Petra.”
“You’re the one that likes to run around town getting beat up. I’ll be there to protect whichever one of you needs it most.”
I laughed, clutching my abdomen, and turned the keys over to him.
Olympia lived in a loft building just northwest of the Gold Coast, one of those conversions that followed the gutting of Chicago’s old industrial corridor. According to my computer search, she’d paid almost a million dollars for half of the fourth floor, the side that faced the Chicago River. I wondered what it would fetch if she had to liquidate in the middle of this slump.
When I rang Olympia’s bell, she squawked at me through the intercom.
“It’s V. I. Warshawski, Olympia.”
“Go away,” she snapped.
“I don’t think so. I think we’ll have a lovely conversation about you, Anton, and money laundering.”
A couple of minutes passed where the wind made a good substitute for an ice pack on my sore belly, and then a buzzer sounded, unlocking the door. When we got off the elevator at the fourth floor, Olympia’s door was cracked open. She waited until we got close enough for her to identify us before she opened it all the way.
I had never seen her away from the club. In blue jeans and a turtle-neck, without makeup, she looked younger, even a bit vulnerable, although the large gun in her left hand kind of countered that image.
“Rodney kicked me so hard last night that I’m having trouble getting around today,” I said. “My neighbor, Salvatore Contreras, is helping me out. Mr. Contreras, Olympia Koilada.”
Mr. Contreras stuck a hand out, but Olympia didn’t move. I lifted my sweater and peeled back the Ace bandage to show her my bruises.
She blenched. “Rodney did that?”
“Yes indeed. But it was all for the good because, after he got knocked out, I persuaded two of his cretinous team to confide Anton’s code to me.”
“You knocked Rodney out? Oh my God.”
I didn’t tell her the big role luck played in my salvation last night. I wanted her to think that I was as powerful—more powerful, even—than her tormentor. Besides, in a way I had knocked him out—he’d slipped on my vomit, after all.
“Weeks ago, I told you to trust me,” I said. “If you had talked to me to begin with, I wouldn’t have these bruises today.”
Olympia moved away from the door, the gun shaking in her left hand. We followed her in, shutting and bolting the door. I took her gun and sat down on a white couch. My boots were making dirty little puddles on the salt-and-pepper rug, but Olympia didn’t seem to notice.
“You know about Anton’s code, right? You knew the feds were investigating Kystarnik’s mob ties, but you let him have the run of your club, or at least let his chief enforcer have the run, because he’d bailed you out. What other favors are you doing for him?”
“Where is Rodney now?” Olympia didn’t seem to have heard me. “Did he follow you here?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care, but you apparently do. Don’t tell me you’re sleeping with him—that’s so disgusting, I can’t bear to think about it.”
“If Anton and Rodney think I’m helping you,” she said, “I might as well jump off the roof right now and end everything the easy way.” Her words were melodramatic, but her tone was matter-of-fact.
“Hey, that’s no way to talk,” Mr. Contreras reproved her. “If you’ve gotten yourself in trouble and you’re too scared to talk to the cops, talk to Vic here. She’s helped people in worse trouble than you are in.”
Olympia flicked a contemptuous glance at him: no one had ever been in worse trouble than she.
“So,” I said, “Rodney telegraphed bank codes to Anton’s overseas pals via the Body Artist’s butt. What else? You slipped Petra extra money to pretend she hadn’t noticed him copping a feel. Don’t tell me you let him sleep with your staff.”
“Not everyone thinks her body is as sacred as you seem to.” Olympia shrugged. “If the money was right . . . It’s a bad economy . . .”
I thought I might throw up again. My neighbor, as her meaning dawned on him, started a furious protest—directed against me—for letting Petra work in such an environment.
“Later,” I said to him. “Rodney had the hots for Petra, so you kept her on, but I was too close to her for his comfort. He told you to give her the ax, right?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like, then?”
I didn’t keep the contempt out of my voice. She flinched but didn’t speak.
“Let’s see,” I continued. “You provided Rodney with sex partners and set up Anton’s message board. That doesn’t seem like enough to offset a million dollars of debt. What else? Could it be—money laundering? Anton paid off your debts, right? So that while you used to bleed money like scarlet, your books are now white as wool. And, in return, for whatever businesses he’s involved in where he doesn’t want the feds to see his cash flow, he can funnel money through Club Gouge.
“No wonder your business began to take off last fall when the Body Artist appeared on your stage. You suddenly had money to burn. At least, it was Anton’s money, but you could advertise in the important places, you could invest in that shiny set of plasma screens and that really cool sound system. What was the Artist’s role in all this? Did she sleep with Rodney?”
Olympia made a sour face. “It was all I could do to get her to sit still when he was painting her. That was Anton’s idea, when he first heard about her act. He thought it would be a good way to keep the feds from tracking his offshore accounts. Now that you’ve ruined that, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Say it more plaintively,” I suggested. “Make me care. Karen Buckley has disappeared, by the way. Any thoughts on where she’d go? On who would take her in?”
“That stupid girl who drools on her, I suppose,” Olympia said.
“Rivka Darling? Think harder, dig deeper in your brain.”
“I don’t care,” Olympia shouted. “She was a royal pain to work with, a f*cking prima donna! If Anton hadn’t told me—”
“Told you what?” I said when she bit the statement off. “What her real name was?”
“I knew it couldn’t be Karen Buckley! What is it, really?”
“How did you know?”
She looked sulky but said, “You’re not the only detective in Chicago. I saw Anton had some kind of hold on Karen, so I hired Brett Taylor to run a background check. He dug deep, but he couldn’t find word one about her. And then he charged me a bundle!”
Brett Taylor was another solo op in town. Our paths crossed occasionally.
“What a happy little band you are at Club Gouge,” I said. “Anton has you clamped in a vise. You spy on your performers so that you can hold any secrets you uncover over their heads—we won’t use such an ugly word as blackmail. Who’s Anton working for now, by the way?”
A sly smile tilted the corners of her mouth. “I couldn’t say, although if I knew Karen Buckley’s real name, it might trigger a memory or two.”
“Can’t tell you that.” I got to my feet. “I’ll be talking to Terry Finchley, the cop who’s spearheading the Guaman murder investigation. I’ll be sure to let him know he should look at your books. Not the books the IRS sees—the ones Anton’s pet CPA, Owen Widermayer, keeps for you.”
“You wouldn’t! You can’t go to the cops. Not when your own niece—”
“She’s my cousin, not my niece. And if you try to smear her, it won’t be Anton Kystarnik who puts a bullet through you.”
“Yeah, it’ll be me.” Mr. Contreras startled both of us, he’d been silent so long. “You letting a horror show like that Rodney stick a hand on her and paying her—you’re no better than a pimp yourself.”
Olympia looked from Mr. Contreras to me. “If I tell you,” she said, “if I help you, will you promise not to talk to this cop, this Finchley?”
“Of course not: I’m a licensed investigator. I could lose my license if I covered up a crime, especially one like laundering money for the mob.” I moved to the door.
“I’ll call Officer Finchley myself,” she said boldly. “I’ll tell him I just found out that Anton was using my club as a front.”
“And he’ll believe you because he’s such a gullible guy. Especially if you wear that black thing that shows off your cleavage,” I suggested.
She held out her hands, beseeching, sister to sister. “You could help me,” she pleaded. “You could tell him you discovered the discrepancy when you were investigating this Guaman murder. And when you brought it to my attention—”
“Your cooked books are connected to the Guaman murder? Is that what Chad and Nadia were arguing about?” I stopped with my hand on the knob, my jaw gaping in astonishment. Was that what had been in Chad’s black mitt—some microchip with Olympia’s accounting data on it?
“What do you mean, my cooked books?” she protested belatedly. “As for Chad and Nadia, they were just a couple of f*cked-up people who came to the club. And that’s all you’ll get from me. Unless you back me up when you talk to your tame cop.”