I slapped my forehead. “Damn! You’re so right. When I lived down here Art used to like to help out the community. Shows you how times have changed, I guess.”
“Yeah, ain’t nothing like it used to be.” Baldy seemed to be the designated spokesman.
“Except the money it takes to run a campaign,” I said mournfully. “That’s still pretty expensive, what I hear.”
Baldy and Whitey exchanged wary glances: Was I trying to do the honorable thing and slip them a little cash, or was I part of the latest round of federal entrapment artists hoping to catch Jurshak putting the squeeze on the citizenry? Whitey nodded fractionally.
Baldy spoke. “Why you looking for these guys?”
I shrugged. “The usual. Old car accident they were in in ’80. Finally settled. It’s not a lot of money, twenty-five hundred each is all. Not worth a lot of effort to hunt them down, and if they’re retired, they’ve got pensions anyway.”
I stood up, but I could see the little calculators moving in their brains; the newspaper reader had let Michael Jordan’s exploits drop to his knees to join in the telepathic exercise. If they arranged a meeting, how much could they reasonably skim? Make it six hundred and that’d be two apiece.
The other two nodded and Baldy spoke again. “What did you say their names were?”
“I didn’t. And you’re probably right—I should have taken this to the cops to begin with.” I started slowly for the door.
“Hey, just a minute, sister. Can’t you take a little kidding?”
I turned around and looked uncertain. “Well, if you’re sure … It’s Joey Pankowski and Steve Ferraro.”
Whitey got up and ambled over to a row of filing cabinets. He asked me to spell the names, letter by painful letter. Moving his lips as he read the names on old voter registration forms, he finally brightened.
“Here we are—1985 was the last year Pankowski was registered, ’83 for Ferraro. Why don’t you bring their drafts in here? We can get them cashed through Art’s agency and see that the boys get their money. We should get ’em to reregister and it’d save you another trip down here.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said earnestly. “Trouble is, I have to get them to personally sign a release.” I thought for a minute and smiled. “Tell you what—give me their addresses and I’ll go see them this afternoon, make sure they still live down here. Then next month when the claim drafts are issued I can just mail them both to you here.”
They thought it over slowly. They finally agreed, again silently, that there was nothing wrong with the idea. Whitey wrote Pankowski’s and Ferraro’s addresses down in a large, round hand. I thanked him graciously and headed for the door again.
Just as I was opening it a young man came in, hesitantly, as if unsure of his welcome. He had curly auburn hair and wore a navy wool suit that enhanced the staggering beauty of his pale face. I couldn’t remember ever seeing a man with such perfect good looks—he might have posed for Michelangelo’s David. When he gave a diffident smile it made him look vaguely familiar.
“Hiya, Art,” Baldy said. “Your old man’s downtown.”
Young Art Jurshak. Big Art had never looked this good, but the smile must have made the kid resemble his old man’s campaign posters.
He flushed. “That’s okay. I just wanted to look at some ward files. You don’t mind, do you?”
Baldy hunched an impatient shoulder. “You’re a partner in the old man’s firm. You do what you want, Art. Think I’m going for a bite, anyway. Coming, Fred?”
The white-haired man and the newspaper reader both got up. Food sounded like a swell idea to me. Even a detective looking at a meager fee has to eat some of the time. The four of us left young Art alone in the middle of the room.
Fratesi’s Restaurant was still where I remembered it, on the corner of Ninety-seventh and Ewing. Gabriella had disapproved of them because they cooked southern Italian instead of her familiar dishes of the Piedmont, but the food was good and it used to be a place to go for special occasions.
Today there wasn’t much of a lunchtime crowd. The decorations around the fountain in the middle of the floor, which used to enchant me as a child, had been allowed to decay. I recognized old Mrs. Fratesi behind the counter, but felt the place had grown too sad for me to identify myself to her. I ate a salad made of iceberg lettuce and an old tomato and a frittata that was surprisingly light and carefully seasoned.
In the little ladies’ room at the back I got the most noticeable chunks of dirt off my skirt. I didn’t look fabulous, but maybe that suited the neighborhood better. I paid the tab, a modest four dollars, and left. I didn’t know you could get bread and butter in Chicago for under four dollars anymore.