“He just likes to imagine I’m sixteen and he’s both my parents,” I said with more indulgence than I felt. Owing my life to Mr. Contreras didn’t keep me from finding him a little wearing.
I offered Kappelman a drink. His first choice was beer, which I rarely have in the house, followed by bourbon. I finally unearthed a bottle of that from the back of my liquor cupboard.
“An old South Sider like you ought to be ready with a shot and a beer,” he grumbled.
“I guess it’s just one more sign of how much I’ve abandoned my roots.” I took him into the living room, folding up the blanket I’d left on the couch so he could sit there. My place was never going to be the equal of his Pullman showcase, but at least it was neat. I didn’t get any compliments, but then he couldn’t be expected to know how it usually looked.
After a few polite nothings about my health and his day, I handed Nancy’s packet to him. He pulled a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his shabby jacket and carefully went through the document a page at a time. I sipped my whiskey and read the day’s papers, trying not to fidget.
When he’d finished he put his glasses away with a little gesture of puzzled helplessness. “I don’t know why Nance had these. Or why she thought they might have been important.”
I gritted my teeth. “Don’t tell me they’re completely meaningless.”
“I don’t know.” He hunched a shoulder. “You can see what they are as easily as I can. I don’t know that much about insurance, but it looks as though Xerxes might have been paying more than these other guys and Jurshak was trying to persuade the company”—he looked at the document searching for the name—“Mariners Rest to lower their rates. It obviously meant something to Nancy, but it sure doesn’t to me. Sorry.”
I scowled horribly, causing the kind of wrinkles they warn starlets against. “Maybe the point isn’t the data but the fact that Jurshak handled the insurance. Maybe still does. He wouldn’t be my first choice as either an agent or a fiduciary.”
Ron smiled a little. “You can afford to be superior—you aren’t trying to do business in South Chicago. Maybe Humboldt felt it was easier to go with the flow on Jurshak than use an independent agent. Or maybe it was genuine altruism, trying to give business to the community where he set up his plant. Jurshak wasn’t very big in South Chicago, let alone the city, back in ’63.”
“Maybe.” I swirled my glass, watching the golden liquid change to amber as it picked up the lamplight. Art and Gustav doing good for the good of the community as a whole. I could see it on a billboard, but not so easily in real life. But I’d grown up around Art so I followed revelations about him—deals that made him or his partner, Freddy Parma, a director—and insurance provider—for a local trucking company, a steel firm, a rail freight hauler, and other outfits. Campaign contributions flowed from these companies in a most gratifying stream. Mariners Rest Assurance Company might not know these things, but Ron Kappelman ought to.
“You’re looking awfully sinister.” Kappelman interrupted my reverie. “Like you think I’m an ax murderer.”
“Just my coldhearted bitch expression. I was wondering how much you know about Art Jurshak’s insurance business.”
“You mean stuff like Mid-States Rail? Of course I do. Why do you—” He broke off mid-sentence, his eyes widening slightly. “Yes. In that light, going to Jurshak for fiduciary assistance doesn’t make much sense. You think Jurshak has something on Humboldt?”
“Could be the other way around. Could be Humboldt has something to cover up and he figures Jurshak is the man to do it for him.”
I wished I knew if I could trust Kappelman—he shouldn’t have needed me to spell that out for him. I took the documents back and looked at them broodingly.
After a pause Kappelman smiled at me quizzically. “How about dinner before I head south? You fit enough to go out?”
Real food. I thought I could make the effort. Just in case Kappelman was leading me back to my pals in the black raincoats, I went into the bedroom to get my gun. And make a call on the extension by my bed.
Young Art’s mother answered the phone; her son still hadn’t shown up, she told me in a worried whisper. Mr. Jurshak didn’t know yet that he had disappeared, so she’d appreciate my keeping it quiet.
“If he shows up, or if you hear from him, make sure he gets in touch with me. I can’t tell you how important it is that he do so.” I hesitated, not sure whether melodrama would make her totally nonfunctional or guarantee her giving my message to her son. “His life may be in danger, but if I can talk to him, I think I can keep anything from happening to him.”
She was starting to hiss questions at me in a strained whisper, but Big Art cut in behind her, wanting to know who she was talking to. She hung up hurriedly.