We went at it like a couple of six-year-olds, both venting our fury over the threats and humiliations of the past few weeks. I don’t know how we would have extricated ourselves from the escalating insults if we hadn’t been interrupted by the buzzer outside my front door. I left Caroline in the living room and stormed to the entrance.
Mr. Contreras was standing there. “I don’t mean to be butting in, cookie,” he said apologetically, “but this young fella’s been ringing the lobby bell for the last couple of minutes and you two was so wrapped up, I thought maybe you couldn’t hear him.”
Young Art trailed in behind Mr. Contreras. His square, chiseled face was flushed and his auburn hair disheveled. He was biting his lips, clenching and unclenching his hands, in so much turmoil that his usual beauty was obscured. The family resemblance I saw in his distraught face staggered me so much that it muffled my surprise at seeing him.
I finally said weakly, “What are you doing here? Where have you been? Did your mother send you?”
He cleared his throat, trying to speak, but he couldn’t seem to get any words out.
Mr. Contreras, his promise not to breathe down my neck still present in his mind, didn’t linger to issue his usual unsubtle threats against my male visitors. Or maybe he’d summed up Art and figured he didn’t need to worry.
When the old man had left Art finally spoke. “I need to talk to you. It—things are worse than I thought.” His voice came out in a squawky little whisper.
Caroline came to the living-room door to see what the uproar was about. I turned to her and said as gently as I could, “This is young Art Jurshak, Caroline. I don’t know if you’ve ever met, but he’s the alderman’s son. He’s got something confidential he needs to tell me. Can you call some of your pals at SCRAP, see if any of them know anything about this report Nancy was carrying around with her?”
I was afraid she was going to argue with me, but my stunned mood got across to her. She asked if I was all right, if it was okay to leave me with young Art. When I reassured her she went back to the living room for her coat.
She stopped briefly at the door on her way out and said in a small voice, “I didn’t mean all those things I was saying. I came here to get back on good terms with you, not to shout like that,”
I rubbed her shoulders gently. “It’s okay, fireball—it goes with the territory. I said some stupid things myself Let’s forget it.”
She gave me a quick hug and took off.
32
Flushed Out of the Pocket
I took Art into the living room and poured him a glass of the Barolo. He gulped it down. Water would probably have been just as good under the circumstances.
“Where have you been hiding? Do you know every beat cop in Chicago is carrying your description? Or that your mother’s going crazy?” They weren’t the questions I really wanted to ask, but I couldn’t figure out how to frame those.
His lips stretched in a nervous parody of his usual beautiful smile. “I was at Nancy’s. I figured no one would look there.”
“Hn-unh.” I shook my head. “You’ve been gone since Monday night and I was at Nancy’s on Tuesday with Mrs. Cleghorn.”
“I spent Monday night in my car. Then I figured no one would be bothering with Nancy’s house. I—I could see it had been torn up pretty good. It’s been kind of spooky, but I knew I’d be safe there since they’d already searched it.”
“Who’s ’they’?”
“The people who killed Nancy.”
“And who are they?” I felt as though I was interrogating a jug of molasses.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, looking away.
“But you can guess,” I prodded. “Tell me about the insurance your father manages for Xerxes. What was Nancy’s interest in it?”
“How did you get those papers?” he whispered. “I called my mother this morning, I knew she’d be worried, and she said you had been by. My—my old man—Big Art had found the card you left and really blown sky high, she said. He was screaming that—that if he got his hands on me, he’d see I remembered never to betray him again. That’s why I came here. To see what you know. See if you can help me.”
I looked at him sourly. “I’ve been trying to get you to tell me a few things for the last two weeks and you’ve been acting as though English was your second language and you weren’t too fluent in it.”
He scrunched up his face in misery. “I know. But when Nancy died I was so afraid. Afraid my old man had something to do with it.”
“Why didn’t you run away then? Why wait until I talked to you?”
He flushed an even deeper red. “I thought maybe no one would know—know the connection. But if you saw it, anyone could.”
“Like the police, you mean? Or Big Art?” When he didn’t answer I said with what patience I could muster, “Okay. Why did you come here today?”