Conrad’s scowl was ferocious. “You’d better not be accusing me of turning a blind eye to any criminal activity on my turf, no matter how high or low the perps sit.”
“No, Conrad. I know that, absent my father, you are the most honest, steadfast cop in Chicago. But I’ve lived my whole life in this city, and I know too much about how business gets done here. Yesterday morning, someone called to warn me away from this case, told me what happened to my dad when he ‘got the wrong people’ pissed off. I called Captain Mallory. He assured me it wasn’t Scanlon, but still . . .” My voice trailed off, remembering Tony’s refusal to ride in Scanlon’s bus to Boom-Boom’s debut all those years ago. And Scanlon’s jibe about the Warshawskis—what had it been? Was I upholding justice the same way my dad had? Something like that.
“Mallory’s word isn’t good enough for you?” Conrad demanded. “I came here for a one-on-one out of concern for you, but you are always Almighty God, knowing more than us mere mortals.”
“Conrad, please: it’s not that, and you know it. But Bobby is going on decades-old information, he’s not in the Fourth every day, and you are up to your eyeballs in gang shootings and drugs and garbage—you don’t have a reason to be looking at these people, not the way I do. So cut me some slack, don’t assume I’m doing what I’m doing in an effort to make you look bad, or to thumb my nose at my dad’s oldest, staunchest friend!”
Conrad breathed heavily, paced to the wall where my outsize map of the six counties hung, studied it long enough to memorize all the streets. “Anyone else in your sights, besides the local power players?” He spoke to the map.
“I’ve crossed paths with Boris Nabiyev, who hung out with Jerry Fugher, and I’ve seen the Sturlese brothers, whose cement company Nabiyev has a stake in. Or his masters have a stake in, anyway. Bobby assures me that Judge Grigsby and Stella’s new lawyer wouldn’t be in the threats business. I don’t know about Stella’s current lawyer, but Grigsby is connected to Democratic politics, all those years he was going to fund-raisers for his campaign war chests—he had to scratch a lot of backs. And all these people circle around and tie back either to Scanlon or Bagby. And Scanlon and Bagby and Nina Quarles are cousins.”
“Nina Quarles?” Conrad turned around.
“She’s the absentee owner of the South Chicago branch of Mandel & McClelland. And Spike Hurlihey is related to Scanlon.”
Conrad groaned. “I should have known you wouldn’t think a couple of homeboys were big enough targets. Still and all, Ms. W., even though you’re the biggest pain in this copper’s ass, I don’t want to see you on a slab. You moved north; do yourself a favor and me in the bargain: stay north.”
PINCH HITTER
I watched Conrad on my security monitor, made sure he was leaving the building, getting into his car and driving off, before I once more shut down my computer. Before leaving, I checked in with Tim Streeter. All was quiet on the northern front—he was eating spaghetti with Mr. Contreras and Bernie. The three of them were going to watch the Bruins-Canadiens game; face-off was in ten minutes.
When I got to the Golden Glow, Murray was on his second Holsten, eating a rare hamburger and flirting with Erica, Sal’s head bartender. Erica was a vegan and a lesbian but she enjoyed teasing Murray.
Time was when Sal didn’t serve food at all—her core clientele, the traders from the nearby Board of Trade, tended to blow off steam over vodka or bourbon without wanting to eat. But the South Loop has come back to life; the old industrial buildings from a century back, when this area housed printing presses for many of the nation’s magazines, phone books and the like, have been converted to loft apartments. Young professionals and retired couples have moved in. They want poached salmon with a glass of Sancerre, not a shot and a beer with a pretzel.
Sal cut a door in a wall of the bar that backs onto the kitchen of one of those trendy South Loop restaurants. Sal supplies their booze and they feed her drinkers from an abbreviated menu.
What hasn’t changed are the Tiffany lamps over the mahogany tables, giving the room the soft glow of its name. Sal came over with the bottle of Johnnie Walker as I was laying my papers out under one of the lamps.
“I hope the cement truck looks worse than you do, girl. What happened?”
“You know how it is. I was jumping over a tall building and forgot that it takes me two bounds these days.”
“Bet you can’t see the color of my underwear anymore, either,” Sal said.
“You’d be wrong about that, but only because your décolletage is revealing black lace, not because I still have my X-ray vision.”