If Rory Scanlon had been involved in paying for Stella’s defense, or trying to get her sentence reduced, what would induce him to talk to me? Nothing I could think of off the top of my head. I couldn’t get access to the mythical diary. But if money had changed hands . . .
I took out my tablet to see whether the trial judge had been pulled into the FBI’s old undercover operation in Chicago and Cook County’s courts, famous forever to us locals as Operation Greylord. However, showing the iPad was like waving a raw T-bone at a Rottweiler—the drifting kids swarmed around the car. I flashed my smile of death and gunned the car into reverse. The kids jumped out of the way. I made a U and roared up Buffalo. In my rearview mirror I saw one of them pull out a gun, but mercifully, he didn’t fire it—gangbangers are notoriously lousy shots. I didn’t want a crossfire victim on my conscience.
I’d gone a couple of blocks when I realized there was one person I still hadn’t spoken to down here and that was the current owner of Bagby Haulage. What had Frank called him? Vince. I pulled over and took out my iPad again. Bagby & Family Haulage had their headquarters on 103rd Street, in the bleak landscape around the old CID landfill. I followed one of Bagby’s panel trucks down a deeply rutted track to the yard, where a dozen or so trucks were parked. Bagby headquarters consisted of a large hangar for mechanical work and a permanent trailer that housed the offices.
I parked as close to the office entrance as possible, but still had to cross several mud wallows. At least I’d worn sensible shoes to my meeting at Wrigley Field this morning.
The trailer door opened onto a single room. It was utilitarian space: a wall of filing cabinets, four metal desks, a barred area with a safe and a desk inside—presumably for payday. Two men about my own age were lounging over one of the desks, chatting in a desultory way. A young woman with a cascade of Botticelli curls hastily switched screens on her computer when I came in and busied herself with a stack of papers. She relaxed when she saw it was me—not whatever authority figure she’d been fearing.
“You lost?” one of the men asked.
“Not if this is Bagby Haulage. I had a question for Vince Bagby.”
“He’s not here, but this is Delphina Bagby. Don’t let all the hair fool you—she can handle an eighteen-wheeler if you need a load hauled this afternoon.”
Delphina blushed but sat up straight and offered to help.
“I’m V. I. Warshawski. I met Jerry Fugher outside Wrigley Field this morning.”
“He must have had a delivery up there,” she said, just as one of the men said, “Fugher, we don’t have a Fugher on our books.”
Delphina’s blush deepened. “I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t hear you right.”
I pretended not to notice the slip. “Maybe I’m confused. He was getting into a Bagby truck up there.” I pulled out my phone and showed her the photo I’d taken.
Delphina looked at the screen, then at the two men. The man who’d said they didn’t have a Fugher on their books picked up my phone.
“That’s one of our trucks all right. What did you say the guy’s name was? Jerry? He looks like Danny DeVito.”
“Since you know the DeVito clone is Jerry, what about the guy who’s with him?” I asked.
The two men froze for a millisecond, before the spokesman gave an easy smile. “Lucky guess. I don’t know either guy, but the tall one doesn’t look like anyone I’d want to mess with. Toby, you’d better check into this, see if one of our guys let someone borrow a truck.”
The second man grunted. “Forward the photo to Delphina here and I’ll check around. License plate shows up clearly, should be easy to sort out. Whoever did this better have a savings account—Vince doesn’t stand for this kind of nonsense. He’ll fire the driver who let a truck out of his possession. You don’t get a second chance if you lend out a truck.”
It wasn’t until Delphina and I had taken care of the photo that it occurred to Toby to ask why I’d traipsed all the way down here after this man Jerry whoever he was.
“Since he doesn’t work here, I don’t need to trouble you,” I said vaguely.
“No trouble,” the first man said. “Vince will find him, or Toby will—Toby’s our dispatcher—so we can pass on a message—besides ‘Don’t borrow Bagby trucks,’ of course.”
I smiled. “It’s not that important. He seemed frightened by the other guy and I hoped to see him when he could talk more easily, that’s all. Sorry to bother you.”
I stopped at Delphina’s desk on my way out. “Your computer screen is reflected on your lampshade. If you don’t want your dad to catch you playing solitaire, move your lamp back.”
The two men looked at each other. “You’re a sharp observer. What’d you say your name was? Sherlock Holmes?”
“V. I. Warshawski. Same line of work, though.”
Again a fractional pause, as if an electric current were briefly switched off, before the spokesman said, “Meaning you’re a detective?”