The news made me feel so tired I rested my head on the desk. “You are a ray of sunshine, Luke, no matter what anyone tells you.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? I’m merely telling you the story of your car. Why don’t you get something big and unbreakable, like, I don’t know, a decommissioned army tank. Since I’ve known you, you’ve totaled a Trans Am, an Omega, a Lynx and now this Mustang. You want me to try to repair it, it’s going to cost more than the car is worth. You gotta learn to drive a car in a way that keeps the engine—”
I sat up again. “This car was parked at a curb when all this damage happened. Even if I was Danica Patrick, I couldn’t have kept punks from stripping it.”
He grumbled that Danica Patrick wouldn’t have left her car overnight where vandals could attack it, but agreed to hold the Mustang until my insurance adjuster could get to his garage. I sometimes think Luke’s parents named him that because the sound makes you think “lugubrious,” but he’s a demon mechanic, and charges less than the dealer’s shop.
I had hoped the Mustang would make it to 175,000, but maybe the adjuster would disagree with Luke and offer to fork over six or seven thousand for repairs. Or for scrap. I got up and hobbled around my office, working the stiffness out of my joints again. As I circled back to my desk, someone rang the outside door. Tessa wasn’t in today; I went to the intercom.
Delivery for V. I. Warshawski, flowers. It was a big package, covered in florist paper. I told the delivery guy to unwrap it so I could see it on my camera feed. Sure enough, it was an elaborate arrangement of spring flowers, not a sawed-off shotgun or an RPG launcher.
I went down the hall, smiling to myself: Jake had been feeling sorry for me. When I tipped the guy and brought the flowers back to my office, I was startled to see that they were from Vince Bagby. Startled and wistful. Jake had other ways of showing his love, but flowers would have made a nice gesture.
Don’t let last night turn you against the South Side. Most of us are decent hardworking people. Sorry about your car—we can lend you a truck if you need wheels.
I smiled again, but I also taped the card to the newsprint where I’d written Bagby’s name. Under it I’d noted that he’d shown up right after the cops last night, that he knew Nabiyev and Jerry Fugher but had pretended not to, that Nabiyev had been driving one of his trucks up by Wrigley Field. And he already knew my car had been stripped. A big bunch of peonies and iris did not make these facts go away.
Is he attracted to me, or trying to distract me? I printed under the card.
MIXING IT UP
Sturlese Cement, Paving Illinois and the World, had their offices on the far northwest side of the city, a difficult destination on public transportation. I stopped at Luke’s garage, to look at the remains of my poor old Mustang, which was a heartbreaking sight, and to rent one of his loaners. He let me take a Subaru, with his usual animadversions on my driving. In addition to taking the wheels, the dashboard, the hood and the battery from my car, thieves had helped themselves to most of what was in it, except the towels I carry for my dogs. My hard hat was still in the backseat, as well. I put those into the Subaru, with Luke telling me the upholstery better not be covered in dog hair on my return, swallowed a few ibuprofen and headed north and west.
Even without Lotty’s adjuration, I would have stuck to side streets: simply moving my head between the side mirrors started the throbbing in my eye again. Spenser never complained about pain, I reminded myself, nor Marlowe, let alone Kate Fansler. Suck it up, Warshawski, don’t let those WASPs show up the Pollacks.
For the last few blocks, I followed a train of Sturlese trucks, with their distinctive blue lines weaving around their cement mixers. When we got to the Sturlese yard, the trucks peeled off to the left, where they could take on a fresh load, while I followed signs on the right to the office and visitors’ parking.
Trucks dig heavy ruts. Even at five miles an hour, I bounced enough to make my nose start bleeding. I pulled into one of the visitors’ spaces and studied myself in the rearview mirror. Blood wasn’t gushing down my face, but a large red stain covered my upper lip. Fatigue and pain had turned my olive skin an unhealthy whitish-gray. The blood added a nice touch of color, but it might also distract people from anything I had to say. I blotted it away, combed my hair, fingered the purple around my eye. Ready as I’d ever be.