I took the proffered pen. In a spirit of malice I signed “V. Bottone” in a large dark hand. The young man thanked me in a soft sober voice. I left him standing under a print of a Pietà.
It was ten by the time I got back to my own building. The Chevy behaved itself as long as I kept below fifty. Maybe nothing major was wrong.
It was kind of late for neighborly visits, but the lights were still on in Vinnie’s living room. I ran up the stairs two at a time, changing quickly into jeans before racing back down again. On my way out I thought of my gun. If Vinnie really was a pyromaniac, it might be a good idea not to talk to him unarmed. I dashed back in, stuck it in my waistband, and took off again.
I was panting by the time I got to the bottom, but fortunately it took Vinnie several minutes to answer my knocking. I was on my way to the lobby to ring his bell when I finally heard the lock turning back. He was in sandals and jeans with a Grateful Dead T-shirt—I hadn’t known he could dress for comfort.
When he saw me his round smooth face puckered up in a frown, “I might have known it could only be you disturbing me this late in the evening. If you’re trying to sell some coke or crack, or whatever you deal in, I’m not interested.”
“I’m buying, not selling.” I stuck my right leg between the jamb and the door in time to keep him from slamming it shut. “And you’d better have something very good to give me or the next people here will be police detectives.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said angrily.
From the living room behind him a man called out, asking who was at the door.
“If you don’t want your friend to listen to our conversation, you can come up to my place,” I offered. “But we’re going to keep talking until you explain why you were at the Prairie Shores Hotel last Wednesday.”
He tried shoving the door against my leg. I pushed back and slid into the vestibule. He glared at me, his brown eyes tiny specks of fury.
“Get out of my apartment before I call the cops!” he hissed at me.
A tail young man came out of the living room to stand behind Vinnie, topping him by a good four or five inches. It was the same guy I’d seen getting out of the RX7 with Vinnie a week or so ago.
“I’m V. I. Warshawski,” I said, holding out my hand. “I live upstairs, but I haven’t had a chance to get to know Mr. Bottone very well—we keep pretty different hours.”
“Don’t talk to her, Rick,” Vinnie said. “She pushed her way in and I want her to leave. She’s the one we—the one who conducts her business in the stairwells at three in the morning.”
Rick looked at me interestedly. “Oh! She’s the one we—”
Vinnie cut him off. “I don’t know what she’s doing butting in here, but if she doesn’t leave in ten seconds, I want you to call the cops.”
“Do that,” I urged with savage cordiality. “Only make it the Central District, not the local station. I want some of the guys who were at the Prairie Shores fire last week to come by and make an ID. Your friend Vinnie was there and I bet someone will recognize him.”
“You’re making this up,” Vinnie snapped.
I knew I was right, though—the anger had gone out of his face and he was looking worried.
I pushed my advantage. “In fact, I bet they could match his voice with the one on the tape calling the fire into 911.”
“You’re lying,” he blurted. “They don’t make tapes of those calls.”
“Sure they do, Vinnie. You gotta learn a few police procedures if you want a life of crime. What did you do— force Elena to phone me, then knock her out and wait for me in the dark? You call my name when I didn’t see her right off?”
“No!”
“Don’t lie to me, Vinnie—I can put you at that fire. The police have got you on tape. And Elena recognized you. She’s run away again, but she described you to a friend when she saw you hanging out at the Indiana Arms.”
“I don’t know who this Elena is!” he bellowed.
“You know, Vinnie, I think you ought to tell her what happened.” Rick looked at me. “Vinnie thinks you’ve been harassing him. If you two are going to be neighbors the best thing you can do is clear the air between you.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Vinnie muttered, but he didn’t offer any resistance when his friend took his arm and gently propelled him back to the living room.
I followed. His apartment was pretty much a copy of mine in terms of layout, but his style—and budget—were way out of my league. The living room was done in textured contrasting whites. The long wall backing onto the stairwell was covered by an abstract oil in different blues and greens. That was the only color in the room—the bookshelves and coffee table were a clear glass or acrylic or something.
I lowered myself carefully into one of the low-slung nubby armchairs, hoping that my jeans wouldn’t leave any telltale dirt streak behind. Vinnie sat as far from me as he could get, in a matching chair near the front window, while Rick leaned against the wall near him.