Loren Richter was tapping his pencil rapidly against the chair leg. “That’s not news. It’s not even a crime.”
“Of course not,” I agreed. “Coalitions, changing loyalties, that’s the name of the game. But Boots isn’t ready to turn in his chips yet. So say he went to Roz. If he put her on the ticket, she’d bring in Humboldt Park and Pilsen for him—she’s gold here. In return he’d see that Alma got a big piece of county action. They drop their discrimination suits, tie in with a dummy corporation, the work will really go to Wunsch and Grasso, who will share out the profits and everybody’s happy. Alma doesn’t do a lick of work on the Ryan—I’ve been there and seen it. They got the bid, they pay everything out to a dummy corporation, and let Wunsch and Grasso supply the equipment and the personnel.”
“You don’t have any proof of this, none at all. It’s a total fabrication,” Camellia Maldonado said hotly. “Whatever Velma said of you you’re ten times worse.”
I got up. “I’m not going to stay to fight it. I’m beat. I just wanted to give Roz a chance to answer before I go to the papers. There’s one more thing I don’t understand, though.”
“One?” Velma spat out. “Just one? I thought you understood the whole universe, Warshawski.”
I ignored her. “I don’t know why Roz thought a story like this would hurt her chances on the ticket. It’s just business as usual in this old town. When the story finally breaks the good old boys will breathe a collective sigh that she’s not a flaming radical, that she’s one of them after all.”
I turned on my heel, not listening to the three of them shouting at me. Camellia ran to the door on pencil-heels and grabbed my arm.
“You must tell us what proof you have of this terrible allegation. You can’t come in here and drop such a bomb and then just walk off.”
I rubbed my eyes tiredly. “It’s all there. You just have to go to the Ryan and look at their part of the zone. Although maybe now they know I’ve been there they’ll bring in a few minority or women workers for the photographers. But the real kicker is to visit their offices. They’re a sham. There’re only three desks occupied in the whole place. You don’t run a big business out of a cubbyhole, at least not a contracting business.”
Camellia looked at me with such anger that it made my knees feel wobbly. “I’ve worked for Roz’s success for a long time,” she hissed. “You’re not going to be able to ruin her with your lies.”
“Great,” I said. “Then you don’t have anything to worry about.”
I glanced back at Velma, sitting in the swivel chair. She didn’t say anything, but dropped her gaze to the desktop. Camellia followed me to the big front room. She was too savvy a campaigner to let the hired hands see a crisis was in the works. She shook hands formally with me at the door, gave me a big smile, and said she’d be sure to let Roz know we’d spoken.
39
Death Rattle
When I got back to the Chevy I was exhausted past the point of feeling or thinking. In some recess of my mind I knew I needed to see August Cray, to try to understand the connection that apparently lay between Farmworks and Seligman. Even if it hadn’t been too late to visit his Loop address I couldn’t have gone—I just didn’t have the stamina left to talk to anyone else today. All I wanted was to get home to a bath and my bed.
Peppy, curled in the front seat, gave me a look of disgust when I got in. She didn’t deign to lift her head— after three hours in the car she didn’t think I was good for much.
“Sorry, girl,” I apologized. “We’ll go home now, General Motors willing.”
The Chevy was grinding horribly even at twenty-five. I forced it forward like a knight with a battle-shy horse. It went about as happily. With the car whining and screaming I couldn’t follow the frantic line of thought I’d started at Roz’s any further. Aside from the noise, I was too nervous that the car might stop altogether to be able to think about anything else.
When I turned onto Racine it went on me, going from a brain-shattering whine to a lurching rattle to a final dead silence. I turned the ignition key. The engine ground horribly but wouldn’t catch. Behind me cars were honking furiously—it’s well known that the best cure for a stalled engine is for a hundred thousand drivers to blow their horns in unison.
I was less than three blocks from home. If I could push the Chevy to the curb, I could leave it there for a tow truck and walk home with Peppy. Peppy had other ideas. When I opened the door she bounded across the set divider and outside so fast I was just able to grab a hind leg before she hurled herself in front of a delivery van. I wrestled her to the ground and dragged her back into the front seat.