People were standing in an informal horseshoe around a small platform—really a large tree stump with a few boards nailed to it—where Boots stood with his left arm around Roz’s shoulders. A tall man, Boots has become majestic in late middle age—silver hair swept in leonine waves from his craggy face, broad shoulders usually encased in buckskin, and a deep hearty laugh. His head was tilted back now as he roared in amusement. It was his trademark look, the pose he affected for campaign posters, but even a nonbeliever like me found his laugh infectious, and I didn’t know what the joke was.
The crowd near him included men and women of all ages and races. After Boots stopped laughing Rosalyn called out something in Spanish and got a good-natured hand. As I’d expected, she was in faded jeans, her concession to the party a crisp white shirt with a Mexican string tie. She looked just as she used to in Logan Square, her bronze skin clear, her eyes bright. Maybe I was too pessimistic—maybe she was smart enough to figure out how to run with the regular Dems and keep her own agenda intact.
Rosalyn jumped down from a crate she’d been perched on and disappeared from view—she’s not much over five feet tall. As she and Boots began pressing hands and exchanging quips, Marissa pulled MacDonald away from me. I smiled to myself. It had to be the first time I’d ever made Marissa downright jealous, and all for a billionaire I didn’t have any interest in. At least, not much interest.
Farther back from them I caught sight of the two His panic contractors who’d been talking to Michael and the boys. They were watching me narrowly; when they saw me looking at them they smiled guardedly. I sketched a wave and thought maybe the moment had finally come when I could get back to Chicago. Before I could make an escape, though, Rosalyn and Boots materialized near me. Rosalyn caught sight of me and clapped her hands.
“Vic! How wonderful to see you. I was ecstatic when I heard you might be here.” She hugged me enthusiastically, then turned to present me to Boots. “Vic Warshawski. She used to work for you, Boots, in the public defender’s office. But you’re working for yourself now, aren’t you? They tell me as an investigator?”
I felt like a child prodigy being paraded around for the neighbors. I managed to mumble a species of response.
“What kind of investigator, Vic?” Boots poured his geniality over me.
“Private detective. Primarily financial investigations.”
Boots gave his legendary laugh and shook my hand. “I’m sorry the county lost you, Vic-we don’t do enough to keep our good people. But I hope your own work is successful.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said primly. “Good luck on the campaign trail, Roz.”
Boots suddenly caught sight of Ralph MacDonald. Genuine pleasure warmed his smile.
“Mac, you old so-and-so. Knew your contribution would double if I didn’t see your shining face, huh?” Boots stretched a hand over my head to smack MacDonald’s shoulder. “And of course you found Marissa Duncan—you always could pick out the best in show, couldn’t you?”
I ducked away from the arm and the hearty bonhomie. Marissa’s face was frozen in the mannequin expression most women assume when they’re getting the wrong kind of compliment. Reflexively she put a hand to pull the collar ends of her dress together. I even found it in me to feel a little sorry for her.
As I slid away from her I saw Rosalyn ahead of me talking to Schmidt and Martinez. To my surprise they were gesturing toward me. Rosalyn turned her head, saw me looking, and flashed a smile. The stainless-steel front tooth she’d acquired in her poverty-ridden childhood glinted briefly. She spoke earnestly to the contractors, then turned once more to me. She made extravagant signs for me to join her. Making a face to myself I shouldered my way through the eager hands stretched out to her.
“Warshawski! The boys and I were talking about you just now. You’ve met little Luis, huh? He’s my cousin— my mother’s sister married a German down in Mexico City and lived to be sorry ever after! You know those old love stories.” She laughed gaily. “We could use your help, Warshawski.”
“You’ve got my vote, Roz. You know that.”
“More than that, though.” Before she could continue, Boots came up with MacDonald in tow. He flashed a perfunctory smile at me and dragged Roz off to confer in the house.
“Wait for me, huh, gringa? I’ll see you in the porch swing—oh, in an hour,” she shouted hoarsely over her shoulder.
I was left glaring at her back. Because I’m a woman in a man’s business people think I’m tough, but a truly tough and decisive person would have headed back to town at that point. Instead I felt the tired old tentacles of responsibility drape themselves around me. Lotty Herschel tells me it comes of being the only child of parents I had to look after during painful illnesses. She thinks a few years with a good analyst would enable me to just say no when someone shouts “I need you, Vic.”