By the time Peppy and I got back home my early euphoria had evaporated completely. I turned the dog back to Mr. Contreras and pleaded a heavy work load to escape a second barrage of questions. Halfway up the stairs I remembered my laundry and stomped back to the basement to shift it to the dryer.
The washer was still in its final spin cycle. Propping my elbows on the vibrating machine, I tried to resolve on an action plan for the day. I had to get my driver’s license replaced, which meant trekking up Elston by bus—I shouldn’t even have been driving last night without it. After that—I wondered if it was worthwhile trying to confront Elena about my missing stuff. If she knew, she wouldn’t admit it; anyway, the thought of dealing with her coy evasions nauseated me. If it was Cerise who had robbed me, I didn’t have any desire to find her, even if I knew where to look.
Since I wasn’t going to mess with those two anymore, there was nothing to stop my getting back to paying—and waiting—clients. I repeated some pretty stern orders to myself about going upstairs, getting dressed, and heading for the Loop, but something kept me planted in front of the washing machine.
The rhythm of the spin cycle was soothing. My mind relaxed while I stared at the dials. The niggling questions buried by Cerise and Elena’s exigent needs came fluttering back to the surface of my brain.
Rosalyn. Why had she gratuitously sought me out at Boots’s party? With a thousand people to meet—lots of them with lots of bucks—did she really want to assure herself that I was on her side?
I wished I could believe it. I just couldn’t. She could see I’d shelled out for her; that should have been guarantee enough for someone who wasn’t particularly close to her. Despite her and Marissa’s soap, my public support wasn’t particularly useful to her. I haven’t been politically active for a long time. My name is getting better known in the financial world, but it doesn’t count for anything in county politics. In fact, knowing I backed Roz—or any other candidate—could just as likely make people who know me from my PD days vote against her as for her.
I couldn’t help believing she thought I knew something that might damage her. She had some secret and her cousin was worried I knew about it. It was after he’d pointed at me that she’d come back and asked me to meet her at the swing. She’d sought me out to scout the lay of the land.
“It doesn’t matter, Vic,” I said aloud. “So she’s got a secret. So who doesn’t? None of your business.”
Grunting, I moved the heavy wet clothes from the machine to the dryer. I slammed the door shut and scowled at the knobs. The trouble was, she’d made it my business by seeking me out in that strange way. If she and Marissa were making a patsy out of me between them—I bit off the thought in mid-sentence and headed for the stairs. I was halfway up when I realized I hadn’t turned on the dryer. I stomped back to the basement and set the wheel in motion.
I put on my newest jeans so I’d look tidy and respectable for the driver’s license people. With it I wore a rose-colored blouse so I’d photograph decently.
All during the slow bus ride up Elston and the long wait while state employees processed applicants at a pace just short of total morbidity, I toyed with different ways of getting a fix on Roz’s situation. My first thought had been to head to the Daley Center to see if she was being sued. But if someone were on her case, the papers would have the story—the first thing the eager reporters do when someone runs for office is check the public record on them.
With a start I realized my turn had come. I filled out the forms, handed over my three pieces of identification, waited some more, agreed to give away my kidneys and eyeballs if some cokehead totaled me, and finally got my picture taken. My care in dressing had been to no avail—I still looked like an escapee from the psycho ward at Cook County. Maybe I should lose this license, too, and try again.
I trudged back onto the Number 41 bus and endured the long trek south. The sight of my demented-looking photograph did make me think of someone who might know what Roz was up to. Velma Riter was a photographer whom I’d met when she was with the Herald-Star. She’d been assigned enough times to cover stories I’d been involved in that we got to know each other, at least by sight. Shortly before leaving the paper to go into business for herself, she’d done a big photo-essay for a special issue on “Fifty Women Who Move Chicago.” I’d been included, as had Roz.
The artist was at home. She’d evidently been expecting some other call because she answered the phone eagerly on the first ring but seemed startled at hearing it was me.
“V. I. Warshawski,” she repeated slowly, drawing out the syllables. “Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I just had my driver’s license redone. I was wishing you could doctor the photo for me.”
“Forged passports are my real specialty,” she said dryly. “What are you up to these days?”