“Why don’t you give me her name and I’ll give it a try?” He dropped the anger for indulgent coaxing.
“Why don’t you give it a rest, Furey? Elena isn’t doing anyone any harm out there. You must have a godzillian murders and rapes and stuff to keep you happy. She’ll turn up in due course, drunk and repentant, and in the meantime I don’t think she needs all this city money lavished on her.”
“The only reason we’re doing it is because Uncle Bobby wanted to save you the embarrassment of bailing her out of women’s court,” he said stiffly. “If I had any say in the matter, I wouldn’t be wasting time looking for her.”
“Then I’ll call Bobby and tell him I don’t care.” I caught sight of the clock and suddenly remembered my time lines. Damn it all. I should have been at Daley Center twenty minutes ago to get a jump on Darrough Graham’s project.
“Sorry, Michael—I’ve got to run.”
“Wait, Vic,” he said urgently. “Don’t tell the lieutenant. He’d take a stripe off my butt if he knew I’d been complaining to you.”
“Okay,” I agreed, irritated, “but in that case, stop riding me. The second I see her or hear from her I’ll let you know. Good-bye.”
I slammed down the receiver and ran into my bedroom. As I was zipping my jeans the phone rang again. I let it go at first, thinking it was probably Furey, then gave in to the pressure of the bell.
“I want Victoria Warshawski.” The accented voice belonged to the man I’d spoken to yesterday at Alma Mejicana.
He pronounced it “Warchassy.” After saying it correctly I asked who wanted her.
“This is Luis Schmidt, Warchassy. A little bird told me you been prying into my work crew down at the Ryan. I’m calling to tell you to mind your own business.”
“I think you have the wrong number.” I took the phone from my ear while I pulled a yellow cotton sweater over my head. “There’s no one here named Warchassy.”
“This ain’t Victoria Warchassy? The private dick?” he demanded angrily.
“I’m a private investigator, but my last name is ‘Warshawski.’” I kept my tone affable.
“That’s what I been saying, bitch. I’m talking to you. If you know what’s good for you, keep your damned nose out of other people’s business.”
“Oh, Looey, Looey, you just said the magic word. I purely hate it when strange men call me a bitch. You just bought yourself a whole lot of interest in what Alma Mejicana is doing down at the Ryan.”
“I’m warning you, Warchassy, to butt out of what don’t concern you. Or you could be very, very sorry.” The phone slammed in my ear.
I tied my running shoes and took the stairs two at a time. Behind Mr. Contreras’s door I could hear Peppy whining. She recognized my step and wanted to come with me. It wasn’t fair to make her hang out with Mr. Contreras all day—he couldn’t run her properly. But I just couldn’t stop for her.
I felt close to screaming at the pressure of all the demands on me. The dog. Furey. Elena herself. Graham. My other clients. And now my bravado to Luis Schmidt. Well, damn him anyway for calling up with stupid threats.
If only I could get a few bucks ahead of the game, I’d take some time off, just get clean out of this town for six months. I ground my teeth at the futility of the idea and savagely jerked the Chevy into gear.
By three o’clock I had finished an exhaustive search into the life and loves of Graham’s prospective marketing vice president. In the report I included the fact that the guy had a steady girlfriend along with his wife and infant son—not that Graham would care. It would make me run ten miles in the opposite direction, but Graham didn’t think what happened below the belt had any bearing on job performance.
Not until I had typed up the report and sent it across the Loop by messenger did I break for lunch. By then hunger had given me a nagging headache, although I felt better mentally for being able to cross a major task off my time chart.
I went to a vegetarian café around the corner for soup and a bowl of yogurt. That took care of the hunger, but my headache grew more intense. I tried ignoring it, tried to make myself think about Luis Schmidt and his anger at my visit to the Ryan construction site. My head hurt too much for logic. When I retrieved the Chevy from the underground garage, I wanted just to drive home and go back to bed, but all the time I’d wasted lately was still haunting me. I slogged north to Saul Seligman’s house.
He wasn’t happy to see me. Nor did he want to let me have pictures of his children. It took every ounce of energy I had to keep being gentle and persuasive through the blinding pain thudding in front of my eyes.