I swung by the emergency clinic to check on my waif and learned that Mr. Contreras had already been in. They’d let him visit the dog; he’d shelled out the seven hundred dollars they needed for her continuing care. The vet thought if all went well, we could take her home in another week, which made me realize life can always become more complicated.
Back in my own place, I took another fumigating shower, washing off the greasy glass, the cockroach eggs, the sight of all that spattered blood and bone, the sound of Ladonna’s racking cough. I was hoping to slip out for the evening, but I’d forgotten texting a reporter friend when I decided to go into Walker’s building.
Murray Ryerson arrived as I was putting on a black sundress and sandals.
“I thought your boyfriend was on the West Coast. You getting some action on the side?” Murray asked.
“Just when I’m feeling sorry for you, you remind me of why I shouldn’t,” I said, pushing past him to the door.
“Sorry, Warshawski, sorry!” He held up his hands, traffic cop style, to stop me. “Let me have the highs or lows or whatever of the shoot-out in Austin. I picked up the main points on the TV feeds, but you had a front-row seat.”
By the time I’d finished describing Palfry, my search for Judy, the gunfight I’d been in this afternoon, Mr. Contreras had shown up. He’d heard about the shoot-out on the six-o’clock news, so I had to go through the story all over again. Mr. Contreras doesn’t like Murray, so he was annoyed that I hadn’t told him first. He spent ten minutes chewing me out for not taking him out to Austin with me. That was a good reality check: I hadn’t believed things could have been worse, but at least I’d been spared Mr. Contreras trying to intercept Freddie’s and Vire’s bullets.
The three of us went out, not for the lovely dinner at a slow-food trattoria I’d been imagining, but to the local cafe where Mr. Contreras and Murray could have the big burgers they were craving. After a day of guns and blood, hamburgers dripping red turned my stomach. I left the two men eating in uneasy silence and went home to cook up a pot of pasta. I had some good cheese, a half-drunk bottle of wine. I sat on the back porch with the dogs, listening to a CD of Jake’s High Plainsong group, and slowly felt some peace return to my spirit.
Jake himself called a little later. He hadn’t caught anything in his deep-sea expedition, but he’d had a lot of fun. I’d caught someone, but had had no fun at all. Which proves something, I’m not sure what. Still, while I sat on the porch, he played me a lullaby on his bass. I went into bed a happier detective than I’d been an hour earlier.
12
DON’T DO ME ANY FAVORS ANYMORE
MY SLEEP WAS FILLED with unquiet dreams, with Freddie, Vire and Bullet chasing me through a cornfield filled with dead bodies, while Judy Binder played hide-and-seek behind the cornstalks. She was giggling, taunting me: You’ll never find me, you’ll never find my son.
I got up early again, but this time drove the dogs to the lake for a swim. When I’d showered and changed, Mr. Contreras offered to buy me breakfast at the Belmont Diner.
“I’d love to,” I said, “as long as we don’t talk about Murray or the abandoned Rottweiler.”
“Yeah, doll, but you know, that dog has to live a quiet life until she gets rid of her heartworm, which means I could—”
I cut him off ruthlessly. He managed to make it all the way through a plate of French toast without a word about the Rottweiler. It was only when I ordered a BLT to take along for my lunch that he brought her up again.
I brushed his forehead with my lips. “I’m on my way downtown. Later, my friend. Thanks for the breakfast.”
My first appointment was with my most important client, Darraugh Graham. I parked at my office and took the L into the Loop. It was the morning rush hour; all the seats were taken, so I leaned against a pole, my briefcase wedged between my feet. I pulled out my phone to check my messages, joining the other commuters in focusing on a world far from the one we were looking at.
I wondered if any of the other passengers were getting furious texts from police sergeants, demanding that they call at once. That was not only the first message on my phone, but the fifth, sixth and ninth. I knew it would be a stressful conversation, so best get it over with before Conrad Rawlings had a whole day to create a head of steam. As it was, he’d already built up plenty:
Had he or had he not told me not to go into that apartment on my own? He’d had to do major damage control with Ferret Downey, to assure him that if I’d killed Bullet, it had been a complete accident.
“Do not call me again for favors, Warshawski. I am fed up to my back teeth with your recklessness. The next time you want to go up against a West Side drug lord, take that weedy violin player you’re dating.”
“Understood, Sergeant. No more favors. Got it. Although Jake plays the bass, not a violin.”