I gave him a succinct picture of what I’d seen. “I am getting so tired of being jacked around by people connected to Diamond Head. If someone doesn’t start talking to me soon, I’m going to be sharing my bits of information with the feds. Maybe even the newspapers.”
I heard him whisper “Oh, fuck” under his breath, but he didn’t say anything else. “We need to talk, Warshawski. But I have to speak to my management group first. When can you come back out here? Tomorrow morning?”
I thought of the alarm installation. “I’m pretty busy. Unless you want to come down here?”
“Just can’t get away tomorrow morning. I’ll call you. But don’t go talking to anyone until you hear from me.”
“Ah, nuts, Loring. I’m not going to dangle on a spool for you forever.”
“I’m not asking you to, Warshawski. Just a couple of days. I may even get back to you tonight. Give me your number.”
“Aye, aye, skipper.” I saluted the phone smartly as we hung up, but of course he couldn’t see that.
So now what? Was he involved and trying to gain a few hours either to frame a cover-up or to blow my brains out? At least Rawlings’s squad car might make the latter less likely.
I didn’t have enough information to worry about it any more this afternoon. I needed to retrieve the Impala, collect my belongings from Mrs. Polter before she sold them for fire extinguishers, and return home.
On my way out I knocked at Mr. Contreras’s door. He was inside again and much relieved to see me. I let his waves of information about the glazier wash over me, thanking him when there was a break in the surf, then explaining my going back out. “I’m returning here. Probably by eight.”
“I could make us dinner,” he offered tentatively.
I hugged him briefly. “I’ve got some chicken upstairs that I ought to cook tonight. Why don’t .you let me make you something for a change?”
He walked me to the door. “Stay out of the San this time, doll. I know you drink a lot of water, but that stuff ain’t good for you.”
Vinnie was coming in as I left. Mr. Contreras and I both stared at him, trying to picture him as a con artist. In his pale-gray summer suit and tightly knotted tie he looked so stodgily corporate that I had to give it up.
“Evening, Vinnie,” I said brightly. “Got any investment advice for us?”
He looked at me stonily. “Sell your share in the co-op, Warshawski. Neighborhood’s coming up and you won’t be able to afford your tax bill.”
I laughed, but I could feel Mr. Contreras start to bristle. As I went out the door I heard a diatribe that began with “young man” and might end anywhere.
I walked over to Belmont and Halsted to catch the el. No one seemed to be following me. My legs ached as I climbed the stairs to the platform. Mr. Contreras was right: the day was coming when I wouldn’t be able to swing from the chandeliers any longer—I could already feel its shadow in my muscles.
The air-conditioning wasn’t working on the train I caught and its windows didn’t open. The Sox were playing a night game at home. Happy fans in cutoffs had joined the overflow of commuters to make the ride one of suffocating misery.
When I got off at Thirty-first, I was so glad to be outside again I decided to walk to the Impala. I sketched a wave to the Number 31 bus as it left the station, relieved not to be one of the standing sardines packed on such a muggy night.
My Nikes were at the bottom of the San. The loafers I’d put on didn’t offer much support. My feet began to hurt about halfway to the car, but I plodded on past bus stops. The evening sky was starting to thicken with rain clouds again. The first drops began to fall as I got to Damen. I sprinted the half block to Thirty-first Place, where I’d left the car. No one seemed to have vandalized it. I’d been worrying about that on the ride south, wondering whether Luke would even bother to fix the Trans Am if his own precious baby were damaged.
The keys had been in my jeans pocket when I went into the drink. The ring looked rusted out, but the ignition turned without faltering. I’d also salvaged Mrs. Polter’s front-door key. The knot I’d tied through my belt loop had held through my gyrations Friday night.
When I got to her house on Archer, the rain was falling in a thick sheet. I ran full-tilt up the rickety stairs, slipping on the worn wood in my loafers. I was soaked before I got to the top. My fingers, thick with cold from my drenching, fumbled with her front-door lock.
By the time I got it open Mrs. Polter was waiting on the other side. The hall was so dark it was hard to see, but the twilight behind me glinted from the fire extinguisher she was pointing at me. I hunched my head down under my forearms to protect my eyes, and lunged under her outstretched arms into her abdomen. It was like butting my head into a mattress. We both grunted. I turned underneath her armpits and wrestled the extinguisher from her grip.
“Mrs. Polter,” I panted. “How kind of you to welcome me in person.”
“You’re wet,” she announced. “You’re dripping all over the linoleum.”