I smiled to myself. She really did want the Technicolor version. I gave her a graphic description, including the sneeze that led to my uncovering. And including the comments about “the boss” having warned them that I was coming around. I glossed over the part about the trucks and the copper, just let her believe they started the crane when I jumped out on it.
She sighed noisily. “You really climb down that crane scaffolding? Wish there’d been someone there with a camera. ”Course, I was young once. But I don’t think I ever could have jumped off a ledge onto a crane. It’s my head—I’m scared of heights.“
She brooded in silence for a few minutes. “He sure had me fooled, that guy, claiming to be Mitch Kruger’s son. I should’ve known when he offered me so much money…” She eyed me uncertainly, but relaxed when I didn’t shriek at her.
“It’s my one weakness,” she said with dignity. “We were too poor growing up. Used to carry lard sandwiches to school. The good days were when we had two slices of bread to put around it. But I’m good at sizing up men and I should’ve known he was too slick, that he had my number.”
She pondered some more, then abruptly began heaving herself from the chair. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
I got to my feet. My knees ached from kneeling on the linoleum so long. While she held a whispered colloquy in the hall with Sam, I sat on her footstool and did quad raises. I’d managed fifty with each leg before she came back.
“I took these out of Mitch’s room when his son or whoever he is came by. You might as well know the worst about me. I could see he was itching to get his fingers on his old man’s papers, and I thought maybe they were worth something. But I’ve been through them a million times and I don’t for the life of me see what was so important about them that he wanted to lug them all over the South Side with him. You can have ‘em.” She thrust a packet wrapped in newspaper into my hands.
Chapter 32 - A Chicken for Mr. Contreras
It was close to eight-thirty when I turned off the Kennedy at Belmont. Mrs. Polter had wanted to share a beer or two before I left, to show there were no hard feelings over my dip in the canal. Although I’m not much of a beer-drinker I thought it politic to keep up the better feeling she had for me.
Sam had brought a six-pack and two glasses and hovered anxiously in the doorway to make sure I wasn’t going to attack her. By the time I extricated myself from her highly colored flood of reminiscence she was slapping me on the thigh and telling me I wasn’t nearly as stuck-up as I’d seemed at first.
I stopped at a pay phone near Ashland to call Mr. Contreras, partly to let him know I was still alive even though late. I also wanted some assurance that the building wasn’t under siege. He was voluble with relief at hearing from me; I cut him short with a promise to tell him all about it over dinner.
I figured there wasn’t any point trying to hide the Impala. By now anyone who wanted to know where I was must have a pretty clear fix on every move I was making. I certainly wasn’t convinced that Mrs. Polter wouldn’t call Milt Chamfers the minute I left her house. I sat across from my apartment for several minutes, scanning the street for anyone who looked out of place.
Finally I slid across the seat and out the passenger door, my gun in my hand. As I got to the front door a squad car cruised slowly by, its spot ostentatiously playing on the entrance. I put down my suitcase and waved with my left hand, hoping the shadows concealed the Smith & Wesson. Sergeant Rawlings on the case. I didn’t know if I liked the little flicker of warmth the idea gave me: it’s a mistake to get too dependent on someone else for your own well-being.
Mr. Contreras surged out to meet me in the lobby. He insisted on taking the suitcase from me and carrying it upstairs. I offered him a choice between wine and whisky, but he’d brought a bottle of his own grappa. He settled down at the kitchen table with a glass while I changed into dry shoes and a clean pair of jeans.
I hadn’t looked at Mrs. Polter’s newsprint package—-just stuck it into the band of my sweatpants when she handed it to me. I didn’t want to seem too eager in front of her. Besides, I was afraid to unwrap it—afraid that the collection of papers would mean as little to me as to her. I’d put the bundle on my dresser while I changed, but I kept eying it. When I went back to the kitchen I took a deep breath and carried it with me.
I dumped it casually in front of Mr. Contreras. “These are Mitch’s private papers. Mrs. Polter had filched them from his room after he died, but she decided to turn them over to me. Want to see if there’s anything hot in them while I start dinner?”