I hung up and massaged my calves, sore from standing so long in one place. U.S. Met had persuaded Mrs. Frizell to put her money into a load of junk. Maybe it was time to pay them a visit.
The Bank of Lake View stood just across the street from the el. Rather than hike back home for the Impala, I climbed the rickety stairs and rode downtown. The train was one of the old green models, with windows opened wide to bathe the riders in gusts of hot air. These old-fashioned cars make me nostalgic for my childhood, for trips downtown with Gabriella on the old Illinois Central, her in gloves and a pillbox navy hat with a small veil, me on my knees next to the open window, excitedly reporting on the passing scene. The scrub around the tracks used to house pheasants and rabbits; once I saw a raccoon.
Today there was nothing but pigeons and broken bottles on the rooftops. The only wildlife I spotted was a man with a three-day growth lying next to one of the chimneys. I hoped he was still alive.
I got off at Chicago and walked west to U.S. Met’s headquarters. They’d always been a maverick, outside the mainstream of Chicago finance—their location a mile north of the Loop was just a physical manifestation of it. They had built themselves a modern building about ten years ago, though, and it rivaled any of the West Loop architecture for gleaming glory. Only ten stories high, it still had all the green stone, smoky curved windows, and brass inlays of the bigger modern towers to the south.
The owners had been shrewd gamblers on where the city’s growth would take place when they put up the new offices—or their politically connected directors had nudged them in the right direction. A decade ago this area had bordered Skid Row. Now it was home to a high-end retail area that abutted the new gallery district. Judging by the lights at the windows, all ten floors were rented out.
I presented myself to an information officer in the corner of the chrome-and-green lobby. “I have an appointment with one of your bankers, Vinnie Buttone.”
She ran a long magenta nail down a phone list. “Your name?”
I let out a tiny breath of relief. I’d been ninety-eight percent sure Vinnie was here, but it was nice to be proved right. “Chrissie Pichea.” I spelled it out for her.
She tapped out Vinnie’s extension. “Someone’s here for Mr. Buttone. Chrissie Pichea.” She stumbled over the last name. I was glad I hadn’t tried “Warshawski” on her.
She sat silent, perhaps on hold while Vinnie’s secretary found out where he was and whether he would want to see Chrissie. He could be anywhere—looking at loan applicants out on a building site, or, given U.S. Met’s clientele, a juice operation. Fortunately for me he turned out to be in the building and willing to see his sweet, helpful neighbor.
The receptionist directed me to a row of elevators artfully hidden behind some columns. I rode to the fourth floor, checked with the receptionist there, and was sent into the inner recesses of the bank.
The green-and-gold splendor of the lobby was carried out in muted tones in the building’s upper reaches: green plush—with a thin pile as befit the junior level of management that trod it—and walls covered in a gold fabric-board. A few bright prints on the walls drew the eye and made the long corridor seem lighter.
Most of the office doors stood open, revealing a phalanx of sincere young men in shirtsleeves and ties talking on the phone. Vinnie’s office, near the end of the hall, was shut. I knocked below the prim black label identifying him as an assistant vice president of commercial lending.
“Chrissie, hi. Come on over here… I thought we’d be more comfortable—” I turned at the sound of Vinnie’s voice, coming from an open conference room catty-corner to his office. When he recognized me his round face looked glassy with surprise, then shattered into anger.
“You! What are you doing here? I ought to call security—”
“I came to see you, Vinnie. Being as how we’re neighbors and we all want to do the neighborly thing for each other on North Racine.” I shut the door behind me and helped myself to one of the fake wicker chairs.
“I want that door open. I’m expecting someone, and anyway, I don’t want you in the bank.”
“You’re expecting Chrissie Pichea, but you’re getting me.” I smiled. “I gave them her name downstairs—it seemed like the easiest way to get up here. You and I have so much to talk about I just didn’t think I could wait until tonight.”