“It’s all tied together in one neat little package, b.
gave him a detailed account of my breakfast with Dick and Dick’s relief that Peter Felitti had been able to keep my exploits at Diamond Head out of the paper.
“See? You thought it was me not talking to you that kept you from getting the scoop. Really, it was Felitti talking to your publisher,” I finished.
Murray was quiet for a minute. “I’m not sure I believe you,” he finally said. “No, no, I’m not doubting the conversation took place. I just question whether Felitti is a heavy enough hitter to keep something out of the papers on request.”
“His brother used to be a Du Page County commissioner and he’s still on the board of U.S. Metropolitan. Lots of little political connections run through that bank. Marshall Townley could well be approached that way.” Townley was the Herald-Star’s publisher.
Murray thought it over some more. “Maybe. Maybe. I’ll poke around a little. Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because too many people have been yanking me around the last two weeks. And when Dick Yarborough let that remark fly this morning—that he could suppress any public report about what I’m trying to find out—it made me, well, pretty peeved.”
“Pretty peeved, huh? Is anything left of the guy?”
“He still has one working testicle,” I said primly.
“You left one? Boy, you must be getting soft, Warshawski… I guess it’s time for me to bite. What are you trying to find out?”
I gave him a thumbnail sketch of my fruitless investigation into Mitch Kruger’s death, including my meeting with Ben Loring at Paragon Steel. “I’ve got to believe Mitch had nosed out something that was going on at Diamond Head. Maybe the theft of the copper wire, depending on how important it was to them to keep it quiet. It could have been something else, though. Interest in his meager papers has been running high, but I finally got hold of them last night and there’s nothing in them to show he knew about the theft. But there’s nothing in them to show he knew about anything else either.”
Murray tried wheedling a look at Mitch’s papers from me, but I was keeping Eddie Mohr and the connection to Chicago Settlement to myself until after I’d talked to Mohr this afternoon. Murray hadn’t been supportive enough lately to get a free blue-plate special.
“Okay, Warshawski,” he said at last. “Maybe there is a story in this. Although I can see Finchley’s point, that maybe they just don’t like you snooping around down at Diamond Head. I’ll talk to some people and get back to you.”
“Gosh, Mr. Hecht, thanks. If it wasn’t for the hardworking, noble press, where would us poor working stiffs be?”
“In the San, where you belong. Catch you later, Warshawski.”
I finished my sandwich before dialing Max’s number at the hospital. Mr. Loewenthal was in a meeting; could his secretary take a message? I didn’t want to leave my phone number and play tag with Max all afternoon. His secretary finally allowed as how if I called back at four I could probably reach him.
Thoughts of Max brought Lotty to the front of my mind from the back recesses where I’d been keeping her. I called over to the clinic and spoke to Mrs. Coltrain. Lotty was working with her new nurse in one of the examining rooms—not a good time to interrupt. Mrs. Coltrain assured me she would let her know I’d called.
I walked slowly back to my bedroom. The longer Lotty and I went without speaking, the harder it was going to be to get back together.
I changed the thin T-shirt I’d put on after my bath for a bra and a silk shirt in a dusky rose. A bra is almost as bad as a shoulder holster on a muggy day, but I didn’t want my elderly neighbors so startled that they wouldn’t talk to me. I started to put on the holster, then realized that meant a jacket, which meant I’d be a sodden wreck before I’d made it across the street. Surely I could walk around my own neighborhood in broad daylight without a weapon. I left the gun on the bed.
On my way back out I started to knock on Mr. Contreras’s door, hesitated, then left without trying to rouse him. Peppy had let out a sharp bark as I stood there: if he wanted to see me he could open the door.
It dawned on me that I hadn’t seen any Chicago cops patrolling my stretch of Racine today. Maybe Conrad Rawlings was so annoyed by my comments last night that he had withdrawn his protective arm. My pleasure at having my ability to look after myself put to the test wasn’t as strong as it might have been. I almost headed back up the stairs for my gun.
Chapter 38 - High-Voltage Marketing Plan