It was a nice, neat idea. But how had Mitch Kruger stumbled onto it? It was way too sophisticated for him. But maybe not for Eddie Mohr, the old president of the local. Time to go see him and ask.
I sat up and pulled my socks back on, thin pink anklets with roses up the side, pretty to look at but not providing much padding for the feet. I slipped my loafers on and went to my bedroom to collect the Smith & Wesson. Going down the hall, I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. My silk shirt looked as though I’d slept in it. I pulled it off and sponged myself under the bathroom tap.
I hadn’t done any laundry for two weeks. It was hard to find a clean shirt that looked respectable enough to go interrogating in. I finally had to pull a dressy black top from a dry-cleaning bag. I could only hope the shoulder holster wouldn’t tear into the delicate fabric—I wasn’t going out of the neighborhood without my gun. A black houndstooth jacket sort of made the top into an outfit, and sort of covered the gun. It was cut a little snugly for total concealment.
Mr. Contreras had been so subdued behind his door that I phoned downstairs before leaving to make sure he was really there. He answered on the sixth ring, sounding Hke a man on his way to face a firing squad, but determined to accompany me. When I got downstairs he spent several minutes fondling Peppy and her nurslings, as if this were their last good-bye.
“I’ve got to get going,” I said gently. “You really don’t have to come.”
“No, no. I said I would and I will.” He finally tore himself from the dogs and followed me into the hall. “You don’t mind my saying so, doll, it’s kind of obvious that you’re carrying a gun. I hope you’re not planning on shooting Eddie.”
“Only if he shoots at me first.” I unlocked the Impala and held the passenger door for him.
“If he sees you’re carrying a gun, and only an idiot could ignore it, he ain’t going to feel too much like talking. Not that he’s likely to say much, anyway.”
“Oh?” I steered the Impala onto Belmont, toward the Kennedy. “What makes you think that?”
He didn’t say anything. When I glanced at him he turned a dull red under his leathery tan and turned to look out the passenger window.
“Why does it bother you so much, my going to see him?”
He didn’t answer, just continued staring out the window. We’d been on the Kennedy for twenty minutes, inching our way past the Loop exits, when he suddenly burst out, “It just doesn’t seem right. First Mitch goes and gets himself killed, and now you want to pin it on the president of my local. I feel like I’m betraying the local, and that’s a fact.”
“I see.” I let a semi move in front of me before starting my crawl across lanes to the Stevenson exit. “I don’t want to pin anything on Eddie Mohr. But I can’t get your old management to talk to me. If I don’t speak to somebody connected with Diamond Head pretty soon, I’m going to have to stop my investigation. I just can’t get a lever anywhere.”
“I know, doll, I know,” he muttered miserably. “I understand all that. I still don’t like it.”
Chapter 39 - Terminal Call
Neither of us spoke again until we left the Stevenson at Kedzie. We were in an area where warehouses and factories jostled residential streets. Kedzie was badly pitted here from the semis that roared along it. We bounced south between two fast-moving sixty-tonners. I kept the Impala close to fifty, gritting my teeth against the jolts and hoping no one had to stop fast.
Mr. Contreras roused himself from his worries to direct me to Eddie Mohr’s house on Albany near Fortieth Street. I managed to exit without being run over. We suddenly found ourselves in an oasis of bungalows with well-tended yards, one of those pockets of tidiness that make the city look like a small, friendly town.
In neighborhoods like these the garages are approached from the alleys that run behind the houses. I pulled up in front, wondering if the Oldsmobile that had been used in the attack on Lotty was out back. I’d like to sneak a look at it before we left. A spotless Riviera sat in front of the house—presumably that was Mrs. Mohr’s car. I moved the Impala up behind it.
Mr. Contreras took his time getting out of the car. I watched his unhappy maneuvering for a minute, then turned and marched briskly up the walk to the front door. I rang the doorbell without waiting for him to catch up with me—I didn’t want to turn this into an all-night vigil while he decided whether or not he was scabbing by bringing me down to meet the guy.