Tim and Tom Streeter showed up at ten after six, whistling lightly and joking with their crew. The Streeter boys are both enormous, topping six-four and muscled to move pianos down five nights of stairs. The three other men weren’t exactly tiny either.
Leaving two of the crew out front, the rest of us went around to the back. If someone was hanging out on the stairs there, we’d be able to spot them before walking into a trap. The sun was well up now; it was obvious that the area was clear. We checked behind the garbage cans in the basement entry just to be sure, then went up to my place. No one had penetrated my security system.
We were cautious in moving through the front door into the main stairwell, but it was clear too. I used my flash. Someone had been here last night: they’d left a crumpled McDonald’s bag on the floor. And urinated on the stairs. For some reason that enraged me more than the idea of people lying in wait for me.
“It’s just punks, cookie,” Mr. Contreras reassured me. “You can’t let yourself get so wound up over a bunch of punks. I’ll come up and clean it for you.”
“You go take care of Peppy. I’ll worry about this.”
Tim asked if I wanted someone to spend the day—they could manage the move with four men if they had to. I rubbed my eyes, trying to think. Exhaustion was beginning to encase my brain in concrete.
“I don’t think so. We should be okay during the day. Can I check with you tonight? Would you have someone if we need an extra body in a fight?”
Tim agreed readily—business had been light lately. With the recession, fewer people were buying new places and moving into them. We went downstairs together, to make sure Mr. Contreras’s place was clear. I barely had the energy left at that point to make it back up the three flights to my own apartment. I knew I should scrub the stairwell, but couldn’t force the extra action on my body. I just remembered to take off the shoulder holster and unhook my bra before collapsing across the bed.
Chapter 43 - When Top Management Talks…
My sleep was punctuated by dreams of the worst job I’d ever held, trying to sell Time-Life books by phone in the early seventies, except in my dreams I was being pursued by a relentless telemarketer. At one point I thought I’d actually picked up the phone and yelled “I don’t want to buy anything now” into it. I slammed it down only to have it start ringing again.
I sat up in bed. It was one-thirty and my mouth felt like a cotton-ball factory. The phone was ringing. I eyed it malevolently, but finally picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Is this V. I. Warshawski? Why in hell did you hang up on me just now? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“I’m not on your payroll, Mr. Loring. I’m not worried about jumping high enough fast enough to keep you happy.”
“Don’t give me that crap, Warshawski. You yanked pretty hard on my chain Monday, warned me Paragon’s affairs would be in the papers if I didn’t talk to you. You can’t pull a stunt like that, then leave me hanging.”
I made a sour face at the phone. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
“Not over the phone. You can meet me in Lincolnwood in half an hour if you leave now.”
“Yes, but I’m not leaving the city today. You can be here in half an hour if you leave now.”
He hated it. All executives hate it when you don’t leap the first moment they bark out an order. But I couldn’t stray from my base, even assuming my stiff body would start moving. Between Vinnie and Dick something was going to happen soon. I wanted to be here for it.
The conversation ended with my giving Loring directions on how to find my apartment. “And by the way, how did you get my home number? It’s not listed.”
“Oh, that. I called some people to find out about you and they sicced me onto Daraugh Graham at Continental Lakeside. He gave it to me.” The old executive network strikes back.
I staggered into the bathroom to scrub my teeth clean of lint. If I only had half an hour, I needed a workout more than I did coffee. Since I still hadn’t replaced my running shoes I put everything I had into my exercises, working a lot more with my handweights than usual. It took a full forty minutes but my brain felt looser, as if it might be willing to do a little work if called on.
I showered and dressed. I dug through the mess on the floor of my hall closet and unearthed an old pair of running shoes. They dated back five or six years and were worn too thin for serious running, but they made getting around easier than the loafers I’d been wearing.
Since Loring still hadn’t shown, I made coffee and a snack. After fried eggs at six this morning it was time to get back to a healthier regimen. I sauteed tofu with spinach and mushrooms and took it into the living room with the Smith & Wesson. I didn’t seriously expect Loring to attack me, but I didn’t want to be really stupid at this point either. I tucked the gun under a stack of papers on the couch and curled up cross-legged next to them.