“It’s sad, Vic, but it’s not a story,” Murray said through a mouthful of hamburger. “I can’t bring this to my editor. The first thing he’ll want to know is how much you’re motivated by your hatred of Yarborough.”
“Dick hasn’t got anything to do with this. Except that he and Pichea are at the same law firm. Don’t you think it’s interesting that he’s getting the Chicago Lawyer to suppress my letter?”
“Frankly, no. I think he’s protecting Crawford, Mead’s fair name. Anyone would under the circumstances. Bring me some real dirt and I’ll go to bat for you. This just doesn’t cut it. You’re on a crusade for the old lady and it’s distorting your perspective.”
“This is a story. It’s happening all over the Lincoln Park perimeter as the yuppies muscle into old neighborhoods. People forced out of bungalows they’ve spent a lifetime in to make way for the sacred gentrifiers. Only in this case Pichea’s added a personal vendetta against an old woman because he hates her dogs.”
Murray shook his head. “You’re not selling me, V. I.”
I pulled a five from my billfold and slapped it on the table, too angry to eat. “Don’t come around asking me for favors in the future, Ryerson, because there won’t be any.”
As I stormed to the door I saw him pick up my turkey sandwich and start eating it. Great. Perfect conclusion to a bad morning.
On my way to Schaumburg I stopped at a fast foodery for a milkshake. I couldn’t go indefinitely on anger and I wanted to present a professional front to my prospective clients. Fortunately I’d dressed for success today in a taupe trouser suit with a black cotton top. And since I drank the shake through a straw I didn’t even spill any on myself.
The meeting took all afternoon. At five-thirty I left them with a proposal and joined the parking lot on Interstate 290 crawling back to Chicago. There wasn’t any good way to get from the northwest suburbs to Evanston. There wasn’t any good way to move in the northwest suburbs at this time of day, period. I got off at Golf Road to drive directly east. It wouldn’t be any slower than staying on the expressway.
The Cubs were playing in Philadelphia. I turned on the radio to see if the game had started, but got the inane blather Harry Carey called his pregame show. I switched to WBBM and the news. Nothing was going on in the world that I cared much about, from the baking of the Southwest to the news that the savings and loan bailout was now estimated at five hundred billion.
“Surprise, surprise,” I muttered, trying NBC. Traffic was backed up on all the expressways as people like me returned to the city after frolicking in the suburbs. On Golf Road, too, although the man in the helicopter didn’t mention it. I braked hard as a maroon Honda pulled into traffic from one of the five thousand strip malls lining the street. Stupid jerk. He pulled in behind me, close enough to ram me if I had to stop suddenly.
No one had identified the body of an elderly man pulled from the Chicago Sanitary and Ship Canal near Stickney earlier today. We got an agitated live report from Ellen Coleman; who had found the body when she and her husband, Fred, were walking along the side of the canal, scavenging for coins.
“And I said to Fred, I don’t think I can face meatloaf tonight after seeing all that ground-up flesh,” I mimicked savagely, turning back to Harry Carey.
It was six before I reached the outskirts of Evanston. My linen jacket was limp from sweat. When I checked my face in the rearview mirror I saw a black smudge across my cheek. My dark curls were lying wet on my forehead. I found a Kleenex in my purse and scrubbed my face clean with spit. I couldn’t do anything about the rest of my appearance.
Max’s house was part of a small block that shared a private park and beach at the south end of Evanston. When I pulled into the driveway Max leaned over the side of the second-story porch.
“The front door is open, Vic; you can come on up.”
A shallow step led to the porticoed front entrance. The air inside was still and cool. I couldn’t imagine heat or sweat among the Chinese porcelains that filled niches and stands along the hall and stairwell. I felt sloppy and out of place in the midst of Max’s immaculate tidiness. My black pumps had a film of dust on them that didn’t belong on the red Persian runner lining the stairs.
The red carpeting continued in the upper hall, leading to the porch door. The porch had been enclosed with sliding screens, which were open now so that Max and Michael and Or‘ could watch the lake stained orange and pink in the reflection of the setting sun. Michael and Or’ were sitting in one corner drinking iced tea. Max came forward to greet me, leading me by the hand to a nearby chair, and pressing a drink on me. I took a gin and tonic and felt some of the stress leave my shoulders.