I watched Mr. Contreras while he drank his; his face lost some of its blankness and he wanted to talk. I listened while he went over stories from his and Mitch’s boyhood, the time they’d put a frog in the collection bag at church, how they’d signed their apprenticeship papers the same morning—a detour about Ted Balbini, who sponsored them—and then how Mr. Contreras got drafted but Mitch was 4-F.
“He was already drinking too much, even then, but it was his flat feet that did him in. Broke his heart. Wouldn’t come see me off when I left for Fort Hood, silly old goat. But we hooked up again after the war. Diamond Head took me back soon as I got home. That was when it was still owned by the family, not like nowadays when it’s all a bunch of bosses out in the suburbs who don’t care if you live or die.” He paused to finish his tea. “You gotta do something about it, doll, go find who killed him.”
I sat up, startled. “I don’t think the police are treating it like a murder case. You heard what Finchley said. He stumbled and fell while he was drunk and someone rolled him into the canal. I suppose some punk might have killed him after rolling him.” I tried to imagine canvassing Pilsen for teenage drug lords and shuddered.
“Damn you, no!” Mr. Contreras shouted. “What would he’ve been walking around the river there for? That ain’t sense. There’s no place for anyone to walk—it’s all company docks and barbed wire and dumps. You going to join the cops in pinning accident or suicide on him, you can just take your butt to hell as fast as possible.”
I looked at him, astonished by the violence of his language, and saw the tears coursing down his leathery face again. I knelt by his chair and put an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, hey, don’t carry on like that. I’ll talk to Vishnikov in the morning and see what he thinks.”
He grabbed my hand in a fierce hold, his jaw working as he tried to control his face. “Sorry, doll,” he said huskily. “Sorry to break down and take it out on you. I know he was a pain in the tail, all that drink, but when it’s your oldest friend you kinda overlook it.”.
He took his hand from mine and collapsed his face into his palms, sobbing. “I should never have made him leave. Why did I have to make such a goddam fuss over the puppies? Peppy don’t notice that kind of stuff, people snoring, it’s all one to her. Why didn’t I just let him camp out here a few days?”
Chapter 16 - Not the Jewel in the Crown
When I went for my run the next morning, I slipped out the back gate. Instead of my normal route to the harbor and back I ran west along side streets as far as the river. I kept my pace slow, not so much to check on my tail as to protect myself from shin splints on the rough roadway— it’s hard to follow someone who’s on foot when you’re driving. I didn’t think I was in physical danger from any tracking Chamfers might choose to do; I just hate for anyone to nose into my whereabouts.
I stopped to see Mr. Contreras before going up to shower. He’d recovered some of his normal vitality—his color was better and he was moving at a more natural gait than he had last night. I told him I was going down to Diamond Head and asked if he knew anyone who still worked there.
“It’s all new people since my time, cookie. It might be there’s one or two guys on the line who I’d recognize if I saw ‘em, but the bosses are all new; the foreman and the shop steward, I don’t even know their names. You want me to come along with you?”
I grinned at the eagerness in his voice. “Not this trip. Maybe later if I don’t make any headway.” I was planning a surreptitious approach to the plant; I figured I’d have better luck doing it solo.
I’d have even better success if whoever had tailed me yesterday didn’t follow me there. And that meant shedding my wheels. My Trans Am, like Magnum’s Ferrari, is about as easy to track as the creosote Sherlock Holmes laid down for Toby.
Lotty is the only person I know well enough to trade cars with. Since hers always show dents within the first month she owns them, I didn’t want to turn my baby over to her. But the client must come first, I admonished myself sternly. After all, what was I paying two-fifty a month in insurance for?
While I finished dressing, I phoned Lotty at the clinic and explained my problem. She was happy to let me have the Cressida.
“I haven’t driven a sports car since I had the use of a Morgan in 1948.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.
Lotty elected to be hurt. “I’ve been driving since before you were born, Victoria.”
I bit back the obvious retorts—after all, she was doing me a favor. I told her where she’d find my car—Carol would drop her off at my place on her way home. I kissed the Trans Am good-bye as I passed it on my way to Belmont. “It’s only for one day. Be brave and don’t let her strip your gears.”
When I got to the clinic, after a couple of bus changes, I was pretty sure I hadn’t been followed. Even so, I made a few loops around the North Side in Lotty’s Cressida. When I decided I was clean I went over to the Kennedy and turned south.