I parked the car on a side street near Belmont and Sheridan and climbed into the backseat for a brief rest. My late-night visit to Jonas Carver’s Loop office had left me tired and gritty all day. And onto that I’d added treks to the north and west suburbs. Not to mention fleeing flat out from some ugly muscle.
Another good thing about the Impala, I thought as I squirmed around to find a comfortable position—my Trans Am would never accommodate my five-eight frame across its minute backseat.
I actually slept for an hour. Bright lights shone in my eyes and woke me with heart-jolting speed. I reached for my gun and sat up, fearing my pursuers had found me. It turned out just to be a car trying to parallel park across the narrow street from me; it had managed to get turned at right angles to the roadway. Its headlights pointed directly into the backseat.
Feeling rather foolish, I put the gun back inside my armpit. I dug in my bag for a comb and did the best I could to style my hair in the dark. The people across from me were still having trouble maneuvering their car when I climbed from the Impala. Proving that Carol was wrong, that I could overlook someone in trouble, I left them to it.
The Dortmunder Restaurant, one of Lotty’s and my favorite hangouts, was only a few blocks away. In the basement of the Chesterton Hotel, it serves sandwiches and hearty dinners surrounded by a fabulous wine cellar. Normally I like to get a bottle of something rich, a Saint-Emilion or the like, but this was strictly a refueling stop before getting back to work.
I stopped in the hotel lobby’s rest room to wash up. I was wearing jeans and a cotton knit top, not elegant dining apparel, but also not ruined by sleeping in a car. They were smelling a little ripe.
The staff at the Dortmunder greeted me enthusiastically, wanting to know if the doctor was joining me. When I explained that the doctor had been injured in a car accident the other day, they were appropriately concerned: How had it happened? How was she? My conscience rubbed me as I explained the bare outlines of the situation.
Lisa Vetec, granddaughter of the owner, ushered me to a table in a corner and took my order. While they made me a sandwich from their famed Hungarian salami I called Mr. Contreras. He was relieved to hear from me.
“Someone came around looking for you an hour or so ago. I told him you wasn’t in, but I didn’t like his looks.”
I asked Mr. Contreras what the visitor looked like. His description was sketchy, but I thought it might have been the man who followed me into the Belmont Diner this morning. If he wanted to see me urgently, our confrontation was only a matter of time. But if possible I’d be the one to choose both the time and the place.
I tapped my front teeth with a knuckle while I considered the situation. “I think I’m going to move out for a day or two. I’ll be over in about an hour to pick up a few things. I want to come in through the alley. I’ll call right before I get there—if you let me in maybe they won’t know I’ve come.
“But where can you go, doll? I know you usually hang out with the doc, but…” He broke off with unusual delicacy.
“Yeah, I can’t involve Lotty in this anymore, even if she’d let me. It just dawned on me that I might be able to get a room down where Jake Sokolowski lives.”
He didn’t like it, not for any special reason, just because he didn’t like me moving so far from his orbit. It’s not so much that he wants to control me, I’ve realized recently, but because he needs the reassurance of being able to touch me. He finally agreed to my program, on the grounds that I call him—“Regularly, doll, not just once a week when the spirit moves you”—and only hung up when I promised.
My sandwich and coffee were waiting for me, but I looked up Tonia Coriolano in the directory. While my coffee cooled she apologized profusely, but she had no vacancy. Normally to oblige a friend of a lodger she might allow them to sleep a night on the living room couch, but even that was occupied right now.
Lisa waved an arm at me and gestured at my table. I nodded. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I looked up Mrs. Polter and didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed to find her listed.
She answered on the ninth ring. “Yes? What do you want?”
“A room, Mrs. Polter. I’m V. I. Warshawski, the detective who’s been around lately. I need a place to sleep for a few nights.”
She gave a rasping laugh. “Men only in my house, honey. Except for me, of course, but I can take care of myself.”
“I can take care of myself, too, Mrs. Pblter. I’d bring my own towels. It’d be for three nights at the most. And believe me, none of your lodgers will bother me.”
“Yeah, but what about—ah, what the hell. You paid for the old guy’s room and he never used it. I guess you can sleep there if you want. No more than two nights, though, you hear? I got my reputation to think about.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said smartly. “I’ll be by around ten-thirty to leave my things and get a key.”