“I’d consider it. I’d be a little wary, though.”
He nodded in a kind of rueful understanding, then blurted out, “I’m sorry about Durham getting the facts mixed up. I do have cousins, one anyway, that could have gone and done it. But you see, it’s painful, too painful, to expose my family like that. And if it was my cousin Colby, then, hell, I’ll never see the money again. I’d be out the price of the funeral and the price of your fee, besides making my family ashamed in public.”
“It’s a serious problem. I can’t advise you on it.”
He shut his eyes tightly for a moment. “Is there—do you still owe me any more time from my five hundred dollars?”
He’d had an hour and a half coming to him before Mary Louise checked with the men at South Branch Scrap Metal. Any more work would be with the meter running again.
“About an hour,” I said gruffly, cursing myself.
“Could you—is there anything you could find out about the agent in just an hour?”
“You going to call Mr. Durham and tell him he made a mistake? I have a press interview scheduled at six-thirty; I don’t want to mention your name if I’m working for you.”
He took a breath. “I’ll call him. If you’ll ask a few questions of the insurance agency.”
XIII
Secret Agent
Family spokesman Andy Birnbaum, great-grandson of the patriarch who parlayed a scrap-metal pushcart into one of America’s great fortunes, said the family is bewildered by Durham’s accusations. The Birnbaum Foundation has supported inner-city education, arts, and economic development for four decades. Birnbaum added that relations of the African-American community with both the Birnbaum Corporation and its foundation have been mutually supportive, and he is sure that if Alderman Durham sits down to talk, the alderman will realize there has been a misunderstanding.”
I got that sound bite on the radio as I was riding back into the city. The inbound traffic was heavy but moving fast, so I didn’t pay close attention until my own name jumped out at me.
“Investigator V I Warshawski said in a written statement that Durham’s accusations that she had interrupted Aaron Sommers’s funeral with demands for money are a complete fabrication. Joseph Posner, who is lobbying hard for Illinois to pass the Holocaust Asset Recovery Act, said that Durham’s charges against Ajax were a red herring to keep the legislature from considering the act. He said Durham’s anti-Semitic comments were a disgrace to the memory of the dead, but that as the Sabbath started in a few hours he would not violate its peace by appearing in public to confront the alderman.”
Thank heavens we were at least spared Joseph Posner joining the fray just now. I couldn’t absorb any more news; I turned to music. One of the classical stations was soothing the commuter’s savage breast with something very modern and spiky. The other was running a high-voltage ad for Internet access. I turned off the radio altogether and followed the lake south, back to Hyde Park.
Given Howard Fepple’s lackadaisical attitude toward his business, there was only an outside chance that I’d find him still in his office at four-thirty on Friday. Still, when you’re a pinball, you bounce off all the levers in the hopes of landing in the money. And this time I had a bit of luck—or whatever you’d call the chance to talk to Fepple again. He was not only in but he’d installed fresh lightbulbs, so that the torn linoleum, the grime, and his eager expression when I opened the door all showed up clearly.
“Mr. Fepple,” I said heartily. “Glad to see you haven’t given up on the business yet.”
He turned away from me, his eager look replaced by a scowl. It obviously wasn’t the hope of seeing me that had led him to put on a suit and tie.
“You know, an amazing thought occurred to me when I was driving back from seeing Isaiah Sommers this afternoon. Bull Durham knew about me. He knew about the Birnbaums. He knew about Ajax. But even though he went on for days about the injustice to the Sommers family, he didn’t seem to know about you.”
“You don’t have an appointment,” he muttered, still not looking at me. “You can leave now.”
“Walk-in business,” I chirped brightly. “You need to cultivate it. So let’s talk about that policy you sold Aaron Sommers.”
“I told you, it wasn’t me, it was Rick Hoffman.”
“Same difference. Your agency. Your legal liability for any wrongdoing. My client isn’t interested in dragging this out in court for years, although he could sue you for a bundle under ERISA—you had a fiduciary responsibility to his uncle, which you violated. He’d be happy if you’d cut him a check for the ten thousand that the policy was worth.”