Sara Paretsky - Indemnity Only

Ajax’s glass-and-steel high-rise was on Michigan Avenue at Adams. In the Loop, Michigan is the easternmost street. The Art Institute is across the street, and then Grant Park goes down to the lake in a series of pleasant fountains and gardens. I decided to take the Fort Dearborn Trust on La Salle Street as my western border, and to work from Van Buren, two blocks south of Ajax, up to Washington, three blocks north. A purely arbitrary decision, but the bars in that area would keep me busy for some time; I could expand it in desperation if that was necessary.

I rode my bus south past the Art Institute to Van Buren and got off. I felt very small walking between the high-rises when I thought of the vast terrritory I had to cover. I wondered how much I might have to drink to get responses from the myriad bartenders. There probably is a better way to do this, I thought, but this was the only way that occurred to me. I had to work with what I could come up with-no Peter Wimsey at home thinking of the perfect logical answer for me.

I squared my shoulders and walked half a block along Van Buren and went into the Spot, the first bar I came to. I’d debated about an elaborate cover story, and finally decided that something approximating the truth was best.

The Spot was a dark, narrow bar built like a railway caboose. Booths lined the west wall and a long bar ran the length of the east, leaving just enough room for the stout, bleached waitress who had to tend to orders in the booths.

I sat up at the ban The bartender was cleaning glasses. Most of the luncheon trade had left; only a few diehard drinkers were sitting farther down from me. A couple of women were finishing hamburgers and daiquiris in one of the booths. The bartender continued his work methodically until the last glass was rinsed before coming down to take my order. I stared ahead with the air of a woman in no particular hurry.

Beer is not my usual drink, but it was probably the best thing to order on an all-day pub crawl. It wouldn’t make me drunk. Or at least not as quickly as wine or liquor.

“I’d like a draft, “I said.

He went to his spigots and filled a glass with pale yellow and foam. When he brought it back to me, I pulled out my folder. “You ever seen these two guys come in here?” I asked.

He gave me a sour look. “What are you, a cop or something?”

“Yes,” I said. “Have you ever seen these two guys in here together?”

“I’d better get the boss on this one,” he said. Raising his voice, he called “Herman!” and a heavy man in a polyester suit got up from the booth at the far end of the room. I hadn’t noticed him when I came in, but now I saw that another waitress was sitting in the booth. The two were sharing a late lunch after the hectic noon-hour rush.

The heavy man joined the bartender behind the bar.

“What’s up, Luke?”

Luke jerked his head toward me. “Lady’s got a question.” He went back to his glasses, stacking them in careful pyramids on either side of the cash register. Herman came down toward me. His heavyset face looked tough but not mean. “What do you want, ma’am?”

I pulled my photos out again. “I’m trying to find out if these two men have ever been in here together,” I said in a neutral voice.

“You got a legal reason for asking?”

I pulled my P.I. license from my handbag. “I’m a private investigator. There’s a grand jury investigation and there’s some question of collusion between a witness and a juror.” I showed him the ID.

He looked at the ID briefly, grunted, and tossed it back to me. “Yeah, I see you’re a private investigator, all right. But I don’t know about this grand jury story. I know this guy.” He tapped Masters’s picture. “He works up at Ajax. Doesn’t come in here often, maybe three times a year, but he’s been doing it as long as I’ve owned the place.”

I didn’t say anything, but took a swallow of beer. Anything tastes good when your throat is dry from embarrassment.

“Tell you for free, though, this other fellow’s never been in here. At least not when I’ve been here.” He gave a shout of laughter and reached across the bar to pat my cheek. “That’s okay, cookie, I won’t spoil your story for you.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “What do I owe you for the beer?”

“On the house.” He gave another snort of laughter and rolled back down the aisle to his unfinished lunch. I took another swallow of the thin beer. Then I put a dollar on the counter for Luke and walked slowly out of the bar.

I walked on down Van Buren past Sears’s main Chicago store. A lot of short-order food places were on the other side, but I had to go another block to find another bar. The bartender looked blankly at the photos and called the waitress over. She looked at both of them doubtfully, and then picked up McGraw’s. “He looks kind of familiar,” she said. “Is he on TV or something?” I said no, but had she ever seen him in the bar. She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t swear to it. What about Masters? She didn’t think so, but a lot of businessmen came in there, and all men with gray hair and business suits ran together in her mind after a while. I put two singles on the counter, one for her and one for the bartender, and went on down the street.

Her TV question gave me an idea for a better cover story. The next place I went to I said I was a market researcher looking for viewer recognition. Did anyone remember ever seeing these two people together? This approach got more interest, but drew another blank.

The game was on TV in this bar, bottom of the fourth with Cincinnati leading 4-0.I watched Biittner hit a single and then die on second after a hair-raising steal before I moved on. In all, I went to thirty-two bars that afternoon, catching most of the game in between. The Cubs lost, 6-2. I’d covered my territory pretty thoroughly. A couple of places recognized McGraw vaguely, but I put that down to the number of times his picture had been in the paper over the years. Most people probably had a vague recognition of Jimmy Hoffa, too. One other bar knew Masters by sight as one of the men from Ajax, and Billy’s knew him by name and title as well. But neither place remembered seeing McGraw with him. Some places were hostile and took a combination of bribes and threats to get an answer. Some were indifferent. Others, like the Spot, had to have the manager make the decision. But none of them had seen my pair together.

It was after six by the time I got to Washington and State, two blocks west of Michigan. After my fifth bar I’d stopped drinking any of the beer I ordered, but I was feeling slightly bloated, as well as sweaty and depressed. I’d agreed to meet Ralph at Ahab’s at eight. I decided to call it an afternoon and go home to wash up first.

Marshall Field occupies the whole north side of the street between State and Wabash. It seemed to me there might be one other bar on Washington, close to Michigan, if my memory of the layout was correct. That could wait until another day. I went down the stairs to the State Street subway and boarded a B train to Addison.

Evening rush hour was still in full force. I couldn’t get a seat and had to stand all the way to Fullerton.

At Lotty’s I headed straight for the bathroom and a cold shower. When I came out, I looked into the guest room; Jill was up, so I dumped my clothes in a drawer and put on a caftan. Jill was sitting on the living-room floor playing with two rosy-cheeked, dark-haired children who looked to be three or four.

“Hi, honey. You get a good rest?”

She looked up at me and smiled. A lot of color had returned to her face and she seemed much more relaxed. “Hi,” she said. “Yes, I only woke up an hour ago. These are Carol’s nieces. She was supposed to baby-sit tonight, but Lotty talked her into coming over here and making homemade enchiladas, yum-yum.”