Sara Paretsky - Burn Marks

“I’m sorry, Miss Warshawski, but Mr. Warshawski has given me a list of family members who he’ll let interrupt him and your name isn’t on it.” The Kansas twang was polite but unyielding.

I watched the pigeons check themselves for lice. “Could you get a message to him? While I hold? That his sister Elena will be arriving in Kansas City on the six o’clock flight and has cab fare to his house?”

“Does he know she’s coming?”

“Nope. That’s why I’m trying to get hold of him. To let him know.”

Five minutes later-while I paid prime daytime rates to hold-Peter’s deep voice was booming in my ear. What the hell did I mean, sending Elena to him unannounced like this. He wasn’t having his children exposed to a lush like that, they didn’t have guest space, he thought he’d made it clear four years ago that he was never-

“Yes, yes.” I finally stanched the flow. “I know. A woman like Elena would just not fit into Mission Hills. The drunks there get manicures every week. I understand.”

It wasn’t the best opening to a plea for financial aid. After he’d finished shouting his outrage I explained the problem. The news that Elena was still in Chicago did not, as I’d hoped, bring him enough relief to agree to bail her out.

“Absolutely not. I made this totally clear to her the last time I helped her. That was when she foolishly squandered Mother’s house in that cockamamie investment scheme. You may remember that I retained a lawyer for her who saw that she was able to salvage something from the sale. That was it-my last involvement in her affairs. It’s time you learned the same lesson, Vic. An alkie like Elena will just milk you dry. The sooner you realize it, the easier your life will be.”

Hearing some of my own negative thoughts echoed on his pompous lips made me squirm in my chair. “She paid for that lawyer though, Peter, if I remember rightly. She hasn’t ever asked you for cash, has she? Anyway, I live in four rooms. I can’t have her staying with me. All I want is enough money to make the rent on a decent apartment for a month while I help her find a place she can afford.”

He gave a nasty laugh. “That’s what your mother said that time Elena showed up at your place in South Chicago. Remember? Not even Tony could stomach having her around. Tony! He could tolerate anything.”

“Unlike you,” I commented dryly.

“I know you mean that as an insult but I take it as a compliment. What did Tony leave you when he died? That squalid house on Houston and the remains of his pension.”

“And a name I’m proud to use,” I snapped, thoroughly roused. “And come to that, you wouldn’t have gotten your little meatball machine off the ground without his help. So do something for Elena in exchange. I’m sure wherever Tony is now he’d consider it a just quid pro quo.”

“I paid Tony back to the nickel,” Peter huffed. “And I don’t owe him or you shit. And you know damned well it’s sausages, not meatballs.”

“Yeah, you paid back the nickel. But a share of the profits, even a little interest, wouldn’t have killed you, would it?”

“Don’t try that sentimental crap on me, Vic. I’ve been around the block too many times to fall for it.”

“Just like a used car,” I said bitterly.

The line went dead in my ear. The pleasure of having the exit line didn’t compensate for losing the fight. Why in hell were the survivors in my father’s family Peter and Elena? Why couldn’t Peter have died and Tony been the one to hang around? Although not in the shape he was the last few years of his life. I swallowed bile and tried to shut out the image of my father the last year of his life, his face puffy, his body wrenched by uncontrollable coughing.

Pressing my lips together bitterly, I looked at the stack of unanswered mail and unfiled papers on my desk. Maybe it was time I got into the twentieth century while I still had a decade left to do it in. Make a big enough success of my work that I could at least afford a secretary to do some of the paperwork for me. An assistant who could take on some of the legwork.

I shuffled through the papers impatiently until I finally found the numbers I needed for my upcoming presentation. I called Visible Treasures to see how late I could bring them in for overnight processing. They told me if I got them there by eight, they would typeset them and create transparencies for me at only double overtime. When I got the price quote I felt a little better-it wasn’t going to be quite as bad as I’d feared.

I typed up my drafts on my mother’s old Olivetti. If I couldn’t afford an assistant, maybe at least I should blow a few thousand on a desktop publishing system. On the other hand, the force it took to use the Olivetti’s keyboard kept my wrists strong.

It was a little after six when I finished typing. I dug through my drawers looking for a manila folder to put the charts in. When I didn’t find a fresh one I dumped the contents of an insurance file onto the desk and stuck my documents into it. Now the desktop looked like the city landfill right after the trucks drop off their loads. I could see Peter looking at it, his face creasing into little rivulets of suppressed smugness. Maybe being committed to truth, justice, and the American Way didn’t have to include working in slum conditions.

I put the insurance material back into its folder and took it over to the filing cabinets, where I found a section on business expenses that seemed close enough. With a glow of virtue I stuck “insurance” in between “Illinois Bell” and “lease.” Having gotten that far, I went through the two weeks of mail sitting on the desk, writing a few checks, filing documents, and trashing the circulars. Near the bottom of the stack I found a thick white letter the size of a wedding invitation with “Cook County Women for Open Government” in engraved script on the top left.

I was about to pitch it when I suddenly realized what it was-in a fit of insanity I had agreed to be a sponsor for a political fund-raiser. Marissa Duncan and I had worked together in the public defender’s office an aeon or two ago. She was one of those people who live and die for politics, whether in the office or on the street, and she chose her issues carefully. She’d been active in our drive to unionize the PD’s office, for example, but she’d steered clear of involvement in the politics of abortion-she didn’t want anything to drag her down if she decided to run for office.

She’d left the PD a number of years ago to work in Jane Byrne’s disastrous second mayoral campaign; she now had a cushy job with a big public relations firm that specialized in selling candidates. She phones me only when she’s masterminding some great campaign. When she called four weeks ago I’d just finished a tricky job for a ball-bearing manufacturer in Kankakee. She’d caught me basking in the glow that comes from a display of competence combined with a large check.

“Great news,” she’d said enthusiastically, riding over my tepid hello. “Boots Meagher is going to sponsor a fund-raiser for Rosalyn Fuentes.”

“I appreciate your letting me know,” I said politely. “I won’t have to buy the Star in the morning.

“You always did have a great sense of humor, Vic.” Politicians can’t afford to tell you they think you’re a pain in the butt. “But this is really exciting. It’s the first time Boots has ever endorsed a woman in such a public way. He’s going to hold a party at his place in Streamwood. It’ll be a terrific chance to meet the candidate, get to know some of the people on the County Board. Everyone’s going to be there. Rostenkowski and Dixon may even stop by.”

“My heart is turning over just at the thought. How much you selling tickets for?”