Michael Harvey - The Chicago Way

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Kelly.”

“Bye, Diane.”

The cab began to pull away, then paused.

“Oh, and Mr. Kelly…”

I leaned forward. She did the same. Our faces hovered at the precipice, inches apart.

“Yes, Diane.”

“Whoever killed your friend fired from close range. Makes me think Gibbons must have known his attacker. Probably trusted him.”

I nodded.

“And well, Mr. Kelly, doesn’t that make you a legitimate suspect?”

She blinked once and waited.

“Talk to you, Diane.”

I gave the cab a rap and off it went. She was right, of course. John Gibbons had to have known his killer. And trusted him. Unless the killer was a woman. Then all bets were off.

The cabbie dropped me a half block from my flat. His rig belched white smoke as it drifted around a corner, and I tasted the grit at the back of my throat. My apartment was one of three in a walk-up graystone. Not a bad place, but better in the summer when Wrigley Field was only two blocks away.

I fully expected to find Chicago’s finest camped on my stoop. Instead, I found the Sunday morning paper and a Saturday evening blonde. Not necessarily in that order.

She scattered a smile around the corners of my doorstep. I stepped forward to inhale as much as I could. I figured she hadn’t opened her mouth yet and this might be as good as it got. I was right.

“Hi, Mr. Kelly,” she said. “My name is Elaine Remington. I’m the woman from John Gibbons’ letter. The one who almost got killed.”

From her bag Ms. Remington pulled a more than capable-looking nine millimeter and pointed it in the general direction of my left eye.

“I’d like to talk to you,” she said.

“Sure,” I said.

My keys came out of a pocket but had trouble fitting in the lock. Capable-looking nine millimeters will do that to a set of keys.

“If you see any cops inside, yell and I’ll shoot them,” I said.

She wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Better yet, why don’t you just shoot them yourself?”

She motioned with the gun and I went inside.

I sat her down on the best chair in the best corner of my flat. I figured it was the gentlemanly thing to do. Besides, she had the gun and would take it anyway.

“Want some coffee?” I said. She shook her head and pulled my piece off my hip.

“Thanks,” I said. “How about some orange juice?”

“Sure,” she replied. “Orange juice is a good source of potassium. Women need that, you know.”

I didn’t know and didn’t argue.

She unloaded my gun and checked the pipe. I rustled through my fridge looking for another suitable weapon. Nothing came to mind. She had already figured this out and kept talking.

“Sorry about the gun, Mr. Kelly. It’s just a precaution. Girl needs to be able to protect herself.”

I placed the orange nectar squarely before her and took a less-than-comfortable perch on the sofa.

“How do I know you’re the woman from the letter?” I said.

She got up from the chair. With one hand, she began to undo the first few buttons of her top. To my credit, I kept my eye on the nine. It didn’t waver.

“Here,” she said.

The scar was purple, thick, jagged, and heading south from just under her collarbone.

“It goes to just about here.” She pointed halfway to her waist.

“You know how many pints of blood the human body holds, Mr. Kelly?”

I didn’t.

“Eight. I lost six. They basically reinflated my body. With blood, I mean.”

The gun faltered just a bit. Then found its focus.

“He raped me, too, Mr. Kelly. Did Gibbons tell you that? Probably not. Tied me up like a hog. Laughed about that for a while. Then he raped me.”

She flicked her hair back, and the skin under her right eye twitched once.

“Listen, Ms. Remington,” I said. “Why don’t we put the gun down and talk about it.”

“Gibbons was supposed to help,” she said. “Now he’s dead.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw him last night. A bar called the Hidden Shamrock over on Halsted and Diversey. Gibbons liked to hang out there. You know the place?”

I did.

“I met him there,” she continued. “He told me about you maybe helping us and said he had a lead. Said he had to meet a guy down at Navy Pier.”

“And you followed him?”

Now her eyes slid away.

“He was supposed to come back to my place close to midnight. When he didn’t show, I went down to the pier. I found him there and called the police.”

“Did the police talk to you?”

“Until about a half hour ago. They asked me about you.”

“How wonderful of them.”

“Why do you think they did that?”

“I have no idea, Ms. Remington.”

Her smile was tight now. The tic under her eye was constant. Like a heartbeat. I judged the distance from my hand to the gun. Not good enough.

“You think I killed Gibbons,” I said. “Hell, he was shot with a nine. Take that one down to the station and have your friends test it.”

Her eyes flicked to my weapon lying on the coffee table.

“But tell me first,” I said. “Why did I kill him?”

“I don’t know that you did, Mr. Kelly. What did John tell you?”

“He showed me your letter.”

I reached for a cigarette. She raised the gun and I showed her the pack. Marlboros.

“Okay,” she said.

I crossed my legs. She did the same. But better.

“Gibbons asked me to help you,” I said. “Then he gave me a retainer. May I?”

I pulled the envelope with cash from my coat pocket and threw it toward her. She didn’t bother to look at it. I lit my cigarette and continued.

“So technically, I guess, you’re my client. Although I don’t see as you need a whole lot of protecting. At least for the moment.”

I drew deep and let out some smoke. She coughed a little. I enjoyed that. Sometimes one must live for life’s smaller triumphs. Then she finished coughing and started talking again.

“What about the rest of it, Mr. Kelly?”

It’s the kind of question you want to have some sort of answer to, at least when someone is pointing the business end of a gun your way. I did the best I could.

“The rest of what?”

“Don’t play fuck-fuck with me, Mr. Kelly. What else did Gibbons tell you?”

The possibilities for postmodern witty repartee, not to mention a close, meaningful relationship, seemed plentiful. Or she could just shoot me in the head and be done with it. Then the doorbell rang and the moment shifted.

“Expecting someone?” Elaine said.

“Not so you would notice.”

“I’ll be just down the hall.”

She grabbed her orange juice, tucked her gun neatly into her handbag, and headed toward my bedroom. The bell rang a second time.

“Yeah, yeah.”

I opened the door to a gold detective shield.

“Michael Kelly?” said the voice from behind the shield.

“Where the hell you guys been?” I said.

One detective stood at attention. The other was loose-jointed and kicked at a rock on the pavement. I was on the top step, my back to the front door. They both squinted up at me through the morning glare. So much the better. I thought about Elaine Remington, alone in the apartment, rummaging through my various belongings. So much the worse. Loose-jointed flashed his badge again. In case I had any doubts. I caught a glimpse of the gold but no name.

“Dan Masters. This is my partner, Joe Ringles.”

Ringles gave a bit of a salute. He looked lost without a swagger stick.

“You been waiting for us, huh?” said Masters. “Why exactly is that, I wonder?”

Masters was the older of the two. Gray buzz cut gave way to a shiny forehead and sharp ears set close. His eyebrows were crisscrossed with scars. The rest of his face was a bag of skin with red holes where eyes should have been and a slash that moved when he spoke. Booze and twenty years on the job will do that to you.