Michael Harvey - The Chicago Way

“Oral sex only,” he said. “Besides, I have these.”

He smiled and pulled a bunch of condoms out of his pocket. I made sure they called the doc’s wife when they booked him.

Pollard stopped at a convenience store. I pulled over and waited. A woman walked out in front of my car and opened up her coat. She was naked underneath. Subtlety was never a major selling point in Cal City. She was still standing there when Pollard exited the store. I pulled around her and followed the Pontiac. He was driving slow enough to get a look at the action, but Pollard wasn’t shopping for a woman. At least not yet.

He moved out of the strip and cruised into a darker, more industrial neighborhood. The cars were less frequent here, and I slipped farther back. After a couple of miles Pollard pulled into what looked like a mostly empty trucking yard. I switched off my lights and followed. Two hundred yards in, I could still see his headlights bouncing along the road in front of me. Then the lights seemed to slow and steady. I stopped my car and slipped out.

Two minutes later I was creeping along the side of an abandoned flatbed, and snuck a look around the corner. Pollard’s car sat in the middle of a dirt path, still running, doors open, lights illuminating a large blue dumpster. Best I could tell, the car was empty. I was about to move forward for a closer look when a head poked out of the dumpster. It was Pollard, clutching a pillowcase stuffed full of what I suspected was someone else’s garbage. He climbed to the lip of the dumpster and, after some hesitation, jumped to the ground. Then he scuttled back to his car, unloaded whatever was in the bag into his backseat, and returned to the dumpster. Climbing up the side looked difficult, but Pollard managed and dove headfirst into the depths. I sat back for a moment, thought about going home, then thought better of it. Instead I lit a cigarette and waited.

Pollard dove the dumpster and then three more like it. At one point I snuck close and took a quick look inside his car. I saw what I expected to see. Three plastic bags, one burst at the seams and spilling out old clothes; a spool of gray wire; a rusted-out car battery; broken pieces of old toys; a bent street sign that read KEDZIE AVENUE. And that was just half of the backseat.

It was pushing two-thirty before my friend had gotten his fill of other people’s garbage. Pollard cruised the stroll one more time before calling it a night. The Pontiac seemed to linger over the girls a bit longer this time around but ultimately moved on. Pollard was back at the house on Warner by a little after three in the morning.

I was tired and wanted to go home. There was one thing, however, that needed to be checked out. I left Pollard tucked away in bed and headed back to Cal City.

She was half-hidden in an alley, nothing but the glow of a cigarette marking her presence. I waited a beat. She moved into the street. Now she was slightly more than a silhouette. Tight, firm, cut against the night. She wore blue jeans and a short black leather coat. Like any working girl she carried nothing save a small black purse. Inside would be money, smokes, and her stash of condoms. I never would have given her a second look except for the blond hair, not a cheap dye job but the real thing. She wasn’t there the first time Pollard cruised by. On the return trip he’d given her a good look. I thought she might have motioned his way, but Pollard didn’t bite. Now she stared again. This time, my way. I pulled the car around and rolled down a window.

“Hey.”

She seemed unsure, for just a moment. Then Elaine Remington ground the burner under her heel and swiveled over.

“My very private investigator. Stalking your own clients now?”

“You interest me, Elaine.”

She laughed and laid one hand across her cheek. The move looked flat and phony. I couldn’t tell if she was nervous or just high.

“I’m flattered.”

“What are you doing out here?” I said.

“What does anyone do in this part of town at four in the morning?”

“You’re working?”

The phony look coalesced into one of pure sexuality.

“Some call it work, Mr. Kelly. I call it therapy.”

She rested her arms on the car door and leaned forward, her head tipping toward mine, her scent close behind. I kept my hands on the wheel and my eyes above sea level.

“Really?” I said.

“Really. Anyway, I do have a dark alley here and not a soul to share it with.”

Now I leaned forward and inhaled. She smelled sweet, almost ripe. I wasn’t sure if she lowered her eyelids, but I detected a trace of a smile, a hint of triumph as our lips touched. She slid her lower lip under mine just as I moved for the purse hanging loose in her hand. The fun was over. Probably a good thing.

“What the hell, Kelly.”

I had her bag open. A pack of cigarettes, lipstick, a few dollars, and no condoms.

“Working, huh? Bullshit.”

I dumped the contents onto my front seat. At the bottom was a gun, black and heavy. Probably the same gun Elaine had pointed my way the first time I met her.

“Give me that fucking purse.”

“Get in the car, Elaine.”

She tapped her toe against the pavement for the better part of ten seconds, then found her way to the passenger seat.

“Such a hard-ass, Kelly. Jesus.”

Elaine pushed her stuff back into the bag. Then she reached up, pulled down the visor, and began to play with her lipstick in the mirror.

“So you want to tell me what the hell you’re doing down here?”

“Take me for a drink, and I’ll tell you the whole, sad story.”

“No thanks.”

She sighed, shrugged, and moistened her lips with her tongue.

“What is there to say? I’m pushing thirty but I still look good. So I like to get dressed up and hang out down here. Do it once or twice a month.”

Elaine licked her lips one more time, flipped the visor back, and adjusted what I guessed was some sort of exploding bra.

“It’s an escape, role-play, turn-on. Call it whatever you want. But sometimes I do it. Not do it like a pro. I mean, I’m not a fucking hooker, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I kept my eyes on the road and let her talk.

“Really though, Kelly. What’s the big deal? Twenty-five dollars for a mouth, ten for a hand. Shit goes on in every single bar in the city. Buy me dinner or just give me the money up front. Same fucking difference.”

“Lot of difference.”

“You think so?”

“Down here the mouth might belong to a thirteen-year-old, and the date might be looking to rip your throat out,” I said. “But you know all about that. Is that what you’re trying to do? You want to get back there?”

I didn’t expect a response and didn’t get any. Instead she propped her feet up on my dashboard and sulked, but only for a bit.

“You’re cute when you get mad, Kelly.”

I ignored her.

“Have you found out who attacked me?”

“Working on it.”

I didn’t want to tell her about the DNA match between her shirt and the Grime file. Or about the possible connection to Pollard. Not yet anyway. I wasn’t sure why, but there it was.

“Is that what you were out on now?” she said. “My case?”

“Listen, Elaine. Your evidence file was destroyed a couple of years back. Whatever I find probably doesn’t matter. The DA would never touch it.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

“I don’t get hardly anything when it comes to you, Elaine. So why don’t you tell me about it.”

She looked out an empty window and into herself. I can’t say exactly what she saw. Loss. Regret. Unrealized anger. Maybe all three.

“At the end of the day,” she said, “nothing gets undone, does it? I mean whatever happened, happened. No district attorney, no court is gonna change that. So really, I just want to know. A name, a face. Someone, I guess, to hate. Is that so wrong? Most people probably think it’s pretty sick.”