I never remember it the next time I’m putting away five or six ounces of whiskey. Thursday morning a dry mouth and pounding head and heart woke me at five-thirty. I looked disgustedly at myself in the bathroom mirror. “You’re getting old, V.!., and unattractive. When your face has cracks in it the morning after five ounces of scotch, it’s time to stop drinking.”
I squeezed some fresh orange juice and drank it in one long swallow, took four aspirins, and went back to bed. The ringing phone woke me again at eight-thirty. A neutral young male voice said he was connected with Lieutenant Robert Mallory of the Chicago police department and would I be able to come downtown that morning and talk to the lieutenant.
“It’s always a pleasure for me to talk to Lieutenant Mallory,” I replied formally, if somewhat thickly, through the miasma of sleep. “Perhaps you could tell me what this is about.”
The neutral young man didn’t know, but if I was free at nine-thirty, the lieutenant would see me then.
My next call was to the Herald-Star. Murray Ryerson hadn’t yet come in for the day. I called his apartment, and felt vindictive pleasure at getting him out of bed. “Murray, what do you know about Agnes Paciorek?”
He was furious. “I can’t believe you got me out of bed to ask me that. Go buy the fucking morning edition.” He slammed the phone down.
Angry myself, I dialed again. “Listen, Ryerson. Agnes Paciorek was one of my oldest friends. She got shot last night. Now Bobby Mallory wants to talk to me. I’m sure he’s not calling for deep background on University Women United, or Clergy and Laity Concerned About Vietnam. What was in her office that makes him want to see me?”
“Hang on a second.” He put the receiver down; I could hear his feet padding away down the hall, then water running and a woman’s voice saying something indistinguishable. I ran into the kitchen and put a small pot of water on the stove, ground beans for one cup of coffee, and brought cup, water, and filter back to my bedside phone—all before Murray returned.
“I hope you can hold off Jessica or whatever her name is for a few seconds.”
“Don’t be catty, Vic. It isn’t attractive.” I heard springs creaking, then a muffled “ouch” from Murray.
“Right,” I said dryly. “Now tell me about Agnes.”
Paper rustled, springs creaked again, and Murray’s smothered voice whispered, “Knock it off, Alice.” Then he put the mouthpiece in front of his lips again and began reading from his notes.
“Agnes Paciorek was shot at about eight last night. Two twenty-two bullets in the brain. Office doors not locked— cleaning women lock behind when they finish sixtieth floor, usually at eleven o’clock. Martha Gonzales cleans floors fifty-seven through sixty, got to floor at her usual time, nine-fifteen, saw nothing unusual on premises, got to conference room at nine-thirty, saw body, called police. No personal attack—no signs of rape or struggle. Police presume attacker took her completely by surprise or possibly someone she knew
That’s the lot. You’re someone she knew. They probably just want to know where you were at eight last night. By the way, since you’re on the phone, where were you?”
“In a bar, waiting for a report from my hired gun.” I hung up and looked sourly around the room. The orange juice and aspirin had dissipated the headache, but I felt rotten. I wasn’t going to have time for running if I had to be in Mallory’s office by nine-thirty, and a long, slow run was what I needed to get the poisons Out of my system. I didn’t even have time for a long bath, so I steamed myself under the shower for ten minutes, put on the crepe-de-chine pant-suit, this time with a man-tailored shirt of pale lemon, and ran down the stairs two at a time to my car.
If the Warshawski family has a motto, which I doubt, it’s “Never skip a meal,” perhaps in Old Church Slavonic, wreathed around a dinner
I squeezed some fresh orange juice and drank it in one long swallow, took four aspirins, and went back to bed. The ringing phone woke me again at eight-thirty. A neutral young male voice said he was connected with Lieutenant Robert Mallory of the Chicago police department and would I be able to come downtown that morning and talk to the lieutenant.
“It’s always a pleasure for me to talk to Lieutenant Mallory,” I replied formally, if somewhat thickly, through the miasma of sleep. “Perhaps you could tell me what this is about.”
The neutral young man didn’t know, but if I was free at nine-thirty, the lieutenant would see me then.
My next call was to the Herald-Star. Murray Ryerson hadn’t yet come in for the day. I called his apartment, and felt vindictive pleasure at getting him out of bed. “Murray, what do you know about Agnes Paciorek?”
He was furious. “I can’t believe you got me out of bed to ask me that. Go buy the fucking morning edition.” He slammed the phone down.
Angry myself, I dialed again. “Listen, Ryerson. Agnes Paciorek was one of my oldest friends. She got shot last night. Now Bobby Mallory wants to talk to me. I’m sure he’s not calling for deep background on University Women United, or Clergy and Laity Concerned About Vietnam. What was in her office that makes him want to see me?”
“Hang on a second.” He put the receiver down; I could hear his feet padding away down the hall, then water running and a woman’s voice saying something indistinguishable. I ran into the kitchen and put a small pot of water on the stove, ground beans for one cup of coffee, and brought cup, water, and filter back to my bedside phone—all before Murray returned.
“I hope you can hold off Jessica or whatever her name is for a few seconds.”
“Don’t be catty, Vic. It isn’t attractive.” I heard springs creaking, then a muffled “ouch” from Murray.
“Right,” I said dryly. “Now tell me about Agnes.”
Paper rustled, springs creaked again, and Murray’s smothered voice whispered, “Knock it off, Alice.” Then he put the mouthpiece in front of his lips again and began reading from his notes.
“Agnes Paciorek was shot at about eight last night. Two twenty-two bullets in the brain. Office doors not locked— cleaning women lock behind when they finish sixtieth floor, usually at eleven o’clock. Martha Gonzales cleans floors fifty-seven through sixty, got to floor at her usual time, nine-fifteen, saw nothing unusual on premises, got to conference room at nine-thirty, saw body, called police. No personal attack—no signs of rape or struggle. Police presume attacker took her completely by surprise or possibly someone she knew
That’s the lot. You’re someone she knew. They probably just want to know where you were at eight last night. By the way, since you’re on the phone, where were you?”
“In a bar, waiting for a report from my hired gun.” I hung up and looked sourly around the room. The orange juice and aspirin had dissipated the headache, but I felt rotten. I wasn’t going to have time for running if I had to be in Mallory’s office by nine-thirty, and a long, slow run was what I needed to get the poisons Out of my system. I didn’t even have time for a long bath, so I steamed myself under the shower for ten minutes, put on the crepe-de-chine pant-suit, this time with a man-tailored shirt of pale lemon, and ran down the stairs two at a time to my car.
If the Warshawski family has a motto, which I doubt, it’s “Never skip a meal,” perhaps in Old Church Slavonic, wreathed around a dinner
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