Jason probably found a card here. I never returned Dad’s calls, so he would write me letters and stick a card in the envelope. I guess he thought it was funny. In one week, two people I know are dead.”
“Having junkies for clients will do that. Let’s keep Snooky’s death in a different category.”
“You look really serious. And I can hear it in your voice.”
“I killed someone yesterday.”
Audrey looked at me with a little girl’s fascination. “Yeah, how was that?”
“I’ll never be the same,” I deadpanned.
Audrey studied me. “I don’t think you will be.”
I started for the door. Just before I walked out, Audrey shouted, “Call me?”
25
The combination of Audrey’s bizarre personality and learning what a bullet could do to a man’s head had cluttered me with conflicting emotions that needed suppressing. But my existential tendencies would have to wait.
I thought I should visit my father soon and also call Kalijero to see if they’d found the dump Jason called home. The sun baked the moisture off the streets, adding to the humidity. I walked in a northeasterly direction, unsure of my destination but gradually succumbing to the call of Diversey Harbor, my favorite place to catch a breeze.
There were closer lakefront beaches, but for some reason the stone amphitheater seats of Diversey Harbor had become my little zone of comfort. I was pretty sweaty by the time I crossed Cannon Drive and passed the Goethe statue. Once at the huge concrete blocks, I sat and tried to assemble my thoughts. From the lake came only the occasional puff of cool air, but the calming effect of the harbor’s shimmering beauty made the visit worthwhile.
“Your eye looks better.”
The voice came from my right periphery, which accounted for the eye remark. Without turning I said, “I bet you followed me all the way from Halsted, Voss.”
“And I’ll bet you got a little crush on Miss Tattoo Skank, eh, Landau?”
“Is it really necessary to talk like a sleazy degenerate?”
Voss smiled, stepped down to my row. “Tell me the truth. You think I’m stupid?”
“You care what I think?”
“I bet you know what ‘cliché’ means, college boy. When I was in uniform, not one cop in a hundred knew what cliché meant. A lot of those guys were walking clichés but would never recognize themselves.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“What are you doing, Landau? Trying to make up for the sins of your ancestors? Or are you living out some fucked-up Hollywood gumshoe fantasy? Wouldn’t you rather be working in an air-conditioned office like your North Shore pals?”
I turned, faced those teeth shining through his fleshy face, and wondered what he gnawed on to keep them from growing into tusks. “What is it with you and my family? Can’t you insult me without dragging my forebears into the fray? I mean, what’s the point? Do you have a point besides the one on top of your head?”
“Forgive me. I didn’t realize how sensitive you were about the Landau legacy. See, my blood is as Chicago blue as yours. Get it? Lots of old trees with roots all tangled up with each other. And trees live a long time. Anyway, falling for Miss Tattoo while investigating a murder. How cliché of you, private investigator.”
“It’s boy meets girl. Happens all the time with humans.” The insult sailed over Voss’s head.
“So true. Ever thought how screwed up your judgment gets while strolling in cliché-land? Okay, Landau, I’ll show one of my cards: I still have a few friends who work in Homicide. One of them picked up the phone the Monday morning after Snooky’s body was found. Turns out the call came from an address on Armitage. Turns out that address has a tattoo shop for a tenant. Now tell me, when was it you first spoke to the tattoo tootsie?” He handed me two pieces of paper: a warrant signed by a district court judge and a phone record from the Armitage address with one line highlighted in
“Having junkies for clients will do that. Let’s keep Snooky’s death in a different category.”
“You look really serious. And I can hear it in your voice.”
“I killed someone yesterday.”
Audrey looked at me with a little girl’s fascination. “Yeah, how was that?”
“I’ll never be the same,” I deadpanned.
Audrey studied me. “I don’t think you will be.”
I started for the door. Just before I walked out, Audrey shouted, “Call me?”
25
The combination of Audrey’s bizarre personality and learning what a bullet could do to a man’s head had cluttered me with conflicting emotions that needed suppressing. But my existential tendencies would have to wait.
I thought I should visit my father soon and also call Kalijero to see if they’d found the dump Jason called home. The sun baked the moisture off the streets, adding to the humidity. I walked in a northeasterly direction, unsure of my destination but gradually succumbing to the call of Diversey Harbor, my favorite place to catch a breeze.
There were closer lakefront beaches, but for some reason the stone amphitheater seats of Diversey Harbor had become my little zone of comfort. I was pretty sweaty by the time I crossed Cannon Drive and passed the Goethe statue. Once at the huge concrete blocks, I sat and tried to assemble my thoughts. From the lake came only the occasional puff of cool air, but the calming effect of the harbor’s shimmering beauty made the visit worthwhile.
“Your eye looks better.”
The voice came from my right periphery, which accounted for the eye remark. Without turning I said, “I bet you followed me all the way from Halsted, Voss.”
“And I’ll bet you got a little crush on Miss Tattoo Skank, eh, Landau?”
“Is it really necessary to talk like a sleazy degenerate?”
Voss smiled, stepped down to my row. “Tell me the truth. You think I’m stupid?”
“You care what I think?”
“I bet you know what ‘cliché’ means, college boy. When I was in uniform, not one cop in a hundred knew what cliché meant. A lot of those guys were walking clichés but would never recognize themselves.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“What are you doing, Landau? Trying to make up for the sins of your ancestors? Or are you living out some fucked-up Hollywood gumshoe fantasy? Wouldn’t you rather be working in an air-conditioned office like your North Shore pals?”
I turned, faced those teeth shining through his fleshy face, and wondered what he gnawed on to keep them from growing into tusks. “What is it with you and my family? Can’t you insult me without dragging my forebears into the fray? I mean, what’s the point? Do you have a point besides the one on top of your head?”
“Forgive me. I didn’t realize how sensitive you were about the Landau legacy. See, my blood is as Chicago blue as yours. Get it? Lots of old trees with roots all tangled up with each other. And trees live a long time. Anyway, falling for Miss Tattoo while investigating a murder. How cliché of you, private investigator.”
“It’s boy meets girl. Happens all the time with humans.” The insult sailed over Voss’s head.
“So true. Ever thought how screwed up your judgment gets while strolling in cliché-land? Okay, Landau, I’ll show one of my cards: I still have a few friends who work in Homicide. One of them picked up the phone the Monday morning after Snooky’s body was found. Turns out the call came from an address on Armitage. Turns out that address has a tattoo shop for a tenant. Now tell me, when was it you first spoke to the tattoo tootsie?” He handed me two pieces of paper: a warrant signed by a district court judge and a phone record from the Armitage address with one line highlighted in
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