V.I. Warshawski: Hard Time Part 1

Hard Time.

V.I. Warshawski.

By Sara Paretsky.

1.

Media Circus.

Lacey Dowell clutched her crucifix, milky b.r.e.a.s.t.s thrust forward, as she backed away from her unseen a.s.sailant. Tendrils of red hair escaped from her cap; with her eyes shut and her forehead furrowed she seemed to have crossed the line from agony to ecstasy. It was too much emotion for me at close quarters.

I turned around, only to see her again, red hair artlessly tangled, b.r.e.a.s.t.s still thrust forward, as she accepted the Hasty Pudding award from a crowd of Harvard men. I resolutely refused to look at the wall on my right, where her head was flung back as she laughed at the witticisms of the man in the chair opposite. I knew the man and liked him, which made me squirm at his expression, a kind of fawning joviality. Murray Ryerson was too good a reporter to prost.i.tute himself like this.

"What got into him? Or more to the point, what got into me, to let him turn my bar into this backslapping media circus?"

Sal Barthele, who owned the Golden Glow, had snaked through the Chicago glitterati packed into her tiny s.p.a.ce to find me. Her height-she was over six feet tall-made it possible for her to spot me in the mob. For a moment, as she looked at the projection screens on her paneled walls, her relaxed hostess smile slipped and her nose curled in distaste.

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe he wants to show Hollywood what a cool insider he is, knowing an intimate bar they never heard of."

Sal snorted but kept her eyes on the room, checking for trouble spots-patrons waiting too long for liquid, wait staff unable to move. The throng included local TV personalities anxiously positioning themselves so that their cameras could catch them with Lacey Dowell if she ever showed up. While they waited they draped themselves around executives from Global Studios. Murray himself was hard at it with a woman in a silver gauze outfit. Her hair was clipped close to her head, showing off prominent cheekbones and a wide mouth painted bright red. As if sensing my gaze she turned, looked at me for a moment, then interrupted Murray's patter to jerk her head in my direction.

"Who is Murray talking to?" I asked Sal, but she had turned away to deal with a fractious customer.

I edged myself through the crowd, tripping on Regine Mauger, the HeraldStar' s wizened gossip columnist. She glared at me malevolently: she didn't know who I was, which meant I was no use to her.

"Will you watch where you're going, young woman?" Regine had been tucked and cut so many times that her skin looked like paper pulled over bone. "I'm trying to talk to Teddy Trant!"

She meant she was trying to push her bony shoulders close enough for Trant to notice her. He was the head of Global's Midwest operations, sent in from Hollywood when Global acquired the HeraldStar and its string of regional papers a year ago. No one in town had paid much attention to him until last week, when Global unleashed its television network. They had bought Channel 13 in Chicago to serve as their flags.h.i.+p and brought in Lacey Dowell, star of Global's wildly successful romancehorror flicks, to appear on the first "Behind Scenes in Chicago" segment-with host Murray Ryerson, "the man who turns Chicago inside out."

Global was launching a "Behind Scenes" feature in each of their major markets.

As a hometown girl made good and a Global star, Lacey was the perfect choice for the Chicago launch. Crowds of teenagers as excited as my generation had been by the Beatles lined up to greet her at O'Hare. Tonight they were waiting outside the Golden Glow to catch her arrival.

With the excitement of television and movies on hand, no one could get enough of Edmund Trant. Where he dined, how his mediagenic wife decorated their Oak Brook mansion, all were avidly covered by columnists like Regine Mauger. And when invitations were issued for tonight's party, everyone in Chicago's small media pond was anxious to find the silveredged ticket in the mail.

Regine and the other gossip columnists weren't of much interest to Trant tonight: I recognized the Speaker of the Illinois House and a couple of other state pols in the group close to him and had a feeling that the man he was talking most to was another businessman. Regine, peevish at being stiffed, made a big show of inspecting the hem of her black satin trousers, to show me I'd torn them or scuffed them or something. As I pushed my way through the melee toward a corner of the bar I heard her say to her counterpart at the SunTimes, "Who is that very clumsy woman?"

I edged my way to the wall behind Sal's horseshoe mahogany bar. Since my a.s.sistant, Mary Louise Neely, and her young protegee Emily Messenger had come with me, I knew I was in for a long evening. In her current manic state Emily would ignore any pleas to leave much before one in the morning. It wasn't often she did something that made her peers jealous and she was determined to milk the evening to the limit.

Like most of her generation Emily was caught up in Laceymania. When I said she and Mary Louise could come as the guests my ticket ent.i.tled me to, Emily turned pale with excitement. She was leaving for France next week to go to a summer language camp, but that was borerine compared to being in the same room with Lacey Dowell.

"The Mad Virgin," she breathed theatrically. "Vic, I'll never forget this until my dying day."

Lacey got the nickname from her lead in a series of horror flicks about a medieval woman who supposedly died in defense of her chast.i.ty. She periodically returned to life to wreak vengeance on the man who tormented her-since he kept reappearing through time to menace other young women. Despite the pseudo feminist gloss on the plot, Lacey always ended up dying again after defeating her age long foe, while some brainless hero cuddled a vapid truelove who had screamed herself breathless for ninety minutes. The films had a cult status among Generation Xers-their deadly seriousness turned them into a kind of campy selfsatire-but their real audience was Emily and her teenage friends, who slavishly copied Lacey's hairstyle, her ankle boots with their crossed straps, and the highnecked black tank tops she wore off the set.

When I got to the end of the bar near the service entrance, I stood on tiptoe to try to spot Emily or Mary Louise, but the crowd was too dense. Sal had moved all the barstools to the bas.e.m.e.nt. I leaned against the wall, making myself as flat as possible, as hara.s.sed wait staff rushed by with hors d'oeuvres and bottles.

Murray had moved to the far end of the bar from me, still with the woman in silver gauze. He seemed to be regaling her with the tale of how Sal acquired her mahogany horseshoe bar from the remains of a Gold Coast mansion. Years ago when she was starting out, she got me and her brothers to climb through the rubble to help her haul it off. Watching the woman tilt her head back in a theatrical laugh, I was betting that Murray was pretending he'd been part of the crew.

Something about the shape of his partner's face or the fulllipped pout she gave when she was listening was familiar, but I couldn't place her.

Sal stopped briefly by me again, holding a plate of smoked salmon. "I have to stay here till the last dog dies, but you don't-go on home, Warshawski."

I took some salmon and explained morosely that I was waiting on Mary Louise and Emily. "Want me to tend bar? It would give me something to do."

"Be better if you went in the back and washed dishes. Since I don't usually serve food here at the Glow my little washer is blowing its brains out trying to keep up with this. Want me to bring you the Black Label?"

"I'm driving. San Pellegrino is my limit for the evening."

Murray maneuvered his way across the bar with his companion and put his arm around Sal. "Thanks for opening up the Glow to this mob scene. I thought we ought to celebrate at some place authentically Chicago."

He kept an arm around Sal in a protective hug and introduced her to his companion. "Sal Barthele, one of the truly great Chicago stories. Alexandra Fisher, one of the truly great Chicago escapees. And you know V. I. Warshawski."

"Yes, I know Vic." Sal extricated herself from Murray. "Stop showing off, Murray. Not all of us are swooning because you sat in front of a camera for fifteen minutes."

Murray threw back his head and laughed. "That's what makes this a great town.

But I was talking to Alex. She and Vic were in law school together."

"We were?" The name didn't ring a bell.

"I've changed a little." Alex laughed, too, and squeezed my hand in a power shake.

I squeezed back, hard enough to make her open her eyes. She had the muscle definition of a woman who worked seriously with weights, and the protruding breastbone of one who survived on lettuce leaves between workouts. I have the muscles of a South Side street fighter, and probably matching manners.

I still couldn't place her. Her hair, dyed a kind of magenta, was cut close to her skull at the sides and slicked back on top with something like Brill Creme, except no doubt pricier. Before I could probe, a young man in a white collarless s.h.i.+rt murmured a few apologetic words to Alex about "Mr. Trant." She waggled her fingers at Murray and me and followed the acolyte toward the power center. The wizened gossip columnist, still hovering on the perimeter, stopped her for a comment, but Alex was sucked into the vortex and disappeared.

"So-what did you think, V. I.?" Murray scooped half the salmon from Sal's platter and downed it with a mouthful of beer.

It was only then that I realized he had shaved his beard for his television debut. I had watched the beard go from fiery red to auburn to grayflecked in the years he and I had collaborated and competed on financial scandal in Chicago, but I'd never seen his naked jaw before.

Somehow it made my heart ache-foolish Murray, anxiously decking himself for the media G.o.ds-so I said brusquely, "She has beautiful deltoid definition."

"Of my show, Warshawski."

I kept my eyes on the mahogany bar. "I thought you brought the same attention to Lacey that you did to GanttAg and the Knifegrinders and all those other stories we worked together."

"Sheesh, Warshawski, can't you ever give a guy a break?"

"I wish you well, Murray. I really do."

My glance flicked to his face. Whatever he saw in my eyes made him look away. He gave Sal another exaggerated grin and hug and headed in his companion's direction. As I watched him walk away I realized someone had been pointing a camera at us: he'd been embracing Sal for tape.

"Something tells me Murray picked the Glow to show all those Hollywood types he hangs around with black people," Sal said, frowning at his retreating back.

I didn't want to admit it out loud, but I thought sadly she was probably right.

"That Alex Fisher is part of Global's legal team," Sal added, her eyes still on the room. "They brought her out from California to mind the shop here. I had to deal with her a few times on liability questions about Lacey-I actually had to buy insurance to cover the event tonight. The studio wasn't even going to cover the cost of that until I told them the city health department was raising so many questions about food in the Glow that I'd have to shut down the event."

"Why'd they care? They could go anywhere."

"They're paying for the catering, and I only told them this morning. I hear they say in Hollywood that no one kicks Global's ball, but they're outoftowners here." She laughed and disappeared into the minute kitchen.

Around midnight there was a flurry at the door. I hoped it was Lacey making her dramatic appearance so that I could collect Emily and leave, but it was only a couple of Bulls players-borerine to Emily Messenger and her friends. As the crowds s.h.i.+fted for them I made out Mary Louise and Emily, stationed where Emily could get an autograph as soon as Lacey cleared the entrance. Emily was in Mad Virgin uniform: the black tank top, stretch pants, and platform shoes that were sold through the Virgin wear label Global owned.

Mary Louise must have worked something out with one of the officers a.s.signed to cover the event. She had been a cop herself for ten years, and when she quit the force two years ago she'd done it in a way that didn't lose her any friends. The guy on duty tonight had placed Emily behind the velvet ropes set up to create the illusion of an entrance hall. He'd even found a barstool for Emily to perch on. I was envious-my calves were aching from hours of standing.

"Are you waiting for Lacey, too?"

I turned to find a stranger addressing me, a compactly built man several years younger than me, with curly brown hair and the hint of a mustache.

"I'm a friend of the groom," I said, "but I have a young guest who won't leave until she gets Lacey's autograph."

"A friend of-oh." His eyes twinkled in appreciation. "And I'm a friend of the bride. At least, we grew up in the same building, and she squeaked with excitement when she told me she was coming back to Chicago."

"Is she really from here? When actors say they're from Chicago, they usually mean Winnetka and New Trier, not the city."

"Oh, no. We grew up in Humboldt Park. Until we were twelve we hung out together, the only nerds in our building, so that the bigger kids wouldn't pick on us.

Then she got a role on television and whoosh, off she went like a rocket. Now all those kids who used to corner her in the stairwell are trying to pretend they were her buddies, but she's not a fool."

"She remembered you?" I wasn't really interested, but even idle talk would help get me through the evening.

"Oh, sure, she sent me one of her fancy cards to this event. But she won't meet with me alone." He reached across the bar for a bottle of beer and shook himself, as if shaking off a train of thought. "And why should she? Which groom are you a friend of? Do you work for the television station?"

"No, no. I know Murray Ryerson, that's all."

"You work for him?" He grabbed a plate of tiny sandwiches from a pa.s.sing waiter and offered it to me.

I don't like to tell people I'm a private investigator-it's almost as bad as being a doctor at a party. Everyone has some scam or some time that they've been robbed or cheated that they think you'll sort out for them on the spot. Tonight was no exception. When I admitted to my occupation, my companion said maybe I could help him. Something rather curious had been happening in his plant lately.

I stifled a sigh and dug in my evening bag for a business card. "Give me a call if you want to talk about it in a place where I can give you my full attention."

"V. I. Warshawski?" He p.r.o.nounced my name carefully. "You're on Leavitt and North? That's not so far from me."

Before he could say anything else there was another stir at the entrance. This time it was Lacey herself. The waters parted: Edmund Trant extricated himself from his crowd and appeared at the door to kiss Lacey's hands as the cameras began to whir again. Murray used his bulk to barrel his way next to Trant in time for Lacey to kiss him for the cameras. The policeman at the door greeted Lacey and directed her to Emily. I watched while she hugged Emily, signed her book, and flung herself into the arms of another Global actor on hand for the event.

While I worked my way along the wall to the front to collect Mary Louise and Emily, Lacey moved her entourage to the center of the room. The guy I'd just been speaking to managed to position himself behind the waiter bringing her a drink. I stopped to watch. Lacey greeted him with enthusiasm, so he must have been telling the truth about their childhood. But he seemed to be trying to talk to her seriously about something-a mistake in a gathering this public. Even under the soft rainbows of Sal's Tiffany lamps I could see Lacey's color rise.

She turned away from him in hauteur and he made the mistake of grabbing her shoulders. The offduty cop who'd gotten Emily her seat muscled his way through the crowd and hustled him out the door. When we followed a few minutes later, the man was standing across the street staring at the Golden Glow. As we came out he hunched his hands down in his pockets and walked away.

"Vic, you've made me blissfully happy," Emily sighed as we walked past the line of Lacey's fans. "There they are, waiting for hours just to get sight of her, and she actually kissed me and signed my book, maybe I'll even be on TV. If someone told me two years ago that every girl in Chicago would be jealous of me, I'd never have believed them in a million years. But it's come true."

2.

The Woman in the Road Emily chattered with excitement all the way to the car, then fell deeply asleep in the backseat. Mary Louise leaned back on the pa.s.senger side and slipped out of her high heels.

"I stayed up all night to watch poor Diana marry Prince Creep when I was that age," she commented. "At least Emily got to touch Lacey."

I had wanted to go to O'Hare to join the vigil for Ringo and John, but my mother was desperately ill by then; I wasn't going to worry her by riding around on buses and L's after curfew. "Some guy was trying to get next to Lacey as we left. He said they grew up together in Humboldt Park. Is that true?"

"I'm glad you asked." In the sodium lights on the Inner Drive I could see Mary Louise's grin. "I have eaten and drunk Lacey Dowell facts for the last two weeks, ever since you called with the invite, and it's high time you shared the treat. Lacey's birth name was Magdalena Lucida Dowell. Her mother was Mexican, her father Irish; she's an only child who grew up in Humboldt Park and went to St. Remigio's, where she starred in all the school plays and won a scholars.h.i.+p to Northern Illinois. They have an important theater program. She got her first break in film twelve years ago, when-"

"All right, all right. I'm sure you know her shoe size and her favorite color, too."

"Green, and eightandahalf. And she still likes the chorizo from her home neighborhood better than any trendy food in L.A. Ha, ha. Her father died in an industrial accident before she started making real money, but her mother lives with her in Santa Monica in a nice oceanfront mansion. Supposedly Lacey gives money to St. Remigio's. They say she kept the cardinal from closing the school by shoring up its scholars.h.i.+p fund. If that's true it's worth something."

"A lot." The light at Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive turned green, and I swung into the northbound lanes.

"Come to think of it, you should have picked up some of these gems from Murray's interview. Didn't you watch?"

I grimaced at the dashboard. "I think I was so embarra.s.sed to see him doing it at all that I couldn't focus on what he was saying."

"Don't be too hard on him," Mary Louise said. "Guy has to live on something, and you're the one who told me the Global team axed his biggest stories."

She was right. I knew Murray had been having a tough time since Global bought the paper. They hadn't stopped any of his digging, but they wouldn't print any stories they considered politically sensitive. "We have to pay attention to the people who do us favors in this state," Murray quoted to me bitterly when management killed a story he'd been working on for months about the new women's prison in Coolis. He mimicked his editor one night at dinner last winter: Americans have grown accustomed to sound bites. s.e.x, sports, and violence are good sound bites. Skimming pension funds or buying off the state legislature are not. Get the picture, Murray?

What I'd somehow forgotten was how much of a survivor Murray was. No one was more surprised than me to get one of those prized tickets to Global's post launch party-and maybe no one was more surprised to read on it that we were celebrating Murray's debut as Chicago's "Behind Scenes" reporter. What Murray had done to land the job I preferred not to contemplate. He certainly wasn't going to tell me that-or anything else. When I called to ask, I spoke to an a.s.sistant who politely a.s.sured me she would give him my messages, but he hadn't come to the phone himself.

I knew Murray had put out discreet feelers for reporting work around the country. But he was a couple of years older than me, and in your forties companies start looking at you as a liability. You need too much money, and you're moving into an age bracket where you're likely to start using your health insurance. Also against him was the same thing that made it hard for me to operate outside the city: all his insider knowledge was in Chicago. So he had looked long and hard at reality, and when reality stared back he blinked first.

Was that a crime?

At two on a weeknight, traffic on the drive was spa.r.s.e. To my right, sky and lake merged in a long smear of black. Except for the streetlights, coating the park with a silvery patina, we seemed alone on the edge of the world. I was glad for Mary Louise's presence, even her monologue on what the sitter would charge for looking after Emily's young brothers, on how much she had to do before summer session started-she was going to law school part time besides her parttime work for me-was soothing. Her grumbling kept me from thinking how close to the edge of the world my own life was, which fueled my hostility to Murray's decision to sell himself on the air.

Even so, I pushed the car to seventy, as if I could outrun my irritability. Mary Louise, cop instincts still strong, raised a protest when we floated off the crest of the hill at Montrose. I braked obediently and slowed for our exit. The Trans Am was ten, with the dents and glitches to prove it, but it still hugged corners like a python. It was only at the traffic lights on Foster that you could hear a wheeze in the engine.

As we headed west into Uptown, the loneliness of the night lifted: beer cans and drunks emerged from the shadows. The city changes character every few blocks around here, from the enclave of quiet family streets where Mary Louise lives, to an immigrant landing stage where Russian Jews and Hindus improbably mix, to a refuse heap for some of Chicago's most forlorn; closest to the lake is where Uptown is rawest. At Broadway we pa.s.sed a man urinating behind the same Dumpsters where a couple was having s.e.x.

Mary Louise glanced over her shoulder to make sure Emily was still asleep. "Go up to Balmoral and over; it's quieter."

At the intersection a shadow of a man was holding a grimy sign begging for food.

He wove an uncertain thread through the oncoming headlights. I slowed to a crawl until I was safely past him.

Away from Broadway most of the streetlights were gone, shot out or just not replaced. I didn't see the body in the road until I was almost on top of it. As I stood on the brakes, steering hard to the left, Mary Louise screamed and grabbed my arm. The Trans Am spun across the street and landed against a fire hydrant.