V.I. Warshawski 04 - Bitter Medicine (11 page)

“Who wills the end wills the means,” I said grandly, not sure whether it was Sergio’s means or my own headlong dive into his territory I was talking about.

“Don’t worry, doll-it’ll heal, you’ll be good as new. You’ll see… I brought you these in case you was gonna be laid up awhile.” He thrust the daisies at me.

I thanked him. “They’re letting me leave now, so I’ll take them home with me.”

He followed me down the hall with a steady commentary on fights he’d been in as a machinist, the time his nose got broken, how he’d lost his left canine-pulling back his mouth with a stubby forefinger to show me the cap-what his wife had to say the time he came home drunk at four A.M. with a black eye plus the man who’d given it to him in tow, happily singing “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”

The checkout process went smoothly. Trying to attract paying customers in a run-down city neighborhood, Beth Israel maintained a high level of professionalism in all aspects of its operations. At least so Lotty always averred. The nurse who checked the doctor’s orders and the clerk who processed my discharge both treated me with a smiling courtesy far different from Mrs. Kirkland’s at Friendship. They gave me some special cleansers and salves, told me to come back in a week to get the stitches out, and sent me on my way.

The Cubs were playing a doubleheader against the hated Mets-Chicagoans can’t forgive New York the ‘69 season. A year or so ago February some PR moron staged a reunion game between the ’69 Cubs and Mets down in Arizona. Ron Santo refused to play-the only real Cub in the bunch. This year, it was even worse, with Chicago playing bush-league ball and the Mets coasting through the season.

Mr. Contreras obligingly tuned to WGN so I could hear Dwight Gooden fan Moreland, get Trillo to ground out and Davis to pop up in the infield. I was just as happy,to be in a car and not in the stands, although as we drove by Wrigley Field the sun and the faint strains of the organ seemed inviting.

Mr. Contreras insisted on coming up to the third floor with me to make sure I got settled in comfortably. In addition to the daisies, he had bought a large steak and a bottle of whiskey, Bell’s, which is too thin and sour for my taste. I was touched by the gesture and invited him to sit down and have a glass with me.

I sat on my little back porch with the whiskey and a radio tuned to the game while Mr. Contreras grilled a steak on our communal barbecue down in the yard. He was proud of his prowess as a chef, learned in the years since his wife had died. A couple of young Korean children belonging to one of the second-floor units cautiously played ball while he cooked: Mr. Contreras’s joviality vanished in a hurry at threats to his tomatoes. Or property in general. Or his neighbors.

I was chewing in small, painful bites, made tolerable by a thin haze of whiskey, when the police arrived. I got up lazily on hearing the downstairs buzzer and called down through the intercom. When Detective Rawlings announced himself I vaguely remembered Dr. Pirwitz’s saying the police wanted to see me. Hospitals report all assault cases routinely; the victim and the cops take it from there.

Detective Rawlings exuded a spurious geniality. He was in jeans and a T-shirt, which made the jacket he wore to hide his gun a bit incongruous. He had a uniformed man with him displaying the woodenness common to uniformed men when they fear their senior officers may embarrass them.

“Got yourself cut up a bit, huh, Ms. Warshawski?” Rawlings asked.

“Not so as anyone would notice. At least the surgeon didn’t seem to think so. I’ll have to tell him it didn’t fool you.”

“Guess I’ve seen too many knife wounds in my time. I don’t fool so easy-at least over them. Now over the difference between a private eye and a lawyer, that stumps me sometimes. Which are you, Ms. W.-lawyer or detective?”

Mr. Contreras moved protectively to my side, but didn’t make any effort to intervene. I politely introduced him to Rawlings before answering.

“Both, Detective. I’m a member of the Illinois bar in good standing. And I’m a licensed private investigator. Also in good standing. At least with the State of Illinois.”

I returned to the armchair. Rawlings sat down on the couch at right angles to me. The uniformed man stood next to him, notebook at the ready. Mr. Contreras positioned himself behind my chair. Principals and seconds. When the handkerchief drops, both principal:) should be prepared to fire one shot.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a dick the other day, Warshawski?”

‘The other day I wasn’t. I came with Dr. Herschel in my capacity as her attorney. She grew up with Storm Troopers hovering over her and has a permanent fear of men in uniform-unreasonable in Chicago, of course, but nevertheless…“

Rawlings narrowed his eyes at me. “You know, your name sounded so familiar the other day. After you left I asked the station sergeant. He remembered your dad, but that wasn’t who I was thinking of. So I was talking to a buddy of mine downtown yesterday afternoon and mentioned you-Terry Finchley-and he told me how you were a private eye and all. And how his lieutenant, Bobby Mallory, starts herniating when you get near a case. And I was a little pissed at you. Thought about calling you, reading you the riot act, ordering you off my turf.”

“What stopped you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Terry said you’re a pain in the ass but you get results. I thought I’d see if you’d find something for me. I can tell already he was right about the first half. Now we’ll see about the second. Who gave you the beauty marks?”

I shut my eyes. “I was a public defender a hundred years or so ago. Finchley tell you that? I ran into one of my former clients last night. He wasn’t happy with my work. Can’t please everybody, I guess.”

“This has nothing to do with Malcolm Tregiere’s death?”

“I don’t think so. I could be wrong, but I think it was a private grudge.”

“Where’d this happen?”

“Near North Side.”

“How far-or near, maybe I should say.”

“North Avenue.” I said briefly. “Washtenaw.”

“Humboldt Park? Now what the hell were you doing down there, Warshawski?‘

I opened my eyes to see Rawlings leaning forward on the couch in his intensity. He appeared angry, but I might have been mistaken. Mr. Contreras was muttering to himself. Maybe he didn’t like Rawlings calling me by my last name, of perhaps he thought the detective shouldn’t swear at me.

‘Talking to a disgruntled former client, Detective.“

“The hell you were. The hell you say you were. That’s Lion country. Those bastards are thumbing their noses at me every day right here in my territory”-a jabbing finger accented the words-“and I am damned if you are going to join them.”

More clucking sounds from Mr. Contreras.

“It’s like this, Rawlings,” I said, putting all my On-my-honor-I-will-try sincerity into my voice. “Dr. Herschel has a nurse. The nurse had a kid sister. The sister became pregnant. A total write-off named Fabiano Hernandez was the father. Sister and infant died unfortunately last Tuesday out in Schaumburg-nothing sinister-complications of diabetes, pregnancy, and youth.

“Well, Hernandez has been seen cruising the streets in a car he certainly cannot afford, since he’s unemployed-a chronic condition. So the family wanted to know what he was up to. They are very proud. They didn’t want to be affiliated with a bum like Fabiano to begin with, and they don’t want him making hay out of their sister’s death. So they asked me to check it out. And he sort of hangs on Sergio Rodriguez’s coattails. He went whining to Rodriguez who felt he owed me something for not getting him off the hook way back when. That’s all there is to it.”

Rawlings sucked in his cheeks. “And this had nothing- nothing-to do with Malcolm Tregiere’s death?”

“Not as far as I know, Detective.”

“Tregiere treat the dead girl?”

Police work makes you suspicious of everyone. Either Rawlings was very shrewd or someone had been squealing up the pipeline.

I nodded. “Dr. Herschel was her physician. But she sent Dr. Tregiere out to Schaumburg-she couldn’t go herself.”

“So did the punk kill him because he let his wife die?”

“Because he thought Tregiere let his wife die? I don’t think so. He wanted out-he wanted to drop her when she refused to get an abortion. It was only because two of her brothers are substantial hulks that he was induced to stick widi her. He’s not a fighter. He spits at people, but he’s pretty weak physically.”

“How about the brothers? Sounds as if they cared enough about the girl to protect her.”

I thought of Paul and his older brother, Herman. Either certainly could mangle a man Tregiere’s size single-handedly, and what Diego lacked in size he made up for in ferocity. But I shook my head.

They’re all sane men. The one they might’ve killed was Fabiano. If they didn’t touch him when their sister got pregnant, .they wouldn’t go after Dr. Tregiere-anyway, they liked him. They felt he’d done everything he could in a losing battle.“

Rawlings snorted. “Don’t be naive, Warshawski. There are twenty-five bodies in the morgue right now put there by people who supposedly liked them.” He got up. “We’re going to go pick up Mr. Rodriguez, Warshawski. You want to swear out a complaint?”

The thought made my stomach turn over slightly. “Not especially-I don’t want to add to his grudge count against me. Besides, you know he’ll be back on the street in twenty-four hours.”

“Look, Warshawski. He’ll be back on the street, sure. And maybe he’ll feel he owes you a bigger score. But I am sick of punks like him. The more times I hassle him, the more careful he may be.”

I touched my left jaw involuntarily. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I know you’re right. Go ahead. Pick him up. I’ll come down and say my lines in the play.”

I walked to the door with him, the uniformed man trailing behind. Rawlings turned on the landing to look at me.

“If I find that you were withholding on Malcolm Tregiere, I am going to haul your ass in for obstruction so fast it’s going to be smoking.”

“Yeah, yeah. Drive carefully.” I shut the door and locked it.

Mr. Contreras shook his head. “Disgusting the way he talked to you, cookie. And you have to sit and take it. You oughta call a lawyer is what you oughta do.”

I laughed a little, getting violent feedback from the stitches in my face. “Don’t let it trouble you. I wouldn’t last a minute on the street if a little tough talk got to me.”

We went back to dinner, now cold but still tasty. Mr. Contreras had grilled some fresh tomatoes along with the meat. They were easy to chew and had the rich flavor that only homegrown tomatoes have these days. I’d eaten three when the phone rang, Lotty calling to check up on me. And to remind me that Consuelo’s funeral was tomorrow. And Victoria Charlotte’s.

Then Paul phoned, and finally Tessa, who’d heard about my action-packed night from Lotty. She was far more sympathetic.

“Jesus, Vic-if I’d known you’d get yourself badly hurt I would never have pushed you so hard. I wasn’t thinking- I should have realized anyone who would beat Malcolm’s brains out wouldn’t think twice about hurting you.”