Wilson didn’t say anything for a long minute. He turned his hand over and looked down at his cigarette like it was obnoxious. He lifted his chin and looked up at the skyscrapers. “Someday Chicago will have a building higher than the Empire State,” he said. No emotion showed on his face.
“Emil Andresson. Holy Christ. Emil. I hand picked the man. Sterling record in Milwaukee. He was under Burk’s lead. He’s known every move I made, gave to Burk. Andresson. And Gorovoy’s killer was French all along?”
“He and Duque together.”
We rode along another full minute before Wilson spoke. When he turned his eyes on me in the dim light of the car, they’d softened, more liquid than before. With disgust he said: “What on God’s earth makes a good cop go bad?”
I had no answers, and I doubted Wilson really thought I did. To me every man’s both good and bad. If the pride of serving and protecting isn’t enough for a man, then he’s wrong for the job to begin with. We’ll never get blueprints to minds like Andresson’s; Wilson’s question will never be answered. I don’t think even men with Wilson’s character can change all the men under them, not their insides. Keeping up will always be like picking the lint off suede jackets in a pillow factory.
Anything I mouthed would’ve sounded sophomoric at that moment, so I tasted the ratty cigarette, and took in the night-lights, the smells, noises of the downtown, and the glass-like float of the limo. Now that the cops had Gail’s killer, they could round up Marv Nixon easily enough, and Andresson would no doubt show up for his shift the next day, since he hadn’t seen me and most likely thought the shot that hit Nixon was from French. It all felt right, except for a twinge of disappointment at not being able to pay my debt to Nixon face to face.
We stopped at a red light. An elegant woman sashayed from her taxi up to the main entrance of the Conrad Hilton, the world’s largest hotel. She had a mink wrap around her shoulders and trailed a formal evening gown behind her. The dark honeyed tones of her hair made me remember I still had one other thing to do, one person to help who’d started it all. Until I cleared up the question of Julia Gateswood, I was still on the case.
I got home late but kept my promise and called Molly. She was sorry for screeching at me, she said, but it was so hard to see me ride off alone against a bunch of armed thugs. I said she could never screech, only talk sense and I understood and that my line of work sometimes meant deadly risk and deadly force.
Even at the late hour she wanted to come by and spend what was left of the night but I knew if she did there’d be little sleep for either of us, and I wanted to make an early start to look into Julia’s situation. Molly had given Rick a ride home. He was patched up and sore, had lost enough blood to make him lightheaded but not enough for a transfusion. He asked her if I’d call him in the morning.
I didn’t waste anytime sailing into dreamland after my head hit the pillow. The platinum blonde was waiting, nearly nude on her chaise lounge, sipping margaritas from a giant glass and reading aloud from
The Ambassadors
by Henry James, a novel I’d read in college where nothing much happens in all 400 pages worth. I listened to the blonde read for what seemed like hours. Then I was on the plank again, this time wide and solid enough to hold me. Finally I crept closer until I saw a beam of light fall on her golden pussy. The beam produced a puff of smoke, like a magnifying glass held over dry pine needles in the sun. The blonde squirmed and laughed sensuously, not seeming to mind the small blaze in her lap. Wacky? Yeah, dreams are mostly wacky. I’ve never understood the mumbo-jumbo of interpreting them. To me they only mean you’re asleep.
The dream got wackier. Strange perfume wafted from her burning bush. The board under me swayed. The aroma wasn’t perfume; it was bacon frying.
I was really close to Miss Platinum then. She took hold of my foot and talked dirty. I reached out for her breasts and grabbed a handful of pillow. Molly laughed and told me breakfast was ready. If I’d roll out I could have bacon and eggs and coffee and later I could have her.
Molly had used the key under the ceramic frog by the corner of the house and fixed breakfast. She was disgustingly awake and fresh. I hate that. It feels like I’m last in a race.
I downed the food and sloshed three cups of java into my veins before I felt like answering any of Molly’s sweet chatter with more than a grunt or a nod. She knew I wake up slowly so didn’t push. Somewhere she must have found a copy of the Mike Angel owner’s manual and kept it under her pillow when she slept, because she seemed to sense a lot of things about me without ever asking, as if by osmosis. Rick says that means two yokels are right for each other, but then that’s Rick nudging me along. I don’t nudge well, at least without some reflection.
“I wanted to get an early start and hoped you’d be in the office early, but it’s a nice surprise to get such great service.”
Molly winked over her coffee cup. “I had another sort of service in mind,” she said, “but I can see you’re worn out from bringing in the bad guy. Nice job. Plus, it’s Saturday, not that I won’t work on weekends, if you need me.”
Somewhere in the whirl of the past two weeks I’d lost a day. I could have sworn it was Friday.
Molly came around and sat in my lap, her arms around my neck, her Chanel doing things to my concentration. She kissed me lightly. She wore a black angora sweater with ribs, matching slacks and shiny button earrings the same color. Her green eyes were clear and bright. She was such a peach — a natural, loving, accepting peach. Why was she with a mug like me? My eyes were raw and bloodshot. I wrapped my fingers around the downy sweater at her waist, then felt the warm silkiness of her skin under the sweater.
“I’m sorry again I made such a fuss last night. I worry too much.” She held my face in her hands. “I hate fighting with you. Don’t you?”
I nodded and slipped my hands further up under her sweater. She looked at me appealingly and faked surprise. Her full breasts felt good.
“Careful. That early start might be in jeopardy. Why don’t you go shave?”
She sprang off my lap and rattled dishes in the sink while I dragged my rancid body into the shower. It was good to hear her singing in the kitchen while I dressed. It was good to get those dishes cleaned up. The woman was good. She could tackle anything. Having her around felt more and more natural. Every slob needs a Molly or maybe he will never be anything more than a slob.
When I came out, the kitchen was spotless. Molly sat by the door in her red raincoat, reading Playboy.
“I know you read these for the great articles,” she said smirking and holding the centerfold of a leggy blonde out to me. It would be a blonde.
“Don’t forget the fiction,” I said, Molly laughing. “And speaking of fiction, there’s one last thing I need to clear up and I may need your help on this.”
“You know me, Miss eager beaver…hmm?”
“Yes, I love your beaver when it’s eager, which is nearly always, but seriously, Henry’s had Julia committed to North Woods Sanatorium. It’s up in Morton Grove, run by some doctor named Jerome Bergman. I’m going to run up there and talk to the doctor. And Julia, if I can. See if it’s bunk and Henry has an ulterior angle for putting her there.”
“You mean you think she was put away for some political reason?”
“Let’s just say I’m not convinced the woman has a mental problem, which raises the issue of why Henry would commit her a few days before the election, even though he’s now unopposed. It looks bad — what does she know that he’s afraid of?”
“Have you talked to him about this?”
“Briefly.”
“Shall we take my Chevy? I can bring you back later and tackle the rest of the house.”
“Good idea. The car, not the housework. You should keep your honey car —
’57 Chevy’s will be classics one day, you’ll see. Anyway, you don’t have to be my maid, dear Moll.”
She went through the front door laughing. “I’m not your maid. I just want to stay until Monday and like things ship shape where I hang my undies.”
On the drive up to Morton Grove, I drank in Molly’s profile, her perky nose and her full lips with sharp corners and sensuous curves. Away from the office she made me feel alive, far away from the crime and sleaze of my work.
I knew I’d never find a better woman, but old habits die hard, and I also knew that saying no to women like Julia, and even Dee Mathews, given the right situation, was never going to be easy or guaranteed. My lack of fidelity was a difficult subject to discuss with Molly, whose bottom line whenever I crept up on it was, “No matter what,” and “Fib if you have to,” and “Just love me forever.” The challenge to being faithful had never been more clear or needed. Without a penis, life would be so much easier, even though
even though I didn’t want to find out.
Don’t get me wrong — my dalliances weren’t okay with Molly. It was simply that she had no confirmed claim on me then, only hopes of a future one.
North Woods Sanatorium had few trees around it. It looked more like a minimum-security prison than a hospital. We checked in with a guard at the gate booth, who spoke into a phone and directed us where to park. Molly drove to a parking lot on the side, next to a long greenhouse. One large oak shaded the front entrance. Here and there nurses guided patients along a walk circling the main building. It was clear and rather warm for November.
“I remember reading about this place,” Molly said, looking up at the two-story white building. “And Doctor Bergman. It was a very complimentary article, something about new techniques of peer interaction, gardening and fewer drugs administered to patients. Wealthy patients come here. Bergman believes in teaching them craft skills. His success rate with schizophrenia is very high. I read about doctors traveling from Europe to observe Bergman’s techniques.”
We went through the wide main doors to a receptionist desk. Fresh cut flowers all around the entrance and reception area gave the place a springtime smell. They must have shipped them in from Florida.
A woman the size of Rhode Island dressed in a floral print muumuu looked up and greeted us. “You’re here to visit Mrs. Gateswood. The doctor’s been notified. Would you mind taking a seat over there? He’ll be right down.”
Doctor Bergman was a hunched-over man of about fifty, with very little hair left. He had a delicate mouth, like a woman’s, and a large forehead with relaxed crystal blue eyes that oozed smug control. He limp-shaked my hand and sat next to us in the waiting room.
“You’re here to visit Mrs. Gateswood?”
Molly said yes and he stared into her nice face as if trying to place her.
“Are you immediate family?”
I flashed my wallet badge. He didn’t flinch.
“I was hired by Mrs. Gateswood on a family matter. I’d like to apprise her of the resolution of the case. Quite frankly, I’m surprised she’s been brought here. I saw no evidence of mental problems in my dealings with her.”
“I see. I hope you understand I cannot yet make a diagnosis in her case, but patients like Mrs. Gateswood can often be quite lucid. She’s still under observation, but I must warn you she might be quite confused.” He kept his eyes on Molly’s breasts like he hadn’t seen a healthy pair in years and wanted to remind himself what they were like. I wanted to poke the little wimp. “Mrs. Gateswood has only been here two days. Normally I need to know just where a patient is psychologically before allowing visitors. But, I’ll give you ten minutes with her if you assure me you won’t excite her.”
“Is she sedated?”
“Heavens, no. We don’t take the more extreme cases that require sedation, and use it only in rare instances. Her husband brought her prescription, but we locked that away. Too many doctors enable disturbed people to mask the source of the problems with sedatives.”
I was beginning to admire the little man, even if he did shake hands like a fairy.
He led us down the hall to a large day room where a few women sat knitting and drawing near expansive windows. A nurse was also knitting and got up when we came in.
The doctor said something in the nurse’s ear and made his exit, taking one last glance at Molly’s figure. The nurse pointed to one far corner of the room where I could see a golden bob of hair above a recliner. Molly and I made our way to the corner and sat on either side of Julia. Molly took off her raincoat and laid it across the arm of the chair.
Julia stared at the raincoat, then looked up quickly at me and smiled that sweet crooked smile I’d been captured by. Then she looked at Molly and frowned. Julia wore no makeup but her color was good. Her eyes were still the clear gray-blue oceans they’d been, but in the natural light from the windows they looked pale. There were no gold flecks dancing in them today, and they narrowed at Molly.
“What is it now, Christopher? Have you come to take me? Why are you bringing another of your gang sluts, just to make me jealous?”
Molly gave me a concerned look. I took Julia’s hand and said: “Mike Angel, don’t you remember? That day at Alfie’s? You hired me to find Gail?”
Julia sat up higher in her chair. She stared at Molly, then back at me. Suddenly her eyes were gentle, child-like. Things raced through her mind behind those eyes, racing but going nowhere.
“Yes, the wig. Do you think I look better as a brunette? I can change for you, be more like Gail. You always liked Gail best. It was that oral sex she did, that’s all. I don’t do oral sex. But then, you know that, don’t you? Since you forced me that time at Auntie’s.” Fire came into her eyes and a snarl across her lips. “I suppose your slut here likes to suck you off. Bastard!”
I shook my head at Molly, who made a motion with her thumb toward the door then got up and left us. The nurse looked over anxiously.
I spoke slow and even, trying not to excite her further. “We captured French last night. I wanted you to know. He killed Gail, left her body in your guesthouse, remember?”
A strange light came into Julia’s eyes. “Oh,” she said, her face deflated and pensive. “Is that what you came for? To tell me Henry’s upset that I put Gail there? He was very mad that Antigone was on her head. I’m really Ismene, didn’t you know? The perfect Athenian woman. In my other life, of course. I had all the men groveling in Athens.”
Molly stood at the door, pointing out at the reception area. I nodded and held up one finger.
“I’ll come visit again, Julia. You look quite beautiful today. I wanted you to know that we caught the bad guys and will put them away for a long time where they can’t ever hurt you again. I can’t do much about your former lives, but I hope to make this one better.”
She took my hand and kissed it, then stared at it and turned it over like it was a delicate flower. “Thank you for telling that slut to leave the room. How gentle you are for such a tough, no-nonsense man. I’ll always love you, Christopher. But where did you get that awful scar?” She took my hand and pressed it to her breast, tilted her head back onto the cushion and moaned loud enough to catch the nurse’s attention. I pulled my hand away and stood. The nurse started over but I held a hand out to her to stop.
“When you’re better, we’ll talk more.”
Julia looked up at me with puppy eyes. Her mouth quivered. “Promise me one thing?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t make love to Dee. She wants you but she’s no good. She’s been spying on me for Henry since he hired her. She even tried to seduce that investigator I hired. Dee has nice legs, but an empty head and a cold heart. Promise?”