my Sergio. How are you? How are you after all this time!”
We chatted for a few minutes. I explained I was no longer with the public defender’s office, but was glad to see in the papers that Sergio was doing so well.
“Yes, a community leader! You would be proud to know him. Always he speak of you with gratitude.”
I doubted that, but it provided an opportunity to ask for his phone number. “I need to talk to him about someone in his—uh—men’s club. There’s been some community action lately that he might be able to advise me on.”
She was glad to oblige. I asked about the rest of her children—“And grandchildren, right?”
“Yes, my Cecilia’s husband leave her so she come here with her two children. Is very good—good to have young people in the house again.”
We hung up with mutual protestations of goodwill. What did she really think Sergio was doing? Really, deep down? I dialed the number she’d given me and let it ring a long time unanswered.
The corned-beef sandwich sat too heavily in my stomach for me to think about dinner. I took a glass of wine onto the little landing outside my kitchen door. It overlooked the alley and the small yard where some of the other tenants raised vegetables. Old Mr. Contreras from the first floor was out putting guards around his tomatoes.
He waved at me. “Big storm tonight,” he called up. “Got to protect these little fellows.”
I drank Ruffino and watched him work until the light failed. At nine, I tried Sergio’s phone again. It still rang unanswered. The last few days had worn me out. I went to bed and slept soundly.
As Mr. Contreras had predicted, the weather broke in the night. When I went out for my morning run, the day sparkled, the leaves were deep green, the sky dark blue, birds sang furiously. The storm had ruffled up the lake; waves splashed over the rocks and whitecaps rolled briskly beyond the breakwater.
I came home the long way, past the Chesterton Hotelwhere the Dortmunder Restaurant serves cappuccino and croissants for breakfast. The fresh air and my long sleep renewed my confidence. Whatever superstitions had dogged me yesterday seemed irrelevant in the balance against my great skill as a detective.
Back home, I had proof that my magic powers were restored; Sergio’s phone was answered on the third ring.
“Yes?” The male voice was heavy with suspicion.
“Sergio Rodriguez, please.”
“Who are you?”
“This is V. I. Warshawski. Sergio knows me.”
I was put on hold. The minutes ticked by. I lay on the floor on my back and did leg lifts, holding the phone to my right ear. After I’d done thirty with each leg, the heavy voice returned.
“Sergio says he don’t owe you nothing. He don’t need to talk to you.”
“What did I say about his owing me anything? I didn’t. As a favor, I would like to speak with Sergio.”
This time the wait was shorter. “You want to see him, be at Sixteen-sixty-two Washtenaw tonight at ten-thirty. You be alone, no heat, and you be clean.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I said.
“Say what, man?” The voice was suspicious again.
“Gringo for ‘I hear you, man.’” I broke the connection.
I lay on the floor awhile longer, staring at the neatly swirled plaster on the ceiling. Washtenaw, heart of Lion country. I wished I could go with a police battalionbehind me. Better yet, in front of me. But the only thing that would accomplish would be to get me shot—if not tonight, then later. WARSHAWSKI would start appearing spray-painted upside down on garage doors in Humboldt Park. Or maybe that was too hard a name to spell. Maybe it would be just my initials.
Perhaps they’d do it even if I followed their orders. I’d be gunned down as I left the building. Lotty would be sorry then that she’d forced me into this. She’d be sorry but it would be too late. Much moved, I pictured my funeral. Lotty was stoic, Carol sobbing openly. My ex-husband came with his suburban-chic second wife.
We chatted for a few minutes. I explained I was no longer with the public defender’s office, but was glad to see in the papers that Sergio was doing so well.
“Yes, a community leader! You would be proud to know him. Always he speak of you with gratitude.”
I doubted that, but it provided an opportunity to ask for his phone number. “I need to talk to him about someone in his—uh—men’s club. There’s been some community action lately that he might be able to advise me on.”
She was glad to oblige. I asked about the rest of her children—“And grandchildren, right?”
“Yes, my Cecilia’s husband leave her so she come here with her two children. Is very good—good to have young people in the house again.”
We hung up with mutual protestations of goodwill. What did she really think Sergio was doing? Really, deep down? I dialed the number she’d given me and let it ring a long time unanswered.
The corned-beef sandwich sat too heavily in my stomach for me to think about dinner. I took a glass of wine onto the little landing outside my kitchen door. It overlooked the alley and the small yard where some of the other tenants raised vegetables. Old Mr. Contreras from the first floor was out putting guards around his tomatoes.
He waved at me. “Big storm tonight,” he called up. “Got to protect these little fellows.”
I drank Ruffino and watched him work until the light failed. At nine, I tried Sergio’s phone again. It still rang unanswered. The last few days had worn me out. I went to bed and slept soundly.
As Mr. Contreras had predicted, the weather broke in the night. When I went out for my morning run, the day sparkled, the leaves were deep green, the sky dark blue, birds sang furiously. The storm had ruffled up the lake; waves splashed over the rocks and whitecaps rolled briskly beyond the breakwater.
I came home the long way, past the Chesterton Hotelwhere the Dortmunder Restaurant serves cappuccino and croissants for breakfast. The fresh air and my long sleep renewed my confidence. Whatever superstitions had dogged me yesterday seemed irrelevant in the balance against my great skill as a detective.
Back home, I had proof that my magic powers were restored; Sergio’s phone was answered on the third ring.
“Yes?” The male voice was heavy with suspicion.
“Sergio Rodriguez, please.”
“Who are you?”
“This is V. I. Warshawski. Sergio knows me.”
I was put on hold. The minutes ticked by. I lay on the floor on my back and did leg lifts, holding the phone to my right ear. After I’d done thirty with each leg, the heavy voice returned.
“Sergio says he don’t owe you nothing. He don’t need to talk to you.”
“What did I say about his owing me anything? I didn’t. As a favor, I would like to speak with Sergio.”
This time the wait was shorter. “You want to see him, be at Sixteen-sixty-two Washtenaw tonight at ten-thirty. You be alone, no heat, and you be clean.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I said.
“Say what, man?” The voice was suspicious again.
“Gringo for ‘I hear you, man.’” I broke the connection.
I lay on the floor awhile longer, staring at the neatly swirled plaster on the ceiling. Washtenaw, heart of Lion country. I wished I could go with a police battalionbehind me. Better yet, in front of me. But the only thing that would accomplish would be to get me shot—if not tonight, then later. WARSHAWSKI would start appearing spray-painted upside down on garage doors in Humboldt Park. Or maybe that was too hard a name to spell. Maybe it would be just my initials.
Perhaps they’d do it even if I followed their orders. I’d be gunned down as I left the building. Lotty would be sorry then that she’d forced me into this. She’d be sorry but it would be too late. Much moved, I pictured my funeral. Lotty was stoic, Carol sobbing openly. My ex-husband came with his suburban-chic second wife.
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