“You were really married to her, darling? So messy and irresponsible—and hanging around with gangsters, too? I can’t believe it.”
The thought of plastic Terri made me laugh a little. I got up from the floor and changed from my running clothes into jeans and a bright red knit top. I scribbled a note detailing where I was going and why and took it down to the backyard where Mr. Contreras was hovering anxiously over his tomato plants. They were heavy with ripening fruit.
“How’d they do last night?” I asked sympathetically.
“Oh, they’re fine. Really fine. You want some? I got too many here, don’t know what to do with them all. Ruthie, she don’t really want them.”
Ruthie was his daughter. She came by periodically with two subdued children to harangue her father into moving in with her.
“Sure. Give me what you don’t want—I’ll make you some real old-world tomato sauce. We can have pasta together this winter…. I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Sure, cookie. Whatever you want.” He sat back on his heels and carefully wiped his face with a handkerchief.
“I have to go see some punks tonight. I don’t think I’m going to be in any danger. But just in case—I’ve written down the address and why I’m going there. If I’m not back home tomorrow morning, can you see that Lieutenant Mallory gets this? He’s in Homicide at Eleventh Street.”
He took the envelope from me and looked at it. Bobby Mallory had been in the police with my dad, maybe’d been his closest friend. Even though he hated my working in the detective business, if I died he’d make sure the relevant punks got nailed.
“You want me to come with you, cookie?”
Mr. Contreras was in his late seventies. Tanned, healthy, and strong for a man his age, he still wouldn’t last too long in a fight. I shook my head.
“The terms were I have to come alone. I bring someone with me, they’ll start shooting.”
He sighed regretfully. “Such an exciting life you have. If only I was twenty years younger…. You’re looking real pretty today, cookie. My advice, if you’re going to visit some real punks, tone it down some.”
I thanked him gravely and stayed talking to him until lunch. Mr. Contreras had been a machinist for a small tool-and-die operation until he retired five yearsago. He thought listening to my cases was better than watching
Cagney & Lacey.
In turn he regaled me with tales of Ruthie and her husband.
In the afternoon I drove over to Washtenaw Avenue and slowly cruised past the meeting place. The street was in one of the more run-down sections of Humboldt Park, near where it borders on Pilsen. Most of the buildings were burned out. Even those still occupied were covered with spray-painted graffiti. Tin cans and broken glass took the place of lawns and trees. Cars were hoisted up on crates, their wheels removed. One was parked about two yards from the curb, partially blocking the street. Its rear window was missing.
The address where I was to meet Sergio belonged to a thickly curtained storefront. It was flanked on one side by a partially demolished three-flat, and on the left by a bedraggled liquor store. When I arrived tonight, Lions would be hidden in the ruined building, probably lounging in front of the liquor store, and signaling each other from lookouts at both ends of the block.
I turned left at the corner and found the alley that ran behind the buildings. The three ten-year-old boys playing stickball at its entrance were in all probability gang members. If I drove down the alley or talked to them, word would inevitably get back to Sergio.
I could see no way to make a reasonably protected approach to the meeting place. Not unless I crawled along the city sewers and popped up from the manhole in the middle of the street.
7
The Lions’ Den
I still had eight hours before the rendezvous. I figured if I made every golden minute count today, I could go to Lotty, Tessa, and the Alvarados on Monday and
The thought of plastic Terri made me laugh a little. I got up from the floor and changed from my running clothes into jeans and a bright red knit top. I scribbled a note detailing where I was going and why and took it down to the backyard where Mr. Contreras was hovering anxiously over his tomato plants. They were heavy with ripening fruit.
“How’d they do last night?” I asked sympathetically.
“Oh, they’re fine. Really fine. You want some? I got too many here, don’t know what to do with them all. Ruthie, she don’t really want them.”
Ruthie was his daughter. She came by periodically with two subdued children to harangue her father into moving in with her.
“Sure. Give me what you don’t want—I’ll make you some real old-world tomato sauce. We can have pasta together this winter…. I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Sure, cookie. Whatever you want.” He sat back on his heels and carefully wiped his face with a handkerchief.
“I have to go see some punks tonight. I don’t think I’m going to be in any danger. But just in case—I’ve written down the address and why I’m going there. If I’m not back home tomorrow morning, can you see that Lieutenant Mallory gets this? He’s in Homicide at Eleventh Street.”
He took the envelope from me and looked at it. Bobby Mallory had been in the police with my dad, maybe’d been his closest friend. Even though he hated my working in the detective business, if I died he’d make sure the relevant punks got nailed.
“You want me to come with you, cookie?”
Mr. Contreras was in his late seventies. Tanned, healthy, and strong for a man his age, he still wouldn’t last too long in a fight. I shook my head.
“The terms were I have to come alone. I bring someone with me, they’ll start shooting.”
He sighed regretfully. “Such an exciting life you have. If only I was twenty years younger…. You’re looking real pretty today, cookie. My advice, if you’re going to visit some real punks, tone it down some.”
I thanked him gravely and stayed talking to him until lunch. Mr. Contreras had been a machinist for a small tool-and-die operation until he retired five yearsago. He thought listening to my cases was better than watching
Cagney & Lacey.
In turn he regaled me with tales of Ruthie and her husband.
In the afternoon I drove over to Washtenaw Avenue and slowly cruised past the meeting place. The street was in one of the more run-down sections of Humboldt Park, near where it borders on Pilsen. Most of the buildings were burned out. Even those still occupied were covered with spray-painted graffiti. Tin cans and broken glass took the place of lawns and trees. Cars were hoisted up on crates, their wheels removed. One was parked about two yards from the curb, partially blocking the street. Its rear window was missing.
The address where I was to meet Sergio belonged to a thickly curtained storefront. It was flanked on one side by a partially demolished three-flat, and on the left by a bedraggled liquor store. When I arrived tonight, Lions would be hidden in the ruined building, probably lounging in front of the liquor store, and signaling each other from lookouts at both ends of the block.
I turned left at the corner and found the alley that ran behind the buildings. The three ten-year-old boys playing stickball at its entrance were in all probability gang members. If I drove down the alley or talked to them, word would inevitably get back to Sergio.
I could see no way to make a reasonably protected approach to the meeting place. Not unless I crawled along the city sewers and popped up from the manhole in the middle of the street.
7
The Lions’ Den
I still had eight hours before the rendezvous. I figured if I made every golden minute count today, I could go to Lotty, Tessa, and the Alvarados on Monday and
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