Deadlock by Sara Paretsky Page A

rich. If we lose our glamour, they lose the basis for their existence.”
    While we talked Phillips kept darting glances at his watch and muttering, “Uh, Niels,” in his tight voice. He reminded me of a child tugging at its mother’s skirts while she’s absorbed in conversation—Grafalk gave him about the same amount of attention. Finally Phillips stood up. “Uh, Niels, I’d better leave now. I have a meeting with, uh, Rodriguez.”
    Grafalk looked at his watch. “We’d all better be going, I guess. Miss Warshawski, let me take you over to PercyMacKelvy and get the
Bertha Krupnik
’s location for you.” He got a bill from the waiter and signed it without looking at the amount, politely waiting for me to finish. I dug the heart out of my artichoke and cut it into four pieces, savoring each one, before putting my napkin to one side and getting up.
    Phillips lingered with us in the doorway, despite his meeting. He seemed to be waiting for some sign from Grafalk, a recognition of who he was, perhaps, that would enable him to leave in peace. The power of the rich to bestow meaning on people seemed as though it might work with Phillips.
    “Don’t you have a meeting, Clayton?” Grafalk asked.
    “Uh, yes. Yes.” Phillips turned at that and walked back across the tarmac to his Alfa.
    Sheridan accompanied me over to Grafalk’s office. “I want you to come back to the
Lucella
and talk to Captain Bemis when you’re finished here,” he said. “We need to know if you can tell us anything about what your cousin wanted to say.”
    I couldn’t, of course, but I wanted to know what they could tell me about Boom Boom, so I agreed.
    Our visit to Grafalk’s office was interrupted by reporters, a television crew, and an anxious phone call from the chairman of Ajax Insurance, which covered Grafalk Steamship.
    Grafalk handled all of these with genial urbanity. Treating me like a treasured guest, he asked the NBC television crew to wait while he answered a question for me. He took the call from Ajax chairman Gordon Firth in MacKelvy’s office.
    “Just a minute, Gordon. I have an attractive young lady here who needs some information.” He put Firth on hold and asked MacKelvy to dig up the
Bertha
’s location. She was making a tour of the Great Lakes, picking up coal in Cleveland to drop in Detroit, then steaming up toThunder Bay. She’d be back in Chicago in two weeks. MacKelvy was to instruct the captain to place himself and the crew at my disposal. Grafalk brushed my thanks aside: Boom Boom had been an impressive young man, just the kind of person the shipping industry needed to attract. Whatever they could do to help, just let him know. He returned to Firth and I found my way out alone.
    Sheridan had waited for me outside, away from the reporters and television crews. As I came out a cameraman thrust a microphone under my nose. Had I seen the disaster, what did I think of it—all the inane questions television reporters ask in the wake of a disaster. “Unparalleled tragedy,” I said. “Mr. Grafalk will give you the details.”
    Sheridan grinned as I ducked away from the mike. “You’re quicker on your feet than I am—I couldn’t think of a snappy remark on the spur of the moment.”
    We walked down the pier to the parking lot where his Capri sat. As he backed it out of the lot he asked if Grafalk had told me what I wanted to know.
    “Yeah. He was pretty gracious about it.” Overwhelmingly gracious. I wondered if he were bent on erasing any unfavorable ideas I might have picked up as a result of his interchange with Bledsoe. “Why did Grafalk’s remark about where Bledsoe went to school upset him so much?” I asked abruptly.
    “Was that what set him off? I couldn’t remember.”
    “Grafalk said: ‘At Martin’s school they went in for a lot of memorizing.’ Then something about
his
being a gentleman and not needing to know anything. Even if Bledsoe went to some tacky place like West Schaumburg Tech,