room. Afterward I dropped Murray at the Fullerton L stop and went on home alone. I’m past the age where bed-hopping has much appeal.
Chapter 6 - Uncle Stefan ‘s Profession
SNOW WAS FALLING the next morning as I made my five-mile run to Belmont Harbor and back. The ice-filled water was perfectly still. Across the breakwater I could see the lake motionless, too. Not peaceful, but sullenly quiet, its angry gods held tightly by bands of cold.
A Salvation Army volunteer was stamping his feet and calling cheery greetings to commuters at the corner of Belmont and Sheridan. He gave me a smiling “God bless you” as I jogged past. Must be nice to have everything so simple and peaceful. What would he do with an Aunt Rosa? Was there any smile broad enough to make her smile back?
I stopped at a little bakery on Broadway for a cup of cappuccino and a croissant. As I ate at one of the spindly-legged tables, I pondered my next actions. I’d met with Hatfield yesterday more out of bravado than anything else—it brought me some sort of perverse pleasure to irritate his well-pressed Brooks Brothers facade. But he wasn’t going to do anything for me. I didn’t have the resources to pry into the Dominicans. Anyway, even if Murray Ryerson turned something up, what would I do about it if Rosa didn’t want me investigating? Wasn’t my obligation finished with her abrupt command to stop?
I realized that I was carrying on this internal monologue as an argument with Gabriella, who didn’t seem pleased with me for bugging out so early. “Goddamn it, Gabriella,” I swore silently. “Why did you make me give you that crazy promise? She hated you. Why do I have to do anything for her?”
If my mother were alive she would shrivel me on the spot for swearing at her. And then turn fierce intelligent eyes on me: So Rosa fired you? Did you go to work only because she hired you?
I slowly finished my cappuccino and went back out into a minor blizzard. Strictly speaking, Rosa had not fired me. Albert had called to say she didn’t want me on the job any longer. But was that Albert or Rosa speaking? I should at least get that much clear before deciding what else to do. Which meant another trip to Melrose Park. Not today—the roads would be impossible with the snow: traffic creeping, people falling into ditches. But tomorrow would be Saturday. Even if the weather continued bad there wouldn’t be much traffic.
At home I peeled off layers of shirts and leggings and soaked in a hot tub for a while. Being self-employed, I can hold my review of operations and management anywhere. This means time spent thinking in the bath is time spent working. Unfortunately, my accountant doesn’t agree that this makes my water bill and bath salts tax deductible.
My theory of detection resembles Julia Child’s approach to cooking: Grab a lot of ingredients from the shelves, put them in a pot and stir, and see what happens. I’d stirred at the priory, and at the FBI. Maybe it was time to let things simmer a bit and see if the smell of cooking gave me any new ideas.
I put on a wool crepe-de-chine pantsuit with a high-necked red-striped blouse and low-heeled black boots. That should be warm enough to walk in if I got stuck in the snow someplace. Wrapping my big mohair scarf around my head and neck, I went back into the storm, adding the Omega to the queue of slowly moving, sliding cars trying to get onto Lake Shore Drive at Belmont.
I crept downtown, barely able to see the cars immediately next to me, and slithered off at Jackson. Leaving the Omega next to a snowdrift behind the Art Institute, I trudged the six blocks to the Pulteney Building, which looked worse than usual in the winter weather. Tenants had tracked snow and mud into the lobby. Tom Czarnik, the angry old man who calls himself the building superintendent, refuses to mop the floor on stormy mornings. His theory is that it will just get nasty again at lunch, so why bother? I should applaud a man
Chapter 6 - Uncle Stefan ‘s Profession
SNOW WAS FALLING the next morning as I made my five-mile run to Belmont Harbor and back. The ice-filled water was perfectly still. Across the breakwater I could see the lake motionless, too. Not peaceful, but sullenly quiet, its angry gods held tightly by bands of cold.
A Salvation Army volunteer was stamping his feet and calling cheery greetings to commuters at the corner of Belmont and Sheridan. He gave me a smiling “God bless you” as I jogged past. Must be nice to have everything so simple and peaceful. What would he do with an Aunt Rosa? Was there any smile broad enough to make her smile back?
I stopped at a little bakery on Broadway for a cup of cappuccino and a croissant. As I ate at one of the spindly-legged tables, I pondered my next actions. I’d met with Hatfield yesterday more out of bravado than anything else—it brought me some sort of perverse pleasure to irritate his well-pressed Brooks Brothers facade. But he wasn’t going to do anything for me. I didn’t have the resources to pry into the Dominicans. Anyway, even if Murray Ryerson turned something up, what would I do about it if Rosa didn’t want me investigating? Wasn’t my obligation finished with her abrupt command to stop?
I realized that I was carrying on this internal monologue as an argument with Gabriella, who didn’t seem pleased with me for bugging out so early. “Goddamn it, Gabriella,” I swore silently. “Why did you make me give you that crazy promise? She hated you. Why do I have to do anything for her?”
If my mother were alive she would shrivel me on the spot for swearing at her. And then turn fierce intelligent eyes on me: So Rosa fired you? Did you go to work only because she hired you?
I slowly finished my cappuccino and went back out into a minor blizzard. Strictly speaking, Rosa had not fired me. Albert had called to say she didn’t want me on the job any longer. But was that Albert or Rosa speaking? I should at least get that much clear before deciding what else to do. Which meant another trip to Melrose Park. Not today—the roads would be impossible with the snow: traffic creeping, people falling into ditches. But tomorrow would be Saturday. Even if the weather continued bad there wouldn’t be much traffic.
At home I peeled off layers of shirts and leggings and soaked in a hot tub for a while. Being self-employed, I can hold my review of operations and management anywhere. This means time spent thinking in the bath is time spent working. Unfortunately, my accountant doesn’t agree that this makes my water bill and bath salts tax deductible.
My theory of detection resembles Julia Child’s approach to cooking: Grab a lot of ingredients from the shelves, put them in a pot and stir, and see what happens. I’d stirred at the priory, and at the FBI. Maybe it was time to let things simmer a bit and see if the smell of cooking gave me any new ideas.
I put on a wool crepe-de-chine pantsuit with a high-necked red-striped blouse and low-heeled black boots. That should be warm enough to walk in if I got stuck in the snow someplace. Wrapping my big mohair scarf around my head and neck, I went back into the storm, adding the Omega to the queue of slowly moving, sliding cars trying to get onto Lake Shore Drive at Belmont.
I crept downtown, barely able to see the cars immediately next to me, and slithered off at Jackson. Leaving the Omega next to a snowdrift behind the Art Institute, I trudged the six blocks to the Pulteney Building, which looked worse than usual in the winter weather. Tenants had tracked snow and mud into the lobby. Tom Czarnik, the angry old man who calls himself the building superintendent, refuses to mop the floor on stormy mornings. His theory is that it will just get nasty again at lunch, so why bother? I should applaud a man
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