Windy City Blues Read Online Free

Someone should try to find out…” Kalijero groped for words.
    “What? Just say it.”
    “The
way
they killed the guy. They turned his head into a pulp—somebody’s way of sending out a sick message.”
    “Whose way?”
    “That kind of memo usually comes from organized crime. Gangs, Mafia.”
    “That’s one memo you’ll be glad not to get.”
    Kalijero hung up on me for the second time in two days.

5
    Leaning against the butcher block island, I re-counted the money Izzy had given me, fully aware that a black and white cat sauntered back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, lashing her tail and meowing every four or five steps. About the time I reached the thirtieth C-note, my ankle erupted in pain. Punim was hungry.
    I dropped a pile of livers, kidneys, hearts, and gizzards into her bowl and then prepared a sandwich of raw tofu on rye with sliced tomatoes, fake mayo, and toasted ground sesame seeds. I ate and once again confirmed I had fifty portraits of Ben Franklin in my possession. The phone rang.
    “I know how to get in touch with Ross,” Knight said.
    “So you’re gonna help me?”
    “Only if you promise me exclusive rights to the story behind the murder.”
    “There might not be a story behind the murder. What’s Ross’s number?”
    “I want it in writing—that only I get the story. I’ve got the papers at Mocha Mouse for you to sign.”
    Had I not already come to terms with this bizarre character—assistance from him would require tolerance, acceptance, and surrender—I might have allowed my anger to ruin what had been a perfectly good morning.
    —
    Investigating a murder meant wearing a shoulder harness again. I holstered my .40-caliber and headed to a coffee shop named for a saxophone-playing rodent. Knight himself, in his black horn-rimmed glasses and dark wiry hair piled high, seemed an appropriate caricature for a diner with a Buddy Holly theme. Probably the strangest kid I ever met. A privileged white boy dreaming of the “hood,” oblivious to how idiotic his unconvincing ghetto slang sounded. His toothy grin annoyed me the most. I knew he’d be at his usual table, the one in the back surrounded by ten chairs, nine of which were empty. Knight fantasized of one day leading an Algonquin Round Table of tabloid journalists. He had a long way to go.
    “Good to see you again, Jules.” Knight fidgeted with a sheet of paper.
    I took a seat three chairs away. “Let’s get this over with.”
    Knight pushed the paper at me. “I should’ve told you to bring a lawyer. I’ll give you a couple of days if you need advice.”
    I noticed “Gelashvili” was mentioned in the first paragraph. “You saw Ross’s article?”
    “I called Peter. A parking officer hunted down; brain scrambled; fifty-eight bucks in his wallet? Credit cards untouched? Apartment ransacked? And you’re going to tell me there’s not a story there? Even the meth heads, whores, and drunks hate those parking Nazis.”
    I read through the agreement, three paragraphs stating in no uncertain terms that in exchange for unfettered access to Peter Ross, I would reveal any and all information regarding the murder of Gelashvili to Ellis Knight and only to Ellis Knight. What bullshit.
    “Just in case you’re getting ideas, Ross won’t talk to you until I tell him you’ve signed.”
    “Yeah? And if you get the big story, you gonna share a byline with him?”
    Knight stared at me a moment. “That’s none of your business.”
    “Okay, Ellis.” I scratched my name out on the designated line. “You own me. Now give me his number. And he better be cool, or I’ll shove this agreement down your throat and let you void it out your ass.”
    I slid the document back to Knight, and he dug out a piece of paper from his pocket. “Here’s his number,” he said and handed it over to me. I grabbed it and walked out.

6
    On the phone, he sounded older than I’d expected; when we met up in person, he looked about mid-fifties.