Chicago Typewriter

5.

In my cubicle at the station, I plopped my coat on the typewriter, then plopped my head on that and dreamed. Once the brown eyes, perfume, and open robe hallucinations stopped, I think I caught a little nap.

I woke up with a little inspiration.

I put my coat and hat on and rushed past the chief's empty office. I told the guy at the front desk, "I'm going to a flophouse at the corner of Water and Commerce, Bruce. Got an idea."

The officer on duty looked up. "Huh? I'm Willard. We've only known each other two years, Lucy. How do you solve cases when there's just a lot of empty between your ears?"

"Beats me."

"Beats everybody. But you solve 'em, all the same. Wait. What'd you say? Water and Commerce? That's a rough neighborhood. Want backup?"

"Nah, I'm just poking around. Say, where's the chief?"

"Vacation day, I think."

"Oh. Say, when did the chief get married again?"

"A couple years back. Just before you and the air in your head transferred in, I guess. Some guys get all the luck. What a tomato!"

"And when did his first wife die?" At this point, I started to hear myself talk. I spoke like I was on a case. I was investigating the Largo family. This wasn't, was not, going to end well. 

"Oh, years and years ago. Died in childbirth. I met her a few times. The chief was only a lieutenant back then."

"I see. Thanks, uh, uh ..."

"Willard. Get out of here, ya dope."

I grunted and left. The chief took a day off? I didn't see him at his house, I just saw Bianca. And the chief's doppelganger. That little glimpse into Largo family life smelled rotten, but the last thing I wanted to do was get involved in family matters. For example, nine out of ten murders were family affairs. And, it was none of my business. Wait, I was already involved, wasn't I? Rats.

I went to the corner of Water and Commerce. The flophouse was a seedy pile of cracked plaster and peeling paint. The place creaked and swayed in the wind coming off the lake. I shouldered into the dim interior. Some unseen Irishman whistled, his repetitive tune blending with wind-generated moans from drafty cracks in the rattletrap building. A couple of shambling forms reeking of rotgut roamed the dark halls. I let them pass and went to Room 8. I knocked.

Somebody snored inside. I tried the corroded doorknob. It didn't budge. I forced it. With a rusty scrape, it yielded. I saw four bunks, two occupied. Of the two snoring lumps, I picked the one that looked like a shaggy red porcupine, and nudged the body gingerly with my toe. "Muddy. Wakey, wakey."

The other occupant, a pale blob of flab and whiskers, remained inert. Mike "Muddy" Gorman turned his head and looked at me with puffy eyes. "What? Who?" I had sent Muddy to jail last year on pickpocketing charges. Friends we were not, but we knew each other. 

I flapped a dollar in front of Muddy's face. "I want to find Iggy. Where's he at?"

"Lucy? Aw, bugger off. What time is it?" But Muddy tried to get my dollar anyway.

I plucked it away from his clumsy fingers. "Where's Iggy?"

"Aw, Lucy. Iggy's getting deeper in. He don't wanna be found these days."

"I just want to talk to him."

"Ten dollars."

"It's a ten-cent question, Muddy. You're getting a dollar because I woke up generous today."

"Will you let me sleep if I tell you?"

"With pleasure."

Weary relief spread over his unlovely features. "It's a room under Bertha's Bakery on 6th. Now, gimme that and leave."

I let the dollar drop and quit the flophouse without a backward glance.

I motorcycled straight over to 6th Street and drove around the block to get a feel for the layout. Brick buildings huddled close together. A few people were on the sidewalks. It was still morning. If Iggy Iglesias lived under the bakery, odds were good he'd still be asleep. Mostly, guys like him did their dirty work at night.

I delayed long enough to buy a screwdriver at a hardware store, then I marched right over to the back of the bakery and down an uneven half-flight of stairs. I jammed my new screwdriver where the latch met doorframe and jimmied the lock. The scraping sounds weren't too loud. The door opened two inches, then banged, arrested by a chain.

I frowned, but didn't hesitate. I didn't think of getting backup, either. I really should have.

I put my shoulder to the door and heaved. With loud splintering noises, it burst open and I rushed into an empty kitchen. I ran on, through the only doorway, into a dim second room. In front of a half-seen cot a guy knelt, dragging something heavy out from underneath.

He got to his feet, and turned, lumpy metal in his grasp. I arrived, and laid a hand on the tommy gun, deflecting it away from me. "Iggy! I just want to —"

Iggy wasn't in a mood for chit-chat. He growled and ripped the machine gun away from me. I kneed him in his soft middle. He folded. I smashed the blunt end of my new screwdriver on the back of his skull. I went after the tommy gun, next. The struggle wasn't dignified, but I got the mass of metal, at cost of a bludgeoned ear and a punch to the gut. Iggy still had fight in him. He kept coming after me. I backed off a step and wound up like a baseball batter. With his clubfoot, fancy footwork wasn't his forte. I swung. The hollow thunk of steel on bone ended his panting. He dropped like a hole in one.

"Foul ball," I panted.

I found a pull chain on a bare light bulb and looked around. Iggy was still breathing. Strong pulse. Iggy had some nice suits in the wardrobe, and some new shoes. I checked his pants pockets. "What's this? Two? Three hundred dollars?"

I spotted a valise. Nice leatherwork. Inside: jewelry. I lifted out a necklace. I held it up. Diamonds, lots of them. I spread it out, dangling it between my hands.

I was concentrating so much, I didn't notice that Iggy and I had company. A small whisper of sound behind me made me half turn, but I was too late. In a blinding flash of pain, my world splintered into fragments, and the fragments melted.