Chicago Typewriter

9.

I hammered again and again on the door to the Largo residence.

Far to sluggishly for my liking, lights turned on inside. The porchlight clicked on, illuminating my grim visage.

The door cracked open. The suspicious young eye of Ike Largo peered out from behind a security chain. "Who is it?"

"Detective Lucy. Your dad at home?"

"It's three in the morning! What are you, crazy?"

"Let him in, Ike." It was Millie's voice. The door opened. Ike gripped carried a fireplace poker in a white-knuckled fist. Millie, in a housecoat, palmed a little pistol, the kind that little old rich ladies kept in their handbags. She didn't point it at me, though. Ike lowered his iron skewer, too.

"Millie. Ike. Sorry about the hour. I gotta talk to your dad. It won't wait."

The teenagers looked at each other. They looked at me. "Er," Ike said.

I frowned. I frowned deep. "Where is he? Where can I reach him?"

"We don't know," said Millie.

"Not even a telephone number?"

They both shook their heads. They looked so glum, I lost all my grouchy. I gently said, "Let me guess. It started pretty good with Bianca, but now it's, uh, bad."

"So bad," Millie said. "But it's Buster, too. And Dad's gone half the time." Ike clenched his jaw stubbornly.

"Right. Look. Stick with each other, all right? You two got each other, and you can count on each other. And you can't count on anybody else right now." My grumpy was back. I hoped they listened.

"We can count on you, Mr. Lucy," Millie said, more like a wish than faith.

"Don't. I'm not reliable. Listen, if your dad comes in before work, tell him not to go. Beg. Plead. Let the air out of his tires. Yank the wires off his spark plugs. Tell him to call in and talk to me. Got it?"

Ike stood a little straighter. His jaw-clench grew more resolute. "Got it."

Millie asked, "Is he in danger, Mr. Lucy?"

"Yeah."