Part 18 (1/2)
27.
Hounding a Newshound Murray wasn't at the HeraldStar, but he rated a personal a.s.sistant now, so I got to speak to a human voice instead of a machine. When I told her I had important information on the Frenada story-and gave her enough details to convince her I wasn't one of the horde of nutcases who always have important information on breaking stories-she said Murray was working at home.
”If you leave your number, I'll give it to him when he calls in for his messages,” she promised.
I told her I'd call back later and didn't leave a name.
I pulled on clean jeans and a scarlet top and took the Smith & Wesson out of the f.a.n.n.y pack. I balanced it on my palm, trying to decide whether to take it or not. In my present mood I might use it on Murray, but that was a risk he'd have to take: I felt more secure with the weapon. I put it in a leg holster, where I could get to it if I acted like a contortionist. The straps dug into my calf.
No one stopped me on my way to the Rustmobile. I kept checking my mirror on the way to Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive, but if I was being tailed it was expertly done. I detoured downtown to my bank and left a copy of the report on Frenada in my safe deposit box. Heading back north, I swung by Tessa's mother's palace on the Gold Coast long enough to leave spare padlock keys with the doorman so that Tessa could get into our building.
I didn't bother to look for parking on the streets near Murray, since there never is any. I left the Skylark in the alley behind his building, underneath a sign that said: warning, WE CALL THE POLICE TO TOW UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES. Let them.
Murray lives in one of those sixflats with woodburning fireplaces, tessellated marble floors in the entryways, and all the other stuff you get if you can afford a Mercedes convertible. The bells were brightly polished bra.s.s set into cherry paneling.
When Murray's voice came through the intercom, I pinched my nose and said, ”Florist. Delivery for Ryerson.”
We all imagine we're so special that an unexpected gift of flowers doesn't seem surprising. Murray released the lock and waited for me in his doorway. Sinead O'Connor was wafting out from the living room behind him when I got to the second floor. The surprise in his face when he saw me did not seem to include delight.
”What the h.e.l.l are you-”
”Hi, Murray. We need to talk. Is AlexSandy here?”
He didn't move from the doorway. ”What do you think this is? A public library with regular visiting hours?”
”That's very good. I'll have to use that. Like the next time you come around unannounced with Alex FisherFishbein to con me into framing someone for you.
What did you say to her: ”Let's sprinkle some crumbs from the Global table in front of Warshawski, she's so perennially hard up she'll jump on them like a carp on live bait?'”
His face darkened. ”I tried to do you a favor. Just because you're in some twentyyearold catfight with Alex-”
”Darling Murray, when I'm in a catfight you see the gashes a jaguar leaves. But it's hard for even a jungle cat to do much against a shark. Are you her partner or her patsy?”
”I've listened to you mouth off a lot of bull to a lot of people over the years, but this is the most offensive thing I've heard you say yet.”
”Did she tell you Global planned to toss my place? And did she mention whether they were sowing or reaping?”
His scowl got uglier, but he moved out of the doorway. ”You'd better come in and tell me what happened before you go off halfc.o.c.ked to Alex.”
I followed him into the living room and sat uninvited on one of the couches. He picked up a remote gadget and shut off his stereo, a cute system about as thick as my finger, with silvery speakers like rockets tucked into the corners of the room.
He leaned against the wall: this wasn't a social visit and he wasn't going to sit. ”Okay. What happened to your place?”
I eyed him narrowly, even though I know you can't read the truth in most faces.
”Someone planted three-large-bags of c.o.ke in it while I was out of town last week.”
”Don't bring it to me. Call the cops.”
”I did that very thing. A specimen named Lemour, who apparently freelances for BB Baladine, or maybe Jean Claude Poilevy, beat me and tried to have me arrested. That was when he couldn't find the stuff. And he knew exactly where it was supposed to be.” I smiled unpleasantly and cut off Murray as he started to speak. ”I ran a secret camera during the search.”
His scowl didn't lighten, but a shade of doubt came into his eyes. ”I'd like to see the film.”
”So you shall. I'm having your very own copy made for you. And today, because we've been pals for a long time and I hate to see you turn into a fawning sycophant for the studio, I am handdelivering to you the LifeStory report I ran on Lucian Frenada two days before Global decided he needed to be discredited.”
Murray's eyes blazed with fury at my studied insult, but he s.n.a.t.c.hed the envelope out of my hand and sat down opposite me. While he examined the report I looked at the mess of papers on the gla.s.stopped table. He'd been finetuning his script for tonight when I arrived: even upside down it was easy to make out Frenada's name.
After a couple of minutes Murray dug out another report from the pile in front of him-his copy of Frenada's finances-and began a pagebypage comparison. When he finished, he flung both of them onto the table.
”How do I know you didn't forge this?”
”Feeble, Murray: the creation date is embedded in the report. What I want to know is what Frenada knew about BB Baladine-or Teddy Trant-that made the studio come after him.”
”He was hara.s.sing-”
”No.” I cut him off sharply. ”He was not hanging around the hotel. He came there once, and Lacey met with him for an hour in her suite. Frank Siekevitz, the Trianon's security chief, may be changing his tune now, but he told me that a week ago. I'll be honest-Lacey has refused to talk to me-but I don't believe that crock about Frenada hara.s.sing her. I think Global wanted me and Frenada both out of the picture. They'd give me so huge a fee for getting dirt on him that I couldn't speak against them-and he'd be discredited. I know nothing that could interest, or harm, the studio, so why they're riding me so hard I don't understand. Whether Frenada did is another matter, but one we're not too likely to find out at this juncture. But one thing I will stake my reputation on is that he was not in the drug trade.”
Murray's full lips tightened in a thin line. I realized I wasn't used to seeing his mouth-in all the years I'd known him he'd covered it with his beard. His face looked naked now, with a kind of bewildered petulance replacing his anger.
It made me uncomfortable and I felt myself softening-into his ma or his scoutmaster. Mr. Contreras's admonition came back to me and made me laugh.
”Yeah, it's really funny. Maybe I'll get the joke in a year or two,” Murray said resentfully.
”I was laughing at myself, not you. What are you going to do with this?”
He hunched a shoulder. ”Cops found five kilos of c.o.ke in his office Sat.u.r.day night.”
”Put there by the same hand that planted them on me. Unless you think I, too, am running drugs in from Mexico?”
”Nothing you do would surprise me, Warshawski. Although it wouldn't be like you to do something that actually turned a profit. Where is the stuff you found?”
”St. Louis.”
”St. Louis? Oh. You flushed it.”
The Chicago sewers flow into the Chicago River. To keep the lake clean, we reversed the current of the river so that our sludge-properly treated, of course-flows backward, into the Mississippi. I suppose eventually it reaches New Orleans, but our rivalries are local-we prefer to think we're dumping on St.
Louis.
”In that case, you've got no proof. I don't know what to make of this report.
It's the only thing that contradicts my story. It may be that new evidence came in between when you asked and when I did.”
”In fortyeight hours?” I lost my temper again. ”If you go on the air tonight with this slander against Frenada I am going to persuade his sister to sue the studio and you for every dime you have.”