Hunting Sweetie Rose

CHAPTER 12.

Jennifer Gale called right after I got back to the turret. “Let’s meet for lunch,” she said.

“The rope?”

“I’ve got news.”

She would also have questions about the clown’s death, Rivertown, and my zoning. She would dig at all kind of things I didn’t want to talk about.

At that moment, sour and cranky from thinking about Amanda and her silver-haired friend, the idea of being interrogated by Jennifer Gale about anything at all sounded splendid. I agreed in less time than I should have.

“We’ll meet at noon,” she said. She gave me directions to a place I’d never heard of, adding, “Typical gourmet: miniscule portions and enormous prices, but there’s never a crowd. It’s a great place to talk. I hope you’ll be dressed appropriately.”

“I never am, not for a gourmet place.” I was wearing one of my three pairs of khakis and one of my three blue button-down shirts.

“See you in a half hour.”

I put on my floral tie and my blazer. Then, mindful of the sneezing I’d set off in the elevator rising to Sweetie’s penthouse, I lingered for a moment outside, in the cleansing breeze off the Willahock, before getting into the Jeep.

The name of the place, Galecki’s, matched what she’d given me, but everything else about it was wrong. The walls were paneled in fake knotty pine, worn yellow-and-white-checkered oilcloths covered the tables, and the place was mobbed with enough blue collars to make me think the food was good and reasonably priced. The day’s special, stuffed cabbage rolls, was chalked on a board above the cash register, in English and in Polish.

I’d been had, by a woman who might be as playful as she was beautiful and threatening. I took off my tie, jammed it into my blazer pocket, and worked my way through the crowd to add my name to the waiting list.

“Elstrom?” The hostess looked me up and down as if she were inspecting beef. She was a babushka with a heavy Polish accent, another Ma Brumsky, though ideally she possessed a more refined taste in movies.

“Elstrom?” she repeated, holding out the menu like she was going to jerk it back if I answered wrong.

“Yes.”

“Miss Fancy Pants Gale phoned, tell me to seat you at her special table.” She led me through the packed dining area to a tiny, two-person booth behind a floor-to-ceiling shelf filled with napkins, dishwashing detergent, and enough bottles of ketchup to disguise all the fish and lasagna I’d ever microwave.

Jennifer Gale had been straight about one thing. The booth was secluded enough from the din to be the perfect place to talk.

The hostess left me with the menu. A moment later, a waitress brought me coffee with a knowing smile. Obviously, not everybody got to sit behind the ketchup at Ms. Fancy Pants Gale’s special booth.

Jennifer breezed in five minutes later, followed closely by the hostess. She wore a green sweater and khakis, though her khakis had been pressed more recently than mine, perhaps that very day. Perhaps even, judging by their perfect fit, while she was inside of them.

Fancy pants, indeed.

She slid into the booth, saw the hostess looking closely at me.

“Forget it,” Jennifer said to the babushka. “He’s got a rich girlfriend.”

The older woman pursued her lips. “How rich?”

“Mama!”

The hostess shot her a dark look, winked at me, and left.

“That’s your mother?”

“Who else but a mother would act so blatantly? I tell her I’m happy with my career. She can’t imagine how that can be, if I don’t already have three kids and am not pregnant with a fourth.”

“It’s Galecki, then, not Gale?”

“My maiden name. I thought Gale sounded better for the news.”

“You’re married?”

For the briefest of instants, her features froze. “He died.”

The waitress came back with coffee for Jennifer and a refill for me. Jennifer said something to her in Polish. The waitress smiled, took my menu, and went away.

“What am I having?” I asked.

“The cabbage, but everything’s good here.”

“Especially Mama?”

She smiled. “Especially Mama.” She took a sip of her coffee. “If Elvis Derbil is a minion, not a born risk taker, who is telling him what to do?”

“I don’t see anyone at city hall telling him to venture past the town limits.”

“Who, then?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Then tell me about the clown’s rope.”

“You’re the one who wants to go see it,” I countered.

“Work with me, Dek Elstrom. I have resources you can’t match.”

“To use for broadcast, unfortunately.”

“OK. Same deal as we have with your zoning story: nothing about the clown for broadcast, until you say-but not for forever, and you must bring me along, every step of the way.”

Her conditions were reasonable, and I did need to see the rope to be sure.

“As you suggested the last time we met, I think the rope was cut,” I said.

“Murder?”

“I have no idea who would have motive.”

Our lunch came. Mine was four cabbage rolls, set on a pile of potato dumplings. Hers was a small cup of broth, clear enough to pack no threat to her exquisitely tailored khakis.

We ate. I was hungry and diligent, and gave up after finishing only a quarter of what I’d been served.

The waitress frowned as she took my plate away.

“The rope?” Jennifer Gale asked.

“Yes?”

“I’ll be apprised, every step of the way?”

“Yes.”

She smiled, victorious. “We’ll go right now.”

The waitress came back with two square foam containers. I hadn’t told her to pack what she’d taken away.

Jennifer leaned forward. “Open them.”

Inside the first was what was left of my cabbage rolls and dumplings. The second contained a stuffed green pepper, some kind of sausage, two potato pancakes, and a thick slice of ham.

“A sampling of what could be in my dowry.” She laughed, and we got up.

At the cash register, I wanted to pay, but Jennifer would have none of it. She wanted to pay, but Mama would have none of that.

“It’s not going to work, Mama. His girlfriend is rich, real rich,” Jennifer said.

Mama ignored her, turned to me. “You come back?”

“Thank you. I will.”

Mama wagged a finger. “But not with any rich girlfriend.”

Jennifer grabbed my arm and pulled me out of there.

I followed her south, to the police station I’d visited before. We walked in together. Fortunately, a different desk sergeant was on duty. He took our names, made a call. A minute later, another sergeant came for us.

She was tall, over six feet, and as rail thin as some of the rich women I’d seen at Sweetie Fairbairn’s party. Clearly, she’d never dawdled over dumplings at Galecki’s.

“Jennifer Gale, it’s a pleasure,” she said, sticking out her hand.

Jennifer introduced me simply as an associate, and we followed the sergeant down a tiled corridor to a dark-stained door that had a thick wire-mesh screen screwed behind its frosted glass. The sergeant opened the door, told us to wait by the counter just inside, and walked back between the rows of shelves. She came back holding a plastic tub.

“This lockup isn’t staffed full-time?” Jennifer asked.

“We don’t keep key evidence in here. Just the ancillary stuff.” The sergeant took the lid off the tub, withdrew a plastic bag big enough to hold a roast, and hefted it onto the counter. Inside the bag was a coiled rope.

“The rope stays in the bag,” the sergeant said.

Jennifer looked over at me. I nodded that it was all right. I was confident that Leo’s calculations had been accurate enough to show that the rope had been shortened.

I lifted the bag and held it up to the fluorescent lights. Though the bag was new and clear, I couldn’t make out the condition of the ends.

“Could you open the bag enough to let me see inside?” I asked.

The sergeant looked at Jennifer. “You do understand, we’re just talking a bad knot here?”

“Accident, no doubt,” Jennifer said. “As I told you on the phone, there are rumors of people suing the owners of the building. For what I don’t know, but I want to be ready in case. I have a look at the rope, see for myself to make sure it isn’t frayed or anything, so I know, in case I need to know.” She shrugged.

It was an effective performance. Jennifer had said nothing, but she’d said it in a Chicago neighborhood-speak so effortlessly that the sergeant had begun nodding along, in time with her cadence.

The sergeant put on blue plastic gloves and opened the bag so I could see in.

One end was immediately visible. It had been dipped in some kind of gluelike substance. It was a factory-sealed end.

“Can I see the other end, please?” I asked.

“For frays?” the officer asked, unconvinced.

“For frays,” Jennifer said quickly.

The sergeant maneuvered the opening in the bag until the other end was visible.

That end was raw, unsealed. Freshly cut.

Jennifer thanked the sergeant, and we left.

“Someone cut that rope,” Jennifer said outside, on the sidewalk.

“No doubt.”

“Your client, that security guy? Or someone he’s fronting?”

“I can’t imagine,” I said.