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I WAS LEANING against a lamppost when Starr hammered out of Bloody Maxwell and sliced a path across the street. “Pascal,” I said, pulling up beside him. “Pascal Pennyroyal. His mother eats frog legs and hasn’t shaved her underarms since 1920.”
A parking ticket flapped beneath the Buick’s wipers. After skimming a hoary palm over the side panel, he plucked it away, tore it straight down the middle, and let the breeze take the fluttering strips away.
“Just isn’t your day.”
He pushed me aside, wedged himself behind the steering wheel, and reached for the door handle.
I stepped back. He cranked the door shut and fired up the engine. I watched the bomber’s trunk fishtail down Maxwell Street in a cloud of exhaust and hang a left. In no rush, I strolled toward the Bel Air, arranged myself in the driver’s seat, and cranked the engine. Frank Sinatra was singing Young at Heart over the radio. I turned up the volume, gazed into the rearview mirror, and smoothed my hair.
At this time of day, traffic heading downtown was usually backed up. Making things worse, the bascule bridges along the south branch of the river were on a rolling system, perfectly timed to block crosstown traffic in seamless symmetry while allowing nautical traffic to parade beneath without losing smoke stacks or sailing masts. To avoid the inevitable traffic jams along with the honking horns, simmering tempers, and heat rising up from asphalt pavement, I took a shortcut, zigzagging down side streets, slipping through underpasses, and hogging delivery lanes. Finally, putting muscle into the steering wheel, I cut out of a side street, hung a right, and floored the accelerator.
My timing was off by seconds.
At Adams Street, the lights blinked, the bell clanged, and the wide arms of the bridge groaned into an upside-down V position. I braked to a screeching halt. The front bumper of the Bel Air benignly tapped the Buick’s rear bumper. Starr adjusted his rearview mirror and acknowledged me with a grudging shake of his head. I drummed the steering wheel, impatient for the bridge to lower and the chase to resume. Hey There by Rosemary Clooney filled the airwaves.
When the bridge fell back into place, the Buick accelerated over the steel-riveted span and bounced toward Wacker Drive. Halfway across the intersection, Starr hit the brakes, stripped the gears into reverse, and squealed a circle around the Bel Air. He waved before hightailing it into Lower Wacker Drive.
It was scary down there. Drivers were known to get lost for days in the underground maze, going round and round on an endless merry-go-round of dead ends and wrong-way signs. The grid served downtown buildings with convenient delivery bays but also provided escape routes for quick getaways. I didn’t try to follow him but took a leisurely crosstown shortcut toward the next logical stop-off when investigating a cold-blooded murder.
Fifteen minutes later, I was waiting in front of the county morgue with arms crossed and foot tapping. The Buick pulled up and parked. Starr crossed the street, his fedora angled rakishly over an eye. He was studying the Bel Air. “You had the front end raked,” he said.
“You noticed.” I couldn’t help bragging. “This baby is shaved and decked, ported and polished. She’s got a louvered hood, dual exhausts, half-moon hubcaps, and tri-power carbs. I can put her away without breaking a sweat.”
He looked at me askance. “Who taught you to drive, Grenadine?”
“Daddy’s chauffeur.”
“Tell me another.”
“Used to be Bugs Moran’s getaway man.” When his eyes narrowed, I said, “If you don’t believe me, ask Bugs.”
“He’s in prison.”
“Naw, when did that happen?”
Even if he didn’t believe me, which he should have, he wasn’t sure if he should completely dismiss my claim. Gears were churning inside his head. He was thinking I was handy to have around. I was thinking along the same lines. Call it a mutual love-hate relationship. We couldn’t stand each other, but we couldn’t stand to lose sight of each other, either. Even if he didn’t entirely trust me, and the feelings were mutual, we worked well together. He might be a private detective, but I had as many connections, as much street smarts, and more guts than anybody he’d ever meet, in this lifetime or the next. He inhaled an even breath and exhaled it slowly. He’d made a decision. Taking a firm but respectful hold of my elbow, he escorted me inside.
In the sterile hallways of Cook County Morgue, the odors of alcohol and formaldehyde clung to the walls. Starr knew where he was going, and he wanted to get there fast: through long corridors, past countless doors, and over innumerable floor tiles, buffed to waxy perfection.
“Afraid of viewing the stiff by yourself, Starr?”
“Seen plenty.”
In the autopsy room, a white-swathed cadaver was laid up like a rainbow trout on a bed of ice. Holes punctured the stainless-steel autopsy table, allowing fluids to drain into a collection tank underneath. A disembodied brain lay in an ice-packed basin.
I hugged myself for warmth. Starr held a handkerchief to his mouth. The coroner flicked away the sheet. Byrnes wore a toe tag and nothing else. The top of his skull had been cracked from ear to ear. The doc lifted a bullet to overhead lights. “Thirty-eight caliber,” he said. “Pointblank range. Drilled a hole through the frontal lobe and into the motor cortex. Didn’t stand a chance. One minute it was up ...” He glanced at the corpse’s scrotum. “The next he was singing Glory Hallelujah. Not the worst way to go.”
He held up a cellophane bag and raised a speculative eyebrow. “Found several blonde hairs.”
I squinted into the bag. “Maybe strawberry blonde?” I asked.
He made a closer inspection and nodded agreement. “Also found this in his pocket. It’s for tonight.” He handed over a theater ticket.
Starr flipped it over. “Byrnes didn’t seem like the opera type.”
“Maybe the missus was,” the coroner said.
“They were separated,” I said.
“Makes sense then ... just the one ticket.”
Starr handed it back to the coroner.
In the fresh air, Starr strolled at my side, hands shoved into his pockets and tongue toying with a toothpick. Sparkling with mischief, his eyes slipped sideways. He dragged a hand out of his pocket and displayed the filched theater ticket. I made a grab for it, but he re-pocketed it.
“Dick,” I said.
He chuckled and headed for the Buick. I strutted towards the Bel Air and jammed myself behind the steering wheel. We took off in opposite directions.
A few minutes, I dropped a dime in a pay phone while the Chevy idled nearby. When the line connected, I said, “Got anything for me?”
