“I can’t find my shoes,” Dal said, at approximately five a.m., just after I’d shaken him partially awake.
He was lying on the couch that he’d converted into a bed, reaching over to pat the carpet nearby, searching.
“Open your eyes,” I said. I was without mercy. My head was sore and, though the ice may have kept the swelling down, there was a lump where the pistol had connected that looked like a stunted devil horn.
“Okay,” Dal said. “My eyes are open.”
“Now look down the length of your body. See? You’re wearing your shoes. And your pants and shirt. You must’ve slept in them last night.”
“Right,” he said, rolling over to go back to sleep.
I considered dousing him with water.
By five-twenty-five, he was upright and more or less dressed in fresh clothes. His hair, still wet, hung down on his face, giving him the look of a Viking who’d been caught in the rain. “It’s still dark out,” he complained.
“How late was it when you got to sleep last night?” I handed him a cup of freshly brewed black coffee.
“Very. Mantata was pissed because I woke him up, so he got back at me by talking for over an hour.” He took a gulp of the coffee, winced at its heat, and put the cup on a table.
“I told you it was too late to call him,” I said.
“It’s his standing order that we let him know about things like the bathroom incident in, to use his words, a timely manner. He said he was going to check with his source at the CPD to find out what happened to Killinek and Heinz. And by now he’s probably got somebody running down the addresses on the licenses. Whatever else he is, the old bastard’s efficient.”
Dal stood. He stretched, cleared his throat, and said, “Okay, Billy, you got me up. You threw water on me and burned my mouth with hot coffee. What’s next on your torture list: Making me watch your show?” Ouch.
It wasn’t bad, as shows go.
The highlight for me was a segment of Karma’s featuring an excellent local singer who was promoting an upcoming swing festival in the city. In spite of our charming entertainment reporter’s obvious disregard for the style of music (“Isn’t swing sort of old-fashioned?”), the singer managed to remain upbeat and cheery. She’d brought along a seasoned trio, and they performed two of my favorite songs, both by Billy Strayhorn, “Lush Life” and “Take the ‘A’ Train.”
Afterward, I caught up with Karma just as she began ranting to Trina about not wanting “to be stuck with any more nostalgia shit. Let Lance do it. It’s more his age bracket, anyway.”
“Let me explain something,” our producer replied. “Lance Tuttle is a respected television journalist who interviews politicians, major celebrities, and, yes, what you call nostalgia shit, if and when he wishes. You, on the other hand, are a twit with big boobs, good hair and teeth, who interviews whomever I decide.”
“You”—Karma’s face reddened as she tried to think of the ultimate squelch—“liberal,” she said, with hauteur, and departed.
“Aw, snap!” Trina said, then turned to me. “What do you want, Billy?”
“To talk to the twit,” I said, and ran after Karma.
“My hair isn’t good,” she said, when I caught up with her, “it’s great. Everybody says so.”
“And your boobs aren’t just big,” I said, “they are spectacular, to quote the immortal line from Seinfeld.”
“What do you want, Billy? And what the heck happened to your head?”
“A spider bit me,” I said. “How late did you stay at the party last night?”
“I was there past the bitter end, with Sandford and Austin,” the Thief movie’s leading man and director. She squinted her eyes. “A spider? I hate spiders.”
“I heard there was some kind of ruckus just as the party was ending.”
She gave me a blank look. Well, blanker than usual. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe police showing up?”
“Not that I saw.”
“No ambulance?” I asked, thinking of the condition of the two men.
“Ambulance? Police? For Christ’s sake, Billy. If there’d been anything like that, I’d have got my cameraman all over it. I’m not an idiot.”
I thanked her for her kindness and was walking away when she said, “Are you talking about the drunks?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Well, when Derek finished his pitch on behalf of the movie, two of the guests who’d had too much to drink got into a little fight in the men’s loo. They had to be helped to their car.”
“Derek and a couple of the other guests.”
“Tell me about the other guests.”
“What’s to tell? Two of them. Just guys. They weren’t celebrities.”
“What’d they look like?”
“Who knows?”
“What were they wearing?”
“Who cares? Like I said, they weren’t celebrities.”
“Give it a little thought. It’s important.”
“Fuck you. I’m busy.”
I watched her go, although I’d rather have kicked her in the butt. And it was a nice butt. Went with the good teeth and big boobs.
Dal was sitting on a camp chair in our little makeshift office, phone to his ear. “Can you pause that?” I asked him.
He said something into the phone and lowered it, staring at me.
I relayed the information I’d extracted from Karma. He frowned, lifted the phone to his ear, and said, “Call you later.” To me, he said, “Did she say—”
He was interrupted by Kiki rushing in, cursing me for hiding from her, and announcing I had twenty seconds to my interview with Willard Mitry, the author of Da Mare.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I told Dal, and departed for the set, quick-scanning the notes I’d made on the book.
Mitry, a burly guy in his fifties with a mainly gray buzz cut and a matching mustache-Vandyke beard combination, was sitting before a camera, rigid as a wooden plank. He relaxed only slightly when I sat down beside him, freshly miked.
“They couldn’t find you,” he said, when we’d shaken hands. “The guy in the Hawaiian shirt said they might have to cancel the interview.”
“That’s just his way of relaxing the guests,” I said. “Everything’s okay. All we have to do is …”
I heard Gin McCauley introducing us. The camera directly in front of us blinked red. And we went live.
Fourteen minutes later, the network was peddling a diabetes product and Willard Mitry was being relieved of his mike. “On the air you mentioned your new project is a history of Chicago’s gangs,” I said.
“Right. Gangland, Illinois is the tentative title.”
“That seems to be a hot topic these days.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Derek Webber is hoping to launch a television series about the gangs.”
“Oh, yeah.” He was obviously relieved. “I thought you were talking about another book. I’m aware of Webber’s project. When he heard I was researching the book, he wanted me to meet with him. My agent said no.”
“Even before he heard the offer?”
“Jeb, my agent, Jeb Matthias, is probably a little conservative, but he’s not a big fan of Webber’s.”
“He have a specific problem?”
“He doesn’t trust the guy.”
“Is that because of the stuff Pat Patton said about Webber?”
“Not at all. Nobody with any intelligence paid attention to Patton’s rants. But speaking of Patton, that’s gonna be one hell of a story when they find out who killed him. I bet it’s Mob-related. Even way back, when I was starting out at the Trib, there were rumors that Patton was in Joe Nagall’s back pocket.”
That name rang a not-too-distant bell. Mantata had mentioned that Louis Venici, the man who’d killed Paul Lamont, had worked for Nagall. I longed to ask Mitry about Paul’s death, but I didn’t want him to wonder about my interest. Instead, I asked how Patton managed to keep moving up in the CPD.
“Like I said, there were rumors, no proof. And he wasn’t the only cop on the … I think your assistant is looking for you.”
I turned to see Kiki charging toward us. “Damn it, Billy, don’t make me keep chasing you. It’s ‘Goofy News’ time.”
That was one of my newer segments, prompted by a friend of our CEO who mentioned over dinner that the news was simply too dreary. To combat that, and just maybe to grab some of that successful Daily Show vibe, I was now, in addition to my other duties, the “Goofy News” reporter, essentially a voice-over chore accompanying odd people, things, and events captured on film. Edward R. Murrow would be proud.
“Gotta go, Willard,” I said, “but I’d like to continue our conversation. Any chance you might be free for lunch?”
“I’m on Gemma Bright’s show at noon, but I’ll be out around one.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the studio.”