Although Benny’s had been around since the 1940s, they’d moved several times and their present incarnation was in the South Loop. The place wasn’t much more than a one-story shack with a red sign outside; inside were two rooms with a lot of tables crammed together. There was no pretense at decoration, and the food was served cafeteria-style. Still, by the time Georgia pushed through the door at lunchtime the next day, the place was teeming with cops, aldermen, lawyers, and other Chicago VIPS, all of whom jostled each other good-naturedly.
The staff at Benny’s were notorious for a smart-ass attitude, but customers gave as good as they got, and the hot, steamy air was filled with cheerful put-downs, one-liners, and verbal jabs. The best part, though, were the smells. Part garlic, part corned beef, grease, and soup, nothing was better than the aromas wafting through a good deli, Georgia thought. She’d inhale them all day.
She approached a counter that ran the length of the room where about a dozen people stood in line. Three men behind the counter were making up sandwiches, dishing out latkes, coleslaw, and soup. At the end of the counter was a neon “Carry-Out” sign, below which two Hispanic women assembled meals and slid them into paper bags. On the counter between the two women lay a box of wrappers with the familiar red and yellow stripes down one edge. She watched as one of the women drew out a wrapper. Now that she could see the whole piece, she noticed the name “Benny’s” printed in red letters in the center of the paper. Rick Martin had been on the mark. They’d customized their wrap.
Even so, she couldn’t loiter too long; the place was geared for a speedy turnover. She waited near the carry-out sign, and when it was her turn she ordered a corned beef on rye to go. She watched as they layered more than three inches of meat on the bread. Enough for a week. She asked for extra coleslaw and Russian dressing, and one of the women snapped, “Why you not ask for a Reuben?”
She apologized with a smile and said, “Don’t forget the latke and pickle.”
The woman shot her a look. “Whaddya wanna drink?”
“Diet Coke.”
The woman retrieved a small plastic container with coleslaw, another with Russian dressing. Then she wrapped the sandwich, latke, and pickle, put everything and the drink into a white bag, and handed Georgia a yellow receipt. Georgia took everything up front to pay, winding around a couple of aldermen she regularly saw on TV. She also passed a man who looked remarkably like Senator Dick Durbin.
Back in her car, she unwrapped the sandwich, latke, and pickle but made sure to save the wrap. She bit into the sandwich. It was just as good as she remembered. It was a clear but frigid day, and she’d almost ordered matzoh-ball soup too, but the sandwich alone was so hearty she could eat only half. She had no room for soup. She finished the pickle, took a bite of the latke, then slipped everything else back into the bag. Dinner.
She’d snagged a space across the street from the restaurant on Jefferson where she could watch people going in and out. She fished out her camera and took pictures of anyone exiting with a take-out bag, although she didn’t expect any leads. Still, she had to be thorough.
The sun was slanting toward the horizon when a gray Hyundai with a placard on the roof that said “Benny’s” pulled up in front of the restaurant. Georgia straightened. A delivery guy.
An average-sized man in a down jacket and a wool Bears hat climbed out of the Hyundai and went inside. Georgia got out of her car and stationed herself in back of the Hyundai, shivering in the arctic chill. The guy came out ten minutes later, carrying two cardboard boxes filled with bags with tickets stapled to them. He looked to be somewhere in his twenties. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he needed a shave. Guy had a rough night. He got in his car and drove away.
Ten minutes later another car, a Corolla like Georgia’s, also with a placard on the top, pulled up. She watched a young African American man trot into the restaurant, emerging a few minutes later with a box of white bags. He stowed the food in his backseat and pulled out.
She went back to her car and watched him pull away, but not before she’d scrawled down his license plate, just as she’d done with the first guy. She’d wanted to question both about their deliveries over the past few weeks, but they had no incentive to talk to her. Even if they did, they might tell those customers that a detective had been nosing around asking questions. Plus, she didn’t know which delivery guy knew what. She had a fifty-fifty chance of picking the right guy. Which meant a fifty-fifty chance of choosing the wrong one too. It was time to go home and start digging.