CHAPTER 28

River North is Chicago’s answer to Soho on the East Coast and Venice Beach on the West. Not much of an answer, but what the hell, it’s the Midwest.

Twenty years ago the area was rife with tumbledown hotels and warehouses. Today the warehouses are art galleries; the flophouses, million-dollar condos. The sidewalks are wide, clean, and full of admen dressed in Ted Baker and carrying portfolios. The women are nice to look at. Younger, in their twenties and early thirties, they wear low-riders and belly rings. Tattooed and perpetually cell-phoned, they curl themselves around a Cosmo at bars like the Martini Ranch, waiting to be discovered or better yet, find an investment banker who will carry them off to a duplex in Winnetka, 2.5 kids, and an expense account at the North Shore Country Club. If all else fails, women in River North get drunk, dance on the bar at Coyote Ugly, and scout around for some fun. Sometimes known as guys like me.

In the heart of River North sits an unassuming storefront, red-brick with a plate-glass window and whitewashed frame addition. A single-bulb electric sign is hammered in out front. The black block lettering reads MR. BEEF. To the untrained eye, it might seem like just another sandwich joint. Inside, however, is an entirely different matter. Inside, in fact, is an entirely different state of mind.

To the left is the counter, peopled by three or four workers, yelling at one another in a variety of languages. On the other side of the counter are the customers, various and sundry specimens of Midwestern Man, stuffed and on display.

Specimen #1: Large belly hanging over frayed leather belt, Wrangler jeans, Red Wing work boots, and a key ring dangling on the side.

Specimen #2: Large belly hanging over fake leather belt, Men’s Warehouse suit, cracked Florsheim shoes, and a cell phone clipped on the side.

Specimen #3: Large belly hanging over money belt, Tommy Bahama silk pants, Cole Haan slip-ons, and a racing form stuffed in a side pocket.

And on it goes.

Each day any and all forms of Midwestern Man line up, single file, amid pictures of Leno, Letterman, Sinatra, and, of course, Da Coach. Midwestern Man, however, ignores all the pretty faces on the wall. He is here to pay homage to the true star of the show: Da Beef.

It is sliced thin off a roasting skewer and slid into a soft Italian roll. The beef is ordered dipped or not, with hot, sweet, or both. Dipped means the entire sandwich is dipped in its own juices before being wrapped up in white paper and shoved across the counter. Hot and sweet refers to peppers, usually.

Order a hot, sweet beef, dipped—you get it with the works. You also get some of the crudest sexual comments known to man as the sandwich is being prepared. They come from the regulars, average age 107. They sit like the peanut gallery they are, stacked on stools along the front window, all day, every day. They sip coffee and talk about sex they haven’t had since Christ was a carpenter. Nice guys, funny guys. A lot of fake hair, a lot of chains, a lot of grabbing themselves. There are worse things to be doing when you are 107. Like being dead.

I got to Mr. Beef ten minutes late for my lunch with Masters. I ordered a sweet beef, dipped, and found the detective in a far corner, under a movie poster for Reservoir Dogs. He had a toothpick in his mouth, was drinking a Coke, and picking at some fries.

“Sorry, I got hung up,” I said.

Masters took one look and grunted.

“Every time I come here, I wonder why I ever eat anywhere else. Hold on while I get another sandwich.”

Five minutes later, we were both set up. Me for lunch. The detective for an encore.

“You want to talk about the file,” I said.

Masters hoisted his beef with two hands, took a bite, and looked at me through hunched shoulders as he chewed. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t supposed to be. Then he drank down twenty ounces or so worth of Coke and belched.

“Where is it?”

I pulled a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket.

“Like I told you over the phone, she sent them to me by FedEx.”

“These copies?”

“Yeah. I kept a set.”

Another belch. More subtle this time. Then a sucking sound as Masters hit the bottom of his soda cup.

“Figured that,” the detective said.

“There is a copy of the FedEx slip as well.”

“No sweat, Kelly. I don’t have you killing Mulberry. Just like I don’t have you killing Gibbons. I told you, that was the DA’s thing.”

Masters spread the papers out on the table and gave them a quick scan.

“A police report, medical exam, and follow-up. I don’t see anything in here worth much.”

I kept quiet. Masters continued.

“Five fresh murders landed on my desk this morning. Triple homicide on the West Side and a mom who fed her two kids a load of Drano.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. In other words, I don’t have time for this shit.”

Masters rolled up his sandwich wrapper and shot it into a barrel a few feet away. Then he folded up the copies I had given him and stuffed them into a back pocket.

“Want to know what I think?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Gibbons was in the wrong place at the wrong time down on Navy Pier. Got himself mugged and then shot for good measure.”

“His wallet was found on his body.”

“Gibbons’ landlady got her house broken into.”

“How many guys break into a house with a Taser rigged for kill?”

“It happens,” Masters said. “Especially to women who live alone.”

“No connection between the two?”

“Nothing that I can see.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Show me a connection and I’ll listen.”

Masters got up to go.

“You know, I could charge you with about six different offenses, starting with obstruction of justice and tampering with a crime scene.”

“But you won’t,” I said.

“I will if you hold out on me again.”

I nodded as if I understood and thought about the package I had given Nicole.

“Next time you find a body,” the detective continued, “pick up the phone and give me a call. I told the guys up front you had the tab for lunch. Pay on the way out.”

Masters walked out the door. I took a bite of my sandwich and wondered just how much the cop had actually eaten.