“Some do,” said the waiter. “I’d pay Little Duke to eat all his meals here. Nobody messes with this place. All but the dumb ones, the really dumb ones. I can handle them. Anything else I can get you? On the house.”
“Half a dozen donuts to go?” asked Franco.
“Done,” said the man, who limped away.
The tow truck was parked at the curb. A quartet of men was leaning against it, side by side. They were all in their twenties or thirties, all needing shaves, all with chins up, and all with T-shirts and attitudes, all of them black.
Franco stepped up to the one blocking the passenger side door and politely said, “Pardon me.”
“I don’t think so,” said the young man softly, meeting Franco’s eyes. “You are not pardoned, not for any fuckin’ thing you did, are doing, or will do for the rest of your motherfuckin’ life.”
“We were with Little Duke,” Lew said.
“I don’t see no Little Duke,” the man blocking the door said, looking around. “I don’t see no duke, baron, earl or king. I just see two white guys shitting their pants.”
Franco shook his head and grinned.
“You find this funny, chubby?” asked the man at the door.
In answer, Franco handed Lew his bag of donuts, grabbed the man by the neck and hurled him toward the restaurant. The man had trouble keeping his balance, doing a trick dance to keep himself from falling. Two of the others against the truck cursed as they took an angry step toward Franco. Franco was ready, arms out. The man he had hurled was heading back to join the others.
“Okay,” said the fourth young man, still leaning back against the truck. “That’ll do.”
The three men facing Franco stopped.
The fourth man, the one they had heeded, was short, teeth even, serious.
“We were just having some fun,” the young man said. “No one has to get hurt either side and we don’t want a visit from Little Duke. Get back in your truck, thank your God, and play with your rosary on your way home.”
Franco was breathing heavily now, leaning forward, arms at his sides, eyes moving back and forth from face to face. Franco wasn’t sure that he wanted to go.
“Let’s go,” Lew said.
Franco shook his head, lowered his arms, took the bag of donuts back from Lew and moved around to the driver’s side. Lew reached for the handle of the passenger side door. His eyes met those of the leader.
“Eric Monroe,” Lew said.
“No,” said the young man. “I’m his kid brother.”
“You look just like Eric Monroe,” Lew said.
Monroe let out a small laugh and turned his head.
“You can tell black men apart?”
“It’s what I do,” Lew said. “What’s your brother doing?”
“Playing for some team in France, hanging on, signing autographs, playing first base now, getting older, saving nothing.”
“He was good,” Lew said.
“Telling me?” Monroe said, tapping the brim of Lew’s Cubs cap. “He was the best. Still pretty damned good, but-”
Franco started the engine.
Lew reached for the door.
The young man gave him room to climb in.
When he lifted his leg, the shot came. The first pop of a Fourth of July rocket. The bullet thudded into the door.
The four men ran to the wall of the Tender. Lew looked up.
“Get your ass in that truck and get down” shouted Monroe. “Someone’s shooting at you.”
Lew climbed in and closed the door. Franco hit the gas.
As they pulled away, Lew saw an old woman across the street. She had a shopping bag in one hand. With the other she was pointing.
“I saw him,” she shouted. “I saw the shooter, saw him clear as healthy piss. White man over by the alley, over there. Saw him.”
Her voice drifted away.
“Posno?” asked Franco as they drove.
“Maybe.”
“Who else wants you dead?”
“Maybe the driver of the car that killed Catherine.”
“Posno, right? Same thing,” said Franco.
The phone buzzed as they hit Lake Shore Drive and headed south. Franco dug into the bag for a donut.
“There’s a bullet hole in your door,” said Lew.
“Damn. Toro can take care of that.”
“Went through,” said Lew, looking at the hole.
“Yeah,” said Franco. “What’re you gonna do? Shit happens.”
The phone hummed.
Lew ducked his head and reached down as Franco hit the speakerphone button and said, “Massaccio Towing.”
Milt Holiger’s voice came on.
“Lew?”
“I’m here, Milt.”
“Bank lead is a bust,” he said. “I went there. Santoro did do a lot of legal work for First Center. Estate settling, bequests, nothing involving Catherine, you. Dead end.”
“Thanks, Milt,” Lew said, still with his head down. He and Catherine once had a small savings account in First Center.
“I’m sorry. Anything else I can do?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Lew sat up as Milt Holiger signed off. In Lew’s hand were the mangled remains of a bullet. He showed it to Franco.
“Is it 9 mm?”
“I think so,” said Lew.
On the way south, they passed a late-model blue Pontiac with its hood up and a man with his hands in his pockets watching the traffic move past. Franco pulled in front of the Pontiac, turned on his revolving light and said, “Gotta check.”
He got out and called back to the man, “Need help?”
“Yes,” he said.
Five minutes later, the Pontiac was being towed, the man was squeezed in next to Lew, and Franco was making arrangements to bring the car to a garage in Naperville.
“Name’s Kerudjian, Theodore Kerudjian,” the man said. “I repair copy machines, business, home, whatever.”
He handed Franco and Lew cards.
“But what I really want to do is direct,” he said. No response.
“That’s a joke,” said Kerudjian.
“You know other ones?” asked Lew.
“Sure, you want to hear some?”
Kerudjian turned his head toward Lew. The man was probably in his late sixties, maybe he was seventy. He was short, baldness firmly established against a desperate island of gray hair.
With enthusiasm and arm movement, laughing at his own timing and punch lines, Kerudjian told a string of jokes, pausing after each to say, “Funny, huh?”
“It’s funny,” Franco agreed.
