a hot stove since he saw you clinched with that kid the other night.”
“I can’t call up and apologize for being found necking at my own front door.”
“Just go easy on him, will you, Vicki? I’m fond of the boy. I don’t want an explosion on my staff because you’re turning them on and off like faucets. I know there’s been something between you and John, even though neither of you admits it; I don’t want a blowup between him and Mickey. Or Mickey and you. You may not believe it, but I’m fond of you too.”
My cheeks flamed again, this time with embarrassment. “There’s never been anything between McGonnigal and me. He gave me a lift home last winter in the middle of the night. I was beat, he thought I looked cute when vulnerable, we had one kiss and both knew we couldn’t cross that line again. Since then it’s been like I was Cleopatra’s asp. And I’m damned if I’m going to apologize to him for that.”
“Don’t swear, Vicki, it’s not nearly as attractive as you modern young women think.” He put his glass down on the magazines covering the coffee table and got up. “I was talking to Monty yesterday afternoon-Roland Montgomery, Bomb and Arson Squad-he knows I know you. He says you’re poking around in that Indiana Arms fire we asked you not to touch.”
I gave a tight little smile. “Just playing police, Bobby- I wouldn’t worry about it since it’s only a game, not the real stuff.”
He put a large hand on my shoulder. “I know you think you’re a big girl-what are you now, thirty-five? Thirty- six? But your parents are both dead and they were my close friends. No one’s so big they don’t need someone else looking out for them. If Monty said to keep away from that fire, you keep away. Arson’s about the nastiest thing on this planet. I don’t want to see you messed up in it.”
I closed my lips in a tight ball to keep my ugly words in. He’d touched about ten raw nerves in five minutes and I was too angry to give any kind of coherent response. I saw him to the door without telling him good-bye.
When I heard his car start I sat at the piano and vented my feelings in a series of crashing, dissonant chords. Yeah, I ought to practice, ought to keep my voice limber before I got too old and my vocal cords lost their flexibility. I ought to be everyone’s good little girl. But for my own self-respect I needed to solve the arson.
I got up from the piano and jotted a second note to Robin:
I sent you a report this morning, but as I’ve thought over the case during the day I believe it is critical to locate the person who sent Jim Tancredi the money for the track.
It was only when I’d mailed it that I calmed down enough to wonder why Bobby had come to see me-to talk to me about Michael Furey? Or to warn me off the Indiana Arms investigation?
20
Heavy Warning
Bobby’s visit left such a bad taste in my mouth that I wanted to tell Eileen I couldn’t make it to her party. But Bobby was right about one thing-you shouldn’t saw off the limb you’re sitting on just to salve your pride.
I called a couple of friends to see if anyone wanted to take in a movie but everyone was out. I left messages on various machines and stomped off to the kitchen to scramble some eggs. Normally sitting home alone on Saturday doesn’t trouble me, but Bobby’s visit made me wonder if I was doomed for an old age of crabby isolation.
I turned on the TV and moodily changed channels. You’d think Saturday night they could offer something enticing for the stay-at-homes, but the networks thought all America was out dancing. When the phone rang I turned off the set eagerly, thinking maybe someone was returning one of my messages. I was startled to hear Roz Fuentes’s husky voice.
She didn’t even say hello before she started lambasting me for butting my nose into her business. “What are you trying to do to me, Warshawski?” Her voice had recovered its usual rich, throaty timbre; the vibration through the phone made my ear tingle.
“I’m not doing anything to you, Roz. Don’t you have a campaign to run? Why are you picking on me?”
Her rich chuckle came, but it lacked mirth. “Velma called me. She said you were trying to get her to spill some dirt on me, that she put you in your place but she thought I ought to know. What kind of dirt are you looking for, anyway?”
I bared my teeth at the phone. “Hey, Roz-Velma put me in my place. Relax.”
“Vic, I gotta know.” She spoke softly, urgently-it was like listening to the Chicago Symphony string section. “This campaign means
It had been too long a day for me to make any great display of subtlety. “Roz, I don’t care if you’ve been sleeping with Boots and the whole county board to get yourself on the ticket. What bugs me is you going out of your way to ask me if I was sandbagging you. What would even make you
“I came to you as a show of respect for our old relationship,” she said indignantly. “Now you are twisting my friendship into something evil. Velma was right. I should know better than to turn to a white girl with my concerns.”
“A white boy is okay, though?” I was thoroughly riled. “Boots can be your ally but I can’t? Go save the Chicago Hispanics, Roz, but leave me out of it.”
We hung up on that fractured note. I was mad enough to call Velma to demand chapter and verse on not trusting me just because I was white, but a conversation like that can go nowhere constructive.
Sunday morning I got a further indication that the Fuentes-Meagher pot had something cooking in it when Marissa invited me to stop by for drinks that evening. Something spontaneous and casual, was how she put it, for people she hadn’t spent enough time with at Roz’s campaign. I told her I was truly overwhelmed to be remembered by her and that the thought of such an evening was irresistible. Marissa had herself well in hand, though, and refused to be ruffled.
At five I set out for her Lincoln Park town house, one of those three-story jobs on Cleveland where every brick has been sandblasted and the woodwork refinished so it glows warmly. Marissa rented out the ground floor and lived in the upper two.
When I got to the top of the first flight she met me in the landing to escort me into what she called her drawing room. As usual Marissa looked great, her idea of casual being bulky red silk trousers, a matching pajama-style top, and lots of silver jewelry. I hadn’t worn jeans, but I couldn’t help feeling she’d dressed with the intention of making me look dowdy.
The drawing room, which had once been the two front bedrooms, ran the width of the building, its row of mullioned windows looking out on Cleveland. Whatever negative thoughts I had about Marissa didn’t include her taste-the room was simply but beautifully furnished, a high-Victorian look predominating, complete with red Turkish rugs scattered at strategic places. An exotic array of plants gave the whole scene warmth.
When I complimented her she laughed and said it was all due to her sister, who owned a plant rental business and rotated fresh shrubbery for her every few weeks. “Let me introduce you to some of the folks, Vic.”
Some fifteen or twenty people were chattering with the ease of familiarity. As she led me toward the nearest group the doorbell rang again. She excused herself, telling me to help myself to a drink and see if I knew anyone.
I’d half expected to see Roz, or even the Wunsch and Grasso contingent, but the only person I recognized was Ralph MacDonald. I tipped my hat to Marissa-she must be even better connected than I’d realized for the great man to spend a Sunday evening at such a low-profile function as this.
He was talking to a couple of banker-looking types who’d dressed down for the weekend in open-necked shirts and sport jackets. Two women in their little group were talking sotto voce to each other so as not to disturb the boys. This sample of good wifely conduct made me gladder than ever I hadn’t stood by my own man, a lawyer who now lived in palatial splendor in Oak Brook.
The bar, set in the corner behind one of the trees, had just about anything one’s heart could desire, including a bottle of indifferent champagne. The whiskey was J &B, a brand I can take or leave, so I poured myself a glass
