The woman got up from her desk and went through the double doors. She looked to be in her early forties and genetically blessed. I followed her as she walked in front of the desk and noticed that she had a nameplate sitting next to a vase of long-stemmed tulips in various stages of bloom. MS. PAM ELSWORTH, EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT. Ice Culpepper was making it clear that regardless of what you thought about his enterprise, he ran a very official operation.
Ms. Elsworth returned with a soft smile, and within a few seconds we were being shown through the doors. The nameplate next to the door simply said, THE CHAIRMAN. The office was almost as wide as the lobby, and it was equally ornate. Oil paintings in gold frames, built-in bookcases with leather books that looked like they were a hundred years old, dark wood and crystal lighting fixtures everywhere. It was like an English gentlemen’s club from the last century. Four guys sat in leather banker chairs in the corners of the room. They, too, could’ve been strong reinforcement on the Bears’ defensive team. Behind the desk was a tall, slim man in a charcoal-gray three-piece suit and a bowler hat tipped to the side. A gold chain hung across his vest and into the watch pocket. He was smoking a thick cigar. It smelled strong but good. A sparkly diamond-and-gold presidential Rolex hung from his narrow wrist.
“How can I help you, gentlemen?” Ice said, pulling the cigar from his mouth. He was surprisingly articulate, almost to the point of distraction. He remained in his semireclined position. It was clear that he was in charge.
“I’m Ashe Cayne,” I said. “This is Dmitri Kowalski. We’d like to talk to your nephew, Chopper.”
“Oh really?” He took a long pull on his cigar and blew an enormous cloud of blue smoke into the air. I expected a lot more bling from someone who ran a multimillion-dollar gang enterprise, but Ice was surprisingly conservative. He wore only one ring, a thin gold wedding band. No platinum caps on his teeth or those tacky oversize necklaces studded with cheap diamonds. By the stitching and fit of his suit, it looked to be custom made.
“Probably not so good for your oils,” I said, nodding to the cigar. “The smoke can wreak hell on the paint. You wouldn’t want to ruin a million-dollar Picasso.”
Ice smiled and looked at his guys. “A real smart-ass,” he said. “First rate. Takes a lotta nerve to walk in here mouthing off when you’re outnumbered.”
One of the guys in the far corner started to move. He was reaching inside his coat. Ice kept his eyes on me but backed down the guy with a small twitch of his hand. He took a sip of some dark-colored liquor in a tumbler on his desk. “What business do you have with my nephew?” Ice said.
“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “A young woman has disappeared. I’ve been hired to find her.”
Ice nodded slowly as he evaluated my words. He rotated the cigar in his mouth, then took a long drag. His fingers were long, his fingernails professionally manicured and clear coated. “And what’s Chopper got to do with your missing woman?”
“That’s what I want to find out,” I said. “Supposedly this missing woman is his girlfriend.” I reached into my pocket to pull out the picture of Tinsley Gerrigan. Before my hand could reach the photograph, four silver-nosed .44 Magnums were conspicuously aimed at my vital organs.
“It’s just a photograph,” I said, raising my hands slowly. “No need to get antsy, gentlemen.”
Ice did that finger twitch again, and the guns disappeared. I finished pulling out the photograph and dropped it on the desk.
Ice picked it up and took a long hard look at it. I watched his eyes. They were a light brown, almost the color of sand. I had never seen a black man with eyes that color.
He passed the photograph to the guy on his right. “A tall scoop of American vanilla,” he said. “What the hell is she doing messing with Chopper?”
“I was wondering the exact same thing,” I said.
“What’s her name?” Ice asked.
“Tinsley Gerrigan.”
Ice pulled the cigar out of his mouth and sat up in his chair. “You just say Gerrigan?”
“Uh-huh.”
“As in the real estate family Gerrigan?”
“Uh-huh.”
“As in this is the old man’s daughter?”
“Uh-huh.”
Ice fell back in his chair. “Well, goddamn! Little Chopper done found himself a blue-eyed snow bunny, and a rich one at that. Not bad for a nappy-headed West Side boy. Things in Chicago ain’t what they used to be.”
7
I STOOD IN MY office later that morning indefatigably trying to sink five putts in a row from seven feet away while thinking about the meeting with Ice. He was pleasantly surprised that Chopper had reeled in a rich North Shore girl, almost like it was an external validation. At the same time, he was worried that Chopper might be playing too far out of his league. He gave us his blessing to have a chat with his nephew.
I continued swinging my putter, because after almost an hour now, the most I had gotten was three. I don’t know exactly why, but for some reason I did my best thinking while going through my putting routine. One of my overly intellectual friends had once described it to me as the distraction method. According to his reasoning, thinking too hard on a particular topic could get you trapped in an eddy of inconsequential thoughts; shift concentration onto something else, and what you were thinking about before now came to you in much tighter focus. Distraction method or not, Tinsley Gerrigan was still missing, the retainer check from her mother had cleared in my account, and I had
