Painted Black, page 19
“Bet she’s got booze somewhere here,” he said out loud.
Before he could even start looking, however, the phone rang. He stared at it, hope aching in his chest even while he knew it wasn’t for him. Couldn’t be anyone for him. The answering machine in the kitchen clicked on and he moved closer to listen.
“Madonna, it is me, your favorite Latin lover to be.”
Chris laughed bitterly. But he stayed to listen, recognizing the voice of the man they’d met at the morgue.
“I know we will be having dinner in a few days,” the message went on, “but I am concerned for your safety. I try your cell and your work, but no answer. Madre Mia, I hope all is well. It is enough to drive a man crazy. Your mystery man has been found. By asking a few simple questions, I have frightened the chicken from out of his coop. He has admitted someone from Sloan and Whiteside has been trying to tempt him to ‘sell’ unclaimed bodies. Me, I suspect things have progressed beyond temptation into the need for confession and reparation, and have already contacted the police.”
Chris was tempted to snatch up the phone to talk to the guy. His hand hovered in the air.
“My concern, sweet Jo, is that this man from the funeral home knows who you are and that you have been asking questions. Call me, Madonna, as soon as you can. I shall be at work until six o’clock.”
Chris’s hand still hung suspended after the call ended. He knows who you are and that you have been asking questions. Both hands came down flat on the kitchen counter and he leaned forward, staring blindly at the cupboards.
He’d been so busy worrying about Lexie, feeling sorry for himself, he hadn’t even thought about what might happen if Jo got messed up in this. And Jack. It was only a small step to get to Jack, too.
To make it worse, here he was, sitting on his ass watching Oprah reruns, waiting for someone else to make it right. He was responsible for what happened. Finally telling the truth wasn’t enough.
It didn’t take too much digging through the kitchen drawers to find a spare key to the apartment door. And there was plenty of loose change for “L” fare in a jar on her counter.
He found a light blue windbreaker in the closet—at least it wasn’t pink—and thought about leaving a note. But she’d hear the message for herself when she got back. Who knew, he might even return before she did.
The five minute ride on the orange line to the morgue seemed like an hour, and then he wasted time trying to talk the front desk into letting him see a guy he only knew as “some Hispanic dude with black hair.” Rick, he thought. Ricky—something like that. Escorted out by a big ass pimple-faced security guard, he kicked the cement cornice of the doorway and cussed so much a little old lady walking out the door shrieked and hurried down the steps to get away from him
He made his way to the side door he and Jo had entered on Sunday and walked up the cement steps to the narrow, five-foot landing. Employees Only, the sign said. And, of course, the door was locked. But maybe if he hung out here, the guy would come out. It must be, like, five o’clock now, five thirty maybe. He’d be going home at six the message had said.
A tin can full of butts next to the railing marked this as a favorite employee smoking spot. Chris looked into the can, hoping for some shorts he could scrounge, but it had rained a little earlier, leaving everything in there wet and soggy.
Chris leaned forearms against the railing, hands clasped as he looked out across the parking lot. Maybe if he came up with a better story he could try going through the front door again. At least he’d had a shower last night; his clothes had been washed and dried and looked halfway decent. But how was he going to convince—
The door opened behind him and he straightened, looking back. A girl about 22 stepped out, digging in her pocket for her pack of cigarettes, barely glancing at him as she leaned against the railing and lit one up, taking a drag and letting it out with a satisfied sigh. She was kind of pretty, freckles across her nose, sandy hair sneaking out from under the white paper cap she had tied around her head.
“Hey,” she said, not really even looking at him. “Thank God this day’s almost over, huh?”
Chris relaxed, surprised. She must think he was one of the employees. He looked down at his clean clothes again, the dorky jacket. Smelled the leftover scent of that deodorant soap Jo kept in her bathroom. What a difference a little soap and water made. He leaned on the railing again, looking out at the parking lot like she was.
“That’s for sure,” he tried. “You hear what was going on today?”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard that Hispanic dude, what’s his name—?”
“You talking about Luciano Rica?”
“Yeah, him. I heard he was raking some guy over the coals for selling bodies to some funeral home.”
“You must be new. That’s one of the less creepy rumors they like to spread to the newbies. Course, this one happens to be true. He’s still got the guy in his office now—talking to the police. Didn’t you hear the sirens?”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “I didn’t know that’s what—So what’s the big deal anyhow—you think they’ll arrest him?”
“Reynolds, you mean? You know him? Tim Reynolds.” She cocked an eyebrow his way. Chris shook his head. “Could be, if they can prove it. More likely they’ll just walk him and his shit to his car when they’re done with him.” She waved her hand toward the parking garage. “Send him a severance check next pay period. He’ll probably be selling bodies out of some other county morgue by the end of next month. Worse shit happens all the time.”
She shrugged and ground her cigarette out on the pipe. “You’ll find that out if you work here long enough.” She threw the butt in the can. “Coming in?”
Tim Reynolds. He had a name, but trying to talk to him with the police around—probably not a good idea.
“Not yet. I got another minute to kill.”
She pulled out her key to unlock the door.
“Hey,” Chris said. When she turned to glance at him he gave her his best spanging smile, his head cocked. “You got a smoke I could bum? I’m flat out.”
He took it from her with two fingers, smiling even wider, and this time she smiled back. “Thanks,” he said, and now she even blushed, a little, then went inside.
A good night’s sleep, some food, clean clothes, a pretty girl to smile at you. It gave him a feel of what it must be like to be normal. He could forget, almost, that most nights he slept under the “L” with rats and bats keeping him awake at night. If the way things look on the outside was all that mattered, it’d be easy for everybody to be normal. All you’d have to do is keep people fed, give them clothes, look them in the eye.
It was the inside that fucked everything up. That made it hard to meet that look straight on. Cleaning up the outside couldn’t wash away one grain of ugliness crawling inside.
He thought about that as he walked over to the parking garage, acting casual, acting like he belonged. And when he saw the red and white arrow with “Employee Parking” printed on it, he went in that direction just like he did it every damn day.
Chapter 44
By the time Jo and Jack got to the West Side Shelter, the overcast day had turned into a cold, early twilight. Narrow, multi-storied houses with fenced-in yards threw shadows across the sidewalk. The red bricks of the shelter walls looked black, thick mortar sandwiched between them. Low stone walls edged the cement steps leading to an entrance which was flanked by screened porches.
“They be full up for the night.” The voice came from the porch on the right. Jo could see the outline of someone in a rocker near the inner door. In the darkness the figure could have been male or female, though the depth of the voice sounded masculine.
“We’re here to speak to Mr. Koplin,” Jack said. “I called earlier and someone said he’d be here.”
“Well, then,” the anonymous rocker drawled, “go ahead an’ knock. Can’t hurt.”
Jo smacked the brass knocker twice against its worn metal plate. A small square of window centered in the door grew bright with light. Soon a pair of eyes and a long nose sprouting a mustache stared out at them. After a moment’s hesitation, the door swung open.
“Can I help you?” Their greeter stood in the narrow opening. He had more hair on his lip than his pate. Reddish brown wisps circled low around the back of his skull, starting behind the ears and falling to his neckline. He wore cotton painter pants and a thin plaid shirt with the sleeves partly rolled up.
“I’m Jack Prescott. I called earlier?”
The door opened wider and the man stepped back, bidding them enter with a sweep of his arm. After they stepped into the foyer he stuck out his hand.
“Mr. Prescott. I’m Seth Koplin. Thought that might be you.”
They shook hands and then Jack introduced Jo.
“From Winds of Change, you say?” Koplin narrowed one eye as he looked her up and down. “You the one writes them stories about the streets?”
The way he sounded, Jo wasn’t sure she wanted to admit to it, but she did anyway.
“Pleased to meet ya.” His mustache twitched into a wide grin and he held his hand out, grasping her in a two-fisted handshake. “Fine stories. Mighty fine stories. We could use someone like you when we start lobbying for more funds for housing and shelters.” The sentence ended on a querying note.
“Always a possibility. Here, take one of my cards just in case.”
Once he had pocketed her card he turned his attention finally back to Jack.
“Now then, Mr. Prescott. How can we help you? Or here, hold on a minute, where’s my manners? Let’s go into the parlor here.”
Koplin led them up three steps into the front room, turning on the light as he preceded them through the doorway. The door to the porch stood open and Jo could see the man who had spoken to them from the rocking chair: obese, dark shirt and pants, tightly curled black hair badly in need of a hair cut.
“You’re missing supper, Jeremiah,” Koplin said to the porch sitter.
Jeremiah just chuckled and shook his head. “Look to you like I’m wasting away, does it?”
Koplin closed the porch door and motioned toward the worn sofa flanked by two equally weary, stained armchairs. None of the pieces matched.
“Have a sit,” he invited them, picking a straight chair near the porch door for himself. “So, how can I help you? Message didn’t say much more than who you were and what you did.” The words were directed to Jack, though he looked expectantly at both of them.
“Jack was actually calling for me,” Jo said. “I was told Samuel Walker stays here?”
“Samuel, you say?”
“Yes. Samuel Walker. I’d like to talk to him if I can find him—just to see if he knows anything more about someone named Tommy Piper—the Brit. I’m following a hunch that Tommy’s death might be connected to the disappearance of a missing street kid named Lexie Green.”
Koplin sat quietly, rubbing his chin, his eyes unfocused. Either he was trying hard to remember if he knew Samuel or the use of so many names had him confused. Jo wondered if she’d been unclear and turned to Jack for help. He only smiled reassuringly.
“Well,” Koplin said eventually, slowly getting the words out, “you do both come with pretty good credentials. If you’re who you say you are.” Jo opened her mouth to volunteer proof of her identity, but his eyes crinkled in a smile to show he was teasing.
“Samuel is one of our regulars here. Regulars get the same bed every night, so long as they get here by suppertime.”
“So did Samuel make it in before curfew tonight?” Jo asked.
“He did, so they tell me. I check the roster every evening when I go on shift, just to see who’s in and who’s not. If y’all would like to join us in the dining hall, I’m sure Samuel would be pleased to have the company. There’s plenty of food,” he added as if he sensed their hesitation.
There was more than plenty. Jo counted at least four entrees—macaroni and cheese, beans and rice, some sort of beef and vegetable dish in a brown sauce, and fried chicken. The side dishes seemed innumerable. Jo chose chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy.
Seth Koplin led them past tables lined against the wall and in a row down the middle. A few diners looked up and greeted them with nods or smiles. With few exceptions, Jo couldn’t tell for sure who was staff and who a resident.
“Here we are,” Koplin said, stopping. “Lucky us, to find empty seats at Samuel Walker’s table. Move yourself on over by Mojo there, Spike. Samuel here’s got some company to keep.”
He shooed away a lean, leather-skinned man who looked like he should be wearing a cowboy hat. Samuel looked up in surprise, but no alarm. Jo could tell he didn’t remember her so she smiled as she placed her tray across from him and sat down. Koplin sat at a table across the aisle from them and started up a conversation of his own with the men there.
“Mr. Walker,” Jo said. “It’s nice to meet you again. I’m Jo Sullivan. We talked yesterday at the Sandwich Stop.”
Samuel’s face cracked into a smile, though there was still no recognition in his eyes. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He reached across to shake her hand, then did the same to Jack who nodded and said simply, “Jack Prescott, Mr. Walker.”
Samuel cackled. “No need to call me mister.” He nudged the man sitting next to him. “What you think there, Billy Ray, they be calling me mister?” They both laughed. “Samuel’ll do just fine.” He turned back to Jo. “That’s right, now—you be the girl was talkin’ with the young boy there that night.” He shook his head sadly and plowed his fork through the layers of food on his plate. “See that boy on the corner every night, I do,” he said past a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
“Samuel—” Jo sucked surprisingly tasty chicken grease off her fingers before continuing. “You said the other night that you knew Tommy Piper. Remember?”
“Why you be askin’ me about the Brit? He still dead, ain’t he?” He rocked with laughter at his own joke. Billy Ray and two other men at the table grinned their appreciation as well.
“He’s dead all right,” Jo said. “And laid out all pretty and well groomed in a glass coffin.”
That earned her a bit of attention. Everyone at the table leaned forward to listen as she described Tommy’s eternal rest, stirring a few laughs and guffaws for her flowery narrative.
“Well, don’t that beat all,” Samuel said when she was done, wiping a gleeful tear from the corner of his eye. “Don’t that just? He were a fine one, he were, always talking ’bout what a fancy life he lived once. Made a body just about believe the man, that’s for shore. Well, if it weren’t true then, sounds like it be so now.”
That produced another round of laughter at the table. A few men out of earshot looked over at them curiously, wondering what they were missing.
“The reason I’m asking about Tommy,” Jo said when the laughter settled down again, “is because a girl named Lexie Green told me that before he died he said someone had been following him. And now Lexie is missing. I’m trying to find out if there’s some connection between the two or if it’s just coincidence.”
“Ain’t no coincidence in life,” Samuel answered, serious now, fork motionless, lines on his forehead frowning over his white, wild eyebrows. “The Lord has a plan. I believes that. Can’t tell it, maybe, to look at me, but He has a plan even for such as me. ‘We have obtained an inheritance, being predestined according to the purpose of Him who worketh all things after the counsel of His own will.’ Ephesians 1:11. That girl missin’ even. He got a plan for that too.”
He studied Jo for a second before spearing a brussels sprout and trailing it through the gravy on his plate. “Why you care ’bout where this girl be?” He popped the dripping vegetable into his mouth.
Jo felt Jack looking closely at her.
“Somebody should,” she said. “Her mother doesn’t. Her aunt doesn’t even know she exists, pretty much. The police brush it off like she’s a fly trying to land on their jelly donut. It’s the same reason, maybe, that Seth here runs this shelter. Or Jack quit his job to work for Night Moves. Because it’s something I feel I need to do, is all.”
Samuel cocked one eyebrow and waved his fork at her, another gravy coated sprout skewered by the tines. “Cause it’s in His plan,” he said triumphantly. “It be all His doing, see. Wait and see. It’s true.”
“I only know that I want to figure out part of this plan before something happens to Lexie. Or if it’s too late for that, before some other kid ends up missing.” Jo thought of the attack on Chris in the alley, the fight with Cole in the parking lot. Too many close calls to her way of thinking. Too many coincidences. She had little or no faith in Samuel’s grand ‘plan,’ but she generally tended to agree that there was no such thing as coincidence.
“So what do you know about Tommy, Samuel?” she asked again. “Any reason someone would be following him like she said?”
Some of what Samuel told them then, with sidebars from Billy Ray who contributed the tail end of a story or two between bites, Jo had already heard. Tommy was from Great Britain—Scotland, Samuel insisted, though he and Billy Ray went back and forth for a bit about that one—and he told tales about having been rich once. A mansion in the country, riding stables, visits from Dukes and Earls.
“Yeah,” Samuel laughed, “Duke the Gimp and Earl Stubbs.”
“Jack Daniels,” Billy Ray added.
“Still,” Samuel added thoughtfully, “might be some truth in all that foolishness. Ever once in a while he got money from somewhere. One day he’d be begging over on the Irving Park ramp, like I said, then there’d be weeks go by when he had whiskey to spare. No, it wasn’t Social Security,” he said before Billy Ray could speak, like they’d had this argument before. “I seen him go in a bank over on Ashland one time. Right before he went on a real good binge.”
