S unlight cut across the living room, found my eyelids, and pried them open. For a moment, I wondered where I was. Then I sat up and remembered. I swore at myself in as many ways as I could think of. That took a while. After that, I crept quietly to the front windows. It was just starting to lighten. The block was still and empty. I walked into the kitchen, turned on the tap, and ran some cold water over my face. I thought about scribbling a note for Janet. Then I thought about Taylor stumbling on it. Even better, Janet’s husband. Maybe a note wasn’t such a good idea.
I went out the back door, found my car at the end of the block, and slid behind the wheel. So far, so good. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the face of Johnny Woods, smiling back.
“Have fun, Kelly?”
I ducked and heard the crack of safety glass. A black tire iron had gashed my windshield. Woods was halfway into the front seat, trying to pry it free. Fortunately, he wasn’t having much luck. I scooted a bit lower to the floor as Woods swung a paw south, hoping to catch some part of my anatomy. After that, he abandoned the tire iron completely and came after me, face first.
A proper head butt is akin to a work of art. The head should be held forward and low. You want to aim anywhere below the brow: eyes, cheeks, teeth. Nose is best. Lovely pop and hurts like hell. Johnny Woods was no exception. Blood all over the front seat and a moment’s peace for yours truly.
I got my hand on the driver’s latch and opened the door. Woods had one hand on my leg, the other still pressed to his proboscis. That was pretty much how we got out of the car, sprawled on the corner of Kirkwood and Hiawatha.
I scrambled to my feet as Woods swung again. Missed by a lot. He was still bleeding pretty hard, breathing even more so. Johnny might have been a fighter in his day, but that was a long time and a lot of doughnuts ago. I held my fists on either side of my head, elbows in and tight to the ribs. I didn’t try to turn or move. Just stood there and let Woods come. At first, he was tentative. A couple of swings I caught up high off my shoulders. When he saw he wasn’t getting hit, Woods got a lot bolder. Began stepping into his shots. Rights, then lefts. He was windmilling, losing most of his power on the way in, each swing punctuated with “fucker” or “motherfucker.” I ducked and weaved a bit. Woods telegraphed his punches, and they were easy to pick off. I caught some with my forearms. The body shots I let in. Allowed them to bury in my side and ribs. He could hear me grunt as they landed. I think Johnny enjoyed that. I didn’t blame him. From his point of view, I had just spent the night with his wife.
After twenty seconds or so, Woods realized something. Fighting is hard work, even when you aren’t getting hit. Sixty seconds in, he was pawing more than punching. Thirty seconds after that, he was done. Woods hadn’t really hurt me. Maybe a tweaked rib or two, but nothing more than a light spar. Johnny, on the other hand, was spent.
I put out a hand and pushed against the soft body. Woods fell back against my car, slipped down the side, and nuzzled up to the grille. Leaking oil in more than a few spots and looking at me over his shoulder. Still trying to swear but not getting the words entirely right. He was pissed. Just too tired to do much more about it.
“Take it easy, Woods. You can take another run when you get your breath back.”
Johnny took my advice and sat back against the bumper. I leaned against a tree and waited. Part of me wished he could actually hit, make it worth my while to hit back. But that part wasn’t going to make Johnny Woods any tougher, any more or less of a man than he already was. Besides, the guy spent his spare time beating up women. He was lucky I didn’t take a swing or three just for fun. He’d have more than a busted nose to worry about.
“Fucking tough guy, huh, Kelly?”
“Not tough. Just trained. If you don’t know how to do it, hitting people can be a hard job.”
“You enjoy tagging my wife.”
“Let it go, Woods.”
“I don’t fucking think so.”
“I do.”
I dropped to a knee and got close enough so even Johnny would understand.
“Your wife’s got a face full of pain. And it’s not the first time. She’s been documenting every beating you put on her. Now she’s going to take her little girl and get the fuck away from you. And you know what? You’re gonna let her go. You know why?”
I held two fingers close to his face.
“Two reasons. First, ’cause if you try to stop her, she goes public. One press conference, and the mayor dumps you quicker than the sack of steaming horseshit you actually are. Second reason is even simpler. I don’t like cowards. And I especially don’t like cowards who beat up women. Anything from you, anything at all, and I find you. No matter when, no matter where. I find you and I beat you till you beg for the gun. And that’s when you get it. I bust your teeth open with the butt, put the barrel in until it hits the back of your throat, and pull the trigger. Last thing you see is my face. You got it?”
He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, looking at the ground, wiping at the blood as it dripped off his face.
“Take a look at me, Woods.”
He did.
“Just give me a reason. I won’t think twice about it, and I won’t miss a minute’s sleep afterward. You understand?”
Woods nodded. Once, twice, three times. Then he paused. First it was the lower lip. After that, the chin began to tremble. He jammed his eyes into his fists, sniffled, and sobbed. The pity party had started. Looked like it was going to take a while so I stood up and considered my ruined windshield. A mom walked by with her kid. Probably heading off to school. I smiled. The two of them took a look at us and kept walking.
“Why did she have to do that?” Woods spoke with an aftertaste of sorrow that was as self-serving as it was considerable.
“Do what, Johnny?”
“You know what.”
Woods didn’t care about my threats. And he certainly didn’t care about his wife’s bruises. It was the role of cuckold that Woods couldn’t stomach. The idea that his wife would take another man. In his own house, even. Cowards, especially ones who prey on women and kids, always have the biggest egos. The mayor’s man was no exception. Just the latest and sorriest example.
There was a steadier trickle of cars coming down the block now. A few more people on the street. Most of them were noticing us. Some talking. I knew it was just a matter of time before the police showed up.
“Nothing happened with your wife, Woods. She hired me because she wants to be rid of you. We were talking last night and it got late. I slept on your couch. Believe me or don’t, I don’t much give a damn. Now get in the car.”
I got behind the wheel. Woods probably figured he wasn’t making the greatest impression on his neighbors and found his way to the passenger door. The glass was spidered halfway across my side, but I could see well enough. We drove to a White Hen. I bought a bag of ice, a bottle of water, cotton, and bandages.
“Here, clean yourself up.”
Woods washed off the blood. I took out a handkerchief and wrapped up some ice.
“Press this on your face. Keep the swelling down.”
Woods took the compress and swung the rearview mirror his way.
“How’s it look?” he said.
I swung the rearview mirror back.
“Your nose is fucked, so forget about it. Unless you want to go to the hospital and have it set.”
Woods had the ice on the side of his cheek and shook his head.
“Good idea,” I said. “Leave it the way it is. If you want to breathe better, they can break it and reset it later.”
Johnny rolled an eyeball my way. Guess he didn’t like the idea of rebreaking a part of his face.
“Relax,” I said. “I had my nose busted six or seven times. Never went to the hospital. Not a big deal.”
Woods pulled the compress away and felt his face. Carefully. Then he put the ice back in place and leaned back against the headrest. I turned on the radio. Woods decided he wanted to talk some more.
“Where’d you learn to fight, Kelly?”
“We didn’t fight.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You fought. I didn’t throw a punch.”
“That’s what I mean. Man kicks my ass without throwing a punch. Tells me he knows how to fight. Where did you learn?”
“Here and there,” I said. “Growing up.”
“You fight for fun?”
“Never fun. Not if you know how to do it. It’s work. And it’s mean. And it’s for keeps.”
“Which means what?”
“Which means it’s usually for money.”
“So you’re a pro?”
I glanced at the edge of my reflection in the driver’s side mirror. “Used to be,” I said.
“So I didn’t have a chance.”
I looked across the car and shrugged. “Fighting’s like anything else. You go up against a man at his profession and you’re probably going to lose. You may get lucky. More likely you get your head busted in.”
I clenched and unclenched my fist, settled it back against the steering wheel.
“Moral of the story,” I said. “Know who you’re fighting. And don’t raise your hands unless you’re willing to go all the way.”
Woods didn’t say much after that, which was okay with me. I turned up the volume on the radio. Mike amp; Mike was on ESPN. Talking about how they bickered off air like an old married couple. Then they proceeded to bicker about that for half a minute, just like an old married couple. I kept waiting for them to talk about sports. Just a mention. In passing, even. I looked over at Woods.
“This sound like sports radio to you?”
He didn’t answer. After a few minutes, I gave up and turned it off. Then I started up the car as Woods spoke again.
“So what have you found out, Kelly?”
I turned off the car. “About what?”
Woods’ face looked better now, cleaner. He laid a bandage across the bridge of his nose and smoothed it down with his fingers as he talked.
“The thing on Hudson Street. What we talked about in my office the other day. What have you found out?”
His voice had softened and carried a subtle edge. The cuckold was gone. In his place, the mayor’s fixer. Inside his comfort zone. The world of Chicago politics. Leverage and power. Shadows, bluff, deceit. That was okay. My investigation into Bryant’s murder thus far had turned up nothing more than nickels and dimes. I needed someone with some expertise. Someone who could turn my loose change into real money. Someone who might be scared enough to talk.
“I know about the Chicago Fire,” I said. “I know the mayor’s great-great-grandfather probably started it. Helped along by the guy who ran the Chicago Times.”
Woods yawned at my initial bombshell, stretched his arms, and cracked his knuckles. Then he craned his neck from side to side and resettled in his seat.
“Sounds like a good movie to me, Kelly. Got any proof?”
“Property records. Tying John Julius Wilson to the land. Maybe along with Charles Hume.”
I thought the names might bother Woods. I was wrong.
“It’s not a crime to own property. That all you got?”
“I also know about the Sheehan’s,” I said.
Woods flinched at the book’s mention. Just a single movement along the left side of his upper lip. But it was enough.
“I know you went to the house on Hudson to get the book, and I know Allen Bryant was killed for it.”
“I told you, Kelly. I had nothing to do with Bryant. He was dead when I got there.”
“What about the book, Woods? Was that gone too?”
Whatever bluff the mayor’s guy had been hoping to play was crumbling pretty quick. I was getting dangerously close to some version of the truth, and Woods needed to get his side out.
“I told them this was a bad idea,” he said, and shook his head. “I fucking told them.”
“Told who?” I said.
Woods’ fingers were as overweight as fingers could be. One wore a gold wedding band. Another had a Claddagh ring squeezed onto it. He looked at them for a long time. Didn’t see anything he liked and looked back at me. I don’t think he saw anything he liked too much there either, but what the hell.
“Fuck you, Kelly. You know who.”
“They want the book pretty bad.”
“Yeah.”
“Is it true?” I said.
Woods looked up again.
“Is what true?”
“John Julius Wilson. The Chicago Fire. Is it true?”
“Oh, Jesus. Are you going to talk about this?”
“I told you, Woods. I’m only about the murder. Allen Bryant was found dead inside his house. His first-edition Sheehan’s was the only thing found missing.”
“Shit.”
“That’s one way to analyze it. What I need to know from you is how the book fits into this whole thing. I know about Hume. I know about John Julius Wilson. I know about the land scam and the fire. Now tell me about the Sheehan’s.”
Woods smoothed his eyebrows and massaged the skin at his temples. I started up my car and began to drive. Maybe a change of scenery would help things along.
“There was supposed to be a letter,” Woods said. “Have you heard about that?”
He moved his eyes across the car. I flicked my head. Neither yes nor no. Just enough to tell him I was in control and was going to get everything he had. This morning. Right now. Woods looked away and kept talking.
“Hume and Wilson supposedly drew up a letter after the fire. Laid out the whole thing: the plan to burn out the Irish; the land grab; how it all spun out of control. Then they signed it. Each kept a copy.”
“Why?”
Woods chuckled, as if he understood this part of the story all too well.
“Fuckers didn’t trust each other for nothing. The letter prevented either from talking.”
“The letter was protection for Wilson,” I said.
“Probably. He was the poor Irishman. Needed a handle on Hume.”
“Shrewd,” I said.
“Runs in the family.”
“So what happened to the letters?”
“That’s the thing,” Woods said. “This is all rumor. Urban legend. Who the fuck knows. But the Fifth Floor believes it. So they sent me out to track them down.”
“The letters?” I said.
“Yeah, the letters. At Hume’s request, all his papers were burned at his death. Supposedly his copy of the letter was burned then.”
“Why?”
“Maybe he figured it wasn’t his problem anymore, so fuck it.”
We were back in Sauganash. Woods cracked a window and watched his neighborhood slide by. I turned onto a street called Keene and pulled up to Queen of All Saints. The sign out front said it was not just a church but a basilica.
“What’s so different about a basilica?” I said.
“You Catholic?”
“All my life.”
Woods shook his head and grunted. “Jesus Christ. A basilica’s a big church. Sometimes it contains a crypt, a place in the church where they keep the bones of a priest or a saint.”
“Huh.”
“You better get some religion, Kelly.”
“You think so?”
I parked in front of a large green lawn, stretching out and away. Toward the basilica’s twin spires, soaring, and its granite faзade, impressive. Beyond that, a flourish of marble steps. Expensive. Inside the church, presumably, salvation. Or at least a chance to contribute some cash.
“What about Wilson’s copy?” I said.
“Of the letter?”
“Yeah, Johnny. Wilson’s copy of the letter.”
“What about it?”
“That’s the one you’re looking for.”
“If it ever existed. The mayor claims he knows nothing about it.”
“Officially,” I said.
“That’s right,” Woods said. “Unofficially, it goes something like this. The year was 1920-something. One of the mayor’s horny ancestors went into a cathouse over on Skid Row.”
“This was before the Wilson family had taken up politics?”
“Just before,” Woods said. “They were just filthy-rich pig-fuck land barons. Anyway, this guy is in there with one of the lovelies. They have a moment between rounds and he pulls out the letter. Showing off or some fucking thing. Just about then Chicago’s finest raid the place. All hell breaks loose. Did I tell you the Wilson guy was married?”
“I’m shocked.”
“I’m sure you are. Anyway, he jumps out a second-story window, half naked.”
“And leaves the letter behind?”
Woods cocked a finger my way and fired. “Bingo. He went back the next day but the girl had skipped town. Family never saw or heard about it again. Over time, everyone forgot about it.”
“Until recently?”
“Yeah, recently. No one is sure where the rumor started but it’s out there. The letter is legit and the mayor is nervous.”
“Tell me how the Sheehan’s fits in.”
Woods held out a hand. “I’m getting there. You know the first editions are numbered?”
I nodded. “One to twenty.”
“You’ve done your homework. Four’s the lucky number. The first edition of Sheehan’s numbered four contains information as to the location of the letter.”
“Sheehan’s number four, huh?”
“That’s what they say. There’s a clue in there somewhere.”
“And you believe all this?”
Woods grunted again. “My bosses do. That’s all that matters.”
“You keep talking about rumor, Johnny. But I don’t believe it. There’s a source here. Someone is making you guys believe.”
“You think so?”
“I think so. And I have a picture in my pocket. A picture of you running from a murder. A picture that tells me I’m gonna get his name. Probably sooner than later.”
“Piss off, Kelly.”
“Not a problem, Johnny, once I have your source. Someone put you guys onto the letter and the Sheehan’s. Probably offered to read the tea leaves once you got the book and parse out the clue. Am I right?”
No response.
“Let me ask you this. Did he put you on to Allen Bryant’s trail?”
Woods cut me a look at that one. “I found Bryant myself. Tracked down six other first editions before I found him.”
“Bryant had the number four, didn’t he?”
Woods nodded. “I met with him the night before he was murdered. He told me he had the book at his house and would give it to me the next morning. I showed up…” Woods shrugged and shook himself free. “He was dead, Kelly. I saw the body and split.”
We sat in the silence of the moment. Each with our own set of problems.
“Does the mayor know about Bryant?” I said.
“Not from me. On the other hand, there isn’t much he doesn’t know.”
“Is anyone else interested in the letter?”
“Mayor’s got a lot of enemies,” Woods said. “Love to get their hands on something like that.”
“But would they kill to get their hands on it?”
Johnny smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit, took a little water, and washed some blood off a cuff.
“These people are civilized, Kelly. Political types.”
“Doesn’t answer my question. Would they kill to get their hands on the letter?”
“Absolutely not.” Woods swiveled his head my way and offered up a narrow smile. “Unless, of course, they thought they could get away with it.”
“Who’s your guy on the letter?”
“Not going to let that go, are you?”
“No.”
I thought I knew the answer but wanted to be sure. Woods shrugged.
“Fuck it. He’s a little weasel, anyway.”
I nodded. “The curator at the Chicago Historical Society.”
“Now I am impressed,” Woods said. “You got it. Lawrence Randolph. He’s the one who pushed this thing on the mayor. Convinced him the letter from his great-great-grandfather might be real. Might be in play.”
“And the Sheehan’s?”
“Way I hear it, Randolph was the one who thought the Sheehan’s was worth getting. Just to take a look at.”
I thought about my friend the curator, sitting behind his desk. Pulling strings and moving pieces around the city. Probably got a big charge out of the whole thing.
“What does Randolph want?” I said.
“What else? Power. He wants to be the first curator for the City of Chicago. Official fucking historian or something. Mayor promised him all sorts of things. If we get the letter.”
“And bury it?”
“Right. Bury it. If you ask me, the thing doesn’t even exist, but there you go. In my world, sometimes the things that don’t exist are the most dangerous. Now you know everything I do, Kelly. Keep me the fuck out of it.”
“Or else?”
“Or else you have another enemy downtown you probably don’t need.”
“You worried?”
“To be honest, no. Word is you play it straight up. I figure my chances are pretty good I come out clean.”
“If you’re telling me the truth.”
“Like I said, you know everything I do. That’s all I can offer.” Woods checked his watch and nodded toward the basilica. “I’m gonna slip in the back. Catch the eight-thirty mass.”
He reached for the door latch. I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Just so you understand, Johnny. What I said about your wife, I meant it. Anything. Even a little bit of hurt, for her or the girl, and it all comes down on you. No talk. No bullshit. Just you and me and no happy endings.”
Woods pulled out of my grip, rolled his shoulders, and ruffled up his dignity.
“Don’t worry about it, Kelly. You can have her.” He cracked the door to my car, put a foot outside, and leaned back toward me.
“Final word of advice, pal. Whatever she’s selling, take a pass. Janet’s all about Janet. Always will be. Now leave me the fuck alone. I gotta go to mass.”
With that, Johnny Woods got out and walked across the grass, toward his God. An old priest in a red and purple hat was waiting at the top of the stairs. They shook hands and Johnny disappeared inside. The priest turned and looked back my way. I knew he couldn’t see into my car, but I felt his weight, anyway. Being Irish Catholic will do that to you. I pulled away and put the basilica in my rearview mirror. The domestic problems in Sauganash would have to wait. There was still a murderer or two afoot. Not to mention the matter of the Chicago Historical Society and a weasel named Lawrence Randolph.