Chicago Typewriter

7.

I promised I would go home, stay quiet as a mute mouse, and keep the shades drawn for a solid week. On the strength of my sincerity they called a cab for me. A block along the journey, I told the driver to go to the police station instead.

Chief Largo was in. "You look pale."

"Sorry about Iggy, Chief. I shoulda taken backup."

He gave me a patented big-jawed grin. "Just glad you came back in one piece, Lucy."

"Iggy had some of the loot. Proves he was there at Ebony Gardens, anyway. That's about all I got. The guy that smokes the fancy imported cigarettes? He hit me at Iggy's. From behind, though, so I don't know what he looks like."

"We'll get 'em, eventually. We made posters of Iggy and Hack."

"You mean, you re-used the old ones."

"Bingo."

"Where were you yesterday, Chief?"

A guarded look came into his eyes. His answer was locked tighter than a bank vault. "Personal business. Why do you ask?"

"Missed you is all. I didn't know you had a brother, either."

"Heh. Sure. Deacon Largo. When your ship comes in, you can afford the clothes he sells. He runs Heber & Roe's."

"He drove past your house yesterday morning."

The chief's affable expression darkened. A flush of fury reddened his neck.

"Go home, Lucy," he snarled. "Stop wasting my time."

"Yes, sir."

I retreated, head pounding. Sergeant What's-his-face checked me out a replacement pistol, and then I quit the police station at a slow stroll. If my motorcycle was where I left it, by the bakery, I might as well pick it up. Save me some steps.

As I walked, the chief's reactions ate at me. What was he up to, yesterday? Why did it matter if his brother drove by his house? How did mysterious, wild Bianca fit into the puzzle? I made it about a block from the station, threading my way through the foot traffic. I stopped suddenly.

A pedestrian clipped my shoulder and called, "Hey, watch it, guy!"

"Rose would know," I said. "And she likes chocolate." I headed for the five-and-dime. I stopped again: I couldn't buy chocolate with empty pockets.

A guy in overalls dodged me. "Whoa, there, buddy!"

"Sorry, pal." I headed to the bank, then the store to get a box of chocolates. Back at the station I went downstairs, not up. I entered a windowless room dedicated to two functions. One was typewriter repair, so half the room was lined with shelves containing typewriters in various states and a workbench with tools. The other was to route phone calls. A switchboard filled the other half of the room. I smiled to myself. Rose was on duty, even now pressing two sets of headphones to separate plump ears. If Rose had five ears, we joked, she could eavesdrop on five conversations at once.

I schooled my expression to that of a droopy bloodhound begging for scraps. I dragged a chair over by Rose and extended the box of chocolates to her.

She blinked at me with cherubic eyes. Her hand effortlessly unplugged two cables from the switchboard, then reached for the chocolate. "Mr. Lucy, you shouldn't have! Thank you!"

"You're worth it." I smiled for a moment.

She cracked the lid open. "Oo!" After she selected the correct bon bon for the occasion, she looked at me with a twinkle in her eye. "You know I don't gossip. So why are you here?"