“Tell you what—give me their addresses and I’ll go see them this afternoon, make sure they still live down here. Then next month when the claim drafts are issued I can just mail them both to you here.”
They thought it over slowly. They finally agreed, again silently, that there was nothing wrong with the idea. Whitey wrote Pankowski’s and Ferraro’s addresses down in a large, round hand. I thanked him graciously and headed for the door again.
Just as I was opening it a young man came in, hesitantly, as if unsure of his welcome. He had curly auburn hair and wore a navy wool suit that enhanced the staggering beauty of his pale face. I couldn’t remember ever seeing a man with such perfect good looks—he might have posed for Michelangelo’s David. When he gave a diffident smile it made him look vaguely familiar.
“Hiya, Art,” Baldy said. “Your old man’s downtown.”
Young Art Jurshak. Big Art had never looked this good, but the smile must have made the kid resemble his old man’s campaign posters.
He flushed. “That’s okay. I just wanted to look at some ward files. You don’t mind, do you?”
Baldy hunched an impatient shoulder. “You’re a partner in the old man’s firm. You do what you want, Art. Think I’m going for a bite, anyway. Coming, Fred?”
The white-haired man and the newspaper reader both got up. Food sounded like a swell idea to me. Even a detective looking at a meager fee has to eat some of the time. The four of us left young Art alone in the middle of the room.
Fratesi’s Restaurant was still where I remembered it, on the corner of Ninety-seventh and Ewing. Gabriella had disapproved of them because they cooked southern Italian instead of her familiar dishes of the Piedmont, but the food was good and it used to be a place to go for special occasions.
Today there wasn’t much of a lunchtime crowd. The decorations around the fountain in the middle of the floor, which used to enchant me as a child, had been allowed to decay. I recognized old Mrs. Fratesi behind the counter, but felt the place had grown too sad for me to identify myself to her. I ate a salad made of iceberg lettuce and an old tomato and a frittata that was surprisingly light and carefully seasoned.
In the little ladies’ room at the back I got the most noticeable chunks of dirt off my skirt. I didn’t look fabulous, but maybe that suited the neighborhood better. I paid the tab, a modest four dollars, and left. I didn’t know you could get bread and butter in Chicago for under four dollars anymore.
All during lunch I’d turned over various approaches to Pankowski and Ferraro in my mind. If they were married, wives at home, children, they wouldn’t want to hear about Louisa Djiak. Or maybe they would. Maybe it would bring back the happy days of yore. I finally decided I’d have to play it by ear.
Steve Ferraro’s home was nearer to the restaurant, so I went there first. It was another of the endless array of East Side bungalows, but a little seedier than most of its neighbors. The porch hadn’t been swept recently, my critical housekeeping eye noted, and the glass on the storm door could have done with a washing.
A long interval passed after I rang the bell. I pushed it again and was about to leave when I heard the inner door being unlocked. An old woman stood there, short, wispy-haired, and menacing.
“Yes,” she said in one harsh, heavily accented syllable.
“Scusi,” I said. “Cerco il signor Ferraro.”
Her face lightened marginally and she answered in Italian. What did I want him for? An old lawsuit that might finally be going to pay out? To him only, or to his heirs?
“To him only,” I said firmly in Italian, but my heart sank. Her next words confirmed my misgivings: il signor Ferraro was her son, her only child, and he had died in 1984. No, he had never married. He had talked once about a girl in the place where he worked, but madre de dio, the girl already had a baby; she was
They thought it over slowly. They finally agreed, again silently, that there was nothing wrong with the idea. Whitey wrote Pankowski’s and Ferraro’s addresses down in a large, round hand. I thanked him graciously and headed for the door again.
Just as I was opening it a young man came in, hesitantly, as if unsure of his welcome. He had curly auburn hair and wore a navy wool suit that enhanced the staggering beauty of his pale face. I couldn’t remember ever seeing a man with such perfect good looks—he might have posed for Michelangelo’s David. When he gave a diffident smile it made him look vaguely familiar.
“Hiya, Art,” Baldy said. “Your old man’s downtown.”
Young Art Jurshak. Big Art had never looked this good, but the smile must have made the kid resemble his old man’s campaign posters.
He flushed. “That’s okay. I just wanted to look at some ward files. You don’t mind, do you?”
Baldy hunched an impatient shoulder. “You’re a partner in the old man’s firm. You do what you want, Art. Think I’m going for a bite, anyway. Coming, Fred?”
The white-haired man and the newspaper reader both got up. Food sounded like a swell idea to me. Even a detective looking at a meager fee has to eat some of the time. The four of us left young Art alone in the middle of the room.
Fratesi’s Restaurant was still where I remembered it, on the corner of Ninety-seventh and Ewing. Gabriella had disapproved of them because they cooked southern Italian instead of her familiar dishes of the Piedmont, but the food was good and it used to be a place to go for special occasions.
Today there wasn’t much of a lunchtime crowd. The decorations around the fountain in the middle of the floor, which used to enchant me as a child, had been allowed to decay. I recognized old Mrs. Fratesi behind the counter, but felt the place had grown too sad for me to identify myself to her. I ate a salad made of iceberg lettuce and an old tomato and a frittata that was surprisingly light and carefully seasoned.
In the little ladies’ room at the back I got the most noticeable chunks of dirt off my skirt. I didn’t look fabulous, but maybe that suited the neighborhood better. I paid the tab, a modest four dollars, and left. I didn’t know you could get bread and butter in Chicago for under four dollars anymore.
All during lunch I’d turned over various approaches to Pankowski and Ferraro in my mind. If they were married, wives at home, children, they wouldn’t want to hear about Louisa Djiak. Or maybe they would. Maybe it would bring back the happy days of yore. I finally decided I’d have to play it by ear.
Steve Ferraro’s home was nearer to the restaurant, so I went there first. It was another of the endless array of East Side bungalows, but a little seedier than most of its neighbors. The porch hadn’t been swept recently, my critical housekeeping eye noted, and the glass on the storm door could have done with a washing.
A long interval passed after I rang the bell. I pushed it again and was about to leave when I heard the inner door being unlocked. An old woman stood there, short, wispy-haired, and menacing.
“Yes,” she said in one harsh, heavily accented syllable.
“Scusi,” I said. “Cerco il signor Ferraro.”
Her face lightened marginally and she answered in Italian. What did I want him for? An old lawsuit that might finally be going to pay out? To him only, or to his heirs?
“To him only,” I said firmly in Italian, but my heart sank. Her next words confirmed my misgivings: il signor Ferraro was her son, her only child, and he had died in 1984. No, he had never married. He had talked once about a girl in the place where he worked, but madre de dio, the girl already had a baby; she was
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