Read Online Windy City Blues by Marc Krulewitch - Free Book Online Page B

tickets. Even stupider. The expanse of unattached dots between Gelashvili’s world and Konigson’s required more connections before I could move beyond the realm of idiotic speculation. Moments like these begged the attention of “Frownie Consciousness,” an intruding voice I attributed to the old man when personal doubt hoisted its monstrous face.
Focus on the dots in your immediate vicinity,
the voice said, and instantly I saw Baxter the scofflaw—aka my closest dot.
    I sat upright and breathed deeply while twisting my neck and shoulders back and forth. After several rotations, a silky black ponytail caught my attention. She stood in front of the oven, apparently inspecting the dial thermometer. When she turned, I saw enough of her face to confirm Tamar’s identity.
    I walked to the end of the counter and watched her push a rolling rack stacked with trays of dough back and forth from the prep room to the oven. The back room had one large open entryway through which I could see other workers bent over tables, kneading, glazing, or icing. While I observed the labors of pastry fabrication, an immense figure appeared in the entryway, filling most of the space—if not blotting out the sun. He was bald with a bushy black unibrow over matching black eyes and a bulbous hook of a nose. The face of nightmares, I thought, a kind of beast-like man who materialized in your bedroom doorway and stared at you with an evil eye known to transform children into stone.
    When our eyes met, I instinctively turned my back and leaned against the counter, but not before the man’s body language had already revealed his intention of approaching me. Moments later I heard, “May I help you with something, sir?” That this kind, gentle articulation could come forth from such an intimidating figure was almost cartoonish in its absurdity. I was about to respond when I caught a glimpse of Tamar emerging from the doorway, which prompted a lateral move out of the man’s shadow. I waved. She smiled broadly, walked over while wiping her hands on the bottom half of her apron, and said, “What’re you doing here?” Her white V-neck T-shirt revealed a sheen of perspiration running down her lovely neck to the cleavage of her adorable breasts. The warmth of her expression released a swarm of butterflies throughout my abdomen and I forgot all about the demon who had retreated back into the prep room.
    “I was hungry,” I said. She giggled. “Gordon Baxter. Does that name mean anything to you?”
    “No. Should it?”
    “Only if Jack had mentioned him. Another officer told me Baxter was a well-known scofflaw whose car had been towed more than once. He was known for his abusive language and threats. And he lives in your neighborhood.”
    “So he’s a suspect?”
    “Seems like he should be, but a lot of things aren’t what they seem.”
    Tamar nodded. “That’s quite a profound statement.”
    “By the way, there’s a couple of guys passed out at a table near those cops.”
    Tamar shrugged. “Yeah, we get a lot of those. Drink a lot somewhere, come here and load up on pastries, pass out. As long as they don’t cause trouble, the boss doesn’t care.”
    I nodded as if her explanation made sense, then said, “I’ll let you get back to work.”
    Again Tamar held me in her gaze for an extended moment before saying goodbye. The conclusion to my visit would’ve been perfect had I not sighted the bald demon once again filling up the entryway to the prep room, his scowl scary enough to cause DNA to mutate.
    —
    Men took care of Dad. “Associates,” I think they were called. They shopped for him, cooked his food, cleaned his apartment, and basically made sure he was comfortable. These benefits were not the result of regularly paid insurance premiums, but of credits acquired over decades of loyalty to various individuals and organizations operating as a de facto syndicate. Keeping his mouth shut for sixteen years in a medium security prison was