Free Maxwell Street Blues by Marc Krulewitch

squinty-eyed and said, “You’re pretty cocky for a young guy. You stroll into my house and start asking personal questions. I’m not surprised you’re walking around with that shiner.”
    “You didn’t have to let me in. You always let strangers into your house?” I took out the photographs of Baron meeting with Mildish and Tate and spread them out on the glass table between us. Baron glanced at them.
    “So what do you want?” Baron said. “Get to the point and stop the tough guy crap.”
    “I don’t give a damn where you got your money or what you did with it. All I care about is finding Snooky’s killer. And at investigator school they teach us to follow the money. Right now I’m thinking someone pulled some strings so Baron Construction got the university expansion contract. And I’m thinking that Snooky laundered money that was then kicked back as payment for the string-pullers.”
    Baron rose from his chair, walked to a small liquor cabinet, and poured himself a drink. I declined his offer. After sitting back down, he took a sip and said, “Ever study fluid mechanics? Money always takes the path of least resistance. In Chicago, that path is especially slimy. And there is no less resistant path than through a politician. As a student of local history, I seem to recall some characters with the name Landau who understood this principle quite well.”
    “Why is Snooky dead?” I said.
    “I don’t know,” Baron said. “When I said I liked the guy, I meant it. He understood the system. He knew to keep his mouth shut.” Baron started shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he said again. “He didn’t deserve this. Somebody fucked up.”
    “What do Tate and Mildish say?”
    “They say they don’t know.”
    “Do you believe them?”
    Baron stared at me for a few seconds and said, “Mildish is the boss. Me and Tate don’t know shit. Mildish knows more than he’ll ever tell either of us.”
    “What was that little meeting out front about?”
    “About an investigator dropping in for a visit. You got those two bent, that’s for sure.”
    Baron seemed awfully relaxed for someone who could be implicated in murder and bribing government officials. But maybe I was being naïve.
    “I want you to set up a meeting for me with Tate and Mildish,” I said. “Somewhere public.” I gave Baron my cell phone number. “And if I find out you’ve been jerking me around, I’ll have the auditor general crawling up your ass.”

18
    I was tired and my eye socket throbbed. I chopped up some organ meat and dropped it into Punim’s bowl, the sound of which brought her running to the bloody scene. Then I popped some acetaminophen and stretched out on the couch with an ice pack over my eye. There was still some lingering daylight at eight-thirty, but my body told me to let the recent events percolate awhile in an unconscious state. And to be perfectly honest, something about the image of myself crashed on the couch after a successful day of sleuthing was irresistible.
    When I opened my eyes again, the subtle hues of daylight confirmed that I had spent the entire night on the couch. Punim sat on the coffee table staring at me, and when I sat up, she darted to the kitchen and waited next to her bowl. I showered and then we ate breakfast together. Halfway through my bowl of oatmeal, the cell phone rang. “Noon,” Baron said, “in front of the Melrose diner.”
    “Are they gonna buy lunch?”
    Baron hung up.
* * *
    It was a busy restaurant on a busy street, about as public as you can get. I arrived ten minutes early and watched from the dry-cleaning joint across the street. Noon came and went without any sign of Tate or Mildish, and it occurred to me that they, too, were watching the front of the restaurant from another location. My inclination was to give inand be the first to show, but before I could act, a foul odor accosted me, and a raspy voice suggested I not turn around. I felt something hard press into my