Free The Governor's Wife by Michael Harvey Page B

about you?” Bones flashed the shark’s-teeth grin of a Chicago pol.
    “What do you know about a company called Beacon Limited?” I said.
    The grin disappeared, and something even more unpleasant replaced it. “I did some work for them.”
    “What kind of work?”
    “Consultant. But that was a long time ago. They were just a small outfit back then.”
    “And now?”
    “Now, they’re not so small. Let me ask you something. You been going around town asking about Beacon?”
    “Every chance I get.”
    “You should smarten up.”
    “Do you know Albert Striker?”
    “Beacon’s attorney. Or at least he used to be.”
    “I’d like to talk to him.”
    “Might be tough. Albert died three years ago.”
    “Someone must have replaced him?”
    Bones’s cigar had gone cold. He took his time relighting it. “You don’t understand Beacon, Kelly. It’s not a company as much as an idea.”
    “So I’ve heard.”
    “Day-to-day business is handled through the subsidiaries. And they know nothing about the parent company.”
    “Someone must make the big decisions?”
    “Dig if you want. All you’ll find are more corporate layers. More dead ends.”
    “Was Ray involved with Beacon?”
    “You know the answer to that. They were heavy contributors to the campaign.”
    “How about your daughter?”
    Bones pulled the cigar from his mouth and let a little smoke leak out behind it. “Let’s go get lunch.”
    He led me back down the stairs and across North Avenue. Bones waved a hand at the Old Town Ale House as we passed by. “Still do most of my drinking in there, but we’re gonna eat at another place.”
    We stopped in front of a wooden building with a Hamm’s poster in the window. The place looked abandoned, but Bones pulled at the door and it opened. Inside a young woman with sharp features and small, dull eyes slouched behind the bar. She wore jeans and a Bears T-shirt she’d tied off to expose her pale stomach. The woman was talking to a drowsy-looking guy with three days’ worth of beard and an open Budweiser in front of him. The way she leaned over to talk told me they were sleeping together. But that was probably just me. Too many nights on a barstool at Sterch’s. The guy hopped up when he saw Bones and hurried over.
    “Mr. McIntyre.”
    “Bones. I told you, Bones.”
    “Bones. Great to see you. We were just opening.”
    I looked around. A couple of pitchers of stale beer were fermenting on the bar, and the floor was still sticky from last night. Most of the chairs were turned upside down on the tables, and the place smelled faintly of vomit.
    “I thought I told you I wanted these women wearing clothes,” Bones said.
    The guy with the growth scratched at it. “I’ll talk to her.”
    “Tell her to cover up that goddamn belly. What’s your name again?”
    “Darryl. Darryl Jones.”
    “How old are you, Darryl?”
    “Thirty-two.”
    “Thirty-two. You like that stuff?”
    “What stuff, Mr. McIntyre?”
    “Forget it. Where can we sit?”
    Darryl showed us to a booth and wiped it down with a dirty sponge.
    “Couple of beers, Darryl.” Bones looked at me. “Old Style, okay?”
    I nodded. What the hell.
    “An Old Style and an O’Doul’s. And give us some soup. You like soup, Kelly?”
    “Sure.”
    “Couple of bowls of that chicken soup I had yesterday. And some bread.”
    Darryl scurried back behind the bar. The girl showed up a minute later with two longnecks. She had her eyes down and midriff covered.
    “Thanks, honey. This is for you.” Bones pushed a twenty into her hand, took a long gargle from the O’Doul’s, and thumped it down on the table.
    “You got an interest in this place?” I said.
    Bones hooded his eyes and winked. “Six months ago they were going to shut the place down. Guy asked me for some help. I paid off what he owed the county in taxes and took over the license.”
    “What do you know about bars?”
    “What did I know about politics? We’ll be fine.” Bones jerked