Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (34 page)

INDUSTRIAL
GRADE.

“Stop
her, damn you!”

The
men who’d flushed me were bearing down on me. The two in front finished
strapping their load and gave a signal to a crane operator on the other side of
the room. They turned slowly, surprised, not believing anyone had really been
in the back room.

“Now,
just a minute there,” one of them said calmly.

A
hand grabbed at my jacket from behind. I kicked reflexively, gaining a second
to wrench myself free, and brandished the Smith & Wesson at the two in
front of me. One of them reached out an arm as a man behind me grabbed me
again. “Now, honey, let’s have that gun and. stop playing games.”

I
fired in front of me and the two men jumped aside. A half turn and another hard
kick backed off the one snatching at my jacket.

The
spool was about four feet from the edge of the platform. I jammed the gun into
my jacket pocket and leapt. My hands, wet with sweat, slipped on the
steel-and-canvas strips of the sling. I scissor-kicked violently, too much so.
My legs swung back behind me, arcing my back into a bow. I made myself relax;
let my legs sweep forward, waiting for gravity to draw them up. At the height
of the swing I hooked a knee over the rod threading the spool.

My
thighs were shaking. I ignored their weak complaining and pulled myself
upright, my wet hands trembling as I gripped the slings. I couldn’t see behind
me, couldn’t tell what my four pals were doing. I didn’t think they had guns,
at least not up on the platform with them.

I
couldn’t jump down—the floor was thirty feet below me. I looked at the gantry
above me. If I could climb the crane cable faster than they could wind it up, I
might shinny up and crawl along the tracks to the wall. I was trembling so
violently right now I didn’t think I could manage the gymnastics.

The
control booth was on the ground, on the far end of the room from the docks.
When I got down I’d have to outrun the man in the booth. And the two men gaping
at me from one of the open bays. They both looked big enough to be the Hulk
who’d chased me on my first trip here.

The
spool was swaying slightly from my jump. Suddenly it began swinging violently.
The crane operator was grinning dementedly. I clutched the canvas stripping. As
the arc grew wider nausea rose up in my gut. We were moving toward the side of
the building. It was an old gantry system and could only manage about five
miles an hour, slow enough, for me to figure out their plan: they were going to
swing the load around and smash me into the wall.

The
two hulks from the loading bays were looking up. The sound didn’t carry, but
from their body language I guessed they were laughing pretty hard.

When
we got to the wall the crane operator gave one tentative tap to set the load in
motion sideways. We swung out from the wall and started back with greater
force. Just before we hit I wrenched one hand free from the canvas sling and
scrabbled at the wall behind me. I clutched at metal and jumped free from the
load. For a terrifying second my left hand closed on air. Dark spots swam in
front of me and I grabbed blindly at the wall. An instant after my feet
connected with a girder, the copper spool slammed against the building.

The
blow jarred the girder. I was holding on with a death grip. The metal edges cut
into my palms. I shut my eyes and made myself unhook one hand… flex it… Move it
down, move my right foot down, fumble for a new toehold… Unhook my left hand,
lower it. My triceps were trembling, but my weight workouts stood me in good
stead. As long as I kept my eyes shut and didn’t think about what was waiting
for me below, I could keep up the rhythm of clutching and releasing the metal
cross-strips.

Every
twenty seconds or so the girder jarred as the operator slammed the spool
against it, following me down the track. The cables have built-in brakes to
keep their loads from slipping down too fast. Even knowing that, I jumped the
last six feet, landing in a rolling heap as far from the crane and the hulks as
I could manage.

I
pulled my gun free as the men came for me. They were brandishing giant
wrenches, but when they saw the gun they backed off a bit. From the corner of
my eye I could see the other men climbing down the ladder from the upper
platform. Seven men, eight bullets. I wouldn’t have time to reload. I couldn’t
possibly shoot them all.

The
hulks were between me and the loading dock. One of them suddenly slid his
wrench across the floor to the reinforcements and disappeared outside. The
other charged at me, brandishing his wrench like a torch. I fired and missed,
fired again. He stumbled as he came up to me. I jumped clear of his flailing
wrench and ran past him without stopping to see if I’d winged him.

I got
outside before my pursuers realized what had happened. Jumped off the platform,
and sprinted toward the front of the building and the road. Rounded the corner
when headlights came up, blinding me.

The
Hulk had gone to get one of the cars. The engine roared as he floored it. My
legs knew what to do almost before my brain registered the car. I found myself
hugging the foundation of the plant.

The
Smith & Wesson had landed a good eight feet from me. Panting, wet with
sweat, I started crawling for it as the car backed up. I reached the gun as the
Hulk went into drive again. I could just sense the rest of my pals behind me,
when I saw another pair of headlights join the first. I couldn’t run behind the
trucks: the rest of the gang would pin me like a trapped rat.

My
arms were quivering so badly, I could hardly lift the gun. I waited for the
cars as long as I dared, shot once at each windshield, stuck the gun back in
the holster and ran all out toward the canal. With the last strength I could
muster I dove clear of the pylons into the middle of the foul water.

Recollections
of a Midnight Swim

“You
were lucky, Warshawski, fucking lucky. What would you have done if that barge
hadn’t happened along?” Conrad Rawlings was shouting loudly enough to keep me
awake.

“I
wouldn’t have drowned, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had enough left in my
shoulders to climb up the side.”

“You
were just goddamn lucky,” he repeated. “That side is solid concrete. It isn’t
meant for shinnying.”

“Out
of curiosity, what were you doing along the canal at three in the morning?”
That was Terry Finchley, his tone conversational.

I
blinked at him from under the protective shroud of my police-issue blanket.
When the Santa Lucia saw me floundering around under the Damen Avenue bridge,
they’d fished me out and called the police department’s water patrol. I was
blacking out by then and couldn’t see far enough to tell whether my Diamond
Head pals were on the far bank dancing up and down in frustration.

The
tugboat crew wrapped me in a blanket and gave me hot soup while we waited for
the cops. When the river patrol came, the crew took their blanket back and the
police issued me a nice blue-and-white job. It looked like the kind the mounted
patrol put on their well-tended horses.

The
river cops were pleasant, so pleasant that I suddenly realized through the
mists of fatigue that they thought I’d been trying to kill myself. They took
the Smith & Wesson from me and kept trying to find out who they should
call.

“Terry
Finchley at Area One,” I muttered, waking with a start every time they asked.
“He can tell you about it.”

It
wasn’t until the third or fourth iteration that I figured out they wanted a
husband or sister or someone that they could turn me over to. I was exhausted,
but I hadn’t lost my wits. I knew I wasn’t in shape to take on anyone who might
be waiting for me, either at home or at Mrs. Polter’s. Normally at such a
crisis I’d call Lotty, but I couldn’t do that tonight either. Anyway, she was
staying with Max. I just kept mumbling Finchley’s name and dozing off.

It
must have been close to four when one of the patrolmen shook my arm. “Up you
get, honey. We found Terry Finchley for you.”

“She
doesn’t have any shoes,” I heard one of the patrol crew say.

“She’s
tough.” Finchley’s voice came from several miles away. “Her feet’ll take a few
splinters without breaking.”

I
stumbled behind the patrolman who’d awakened me. When we got to the gangway he
turned and lifted me over the side and propped me up next to Finchley’s driver.
I’m not used to being handled like a negligible load. It added a dimension of
helplessness to my fatigue.

“She
was carrying this; I don’t know if she has a license.” The sergeant handed my
gun to Finchley.

“It
needs cleaning,” I heard myself saying. “Cleaning and oiling. It’s been
underwater, you see.”

“She
needs a doctor and a hot bath, but she wouldn’t tell us who to call.” The
sergeant was talking about me as if I were lying dead in the next room.

I
patted myself under the blanket. They’d left the holster. My belt with its
seven-hundred-dollar picklocks was gone, though. I could just remember
struggling free of it underwater, when I shed my jacket and kicked off my
shoes, trying to lighten my load. My wallet was. still in my back pocket. The
cops could have picked it and found my address easily enough, but they were
mostly concerned that I not throw myself back into the steamy waters of the
Sanitary Canal.

“Want
to talk about it, Warshawski? Klimczak from the water patrol says you insisted
on seeing me. I got out of bed to meet you—-I’m not going to be a happy cop if
you clam up on me now.”

Finchley’s
sharp tone brought me back to the bare Area One interrogation room. In his
starched shirt and knifepoint trouser creases he didn’t appear to have just
tumbled out of bed. Rawlings, whom he’d called at some point in the
proceedings, looked more the part in a rumpled T-shirt and jeans. His eyes were
red and he seemed angry, or jumpy, or some combination of the two. I was having
too much trouble staying awake to sort out the nuances behind their speech.

“I’m
afraid I’m going to get cholera. From the canal, I mean. But I didn’t have any
choice. They would have run me over if I hadn’t gone in.” Under the blanket my
hair felt matted with sewage.

Finchley
nodded as if my words had made perfect sense.

“Who?”
Rawlings exploded. “Who would have run you over? And what the hell were you
doing there? Klimczak was worried you were suicidal, but I told him not a hope
of that.”

“Figure
it out, guys.” My words came out slowly, from a great distance. I couldn’t make
myself talk faster. “You know what’s going on at Diamond Head, right? I mean,
to you, nothing. Nothing’s happening there. To me, it’s where a man got killed.
And the head of the plant won’t talk to me. And Jason Felitti, who owns it,
throws me out of his house. So I went down to have a look for myself. And
voila!”

I
waved a hand like a comic-book drunk. I couldn’t seem to control such
extravagant gestures.

“And
voila what?” Finchley prodded.

I
jerked my head upright—I’d started to drop off again. “They were loading
Paragon copper onto trucks in the middle of the night.”

“You
want me to arrest them, Warshawski?” Rawlings demanded.

I
looked at him owlishly. “It’s a thought. A definite thought. Why do they have
spools of Paragon copper to begin with? No, that’s an easy question. They
bought it to make their little engine gizmos with, I guess. Why are they
shipping it out? Secretly in the dark? That’s the hard question.”

“How
do you know they’re doing it secretly? An active business might ship supplies
at any time.” Finchley crossed his legs and adjusted the crease.

“They
were loading it onto closed trucks. Spools go on flat-beds. Anyway, when they
saw me watching them, why didn’t they call you guys? Why’d they chase me into
the canal instead?”

A
ghost of a smile flitted across Finchley’s ebony face. “If you caught someone
on your premises, I doubt your first act would be to call me, Vic. I expect
you’d get up a load of steam and drive them off yourself if you could.”

I
couldn’t prod my brain into making cogent arguments. “I shot at them. I think I
hit one guy. Has anyone reported that? Maybe come around wanting to file
charges?”

Finchley’s
brows went up at that. He gestured at a corner and I saw a uniformed woman get
up and slip out the door. I hadn’t noticed her until then.

“Mary
Louise Neely,” I said out loud.

“Yes,
that’s Officer Neely,” Finchley said. “She’ll check on your wounded man. So
what’s the point, Warshawski? You’re trying to build a case against Diamond
Head, but it’s not holding water—-forgive the expression. A drunken old man
hits his head and dies and falls or is rolled into the canal. It’s too bad, but
it doesn’t mean every corporation in Chicago has to roll over and do tricks
because you’re steamed about it.”

The
edge to his words whipped blood to my cheeks and momentarily cleared my brain.
“Right, Finchley. I tried calling you tonight because you—no, it was Rawlings
here, but I expect you knew about it—called Dr. Herschel to complain I was
holding out. You get my message?”