This is the second installment of the Chanco Lupaster, Reggie Haskell novel, The Wrong Guest. The beginning is here.
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2. Manthes Arrives
The front bell rang.
Dr. Lloyd Manthes stood on the stoop with snow on his cap and shoulders. He was not a walk-in looking for a PI to find a lost cat. The government of the United States of America was standing right behind him. My heart beat a little faster. The U.S. government could pay a fee that would bring in the first-class cockroach exterminator I was pining for on that particular day.
Last summer, on Prosecutor Manthes’ orders, Herrlee Croft, commander of the second district, escorted me to an interrogation room in the basement at the second district office on Wentworth with two Chicago police detectives who moonlighted as exhibits at the circus when it came through Chicago. They kept me up all night thinking up witty backchat for their entertainment.
Backchat at the Wentworth barracks is not Class-A entertainment, but it is less frustrating than pounding Chicago’s frozen streets, shagging cases that require Lupaster’s talent. The whole scene had a few too many prat falls for my taste.
I hesitated for two beats, chewing over the memory of that night, but the wheel turns. Had a real case had come to the door? I decided to give Manthes the red carpet treatment: I checked for bad breath with a cupped hand over my mouth, brushed the breakfast crumbs off my shirt, and dabbed at the grease spots with a damp napkin.
Then I opened the door.
Manthes stomped in. His woolen flat cap and overcoat had accumulated a half inch of snow. I pointed to the small hand-lettered sign that said, “All weapons must be checked in.” Manthes shook his head.
I brushed off the snow and hung his hat and coat on a hook in the entry. From the heft and balance, I guessed that Manthes had a weapon stowed in his right side pocket. Bad form to read the signage and ignore it. Worse form to leave said weapon with a flunky like me. While Manthes peered into the office, I jacked the Walther from his pocket and slipped it into my own.
“Where’s the blind genius?” Manthes said without looking at me.
Lupaster was tapping with his stick on his way down from his second-floor suite. My suite is also on the second floor, across the hall. Lupaster wore, as usual, a custom-fitted black suit, white shirt, and tie from a tailor in the loop who includes a set of ties for each suit he makes for Lupaster. The ties are a special service to Lupaster; the tailor does not consider blind men competent to select their own ties. I agree, but I’m not sure that the tailor travels in the right circles to select Lupaster’s ties anyway.
“Reggie. Invite Dr. Manthes into the office,” Lupaster said as he took the final step down to the first floor. I don’t know how he figured out it was Manthes, unless he recognized his voice, which, as far as I know, Lupaster had never previously heard.
I lead Manthes to the big guest chair from Catholic Salvage that faced Lupaster; then sat down at my own desk, which was a recycled Formica-topped kitchen table. Manthes raised an eyebrow at the chair, dusted it off with his hand, and sat down without leaning back. Then he examined his fingers, presumably for contamination. The mulberry tree outside the office window was bare; its trunk, sooty black. Snow stuck to the tree as it fell from the dusty sky in wet flakes like chicken feathers.
“I congratulate you, Dr. Manthes, on your new degree,” Lupaster said when he had settled at his desk. Lupaster had mentioned to me earlier that he was impressed with Manthes’ diligence in pursuing an advanced Doctor of Jurisprudence degree from the university.
“Chanco, I have a job that I cannot touch. For political reasons, I want to place it in your hands.” He said it more cordially than an over-boiled carrot, less cordial than a braised Brussel sprout.
Ignoring a congratulations is not a good way to ask Lupaster for a favor, I thought.
“Socrates ignored politics to his peril,” Lupaster replied. “But I have no legal status. Surely you have someone who can take care of your problem.”
As he spoke, Lupaster stared at the left hand corner of his desk, away from Manthes. A dog had evidently chewed on that corner, but the desk was the best one that Fellman and I could find at our price. A randomly directed stare is natural with Lupaster, but he also knows it is annoying. Manthes knew Lupaster’s habits well enough, but he fell for it. His lower lip pulled toward his nose and the corners of his lips went down. Lupaster had thrown Manthes off his pace. The thought that Lupaster would not be so easy to lead had entered Manthes’ head.
Good sign, I thought. Manthes turned to me.
“Haskell, you know Marijyn Lowell.”
“She’s out of my circle by a few million dollars, but I’ve seen her around.”
“Who is this woman?” Lupaster asked.
“Her father is Ray Flannigan, president of the butchers’ and sausage makers’ union,” I said. “She shows up at charity functions. I may have been introduced, but most likely not. She’s a little noisy, has smooth legs and her proportions are right.” I paused. “And she has the full force of upwards of a thousand meat cutters with sharp knives behind her.”
“I know you know her Haskell,” Manthes growled. “I think the girl and her boyfriend, Godfrey Upstine, are up to something, but I can’t tell her father until I know for sure.”
“Dr. Manthes.” Lupaster spoke in a flat monotone. “That is blatant and obvious flimflam. Tell us what you want or get out. Lest you have any illusions, I don’t chase gossip and neither does Reggie. Find someone else to be your quidnunc.” Lupaster said.
I did not agree. Tailing Marijyn Lowell was about forty light years above cold calling dry cleaners for cases involving missing underwear, a stratagem I had considered trying. And it might pay some bills.
Manthes squeezed out an awkward half-smile that only partly succeeded in reversing the downward arc of the corners of his mouth. “Don’t misunderstand me. I feel obligated to protect her and her father. Ray Flannigan is an old friend. He has been dropping hints that he might run for alderman. You know what that means. Every news leech in the Midwest will be sniffing for dirt to suck. If the girl is making mud pies, Ray has to clean it up or quit hinting. I’m his friend and I’ll help him if I can.”
“That’s a nice story, but you stretch my credulity.” Lupaster said. He had pointed his face at the ceiling. “Didn’t you prosecute and lose the Ramlin case? Every voter in Chicago knew Ramlin was guilty of every graft on the books, and they still elected him alderman. Your worries are absurd and you know it.”
Manthes rubbed his face with both hands. The room was stark white, the way Lupaster liked it. Against the white background, he might have seen Manthes raise his hands.
Manthes stood up abruptly, leaned on Lupaster’s desk to steady himself and then slumped back into his chair.
“I’m afraid she is running a nanny-gate. You know… undocumented nannies from the places she raises money for.”
“So? Need I tell you that this is Chicago, prosecutor? A candidate who does not take a few dollars from the back channel is suspected of mental deficiency. You must do better, Dr. Manthes. What would you call this? Reggie.”
“Chicken litter. Pure chicken litter. Good for the garden, not much else.”
“Thank you Reggie. You turn the phrase perfectly. Chicken litter! Try again, doctor. Three times is a charm.” Lupaster was still staring at the ceiling.
A gust of wind hit the office window, rattling it faintly. In the few minutes since Manthes had entered the office, heavy snow had weighed down the mulberry tree. The snow collapsed and fell to the ground with a soft thud. The black branches, released from tension, vibrated like clenched fists in a street fight. Manthes did not notice, but I looked out the window and Lupaster nodded slightly. I never know what Lupaster hears or sees.
“Will you give it a try, Dr. Manthes?” Lupaster said.
Manthes opened his mouth as if to speak, and then fell back, deep trouble lines on his forehead. He roused himself again and said, “Very well. Marijyn and Upstine’s nannies are as young as twelve, they are not ugly or malformed, and most of the homes that take in these nannies do not have children. Two are college fraternities.”
“Ah,” I said. Manthes was warming up a little, but his story still had false notes.
“Do you have any credible evidence?” Lupaster said.
Manthes shook his head. “You heard all of it. And none of it is verifiable.”
Manthes wore a prosecutorially dark wool suit. Damp snow and his heavy overcoat had muted its authoritative crispness.
Manthes could use a good steaming.
“Well, Dr. Manthes? Get to the point if you will.”
“All right. I don’t care if Ray Flannigan runs for alderman or charges off Navy Pier. I don’t care about Marijyn Lowell and Godfrey Upstine’s nanny operation, but the word is that the boyfriend has hooks into the gold coast fancy trade. It’s a regular mix and match menu. Color, age, size, language. Put it together and place your order. That’s just local high jinks, not a federal affair, except the ladies are children and coming in from offshore. People I can’t ignore don’t like it. Someone has dropped a dime that’s rolling in my direction.”
Lupaster shifted his stare from the ceiling to the window. The branches on the mulberry had quit shaking. The scene was still and Manthes had begun to make sense.
“I could believe that story. But you have no evidence. What can we do for you, Dr. Manthes? Send Reggie uptown to turn over her place?”
“Tail Marijyn Lowell and Godfrey Upstine. Who’re they seeing? What’re they doing? Find out for me.”
“That’s bush league snoop work. The National Enquirer is already on it,” I said. “If you want us for a few hours at Lupaster’s rates, it’s no secret that we’re begging for scraps. But you also know that Lupaster doesn’t stop. Even if you tell him to. You’ll get more than snooping, and pay for it, whether you want it or not.”
Whatever signs of civility Manthes had forced onto his face were gone. He looked sour and disgusted, but resignation was sneaking into the corners of his eyes.
“Yes. It is snooping. But I’m shoved into a corner. I can’t snoop myself. If my staff does it, the Justice Department will skin me alive for wasting manpower on meddling. But if I don’t, my skin still hangs on the shed of somebody with more drag in Chicago than Justice. If I interfere personally, another gang is after me. I have it coming from every direction. You and Reggie can shine a light behind the dumpsters. Make a rat move its nest and I stay alive. That’s all I’m asking you.”
Lupaster shifted his gaze to my corner of his desk and tapped his stick lightly on the hardwood.
Manthes went on. “I can’t do anything. Important people are scared angry. They’re on the verge of rash acts. Important people doing rash acts, I cannot handle,” Manthes voice screwed up into a whine.
“That is speculation Dr. Manthes. I scarcely believe your important people are interested. You continually forget that this is Chicago, not Hooterville, North Dakota. Lupaster Investigations LLC is no moral scourge. We do not round up mobs. We find and explain facts with facts; we do not spin them. Are you sure you don’t need a publicist to calm down your important people?” Lupaster said. It was an impressive speech from behind a desk with one corner chewed off. He always tries to send prospective clients to publicists. They never go. Thank heavens.
Manthes sucked in air like he was about to bluster, rethought it and exhaled slowly.
“I’m scared. I’m carrying a side arm for the first time since I was discharged from the army.”
“Alright,” Lupaster said. His face had a new expression. “Reggie, is Dr. Manthes carrying a weapon?”
“No sir. But he brought one in. A Walther PPK. Here it is.” I placed Manthes’ Walther on Lupaster’s desk, far out of Manthes’ reach.
“Give me that! You stole it from me.”
“Save it. You gave it to me in your coat. That violates your own weapons code. You didn’t even remember you left it in your overcoat. Want to play pointy fingers?” I said.
“Prosecutor Manthes, you came armed to my office? Reggie, show him out. Return his weapon when he is on the sidewalk.”
Manthes’ face looked hangdog before, now the dog was searching for a hole to crawl into.
Manthes shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Lupaster took his gaze off the desk corner and turned to me. Usually, when Lupaster speaks to a client and looks at me, it means Lupaster’s substitute eyes and hands are about to begin their work. I hoped Lupaster would not come up with something impossible for me to do.
“Only one circle can be drawn through three points, but we don’t know yet where we stand and who else might be in the circle we draw.
“Do you concur, Dr. Manthes?”
Manthes shaped “No” on his lips, but he emitted no sound. His face went blank. He nodded.
“Dr. Manthes, is Samuel Woolley easily intimidated? He called here a moment before you arrived. He was frantic.”
“Sam Woolley is a member of the bar,” Manthes mumbled.
Lupaster said, “Dr. Manthes, your admiration for your colleagues is commendable, as is the crocodile’s taste for fish, but that was not my question. Think again and tell me about Samuel Woolley, not the dubious puissance of his profession.”
Manthes assembled a more professional face and put it on.
“Sam Woolley has been my friend since law school. He has seen more patent applications and represented more patent litigation than anyone else in Chicago. I have no idea what he could have to do with the business Marijyn is mixed up in.”
“But he knew you were coming to see me. Why? Did Upstine warn him?”
“I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here except Woolley. I said I was meeting with Chanco Lupaster. But Sam might have had an idea. We have talked about the Flannigan girl and her boyfriend.”
“Have you talked to anyone else about Marijyn or Upstine?”
“Names come up occasionally. Several people may have inferred my suspicions.”
“Satisfactory. Thank you, Doctor. I assume you can give Reggie a list of names. Now tell me what you think Lupaster Investigations LLC could do for you.”