I was on thin ice there, since I wasn’t sure what the report meant. Obviously it had rung a thousand bells with Nancy, but I could only guess at why. I danced my way through possibilities, throwing in references to Joey Pankowski and Steve Ferraro, but Humboldt refused to rise to the bait. He strode to his desk and picked up the phone.

“Why did you lie to me about that lawsuit?” I continued conversationally when he had hung up. “I know a big ego is a sine qua non for success on the scale you’ve achieved, but you must really be myopic if you thought I’d take your unsupported word on that suit. Too many things had been happening in South Chicago for me not to be suspicious of a high-powered CEO who—”

I was interrupted by some new arrivals—three security guards. I couldn’t help being flattered that Humboldt thought it would take so many men to get me out of his building—one of that size and apparent conditioning would have done the trick given the shape I was in. I didn’t feel up to a bravado display so I went along without a fuss.

As they ushered me from the room—with more force than was really necessary—I called over my shoulder, “You gotta get better help, Gustav. The guys who dumped me in Dead Stick Pond are in custody and it’s only a matter of time before they cop a plea by telling the police who hired them.”

He didn’t answer me. As Redwick shut the door behind us, though, I heard Humboldt say, “Someone has got to shut that meddlesome bitch up for me.”

Alas, this seemed to put paid to the idea of my ever drinking his remarkable brandy again.

35

Changing Words at Buckingham Fountain

It was a little after eleven when the great apes finished escorting me from the zoo, time for me to check in with young Art. I was within walking distance of my office, but I wanted to get clean away from the Humboldt Building. I paid my eight dollars for the privilege of parking next to it for an hour and moved the car to the underground garage.

I’d forgotten Mr. Contreras’s forcible entry to my office Friday night. He’d done a thorough job on the door. First he’d smashed in the glass in the hopes of being able to reach in and turn the lock. When he’d found it was a key-operated dead bolt, he’d methodically broken all the wood around it and pulled it from the frame. I ground my teeth at the sight, but didn’t see any point in mentioning it when I called the old man. It would be easier to arrange for someone else to repair it than to go through his long string of remorse—and far easier to get outside help than to go through the agony of watching Mr. Contreras fix it.

Art came uneasily to the phone. He had spoken with his dad, but he wanted me to know that I really owed him. It had been pure hell having to negotiate with Big Art. Oh, yes, he’d gotten the old man to agree to come to the fountain, although he said he couldn’t make it before two-thirty. It had taken a lot of cajoling; his father had pressured him unbelievably to be told where he was staying. If I had any idea how hard it was to stand up to Big Art, I might treat him with a little more respect.