I opened and shut my mouth a few times. Whether it was the flattery or the supplication in both their faces, I wrote down the address of Six-Points, the name of the manager, August’s home address. When I asked Angela for August’s mother’s name, though, she said that “Auntie Jacquelyn” had died six years ago.

“I honestly don’t think August has any other family in Chicago. Not on my side anyway. His daddy was killed in Iraq, years ago. If he has other relatives here, I don’t know about them.”

Of course she didn’t know his friends either, or lovers, or whether he had debts he needed to pay off. At least she could provide his last name—Veriden. Even though I knew that neither woman could afford my fees, I still found myself saying I would call at the gym tomorrow and ask some questions.

Bernie leaped up to hug me. “Vic, I knew you would say yes! I knew we could count on you.”

I thought of Sam Spade telling Brigid O’Shaughnessy he wouldn’t play the sap for her. Why wasn’t I as tough as Sam?

2
Fit for Life

The next day I had an early meeting in the Loop with my favorite kind of client, the kind who pays bills regularly and has well-focused inquiries, so it wasn’t until late afternoon that I made it up to the Six-Points Gym. Which meant I had about a dozen texts from Bernie, demanding to know what I’d found out, before I even started north.

I’d made an appointment with the day manager, Denise LaPorte, and had phoned to let the Evanston police know I was on the case. The detective in charge didn’t sound as though the break-in was high on his own to-do list. No one had been killed or even injured, and property damage was minimal.

“You want to look for this guy—what’s his name? August Veriden?—knock yourself out. Just let me know when you find him.”

“You’re liking him for the break-in?”

The cop said, “We’d like to talk to him. He’s the only employee with a key that we can’t locate, so we’ve put out a bulletin for him.”

I asked what drugs were missing. I whistled under my breath: the gym’s medical closet had quite a cocktail on hand—Oxy, Toradol, Vicodin, along with stuff I’d never heard of.

“Were the quantities enough to make them worth stealing?”

The detective snorted derisively. “You ever been around a junkie, PI? Street value doesn’t mean shit. Ease of access—you’ll see when you get there. It ain’t exactly Fort Knox.”

Duly chastened, I promised I would let him know if I discovered anything helpful. Neither of us was optimistic when I hung up.