“That’s where it all comes together: the Diamond Head bonds Mrs. Frizell bought from Chrissie Pichea; Chicago Settlement; and Diamond Head itself—Dick did the legal work. I just don’t see how else to get it without looking at his files. And I don’t know how to get in there.”

“You can’t pick the lock?”

“I lost my picklocks in the San the other night, but that’s not really the problem. A big law firm like that, the juniors are working until all hours. I don’t know how to get in without being caught. And I don’t know how else to get what I need to know.”

He thought it over for some time. “You know, doll, I’ve got an idea. I’m not saying it’s a great idea, and it’d need some work, but you know who gets into places like that without anybody paying any mind to them?”

“Cleaning crews, but—”

“And workmen,” he interrupted triumphantly. “They’re just part of the furniture to management squirts.”

46

New Duds—But Not from Saks

Mr. Contreras had to go home to feed Peppy and let her out. We decided that I would drop him on Diversey and pick him up on Barry, at the top of our alley. I wasn’t very happy with the plan, but had to agree that anyone staking out the place was more likely to be gunning for me than for him.

I spent the next half hour in misery. I couldn’t take the car up Racine in case they had someone smart enough to be looking for me regardless of what I was driving. I went the long way around to Barry and sat hunched down in the driver’s seat, my gun out, straining my ears for any sounds of violence so that I might race to Mr. Contreras’s rescue. When he appeared at the mouth of the alley my stomach heaved uncontrollably; I retched up a mouthful of bile, just getting my head out of the car in time.

Mr. Contreras, torn between excitement and worry, offered me his giant handkerchief to clean my mouth. I used it a little ruefully. Marlowe never let his nerves get the better of him.

My neighbor had brought a couple of faded boilersuits with him, along with an outsize tool box. We dumped the load in the back. I wrenched at the steering wheel and moved out of the neighborhood. Before we did anything else I needed a glass of water and something to eat—other bodily needs that never seemed to afflict the great detectives.

We found an all-night diner on Clark and stopped for sandwiches. As the Near North Side grew ever more yuppi-fied this was one of the few remaining places for cops, delivery drivers, and others on the graveyard shift.