I called Max to accept with pleasure. The serenity of his Evanston home would make a welcome relief from the places and people I’d been seeing lately. I phoned the Schaumburg outfit and arranged to see their operations vice president at two. And I caught Murray at his desk. He agreed to meet me for a sandwich at a place near the paper, but he wasn’t enthusiastic about my story.

Lucy Moynihan, who owns and runs Carl’s, plucked us from the line at the door and ushered us to one of the tables she saves for her regulars. She grew up in Detroit and is an unregenerate Tiger fan, so I had to wait for her and Murray to finish dissecting yesterday’s game before I could tell him about Mrs. Frizell and her dogs.

“It’s sad, Vic, but it’s not a story,” Murray said through a mouthful of hamburger. “I can’t bring this to my editor. The first thing he’ll want to know is how much you’re motivated by your hatred of Yarborough.”

“Dick hasn’t got anything to do with this. Except that he and Pichea are at the same law firm. Don’t you think it’s interesting that he’s getting the Chicago Lawyer to suppress my letter?”

“Frankly, no. I think he’s protecting Crawford, Mead’s fair name. Anyone would under the circumstances. Bring me some real dirt and I’ll go to bat for you. This just doesn’t cut it. You’re on a crusade for the old lady and it’s distorting your perspective.”

“This is a story. It’s happening all over the Lincoln Park perimeter as the yuppies muscle in to old neighborhoods. People forced out of bungalows they’ve spent a lifetime in to make way for the sacred gentrifiers. Only in this case Pichea’s added a personal vendetta against an old woman because he hates her dogs.”

Murray shook his head. “You’re not selling me, V.I.”

I pulled a five from my billfold and slapped it on the table, too angry to eat. “Don’t come around asking me for favors in the future, Ryerson, because there won’t be any.”

As I stormed to the door I saw him pick up my turkey sandwich and start eating it. Great. Perfect conclusion to a bad morning.

On my way to Schaumburg I stopped at a fast foodery for a milkshake. I couldn’t go indefinitely on anger and I wanted to present a professional front to my prospective clients. Fortunately I’d dressed for success today in a taupe trouser suit with a black cotton top. And since I drank the shake through a straw I didn’t even spill any on myself.