His menace was palpable, but I couldn’t understand why he would be disowning one of his homeys. “Funny, other people remember him well. So well, in fact, that they remember seeing you go into the Waltz Right Inn with him the night before the big snow. The last night anyone saw him alive.”

The words hung between us for a long moment before he said, “Lot of people went through those doors, girl, hard for me to remember who I might have seen forty years ago. But I’ll ask around. Maybe some of the brothers have a better memory than me.”

“And while you’re asking around, see if any of them remember Steve Sawyer, too.”

He laughed, if that’s what you could call the raw and raucous sound. “I heard you were asking for Steve Sawyer. It’s funny, damned funny, Detective Warshawski, that you of all people don’t know where that brother ended up.”

I looked at him with so much bewilderment that he laughed again, then signaled to the guard. “Time’s up, white girl. Come again sometime. I always enjoy the chance to shoot the shit about the old days.”

13 - A WILD NIGHT AT THE END OF A PIER

13

A WILD NIGHT AT THE END OF A PIER

THE POLICE HAD CORDONED OFF NAVY PIER. AS MR. Contreras and I showed our invitations at the barricade and were passed through, I couldn’t help thinking of Stateville. It’s true that the cops here treated us with deference since we had the VIP reception tags for people who gave ten thousand or more or who had connections to the campaign, but the barricades, the very idea that we were never far from a police guard, made me tense.

“You okay, doll? You want to ride?” Mr. Contreras looked at me anxiously and pointed to the trolley cars waiting to take guests to the east end of the pier.

I realized I’d come to a halt in the middle of the street. I smiled at him, determined not to ruin his pleasure with my fanciful fears. The evening was soft and warm, with the reflected sunset painting the eastern sky a rosy gray. I took his arm and said I needed the walk.

The pier is a strange, honky-tonk place, a tourist version of what Chicago means: gimcrack souvenirs of our sports teams and of the pier itself, the big Ferris wheel where you slowly rise above the city while listening to ads, the usual high-fat eateries, and the endlessly blaring, pulsing music. Loudspeakers placed on poles every ten feet guarantee that you can never escape the noise.