Michael Harvey - The Fifth Floor: Reissued

MICHAEL HARVEY

MICHAEL HARVEY is the author of two other Michael Kelly books,
The Chicago Way and The Third Rail, as well as a journalist and
documentary producer. His work has won numerous national and
international awards, including multiple Emmy Awards and an
Academy Award Nomination. Harvey earned a law degree from Duke
University, a masters degree in journalism from Northwestern
University, and a bachelors degree in classical languages from
Holy Cross College. Additional information can be found at
http://michaelharveybooks.com .

In memory of
Mary Lyons and
Margaret Kelly

This town was built by great men who demanded that drunkards and harlots be arrested, while charging them rent until the cops arrived.

MIKE ROYKO, CHICAGO COLUMNIST, 1976

I pushed the slim volume of poetry across my desk and into her lap. The woman with auburn hair, perfect posture, and a broken life picked it up.

I cant read this, she said, and lifted her head.

Thats because its in Latin, I said. Why dont you take off the sunglasses?

Why dont you translate for me?

Take off the glasses.

The woman slid the dark frames up and off her face. Her left eye was green and watering. Her right was black and swollen shut. The cheekbone below it offered a study in shades of purple, blue, and yellow.

You get the picture? she said.

The poem is by Catullus. First line reads Odi et amo. Translates as I hate and I love.

And this is my life?

People say its a love poem, but theyre wrong. Its about abuse, about not being able to get out, even when the door is wide open and the whole world is yelling that very thing in your ear.

I cant just leave. Its not that simple.

It never is. Let me ask you something. How do you think this ends?

The woman dropped her gaze back into her lap.

Youre a smart woman, Janet. You can figure it out. You wind up hurt real bad. Maybe dead. Or

She raised her head again. Or what?

Or he winds up dead. Either way, its not good.

She thinned her lips and set a hard edge at the corners of her mouth. Thered never been anything soft about Janet Woods face. Beautiful, yes. Even through the bruises. But never soft.

What do you want? she said.

Same thing I wanted three months ago. Get you out of there. Today. Taylors in school, right?

She nodded.

Okay. We pick her up. I take you to a safe place. No one knows but me, you, and your little girl. Then I approach your husband. Explain the situation to him.

Johnny will never go for it.

Johnny doesnt decide, Janet. He just listens.

She hesitated, then shook her head. I cant. Not right now.

I leaned back in my chair and looked toward the front windows. The sun had cracked through my blinds, and dust floated in panels of afternoon light.

Dont make this personal, Michael.

I swept my gaze back across the room. Excuse me?

Janet had brought a cup of Starbucks with her. She took a final sip and dropped the cup into a wastebasket near her feet. Then she crossed her legs and deflated a little with a sigh.

I said, Dont make this personal.

What does that mean?

She shrugged and stared at the line of her calf, the angle of her shoe.

I dont know. Just dont.

I breathed lightly through my nose and let the silence between us settle. Old friends make lousy clients. When that friend was once something more, things only get worse. I considered the tangle of history that bound us to each other, but got nowhere with it. Then I sat forward, tented my fingers on the surface of my desk, and smiled. How about some lunch?

Janet closed the book Id given her and dropped the glasses back over her face. Sounds good.

Lets go, I said. Theres a new place down the street.

She unfolded slowly from her chair, moving stiffly for a woman in her thirties. I figured Johnny Woods might be doing a little bodywork as well, but didnt comment.

We made our way out of my office and down the corridor. I stopped about halfway down. My client stopped with me. She kept her eyes fastened on her feet as she spoke. What?

Let me at least approach him. Just once. I can run into him by accident.

What good will that do?

Maybe I can get to know him. Talk some sense into him.

Janet put a hand to her temple and rubbed. Her fingers were long and thin. Old, but not with age. Then she dropped her hand back to her side and gave a small shrug.

He cant know Ive hired a private investigator.

I understand.

She nodded once and we started down the corridor again. It wasnt everything I wanted. In fact, it wasnt even close. But at least it was a start.

I double-parked on Michigan Avenue, popped my blinkers, and cruised the FM dial. I was tapping along to a-ha singing Take on Me and wondering whatever happened to my inner Led Zeppelin when Fred Jacobs walked out of the Tribune building.

Fred was six feet two and weighed slightly less than your average house cat. He was chasing sixty, with an Adams apple that earned every bit of its moniker and a head of black hair the color and consistency of shoe leather. He wore a brown Ban-Lon golf shirt over a pair of green-and-gold-checked polyester pants with inch-and-a-half cuffs. His socks were white and his loafers black. His skin was yellow when it wasnt just grim, and an unfiltered Camel hung from rubber lips. Fred was a lifelong bachelor. Suffice it to say, he didnt get a lot of chicks. What Fred did get was information. The man shambling along Michigan Avenue had won two Pulitzers and was probably the best investigative reporter this side of Bob Woodward. I pulled the car up but Fred just kept walking. Id seen this before and rolled down the window.

You getting in, Fred?

He squinted through a layer of cigarette smoke, motioned with one hand, and talked out of the side of his mouth.

Keep moving. Ill meet you around the corner.

When it came to paranoia, the NSA had nothing on Fred Jacobs. I pulled around the block and waited. It took a minute or two, but he finally slipped alongside my car and got in.

Just drive straight.

Its a one-way street, Fred.

Even better. Get going, for chrissakes.

I popped the car into drive and found my way around the block.

A lot of people watching you these days, Fred?

Fuck off, Kelly. First of all, youre never anything but trouble. Second, you dont work my beat. You dont do what I do. So you dont know anything about what people see and dont see.

Like I said, great reporter. A little touched in the head, but what the hell.

Where are we going to eat? he said.

Id told Fred Id buy him lunch. He knew that meant I needed information. Of course, Fred expected something in return. Like a story. Maybe another Pulitzer. Probably not. But for someone who weighed no more than the typical calico, Fred Jacobs also liked to eat. Big time.

I thought wed go over to Mitchells, I said.

Were going to the Goat. Take a left here.

I swung a left off Michigan Avenue and then another at State Street. Jacobs sucked up the last quarter of his cigarette and pushed the butt out an open window. Smoke curled softly from each nostril as the reporter rolled up the window and chuckled to himself.

Got to hand it to you, Kelly.

Whats that?

You stuck it to that TV bitch but good.

He was talking about Diane Lindsay, former Chicago news anchor, convicted killer, and someone I used to sleep with.