Maxwell Street Blues

Maxwell Street Blues by Marc Krulewitch Read Free Book Online Page B

Book: Maxwell Street Blues by Marc Krulewitch Read Free Book Online
Authors: Marc Krulewitch
Tags: Mystery
clubbed in the face. Ten stitches and a fractured cheekbone. I found you leaning against the door to your apartment.”
    Dad put an ice pack in my hand and moved both to my eye. The cold felt good. “You should’ve told me Kalijero was on your ass. This ain’t worth dying over, you know.”
    “How did you know about Kalijero?”
    “It’s a coincidence I’m here? He called my parole officer and got my number. I tried calling, but you don’t answer. So I stopped by and there you were.”
    “So he’s on my ass. So what?”
    “So what? This was a message, Jules. You probably only got hit once. A few more with whatever they used, and you wouldn’t be waking up.”
    “I’ll be more careful next time.”
    “I’d be responsible for my own son’s death—”
    “You’re the second old man today who wants to be responsible for my death! I’ll be responsible for my own death, okay?” A nurse walked over and asked if everything was all right. My head throbbed. Dad looked as if he didn’t recognize me. He sat down in the chair and stared into space.
    “Oh, c’mon,” I said. “I would’ve found out about Snooky anyway, and I’d be in the same situation whether you knocked on my door two days ago or not. So what did Kalijero say?”
    Dad turned to me. “He thought he could threaten me. He said he could nail you for obstruction, and I would be your accomplice. He’d make sure I spent my last days in prison. You’ve got him shitting his pants.”
    “He wants that book I showed you.”
    Dad nodded. “Maybe Kalijero got in too deep. Maybe he killed Snooky. Or maybe he just knows who did and why.”
    “The book doesn’t mean shit.”
    “He doesn’t know that. He’s desperate.”
    “I’m fine,” I said. “Try not to worry.”
    “It’s my fault you got into this. I was a shitty father. It was your mother’s weakness that she accepted me for who I was. I didn’t deserve her. She loved me no matter what.” Dad pushed himself up from the chair. “Your mother got sick just a year after I went away. It’s my fault she died so young.”
    “Oh, c’mon, Dad. You can’t blame yourself for that. And Mom just wanted me tobe happy. She wouldn’t have cared what I did for a living.”
    “I don’t know. She was first generation, remember. I think she would’ve wanted more for you.”
    “Blame Great-Granddad, not yourself.” Dad didn’t respond. “Listen,” I said. “I like my life. I like doing what I’m doing. I don’t mind taking a beating. And if I get killed, that’s the price I’ll pay, but this is exactly the way I want it.” Dad gave me the all is lost look. “And you’re not doing me any favors by turning into a guilt-ridden old man. I want your help, but not if you’re going to get all sentimental and repentant.” He departed with a faint smile, failing to hide his resignation.

12
    I awoke the next morning with my right eye engulfed in hideous shades of purple, yellow, and green. In the middle of it all were ten dissolvable stitches under a bandage. It hurt to blink. A horrified middle-aged woman at the health- and beauty-aids store applied beige foundation to my face as I stood in the aisle. She offered to pay for the bottle. Then I drove to the university’s administration building, a massive concrete monolith serving as the symbolic tombstone for the dying neighborhood surrounding it. I pulled in behind a row of illegally parked pickup trucks and asked a nearby construction worker holding a “Slow” sign if anyone paid attention to parking ordinances during construction hours. He pointed out that the trucks all had special construction permits. I took out twenty dollars and asked if he could secure a permit for my Honda. The man took the money and assured me I had no worries.
    The lobby was cold enough to hang meat. I stared at the directory for several moments but could not find a Professor Moreau. My first murder case required my first cell phone call.
    Audrey picked up on

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