Kurtz said nothing. He was thinking about a European hit man known only as the Dane.
"Sooner or later, however, they will remember the old axiom," said Pruno.
"Which one's that?" Kurtz expected a torrent of Latin or Greek. On more than one occasion, he'd left the old man and his friend Soul Dad alone to hash out their arguments in classical languages.
"'If you want a thing done right, do it yourself, " said Pruno. He was glancing at the door of the shack, obviously eager for Kurtz to leave.
"One last question," said Kurtz. "I'm being followed off and on by two homicide copsBrubaker and Myers. Know anything about them?"
"Detective Fred Brubaker hasin the argot of our timea major hard-on for you, Joseph. He remains convinced that you were responsible for the demise of his friend and fellow shakedown artist, the late and totally unlamented Sergeant James Hathaway from Homicide."
"I know that," said Kurtz. "What I meant was, have you heard anything about Brubaker tying up with one of the families?"
"No, Joseph, but it should be just a matter of time. Such an association was a major source of income for Detective Hathaway, and Brubaker was always sort of a dull-witted understudy to Hathaway. I wish that I had more optimistic news for you."
Kurtz had said nothing to this. He'd patted the old man's quaking arm and left the shack.
Sitting in the Blues Franklin, waiting for the mysterious Mr. Frears, Kurtz wondered if it was coincidence that the two homicide cops were tailing him again this evening.
Coe Pierce's quartet was just wrapping up a fifteen-minute version of Miles Davis's "All Blues," filled with Oscar Peterson-like solo riffs for Pierce to fool around with on the piano, when Kurtz saw the well-dressed, middle-aged black man coming toward him from across the room. Kurtz was still wearing his peacoat and now he slipped his hand into the right-side pocket and slid the safety off the.40-caliber S&W semiauto there.
The dignified-looking man came up to the opposite side of Kurtz's table. "Mr. Kurtz?"
Kurtz nodded. If the man made a move for a weapon, Kurtz would have to fire through his own coat, and he was not crazy about putting a hole in his only jacket.
"I am John Wellington Frears," said the man. "I believe that our mutual acquaintance, Dr. Frederick, told you that I would be meeting you tonight."
Dr. Frederick? thought Kurtz. He had once heard Soul Dad refer to Pruno as Frederick, but he'd thought it was the old wino's first name. "Sit down," said Kurtz. He kept his hand on the S&W and the pistol aimed under the table as the man took a chair across the table, his back to the quartet that had just taken a break. "What do you want Mr. Frears?"
Frears sighed and rubbed his eyes as if weary. Kurtz noticed that the man was wearing a vestas Pruno had saidbut that it was part of a three-piece gray suit that must have cost several thousand dollars. Frears was a short man, with short curly hair and a perfectly trimmed short curly beard, all going gracefully to gray. His nails were manicured and his horn-rimmed glasses were classic Armani. His watch was subtle, classic and understated, but expensive. He wore no jewelry. He had the kind of intelligent gaze Kurtz had seen in photographs of Frederick Douglass and W.E.B. DuBois, and in person only with Pruno's friend Soul Dad.
"I want you to find the man who murdered my little girl," said John Wellington Frears.
"Why talk to me?" asked Kurtz.
"You're an investigator."
"I'm not. I'm a convicted felon, on parole. I have no private investigator's license, nor will I ever have one again."
"But you're a trained investigator, Mr. Kurtz."
"Not anymore."
"Dr. Frederick says"
"Pruno has a hard time telling what day it is," said Kurtz.
"He assures me that you and your partner, Ms. Fielding, were the finest"
"That was more than twelve years ago," Kurtz said. "I can't help you."
Frears rubbed his eyes again and reached into his inside jacket pocket. Kurtz's right hand had never left his pistol. His finger remained on the trigger.
Frears pulled out a small color photograph and slid it across the table toward Kurtz: a black girl, thirteen or fourteen, wearing a black sweater and silver necklace. The girl was attractive and sweet looking, her eyes alive with a more vital version of John Welhngton Frears's intelligence. "My daughter Crystal," said Frears. "She was murdered twenty years ago next month. May I tell you the story?"
Kurtz said nothing.
"She was our darling," said Frears. "Marcia's and mine. Crystal was smart and talented. She played the viola I'm a concert violinist, Mr. Kurtz, and I know that Crystal was gifted enough to become a professional musician, but that was not even her primary interest. She was a poetnot an adolescent poet, Mr. Kurtz, but a true poet. Dr. Frederick confirmed that, and as you know, Dr. Frederick was not only a philosopher, but a gifted literary critic"
Kurtz remained silent.
"Twenty years ago next month, Crystal was killed by a man we all knew and trusted, a fellow faculty memberI was teaching at the University of Chicago then, we lived in Evanston. The man was a professor of psychology. His name was James B. Hansen, and he had a familya wife, and a daughter Rachel's age. The two girls rode horses together. We had bought Crystal a geldingDusty was its nameand we boarded it at a stable outside of town where Crystal and Denise, that was Hansen's daughter's name, would ride every Saturday during clement weather. Hansen and I took turns driving Crystal and Denise to the stable and we would wait while they took lessons and rode, Hansen one weekend, me the next."