Zack Getty had white hair that was thin on top, and wrists so skinny he could probably slip out of most handcuffs. We were in a downtown diner the next morning, eating breakfast at 10 a.m. “I don’t have to get up for breakfast early now I’m retired,” he told me.
I’d already eaten at seven, so I was just drinking coffee. “So what can you tell me about Howard Oakes?”
“Howard Oakes.” Getty settled back in his chair and folded his hands across his belly. “Low-level gopher for Al Ravone, who ran most of the west side for 15 years until we got him on tape. Oakes was—well, he handled pickups and payoffs, gambling mostly, a little rough stuff on the loan sharking end. Nothing big time. He ran into some bad luck when a late customer pulled a gun on him, and he stabbed the guy.” He picked up his coffee cup and waved to the waitress.
“So he went to prison, and when he got out, he started robbing stores?”
He waited while we got out coffee refilled. “Guy he stabbed didn’t want to testify, but we didn’t need the details. He did a plea bargain. When he got out, Ravone was in prison and the new boss didn’t want anything to do with him, so he went into business for himself. Built himself a crew and started knocking over any place with cash. Stores, but some homes too, whenever he figured they were empty. And filled with stuff he wanted.”
“Until you caught him.”
Getty grunted. “Took me most of a year. I knew it was Oakes, but getting everything in place to arrest him? I needed witnesses, fingerprints, stolen property, surveillance footage—evidence. Then I had to find him. He knew I was on his ass, and he dropped out of sight for months. I finally found out he had a cousin down in Rantoul, and I went looking. I didn’t even expect to find him, but there he was, sitting in the living room when his cousin opened the door.” He chuckled.
“Is he dead?” I figured I’d get to the point.
Getty frowned, as if I’d interrupted his story at the good part. “As far as I know. I got the email when he was released, and I called his parole officer about him. About a year after, the parole officer called me and said he was in a car accident and died. That answer your question?”
“I hope so.” I looked at my notes. Getty seemed to like the fact that I keep a notebook instead of writing stuff down on my phone. “What about his crew?”
That seemed to cheer him up. “He had six or seven people. There was Jerry Carra, Tim Schrantz, Quinn Hardy—here, I’ll write them down.” He pulled my notebook away from me.
“You remember every name?” I watched as he scribbled on the page.
“You got to. And it was a big case, biggest case of my career.”
“Was Dan Hoffman one of them?”
“Yeah, off and on. They weren’t all on every job.” He pushed the notebook back to me.
I looked down the list of names. “Did any of them testify against him?”
“We only got a few of them. They were all pretty scared of Oakes, so nobody wanted to cooperate. The rest walked, but those kind of guys—well, they’re going to go down for something eventually, you know?”
“Was Oakes dangerous? Did he kill people?”
Getty hesitated. “They said—we could never prove it, but anyway, there were stories that he liked to use his knife on people. We could never corroborate that, but there were a couple murders he could have pulled off. People who owed Ravone money, or just pissed him off. The victims were all stabbed in the chest, and then had their throat slashed twice. Just twice. Messy. But we could never tie anything to him.”
I thought of Chapman: The guy slashed his throat. “Do you have any information on the car crash that killed him?”
“No. It would have been 2020, 2021. He got out in, uh, 2017 I think.” He looked up, thinking. “Yeah, that’s about right.”
“What about his crew? Have you heard anything about them? Is there anyone else who knew him who might know?”
“I don’t know about his crew. He had a girlfriend, Priscilla, what was her name? Priscilla Gallagher, that’s it. She had a hair salon business, did pretty good with it. She was his main woman.” Getty winked. “I mean, the one he was with longest, you know? I heard she got married to some rich guy.”
“Anyone else?”
Getty shook his head. “Not really. Why do you want to know? I mean, I appreciate the breakfast and everything, but what’s going on? Why are you asking questions about a dead guy?”
I hesitated, but there was no reason to lie. “Two people from Oakes’s crew have been murdered in the last week or so. Quinn Hardy and Dan Hoffman. My client is Dan Hoffman’s nephew, and he heard Hoffman say ‘Oakes’ before he died. Both of them were stabbed and slashed in the throat. My client didn’t know about Hardy. He just wants me to make sure Howard Oakes is really dead.”
“Huh.” He finished his coffee. “Could be anyone else. You talk to us about it? Us, the CPD, I mean.” He chuckled. “Can’t quite get it out of my skin.”
“Not yet.” I had gotten some info on Quinn Hardy from Anita Sharp, a detective who works with me on vampire cases, but I wasn’t pushing any theories yet. “I mean, when you were a cop, would you have listened to someone like me?”
Getty snorted. “Probably not. Most P.I.s aren’t much better than cockroaches, except they’re harder to step on. No offense.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.” I got out my credit card for the waitress. “Most cops I meet try not to be assholes, except some of them can’t help it. No offense?”
Getty laughed.
In my car I spent a few minutes looking for Priscilla Gallagher. I figured if anyone would know for sure that Howard Oakes was dead, it would be his girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend, whatever. Surprisingly, I found her pretty quickly, mostly because her string of hair salons had her name attached to them. Even more surprisingly, when I got her on the phone, she agreed to meet with me at her condo whenever I could get there. “Bring a bottle of wine,” she said. “Something expensive.”
Rachel was at work, seeing patients in the clinic, so I sent her an email with the details. I like to let her know where I am in case I get killed. Or arrested. Or kidnapped. Or sucked into another dimension.
Priscilla Gallagher’s condo on Clark Street was in a 12-story building with a convenience store across the street. I bought a $20 bottle of white wine, walked over, and gave the doorman inside the tiny vestibule my name. He nodded at the bottle as he lifted his phone. A moment later he replaced the phone. “Apartment 912,” he said in a flat voice. I thanked him as he buzzed the door open.
At apartment 912 I knocked, and after most of a minute the door opened. The woman inside was tall, with silvery blond hair, in her 50s, wearing a loosely tied robe around blue silk pajamas, slippers on her feet. “Tom?”
“Uh, Ms. Gallagher?” I tried to keep my eyes at the appropriate level. Her pajamas were somewhat translucent.
“Priscilla.” She held out a hand, looking me over. “You brought wine? Come on in.”
She led me into a living room with a view of the roof of the building next door. A bookcase held some plants and photographs, and a few books. A coffee table sat in front of the sofa, with cup of coffee and a bottle of Cointreau next to an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. The morning paper sat on a corner, folded open to the astrology section.
“There’s a corkscrew in the kitchen,” she said as she flopped onto the sofa. “Bring two glasses.”
It was 11:30 in the morning. Early for me, but I figured I could sip it to avoid offending her. I brought the corkscrew and the glass.
I opened the wine while Priscilla scrolled through her phone. “I have to stay on top of everything, even if I’m not there,” she said as she tapped out a message. She set the phone on her leg, picked up the wine, and took a swallow. “Nice.”
“Thank you.” I perched on the edge of an armchair facing her.
“You wanted to talk about Howard.” She put her glass down and leaned forward. “What do you want to know?”
I decided to cut to the chase. “Is he dead?”
She blinked. “Well, yes. He’s in Rosehill Cemetery. He died two years ago. No, three years. It was 2021. I remember it . . .” She took another sip of wine.
“I’m sorry for asking it so bluntly.” I took as small a sip as I could. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“It was a car accident. He was getting off Lake Shore Drive, and I guess he didn’t see the other car. He was drunk, of course.” She shrugged. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago, and we were—I loved him, and he loved me, I guess, but we had different lives. But Howard was into some bad things. Do you know about that?” She stared at me.
“Yeah.” I nodded.
“Yes.” Priscilla nodded back. “Then you understand. He could be wonderful. But he loved the booze, and the drugs, and he had a temper, and he had—bad friends.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking about him?”
Before I could answer, the landline phone on the table next to her buzzed. She picked it up. “Yes? Who? All right.” She hung up and shook her head. “That’s odd. One of Howard’s friends. Is something going on?”
I started to explain, but the knock came before I could get too far. Priscilla headed to the door, and a moment later a man in jeans and a battered leather jacket marched in. “Did you hear about Jerry?”
“What about—who?” She came back to the sofa and lit a cigarette. “Jerry—”
“Jerry Carra. He got killed.” He turned to look at me. “Who the hell are you?”
Jerry Carra. Getty had mentioned his name—one of Oakes’ crew. “Tom Jurgen. You are—?”
“This is Tim.” She gestured with her cigarette. “He’s an old friend.”
“Tim Schrantz?” I recognized the name from Getty. “You were part of Howard Oakes’ team?”
He planted his fists on his waist. “Who is this, Priscilla?”
“He’s a private detective. He’s trying to make sure Howard is really dead.” She smiled. “He brought me wine.”
“Howard’s dead, all right.” He looked from me to Priscilla, then back to me again. “You got that? You can leave now.”
“What happened to Jerry Carra?” I stood up, hoping Schrantz wouldn’t try to throw me out. He was large and beefy, with bushy eyebrows and stubble over his chin, and I had no doubt he could hurl me through the window if he felt like it.
“He got killed,” Schrantz said again. “This morning sometime. His cleaning lady found him.”
“Stabbed? Throat slashed?” I asked.
Schrantz glared. “Yeah. What do you know about it?”
“The same thing happened to Quinn Hardy. And Dan Hoffman.” I looked him over. “You must be feeling scared.”
He curled his upper lip. “You ought to be feeling scared, Mr. Detective. Get out.”
“Calm down, Tim. Nothing’s going to happen in my house.” Priscilla blew smoke. “Although he’s right, Tom. There really isn’t anything I can do for you anymore. Thanks for the wine.”
I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “The stabbing—one to the chest, two slashes across the throat? That was Oakes’ move, wasn’t it? The police never got him for anything, but I’ve been told—"
“You don’t know anything.” Schrantz turned and walked toward a cabinet on the other side of the room, where he found a bottle of whiskey. “I did jail time because of him. If you think I’m going to tell you anything about Howard Oakes, you’ve got your head up your ass.” He poured some whiskey into a glass.
“Please, help yourself,” Priscilla said with a loud sigh. “Tom, Howard is dead. I don’t know anything about these other people—”
“You know who they are, though. Tim came right here to tell you about Jerry Carra. Why would he do that?” I turned to Schrantz. “Were you all close friends in the crew?”
Schrantz gulped the whiskey. “Howard was the kind of guy you listened to. You didn’t ask questions. He told you to do something, you did it. Like that professor’s house at the lake in Gary—"
“Tim, shut up.” Priscilla jammed her cigarette into the ashtray. “Tom, he’s right, though. His friends were very loyal to them. And Howard was good to everyone too, right, Tim?”
Schrantz poured some more whiskey. “He was fair. I did my time for everything, so I don’t owe you anything.”
“What about Priscilla? What do you owe her?”
Suddenly he slammed his glass down and started a charge toward me. “You don’t get to—”
“Tim, stop!” She was on her feet now, almost tripping in her slippers as she tried to shield me from Schrantz. “Tom, you really need to leave. Now.”
I held up a hand in surrender. “I’ll go. Sorry for any trouble.” I waited until I was sure Schrantz wasn’t going to strike, then dropped my business card on the table next to the ashtray. “Thanks for your time.”
Priscilla winked. “Anytime you’ve got wine.”
I left.
Back home I got a cup of coffee and called my client.
“Two people have told me that Howard Oakes died in a car accident,” I told Chapman. “His girlfriend says it happened in 2021. I can check further, maybe find a news article or accident report if you want.”
Chapman didn’t answer right away. “What about that Quinn Hardy guy?”
“I don’t know, but it sounds as if one more person on the crew with your uncle has also been murdered. I haven’t check into that yet, but I can.”
Again he took a long time before responding. “I don’t know. It was just—hearing that name, and all that blood . . . I just doesn’t seem real. Let me think about it.”
“That’s fine. Let me know what you want me to do.”
After we hung up, I checked into Jerry Carra. I found only a short item on a neighborhood news site about the murder, with no details. Then, even though Chapman had told me to wait, I started looking for information on Oakes’s car accident. Because I was curious.
Eventually I found what I was looking for: A crash just off Lake Shore Drive at Wilson that had killed two people. The fatalities weren’t named, but one of them was obviously Oakes. The crash had taken place on May 9, 2021.
Rosehill Cemetery, Priscilla had said. I look at my emails and my current cases. Nothing was urgent. I decided to eat lunch. Rachel called as I was making myself a sandwich.
“How’s the shrink business?” I asked, opened a Coke. “Did you tackle any unresolved Oedipus complexes this morning?”
“Freud would have a field day with you,” Rachel replied. “How’d it go with, uh, who was it? Priscilla?”
“I’m a little disappointed that she didn’t try to seduce me, but it was productive.”
“You wish.” Rachel snorted. She can get territorial where I’m concerned—just like I get nervous when she’s around any handsome athletic young men. “So is the guy dead?”
“I’m going to go to a cemetery and check out his grave.”
“Well, don’t dig him up to make sure. Unless you really have to. How was the cop you bought breakfast for?”
“Informative. I got the names of Oakes’s crew. And I met one at Priscilla’s place.”
“Geez. You better not be getting involved with the Outfit. Or getting seduced by Priscilla. Either one, and we’ll be having problems.”
“Loud and clear.” I heard voices behind her. “Do you need to go?”
“Yeah, we’re having a meeting now. See you tonight.”
We hung up. I finished my sandwich and headed for my car.
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