It was a little after eleven when the great apes finished escorting me from the zoo, time for me to check in with young Art. I was within walking distance of my office, but I wanted to get clean away from the Humboldt Building. I paid my eight dollars for the privilege of parking next to it for an hour and moved the car to the underground garage.

I’d forgotten Mr. Contreras’s forcible entry to my office Friday night. He’d done a thorough job on the door. First he’d smashed in the glass in the hopes of being able to reach in and turn the lock. When he’d found it was a key-operated dead bolt, he’d methodically broken all the wood around it and pulled it from the frame. I ground my teeth at the sight, but didn’t see any point in mentioning it when I called the old man. It would be easier to arrange for someone else to repair it than to go through his long string of remorse-and far easier to get outside help than to go through the agony of watching Mr. Contreras fix it.

Art came uneasily to the phone. He had spoken with his dad, but he wanted me to know that I really owed him. It had been pure hell having to negotiate with Big Art. Oh, yes, he’d gotten the old man to agree to come to the fountain, although he said he couldn’t make it before two-thirty. It had taken a lot of cajoling; his father had pressured him unbelievably to be told where he was staying. If I had any idea how hard it was to stand up to Big Art, I might treat him with a little more respect.

“And can’t you think of someplace better for me than here? This old man can’t leave me alone. He treats me like I’m some kind of child.”

I replied more soothingly than I felt, “And if you really want to go someplace else, I don’t have any objection. I’ll see if I can arrange something with Murray Ryerson at the Herald-Star when I talk to him this afternoon. Of course he’ll want some kind of story in exchange.”

I hung up on his shrieking that I had to promise not to go to the papers about him, but I did forbear to mention his name to Murray when I called.

“You know, Warshawski, you’re a fucking pain in the ass,” he greeted me. “Don’t you ever check in with your answering service? I left about ten messages for you over the weekend. What did you do to the Chigwell woman? Hypnotize her? She won’t talk to the press-she says you can handle any queries we have about her brother.”

“It’s a course I took by mail,” I said, surprised and pleased. “You send in all these matchbooks and they ship you a set of lessons on how to make yourself invisible, how to enter the thoughts of another person-all that kind of stuff. I just never had a chance to try it before.”

“Right, wise-ass,” he said resignedly. “Are you now prepared to reveal all to the people of Chicago?”

“You told me you didn’t need me-that you were getting all your info direct from the people at Xerxes. I want to talk to you about something much more exciting-my life. Or its possible termination.”

“That’s old news. We already covered it last week. You’ll have to go all the way this time for us to get excited about it.”

“Well, stay tuned-you may get your wish. I’ve got some heavy guys gunning for me.” I watched a handful of pigeons vying for space on the windowsill. Tough dirty urban birds -better decor for my office than original prints by Nast or Daumier.

“Why are you telling me this now?” he demanded suspiciously.

A train rattled by on the Wabash el tracks. The pigeons fluttered momentarily as the vibrations shook the window, then settled back on the sill.

“In case I don’t live through the night I want someone who’ll follow my trail to know where it’s been taking me. I’d like that person to be you, since you’re better able to think ill of the gods than the cops are, but the hitch is, I need to talk to you before one-thirty.”

“What happens at one-thirty?”

“I strap on my six-guns and walk alone down Main Street.”

After some more poking, to see if matters were as urgent as I claimed, Murray agreed to meet me near the newspaper for a sandwich at noon. Before leaving the Pulteney I sorted my mail, tossed everything but a check from one of the clients I’d done a financial search for, then called a friend to replace my office door. He said he’d get to it by Wednesday afternoon.

Since it was close to twelve already, I headed north to the river. The air had thickened to a light drizzle. Despite Lotty’s dire words, my shoulders felt pretty good. Another couple of days-If I stayed a jump ahead of Gustav Humboldt -and I could start running again.

The Herald-Star faces the Sun-Times from the south side of the Chicago River. A lot of that area is getting trendy, with racquet courts and chichi little restaurants springing up, but Carl’s still serves a no-nonsense sandwich to the newspaper people. Its scarred booths and deal tables are packed into a dingy stone building on Wacker where it runs under the main road next to the river.

Murray swept into the tavern a few minutes after me, raindrops making his red hair glint under the dim lights. Lucy Moynihan, Carl’s daughter, who took over the place when he died, likes Murray. She let us jump the crowd to take a booth at the back and stayed for a few minutes to kid with Murray about the money he’d lost to her in last week’s basketball pool.

Over a hamburger I told him much of what I’d been doing the last three weeks. For all his flamboyance and conceit, Murray is an intent listener, absorbing information through every pore. They say you remember only thirty percent of what anyone tells you, but I’ve never had to repeat a story to Murray.

When I’d finished he said, “Okay. You got a mess. You have your old childhood brat wanting you to find who croaked your teammate, an indigestible young Jurshak, and a strangely behaving chemical company. And maybe the Garbage King. You be careful if Steve Dresberg is really involved. That boy plays very much for keeps. I can see him being tied in with Jurshak, but what’s Humboldt got to do with it?”

“I wish I knew. Jurshak handles his insurance, which isn’t a crime as much as a misdemeanor, but I can’t help wondering what Jurshak’s doing for Humboldt in return.” The elusive memory I’d been trying to force since Saturday swam across the surface of my mind again and disappeared.

“What?” Murray demanded suspiciously.

“Nothing. I thought I remembered something but I can’t quite get it. But I wish I knew why Humboldt is lying about Joey Pankowski and Steve Ferraro. It’s got to be something really important because when I went to his office today to ask him about it, I got hefted out by some enormous security apes.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like you buzzing around him,” Murray said maliciously. “There are times when I wish I had security apes to kick you out too.”

I faked a punch at him but he took hold of my hand and held it for a minute. “Give, Warshawski. There’s no story here yet. Just speculations that I can’t put in print. Why are we having lunch together?”

I pulled my hand away. “I’m doing some research. When I have some results I may have a better idea of why Humboldt’s lying, but right now I’m off to meet with Art Jurshak. I’ve got a major club to use on him, so I hope he’ll cough up what he knows. So that’s what I want from you. If I somehow die, talk to Lotty, to Caroline Djiak, and to Jurshak. Those three are the key.”

“How serious are you about being in danger?”

I watched Murray drain his stein and signal for a third. He weighs two-forty, maybe two-fifty-he can absorb it. I stuck with coffee-I wanted my head as clear as possible for Jurshak.

“More than I like. Someone left me for dead five days ago. Two of the same hoods were waiting outside my apartment on Friday. And today Gustav Humboldt sounded strangely like Peter O’Toole trying to get his barons to do in Becket. It’s pretty real.”