Love Song of J. Edgar Hoover by Kinky Friedman

Author:Kinky Friedman
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-06-29T12:33:31+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Six

AS THE BIG JET VECTORED TEDIOUSLY ABOVE O'HARE Airport, many loose thoughts vectored equally tediously around my somewhat frazzled mind. I'd chosen not to tell Polly Price yet about Rambam’s discovery that her loving husband had been dead for seven years. That kind of sudden news can be hard on a wife. Besides, Rambam was hardly infallible and I never did much believe in computers. Also, somebody thought Derrick Price was supposed to be at a meeting that would be taking place very shortly at Merrill Lynch to prepare trust documents. That sounded like a euphemism for stashing some of the money Price may have been routing through Roscoe West and Associates in our nation’s capital. If I could catch Price at that meeting it would be living proof that he wasn't dead. If this plane ever landed at O'Hare, it would be living proof that I wasn't dead.

As we continued to turn and circle over the Windy City, I stared out the window into the gray, viscous soup that provided such an apt metaphor for the direction, or lack of it, the case was taking.

Why, I asked myself, was this flight different from all other flights? Why was I going to Chicago if Derrick Price was dead? The answer was that I had what we big private dicks called a hunch and fortunately for me it wasn't on my back. This, I believed, was one of the rare occasions when Rambam and his hard-boiled computer were wrong.

My decision to come to Chicago had been so sperm of the moment that I hadn't even told my client. When Polly had informed me about the message regarding Derrick's meeting, I'd left her with the impression that I planned to sit on my buttocks and take it under advisement. I did not share Rambam's male-chauvinist view that a female client always tells her best friend who tells her best friend who tells her best friend and you wind up having to vigorously employ your getaway sticks to avoid being set up with half of Peru. It was much more likely, I reflected, as I gazed out into the unnerving, unending goo, that my own barrage of telephone calls had stirred up the nest of yellowjackets. Getting winged once a week was about all I could handle, so I'd made no advance calls to Chicago.

"Can you see anything yet?" asked the woman on the aisle seat as she nervously fingered a cross that was big enough to drown a horse.

"I can see we're in for a rather unpleasant experience," I said. If anything, the gray goo was getting thicker outside the window.

"You can't see anything down there?" she asked again, her rather hirsute upper lip breaking out in a sweat.

"Wait a minute," I said, with my eyeballs aimed downward as close to the window as my hat would allow. "I thought we were passing over the River Jordan, but I guess it's just a cloud formation."

"Folks," said the pilot over the intercom. Then he paused and all of my fellow passengers to the grave waited on the edge of panic.

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