Bitter Business

obsolete.
    Like the building, Elliott Abelman defied easy categorization. The son of a Chicago homicide cop, Elliott had broken with tradition. Decorated for valor during the last, ignominious days of the Vietnam War, he chose law school over law enforcement, only to find after a stint in the prosecutor’s office that like his father, he was really an investigator at heart.
    The lobby of the Monadnock is long and narrow, a gallery with shops on either side. An iron staircase of ornately wrought metalwork runs up the center of the building like a knobby Victorian spinal column. Consulting the computer screen that serves as the building’s directory, I learned that Abelman & Associates occupied a suite on the second floor. I decided to take the stairs.
    It was after hours and the hallways in the upper floors were dark. But the door to Abelman & Associates was made of smoked glass set in an oak frame with the name of the firm lettered onto it, and light shone from within.
    The cozy waiting room was deserted, the armchairs unoccupied, the magazines unread, but beyond another door I could hear the clack of keyboards and the ringing of phones.
    Someone came up behind me and took my arm. I jumped in fright. I might have shouted, too. Who knows? At that point my nerves were all over the place. I wheeled around and Elliott put his hand gently over my mouth.
    “Shhh,” he said, his face illumined by an enormous, wolfish grin. “You’ll frighten the detectives.” He caught sight of the bump on my forehead and turned serious. “Jesus Christ, what’s happened to your face? Did someone hit you? You look like you’ve had a beating.”
    I opened up my mouth to explain, but no words came out. His hand stayed near my cheek. He softly brushed a strand of hair off my face, tucking it behind my ear. I felt the heat rush to my face.
    “You’d better come into my office,” he advised, putting his arm around my shoulder and ushering me inside. “I’m going to get you an ice pack and a cup of coffee—or maybe you’d prefer something stronger.”
    “Yes, please,” I whispered as he guided me into a comfortable chair.
    “I’ll be right back,” he said.
    The internal wall of his office was glass. Beyond it, in a large, open space laid out like a police squad room, only with nicer furniture, were half a dozen people who I supposed were operatives who worked for Elliott. A gray-haired woman was talking on the phone and furiously scribbling notes. A man with a ponytail dressed in the greasy coveralls of a mechanic was reading a file that was spread out on the desk in front of him. Two or three meat-faced men with spreading guts and ex-cop written all over them filled out the assembly.
    Elliott returned with two glass tumblers filled with amber liquid over ice. Under his arm was tucked a chemical cold pack. He handed me my drink, set his down on the desk, gave the cold pack a twist and a shake, and then handed it to me. I took a long drink and held the icy compress to my forehead.
    Dressed in khaki pants and a perfectly starched white button-down shirt, Elliott looked like he’d fit better in my office than his own. About my height, or give him an inch and say six feet, his soft brown hair and warm brown eyes did little to distinguish him from the rest of the briefcase-toting hordes. He was good-looking in an unassuming way—a Winnetka Galahad, nothing more. But I’d seen enough of him to know that he was a man capable of taking people by surprise. He always managed to keep me off balance as well.
    “I’m impressed,” I said, wincing as I applied the cold pack to my forehead. “I always imagined you in a tiny office with a bottle of bourbon in your bottom drawer and a cheap but loyal blonde for a secretary.”
    “Who says loyalty is cheap?” Elliott countered with a grin. His smiles were a minor phenomenon. Between them and the scotch I was beginning to feel a little bit better. “Now why don’t you tell me what happened to your face. Please tell me that boyfriend of yours did this to you. You know I’d like nothing better than to go over there and teach him a lesson.”
    As usual, I let the crack about Stephen Azorini pass. For the second time in as many hours I told my story about what had happened, first to Cecilia Dobson and then to Dagny Cavanaugh. With Elliott I went into even more detail than I’d managed with Detective Blades, explaining how I’d come to take over as counsel for Superior Plating from