“Gina Hemming?”
“Yeah. Did you sell one to Hemming?” Virgil asked.
“No... Women don’t go back there,” Barker said. “They don’t know about it.”
“So, who bought it, Jimmy?” Virgil asked. “Or, maybe... you held one out for yourself?”
“No, no, no, no... But if I tell you, the guy’s gonna kill me.”
Virgil smiled, brought out all the teeth. “This is great, because it tells me two things: the guy is violent, and you know who he is. That means if you don’t cooperate, I can charge you with accessory after the fact in a murder.”
“Jeez, man, you don’t have to be anassholeabout it,” Barker said.
“The name?”
“Fred Fitzgerald. He’s a biker guy. He’s got a tattoo shop out on Melon.”
“Thank you. Don’t go calling Fitzgerald or I’ll bust your ass. Listen, since you’re in this deep... does Fitzgerald buy any other stuff involved with bondage and all that? Or sex toys?”
“Yeah, from time to time. Nothing that would hurt anyone. Handcuffs, butt plugs, stuff like that.”
“Is Fitzgerald a fisherman?”
“I don’t know. A lot of people around here are... I know he has a snowmobile for when he can’t ride his Harley.”
—
When Virgil emerged on the street five minutes later, he’d successfully scared the shit out of Barker, who wouldn’t be talking about the interview, and Virgil believed he’d made serious progress.
Fred Fitzgerald had a primitive website that Virgil and Barker looked at on Barker’s laptop. That gave Virgil an address, and, after leaving the store, he called the duty officer at the BCA, gave him the name and address. The duty officer came back with a rap sheet.
“He’s a bad boy but a small-timer,” the duty officer said. “Couple of small burglaries, lots of fights and assaults, a DUI four years ago, charged with theft of motorcycle parts out in Sturgis, did a little time on that. Let me see... I’d say an assault back in 2009 is the worst of it. Went after a guy with a pool cue, broke his arms, did a year less a day in the county jail. Apparently, part of a deal where he put a tattoo on a guy and misspelled something and the guy went around bad-mouthing him.”
“Smells like a loser,” Virgil said.
“Maybe. But I’ll tell you what, Virgie. The guy’s got a bad temper and a violent streak. You want to have somebody with you when you go to see him.”
“Gotcha. Talk to you later.”
—
Virgil met Johnson Johnson and Clarice at Tony’s Chicago Style, and Johnson said Fitzgerald was not a bad guy. “He’s made some mistakes.”
“Busted up a guy with a pool cue,” Virgil said.
“Well, who hasn’t?” Johnson asked.
“You and Virgil,” Clarice said, “for two. Don’t give me any of that tough-guy bullshit, Johnson, you’ve never busted anyone up with anything, except maybe you punched a couple of guys in the nose.”
“You’re harshing my buzz, man,” Johnson said to Clarice.
“He do your ink?” Virgil asked.
Johnson had full sleeves. “No way. I got primo work by one of the godfathers of art tattoos. Fred’s not a bad guy, but he’s second tier.”
The pizza came, a lot of pepperoni swimming in a lake of extra-sharp cheddar, all of it scooped out on top of a sugar-free piecrust. Nothing like it had ever been served within a hundred miles of Chicago.
“To get back to Fitzgerald... Heisa bad guy, Johnson,” Virgil said. “The question is, would he have killed Hemming if he felt the need?”
