I drove to Leo’s, smashed his back-door glass, called the cops, and settled back smug in the Jeep. Delightfully, I had a cement truck to watch while I waited. It had beaten me to Leo’s block and was churning in front of the excavation as two workers set up chutes to pour the foundation walls. After that, it would only be two or three more days before they did the basement floor. Then I could breathe deeply, free from the worry that Robert Wozanga might get jostled out of the gravel and point a frozen finger at Leo and me for having put him there. A burgundy Escalade roared up to the excavation and skidded to a stop. Robinson jumped out and started waving his arms at the cement truck, the chutes, and the excavation. Worse, he was shaking his head. It was over in a minute. Robinson stormed back to his Escalade and drove off, one of the workers made a slashing motion to the truck driver, and the cement truck rumbled away. The workers took apart the chutes, and they left, too. There’d be no pour.
What do You think about The Dead Caller From Chicago?
