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Show 171 Months were going by and I hadn't yet thought to look up Kate and her husband, Mark Wells. It seemed a little futile, they living so far away on the North Side, but finally I got curious, I wanted to see the artsy Near North Side anyhow, so I put on a tie and took the El down to the Loop, went underground and took the subway. They lived near Goethe Street, which the streetcar conductors pronounced Go-ee-thee, causing us superior types to snicker. Their address was a ratty-looking apartment building, much worse on the outside than the Ellis Street Co-op, and I walked by on the opposite side of the street, crossed over and came back past it. I hoped Kate would pop out-going grocery shopping or something. When I came past it a third time this guy came out. "Hi," I said. "You don't know Mark Wells, do you?" "Whatcha wanta know for?" "Oh . . . He lives here, doesn't he?" "Whatcha wanta know for?" He had black brows an inch thick. "That's OK. I'll check it out." "You mean the sculptor? I don't know what you'd want with him. You don't wanta buy that junk he turns out. Don't be dumb, f e l l a . Before you buy, look at my s t u f f . I'm in the back, 3A. That Wells turns out nothing but junk." He looked me over again, frowned. His brows met over his eyes. "You a b i l l collector?" I started to open my mouth; he went on: "So, tracking him down, eh? Well, his apartment is 1A. He's home too. I heard him in there chiseling some more of that junk." "You don't know i f his wife is home too?" "His wife? That g i r l ' s his wife? Oh no, man, don't kid me. That g i r l 's no more his wife than I am." |