A Death in Pilsen

Chapter 9

After I finally had worn Catherine down and she agreed to marry me, we talked for a long time about where we would live. I was in favor of somewhere on the north side of Chicago, mainly because it was familiar to me. I had lived in Logan Square with Norma during the last several years of our marriage, and then I had a three-room apartment on North Clark Street near Wrigley Field, as a bachelor for eight years after the divorce.

However, I realized almost from the first that Catherine wanted to be wedded not just to me, but also to Oak Park, where she had lived all of her life, except for the two years of her own unfortunate marriage, when she resided right next door in Berwyn. She specifically wanted to stay in the solid old stucco house on Scoville Avenue where she had grown up and then returned to for the last dozen years or more, taking care of her increasingly senile father, the once-great police reporter Lemuel ‘Steel Trap’ Bascomb.

After Steel Trap died in ’42, she stayed put in the roomy, two-story house with the elm-shaded yard. The truth was, she wanted to live there more than I wanted to live anywhere else, so I yielded. Besides, I’d come to rather like the village myself. It seemed to be a graceful combination of half-city, half-suburb. But our understanding from the beginning was that I would bear the lion’s share of the expenses. Something to do with pride — no pun intended.

Another reason Catherine was wedded to Oak Park was the job that she loved — assistant librarian at the village’s public library, where she had worked for close to a dozen years.

So it was that I moved into the stucco on Scoville. As it turned out, I also went to Catherine’s church, although not every Sunday. I was willing to change for the lady, but only up to a point. She was a regular attendee at a place of worship on Lake Street, a few blocks from the house, called Unity Temple, which was part of a denomination I’d never heard of — Universalist.

It was about as far from my own religious experience as I could imagine. Although long since lapsed, I had been raised Catholic and grew up attending mass in an ornate Pilsen sanctuary filled with incense and candles, statues, and white-skirted altar boys, and the Latin liturgy, of course. This Oak Park church, if you can call it that, is a square, mostly windowless, concrete building that is widely recognized as an architectural landmark.

Services take place in a two-story-high room, also square, with seats rising steeply on all sides and with a surprising amount of natural light streaming in through a gridwork of twenty-five skylights recessed into the coffered ceiling.

The worship itself was, to me at least, surprisingly informal, with a homily — sermon, rather — that could just as easily be about politics or education as about religious themes. Having said that, I found the whole experience to be somehow refreshing. I can only imagine what my late, sainted mother would have thought of that spiritual journey.

I bring this up because Unity Temple would arise the next morning in conversation.

When I got back home from Horvath’s Friday night, Catherine first expressed relief that I was home safely, then pressed me for details about the evening. I filled her in on Maury and Marge and the four men they had named as particular ‘friends’ of Edwina’s.

“So you’re going back to that bar and talk to all four of them?” Catherine asked, concern evident in her tone. “Is that wise? Why not tell the police and let them do the questioning?”

“As I said before, they think they’ve got their man. They’ve already been to the bar, and they’re not about to send detectives out again on what they view as a fool’s errand.”

“That really puts Charlie in a bad — oh, wait a minute, Steve. I almost forgot! That lawyer you got for him, McCafferty, called tonight. He needs to talk to you. I told him you’d be home late, and he said that he’d be in his office tomorrow, even though it’s Saturday. He said for you to call him there.”

First thing the next morning, I phoned Liam McCafferty, who picked up on the first ring. “Ah, yes, Mr. Malek. I thought you should know that your cousin is not being overly cooperative.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I cannot be specific, of course — attorney-client privilege and all — but Mr. Charles Malek does not seem to be interested in helping himself. Indeed, he does not seem the least bit concerned about his fate.”

“In your experience, is that unusual in situations like this?”

“Very much so. Even though the loss of a loved one can be devastating, in almost all cases a defendant places self-preservation above all else. Your cousin does not at the moment seem overly interested in self-preservation, however. May I impose upon you to intercede with him?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll try to see him later today or tomorrow. How would you describe his mental state?”

“Depressed. Extremely depressed and fatalistic about his future.”

I told McCafferty that I would call him with a report after seeing Charlie, then joined Catherine at the kitchen table for breakfast.

“Steve, do you remember that I asked you to keep tonight open?”

“Yes, right, although to be honest, I’d almost forgotten. Is there a movie you want to see over at the Lake or the Lamar?”

“No, it’s to do with Unity Temple. You may recall my telling you that it was designed by the famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright. Well, they’re marking the fortieth anniversary of the building’s construction tonight, and Mr. Wright is coming to give a lecture about it.”

“Hmm. I think I’ll pass on that. I’m not sure I want to... wait a minute! I’ve just changed my mind in mid-sentence. Yes, by all means, let’s go. I want to meet this Frank Lloyd Wright fellow. He and I might just be able to do some business.”

Catherine gave me a puzzled look, but before she could respond, our back doorbell rang. It was old Mrs. Anderson, the widow who lived next door. She was returning a casserole dish she had borrowed.

“Oh, come on in, Mrs. A.,” Catherine said cheerfully, “and have a cup of coffee.”

“Well... all right, but I’ll only stay for a few minutes. I don’t want to interrupt your morning.”

“You’re not interrupting anything. We’ve just finished breakfast, and are having another cup ourselves, right, Steve?”

“Right. Have a seat, Mrs. A. It’s always nice to see you.”

Mrs. Anderson rarely smiled, and she did not make an exception this morning although she did toss off a nod in my direction, which for her was an animated response.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” Catherine said as she poured coffee for our visitor. “We’re going to the Unity Temple tonight to hear Frank Lloyd Wright speak, and I thought you might like to come along with us.”

The elderly woman reacted with what I would describe as a fierce frown. “Huh! I would not walk across the street to hear that devil,” she snorted. “Don’t you know about him? He used to live here in Oak Park, way back when — but of course you’re both far too young to remember that. He designed all sorts of houses, had a big family and all — six kids. Was very well known and well paid, a real big shot.

“Then do you know what he did? Left his wife and children, that’s what. Just went off to Europe or someplace in about ’08 or ’09 with another woman from right here in the village, the wife of a client, yet! Named Cheney. They both up and deserted their families, just like that. It was the biggest scandal this town’s ever seen. It was talked about for years afterwards.

“A few years later, the Cheney woman he ran away with — well, I say that what happened then was God’s own avenging hand at work. She and some others got burned to death in a fire at Wright’s place in Wisconsin that was set by some crazed servant. The big shot himself should have died, too, but he was someplace else at the time. Lord knows he deserved to die — a sinner of the very highest order. No, thank you anyway, my dear,” she said, putting a hand on Catherine’s arm. “I shall not be going to hear the great Mr. Frank Lloyd Wright!”

Before going to listen to this “sinner of the very highest order,” I made my second trip of the week to the Bridewell. I was parked in a visitors’ chair when Charlie shuffled over and slumped down on the other side of the screen. He had been fairly low when I’d visited him before, but now he was even lower. If I were to liken his expression to that of a dog, the breed would be a basset.

“Hello, Stevie,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion.

“Hi, Charlie. I understand that you’ve met Liam McCafferty.”

“Yeah. He was in here yesterday.”

“He told me you didn’t seem interested in what might happen to you.”

“What’s the point, Stevie?” he sighed. “They’re determined to strap me into that chair.”

“Nonsense! You’ve got the best damn lawyer in the city. He’s got a terrific record, and I’m zeroing in on some possible suspects. I spent last night at Horvath’s.”

He just shook his head. “Nothing’s going to matter, Stevie.”

“Goddamn it, don’t talk that way! Now listen to me: I want you to cooperate with McCafferty... tell him anything you can think of, no matter how unimportant it seems to you, that might help your situation. We’re going to get you out of this mess, but you’ve got to help yourself.”

He nodded without conviction, staring down at his hands on the metal surface of the counter.

“All right, McCafferty will be back here to see you, probably on Monday, and you will help him to help you. Do you hear me?”

“Okay, Stevie,” he said, but I had a feeling that my pep talk had fallen flat.