A Death in Pilsen

Chapter 5

It was raining steadily as I stepped out of a Checker cab and approached the high, gray walls of the city jail at 26th and California on the southwest side of town. Popularly known as the Bridewell, the place had been named, or so I was told, after a notorious London penitentiary of earlier times.

The inside was, if anything, even drearier than the exterior. I had been there only once before, about half a dozen years back, interviewing the then-warden for a Sunday feature on the inner workings and day-to-day operation of a municipal prison.

“I’m here to see Charles Malek,” I told the thick-necked, uniformed guard who was seated behind a counter in the entrance hall. He looked up from a well-thumbed copy of Black Mask magazine, the cover illustration of which showed a curvy, leggy blonde wearing a red dress, high heels, and a terrified expression, being carried off by a sneering, shadowy man in a fedora who seemed intent on inflicting some sort of bodily harm upon the comely lady.

“Your name?” he asked in a bored tone, his eyes never leaving the magazine page.

“Also Malek — Steven Malek. I’m his cousin.”

“Identification?”

I pulled out my police press card, which he glanced at without expression or apparent interest. “Trib reporter, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Must be tough, havin’ a relative in here, huh?”

“Tougher on him. He’d rather be somewhere else,” I said evenly.

“So would they all, buddy.” He rifled through a sheaf of papers on the counter, running his thick index finger down the list of names.

“Here he is, cell block B. See that hall on your left? Take it until you get to the barred doors and tell the guard there who you want to see. He’ll fix you up,” he said, turning his attention back to the apparently riveting pages of Black Mask.

I thanked him and walked down a hall with a concrete floor, concrete walls, and a concrete ceiling, all in a shade of gray that more or less matched the outer walls. What lighting there was came from low-wattage bulbs in metal mesh ceiling fixtures spaced every twenty feet or so.

At the barred doors, another uniform considered me without enthusiasm. “Yeah?” he asked, or at least I assumed there was a question mark after the word.

“I’m here to visit Charles Malek. I’m his cousin Steve. Same last name. Guy up front sent me back.”

“Lemme check to see if he’s in his cell.” He turned a corner and disappeared, the ring of keys on his broad hip jangling.

After about a minute, he returned and swung open the bars. “Down the hall to the visitors’ room, first door on the left. He should be there by now. You’ve got ten minutes with him. The guard in there’ll tell you when your time’s up.”

The room was long, narrow, and windowless, divided down the middle by a steel partition about four feet high. At intervals, there were screened openings in the partitions and chairs on both sides of them. At the fourth opening down, on the prisoners’ side of course, sat Charlie Malek in light brown inmates’ garb, looking dazed.

“Hi, Stevie,” he said, trying without success to form a smile. “Hey, thanks a lot for coming by.”

I dropped into my chair and looked around. A guard, his back against the wall, stood about ten feet from me. Charlie and I were the only other people in the room. “How are you holding up?” I asked, realizing as I said it how stupid the question must have sounded.

He shrugged. “The food’s actually not bad. The guards are surly, especially the one who thinks I killed that poor Degnan girl. One good thing — I’ve got a cell all to myself.”

“Likely for your own protection. Have you done anything about getting a lawyer?”

“Uh, no. They asked me if I had an attorney and I said I didn’t. I was told I could get myself a public defender.”

“Screw that. You’ll need better counsel, no offense to the defender’s office. I’m going to try to get you the best criminal lawyer in town — named McCafferty.”

Charlie shook his head. “Thanks anyway, Stevie, but I can’t begin to afford some big-shot like him.”

“Don’t worry,” I said in a low voice, leaning forward. “It’ll be covered.”

“I can’t let you pay all that, Stevie,” he said, also lowering his voice. “You’re not exactly a Rockefeller.”

“Thanks for reminding me, but like I said, don’t worry. I’ll give you plenty of opportunity to pay me back later. Count on it. The big thing now is to get you somebody good and get you the hell out of this mess.”

“I... thanks, thanks a lot.”

“Now Charlie, I need to know more about what Edwina did nights when you were out working your tail off for the grand old gas company. Did she have some place, or places, where she liked to go?”

He ran a hand through dusty-brown hair and swallowed hard, making the Adam’s apple in his skinny neck bob up and down like a yo-yo. “Well, I know that in the last few weeks — or maybe it’s been longer — she’d taken to dropping in at Horvath’s Tap pretty regular.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember it, although I don’t think I’ve ever been in there. It’s that joint on 18th at around Marshfield, right?”

“Yes, that’s the place all right. And like you, I’ve never been in there. It’s been around for years, though, ever since I can remember. It might have opened right after Repeal. I think my dad stopped in occasionally.”

“Edwina make some friends there?”

“I don’t know. I suppose she could have. She could be very social, as you know. Liked to be out and around the town. Wanted to be around people.”

“Did she ever mention anyone specifically?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so, at least not to me.”

“Was she home when you got home from work?”

“Sometimes. I usually put in another four or five hours of overtime after the day shift ended, which got me home by nine-thirty or ten most days. About half the time, she was there when I came in.”

“And the other half?”

He smiled ruefully. “Sometimes, she wouldn’t be back till, oh, eleven or even twelve.”

“Didn’t that bother you, Charlie?”

“Sure, but then you know Edwina. She is — was — very headstrong.”

“And she was always at Horvath’s?”

“Yeah, as far as I know. She told me it was such a friendly place. Said it reminded her of some of the pubs back home, even though the beer wasn’t as good. She complained a lot about that. I told her it didn’t seem proper for a married woman to be going into bars by herself, but she just laughed and called me an old-fashioned boy.”

“Did you ever go in there with her?”

“No, I never did. I probably should have, but I was always...”

“Afraid of what you’d find?” I put in.

He gnawed at a fingernail. “I guess, maybe. Or maybe she’d think I was spying on her. Edwina had quite a temper.”

“I got that impression the few times I saw her. Anything else you can tell me that might point us to what happened?”

“No... no. The way I figure it, somebody followed her home and forced his way into the apartment. Then he must have... tried to...” Charlie began to sob quietly, and I looked around at the guard. He wasn’t paying any attention to us.

“Okay, I’m going to talk to McCafferty, that lawyer I mentioned,” I told him, “and I’m also going to pay a visit to Horvath’s. I’ll try to stop by again in the next few days, okay?”

“Okay, Stevie. And thanks,” he said, sniffling and dabbing his eyes.

When I got back to the pressroom late that afternoon, they all looked questioningly at me, but nobody said anything, which I appreciated. For all the carping I’ve done about this crew over the years, on balance they’re a decent sort.

First thing the next morning, back at Headquarters, I looked up Liam McCafferty’s office on LaSalle Street and dialed his number. A crisply efficient, but pleasant, feminine voice answered and I gave her my name, adding that I was a Tribune reporter based at 11th and State.

“May I tell Mr. McCafferty what this is about?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s a very sensitive subject,” I replied in what I hoped was a conspiratorial tone.

“Can you be more specific, sir?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. But I know that Mr. McCafferty will definitely want to talk to me.”

“Very well. Hold the line please.” The voice had become distinctly less pleasant.

I waited for what seemed like three minutes, but probably was less, before I heard a voice laced with brogue say “McCafferty here.”

“This is Steve Malek of the Tribune. You may be aware that there was a murder in Pilsen the night before last.”

“I read the newspapers, including yours, Mr. Malek. They all had the story with varying degrees of detail, the afternoon editions yesterday, the morning ones today.” His tone was businesslike, but not unfriendly.

“You may also be aware that the man being held is named Malek.”

“And why do you suppose that I picked up my telephone?” he replied with a slight chuckle. I liked the sound of his voice.

“Okay, so you’re on to me. Charlie Malek is my cousin, and I want you to defend him.”

“I do not come cheap, Mr. Malek.”

“And I do not pay cheap, Mr. McCafferty.” Brave words from one who had no idea what kind of dollars were involved.

“Well put, sir, well put indeed. I gather from the news reports that your cousin is in the Bridewell. Foul place. Never liked it. Should be torn down like the Bastille was. I just finished a case two days ago, so your timing is excellent. I shall endeavor to pay a visit to him today.”

“Thank you,” I said, giving him my phone numbers in the pressroom and at home. I was pleased that the great lawyer had agreed to take Charlie on, but I also knew that my being with the Tribune was a factor.

Talk around town was that, second only to money, the silver-haired, glib Liam McCafferty craved publicity, mountains of it. And the Tribune was printed on mountains of paper, a million copies a day, and even more on Sundays.