A Death in Pilsen

Chapter 6

That evening, as usual, I went over the day’s activities with Catherine at dinner, concentrating on my visit to Charlie in jail as well as my hiring of Liam McCafferty.

“It looks bad for him, doesn’t it, Steve?” she asked, the concern evident in her voice.

I nodded. “You and I could tell from the very first that theirs was not a marriage made in heaven, or anyplace resembling it. Unfortunately for Charlie, several of their fellow residents of Pilsen know the same thing, as the cops quickly discovered when they nosed around that fine old neighborhood.”

“He couldn’t possibly have done it, could he?” In the few times she’d been around him, Catherine had developed a genuine fondness for Charlie, although the tone of her question carried a ring of uncertainty.

“Of course not! I told you what he said today about Edwina’s going to Horvath’s bar all the time. I think the secret to what happened may lie there.”

“But wouldn’t the police have already checked out that possibility?”

“They might have visited the place, darling, but I hardly think they’d spend much time there. Why should they? After all, they believe they’ve already got their man. And I’m sure they’re going to try to link him to the killings of the Degnan girl and those two women. They’re absolutely desperate to get that case wrapped up and sent to trial.”

She shuddered. “That’s horrible, Steve.”

“Yes it is. McCafferty’s prime concern will not be who killed Edwina. His job is only to try to get Charlie off the hook, and he’ll have to do that by attacking the State’s Attorney’s case.”

“You don’t sound very confident.”

“There’s not a lot to be confident about. As good a defense attorney as this silver-tongued Irishman is supposed to be, he simply may not be good enough this time around.”

Catherine began clearing the table. “Have you got a better idea?”

I think she knew what was coming — in fact, I’m sure she did. “I’m going to do a little looking around at Horvath’s,” I said in what I hoped was a matter-of-fact tone.

She sat down, crossed her arms, and fixed me with those wonderful, penetrating gray eyes. “Steve, I won’t try to talk you out of it, but are you really sure this is a good idea? You know how you seem to attract trouble. There was that night down in Beverly Hills that you told me about years later, and that rough business at the University of Chicago during the war, when that guy tried to strangle you. You were lucky both times. How many lives do you think you’ve got left?”

“At least as many as a cat,” I answered. “Hey, it’ll be all right. I’m not going to take any foolish chances.”

“Promise me that you’ll be careful — extra careful,” Catherine said. “You never know what kind of people hang out in these bars.”

“And some of them are people who are a lot like me,” I said with a rueful smile. I was referring to the uncounted hours I had spent in ‘Killer’ Kilkenny’s saloon up on North Clark Street in the years between my marriages, when drinking was more important to me than anything else, including my work. “I will be home early, that I promise.”