A President In Peril

Chapter Twenty-One S₁ C₃ R₁ A₁ G₂ (n) a lean or scrawny person or animal

I hadn’t set foot on Skid Row in the four years since the last presidential motorcade came this way, but it seemed at first glance as if nothing had changed. The ratty saloons still abounded, alternating with clothing resale stores, pawn shops, strip joints, and hotels. The ‘hotels,’ as they termed themselves, were two- and three- and four-story firetraps, ‘flophouses’ in the popular parlance, where the denizens of this sad urban stretch dwelt — if they could afford even the rock-bottom rates. Those who couldn’t lived in parks or alleys in the summer and at places like the Pacific Garden Mission and the Salvation Army shelters in the winter.

“Evening, Senator, can you spare a gent a few pennies for a bowl of soup?” a gaunt, hunchbacked scrag implored, clutching my sleeve. I started to shake him off, then reached into my pants pocket and laid two quarters in his grimy palm, knowing full well they might be spent on something other than soup.

Other residents of the area — they were all too easy to spot — either wandered the sidewalks aimlessly and often unsteadily or gathered in clusters of three or four, smoking and nipping from pint bottles in paper sacks. I approached one such huddle and asked its number if they looked forward to seeing the president pass by.

“Is that who’s headed this way tonight?” one snaggle-toothed specter asked. “Must be why so many cops have been a-racing by in their cars and on them motorcycles of theirs.”

“The president, huh?” another one ventured. “Why’s he coming through here?”

“Hey, dummy,” a third snarled after a pull on the pint in the sack. “Don’t you know nothing? President Truman, he’s giving a speech out at the Stadium tonight. Passin’ right by here pretty soon.”

“Who the hell cares?” the short and bald fourth member of the circle chimed in. “Do you think he gives a shit about any of us? Screw him, I say. Screw them all.”

“That’s a terrible way to talk about the president,” Snaggle-Tooth said, shoving the bald complainer, who pushed back before one of the others got between them.

“Hey, hey, cut it out,” the peacemaker implored. “We don’t want no trouble here. We need to show the president some respect in our neighborhood. How’s it going to look if we’re fighting when he rides by?”

I drifted away from the motley foursome, scanning the sidewalks on both sides of Madison for anyone who might be a visitor to the block and a good interview. But all I saw were the area’s habitués, at least half of whom probably had no idea that the most powerful man on earth would soon be in their midst, if only for a few moments.

The sound of a band came from the east, which meant the motorcade was now just minutes and blocks away. In the slim hope of finding someone interesting, I continued walking west and found myself staring up at a newly painted sign attached to a nondescript building and hanging out over the sidewalk. The sign’s two words hit me like a slap upside the head: ARGO HOTEL.

I passed through the doorway under the sign and found myself in an entry hall, where a wizened clerk of uncertain years wearing a derby hat and a sweat-stained undershirt sat sullenly behind a counter reading a pulp magazine that had a leggy blonde on the cover.

“You work here?” I asked.

“Just what does it look like, buddy?”

“I asked you a question, buddy,” I snarled, grabbing the front of his undershirt and pulling him across the counter toward me.

“What the hell do you want?” He tried to sound tough, but I had tossed him a curve ball.

“I’ll tell you, ace. I’m Inspector Cartwright with the police,” I said, whipping out a leather wallet with a Chicago Police Department badge — or a reasonable facsimile — pinned to the inside. It had worked several times before, and it was working now.

“Haven’t you guys been around here enough lately?” the night clerk whined. “Hell, one of your men came by earlier asking questions.”

“We will come as often as we damn well please,” I said through clenched teeth. “How long has this place been the Argo Hotel?”

“Just a few weeks,” he answered in a surly tone. “It was the Regal Arms before.”

“Why the name change?”

“There was some, uh, trouble. You should know, being on the force. The owner, he thought there should be a new name.”

“We can’t all keep up with every two-bit crime that happens in a city of three million people. What was the trouble?”

“Two of our residents got into a fight one night, and one of ’em set fire to the other guy’s room. There was cops and firemen all over the damn joint. At least nobody was hurt. The smoke smell has finally gone away.”

“Uh-huh. Got any new residents? Anybody who’s just checked in?”

“I’m... not allowed to say.”

“Listen, you’re starting over with a name change. Your owner wouldn’t want to see this place get shut down, would he now?”

“Why should we get shut down?” he asked plaintively.

“I’ll tell you why, buster. Because if I don’t like the answers I’m getting, and so far I don’t, I’ll have this joint closed just like that.” I snapped my fingers and pulled the derby hat off his bald head, slapping it down on the counter. “Now, let’s start over, shall we? Do you have any new residents here?”

“Yes and no,” he muttered.

“Whaddya mean, yes and no?” I barked, leaning across the counter and grabbing him by the shirt again to reinforce my ‘tough cop’ image. “I don’t want any of your bullshit.”

He swallowed hard. “I mean, this guy rented a room about two weeks ago and paid for the whole two weeks, maybe a little more, even, in advance. Asked for a room facing Madison, and we had one. But he never used the room until today. He came in a couple of hours ago.”

“Who is this guy?” I snarled, keeping hold of his sweaty undershirt.

He opened the grimy guest ledger and flipped back several pages. “It says his name is Philip Peterson, didn’t put down an address. But then most of ’em don’t. He’s in 207.”

“Which I presume is on the second floor?”

He nodded grimly, as if he’d just given away a state secret. “Funny thing,” he added off-handedly, “the guy had a golf bag with him.”

“Didn’t that make you curious, especially in a place like this?”

“I make it a point not to get curious. I find it’s safer that way.”

I shook my head and turned to go up the stairs when I saw a baseball bat leaning against the wall behind the counter. “You have a lot of need for that thing?” I asked, pointing at it.

“Sometimes. It can get a little rough around here, especially at night. Maybe a guy gets a snoot full, you know, and thinks he can take on the world. But mostly it’s there to sort of remind people to behave themselves.”

“Well, if you don’t mind — or even if you do mind — I’m going to borrow it,” I growled, walking behind the counter and snatching it.

“We don’t want no trouble in here, officer,” he murmured.

“Oh, you’ve already got that, mister,” I told him, going up the stairs two at a time.

The second-floor hall was lit by dim, bare bulbs hanging from exposed wires and spaced about twenty feet apart. The city’s electrical inspectors would have all sorts of fun with this joint.

I walked along on tiptoe and found 207, putting my ear against the door. I heard rustling inside. “Police! Open up!” I snapped. More noise inside but no answer.

I tried the door. Locked. I swung the baseball bat down on the doorknob, but it held. I swung again, and the knob flew off, shattering the area around the lock. A third smash and the door splintered, swinging inward.

In the unlit room, I saw a tall thin figure silhouetted against the open window and the light coming from the street. He was aiming a rifle at me.

In that fraction of a second, I recognized him by the large mole over his left eye. It was Becker from Warren Jones’s printing company, who I had seen for only a moment when I was there. The last thing I remembered was the blast of the weapon and the searing pain somewhere inside me as I lunged toward Becker and swung the bat while he aimed the rifle again.