Anything But Saintly

Chapter 21

In addition to his political activities and having a finger in every racket on the south side, Nick Bartkowiak had a legitimate business. He was president of the Falcon Amusement Company, which placed pinball games, shuffle boards, cigarette vendors and jukeboxes in taverns and restaurants on a percentage basis. The percentage was fifty-fifty, which meant, because Falcon had a monopoly on such business, that Nick raked in half of everything dropped into coin machines anywhere in town.

With this gold mine, you would think he wouldn’t need any other interests, but to some extent his legitimate business was dependent on his less legitimate activities. Ordinarily competition in the coin-machine business is pretty keen. Bartkowiak maintained his monopoly partly through political influence, which made it difficult for any other distributor to obtain a license to operate, and partly through his army of goons, who tended to discourage competition by sabotaging rival machines and, sometimes, sabotaging their owners.

Headquarters for all his varied activities was the Falcon Amusement Company offices at Kosiusko and Jerboa, in the heart of the Polish section. We arrived there at nine-thirty A.M.

Since the people whose votes he controlled came here for political favors, Bartkowiak didn’t maintain an elaborate office. In keeping with his pose as a man of the people, he had only a plain, simply furnished waiting room and a small private office, the door to which was always open. There was no receptionist, as the factory workers on the south side would have considered that an affectation. Constituents wandered in and out of his office at will, familiarly addressing him as Nick instead of as Mr. Bartkowiak.

There was usually some guy lounging around the waiting room, however, who performed some of the duties of a receptionist. When Nick was there, he had no apparent function. But as there had to be someone around to tell visitors when Nick might be expected back on the occasions when he was out of the office, Bartkowiak kept one of his goons on duty to perform this service. Today it was Biffy Jagoda, a lean, sleekly dressed man with drooping eyelids and a studiously blank expression.

There were also two other people in the waiting room when we arrived. An old man in overalls and a younger man in a black leather jacket and skin-tight pants sat on opposite sides of the room. I guessed they were constituents waiting to see Bartkowiak for some favor or advice.

Harry Anderson glanced through the open door of Bartkowiak’s private office and asked Biffy, “Where’s Nick?”

Biffy was idly leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. “Out,” he said laconically.

“Out where?”

Biffy shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

“When’s he coming back?”

“He didn’t say that either.”

I had known Biffy Jagoda all my life. I hadn’t liked him as a kid, and I liked him less as we grew older. I walked over to within a foot of him and looked at his chin. My expression put a wary look on his face and caused him to take his hands from his pockets.

“What’s with you, Matt?” he inquired.

“We want to get in touch with Nick,” I said, still looking at his chin. “And we don’t want a lot of smart brush-off answers.”

“Who’s brushing you off?” he asked plaintively. “He walked out forty-five minutes ago without saying where he was going or when he’d be back. These other people are waiting for him too.”

“Make an educated guess as to where he went,” I suggested.

“How should I know? He was with Little Artie Nowak, if that means anything to you.”

My gaze shifted from his chin to his droop-lidded eyes. “He walked out of here with Artie?” I said sharply.

My tone turned his expression even more wary. “Why shouldn’t he if he wants to? They’re pals.”

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

“Why, nothing much,” he said in a puzzled voice. “Nick showed about eight-thirty, as usual. Ten minutes later Artie came in and went into Nick’s office. The door was open, but I didn’t pay no attention to what they was talking about. The both of them came out and left without saying a word to me. A few minutes later the kid and the old man here came in and been waiting ever since.”

“Was that normal behavior for Nick?” I asked. “Doesn’t he usually say where he’s going and how long he’ll be gone when he leaves the office?”

Biffy scratched the back of his neck. “I guess he does usually,” he admitted. “So we can tell people whether to wait or not. What’s this all about?”

“Let me guess how it was,” I said. “Nick came out first with Artie behind him.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, eyeing me with increasing puzzlement.

“Artie have one hand in his pocket?”

His eyes widened. “Yeah, now that you mention it. What’s this all about, Matt?”

I turned away from him disgustedly. “You’re a hell of a bodyguard.”

“Huh?”

I said to the boy and the old man, “You’re wasting your time waiting for Nick. I don’t think he’ll be back today.”

The old man looked at me abashedly, then got up and left the office. The younger man, curious as to what was going on, remained seated. Harry Anderson and Max Cole looked at me inquiringly.

I said, “We’d better get out an A.P.B. on both of them.”

“Think it was a snatch?” Anderson asked.

“It has all the earmarks. I should have thought of that possibility when he announced he intended to take on Nick for a fight to the finish. But it never occurred to me he meant to make it an old-fashioned gang war. I thought he just intended to rally his political strength behind him.”

Biffy Jagoda said, “Hey, what are you guys talking about?”

“Matters over your head,” I told him.

I walked out with Anderson and Cole following me.

We had come in an F car, Max Cole driving. I climbed in the back seat, Anderson in front. The lieutenant picked up the dash mike and said, “F-27 to control one.”

The receiver said, “Go ahead, F-27.”

“Get out an A.P.B. on Nicholas Bartkowiak and Arthur Nowak, alias Little Artie Nowak.” Anderson rattled off descriptions of both men. “Nowak is suspected of kidnapping Bartkowiak at gunpoint from the Falcon Amusement Company, Kosiusko and Jerboa, about eight forty-five A.M. Also, there is a warrant on Bartkowiak for conspiracy to murder and on Nowak as a material witness. Nowak is believed armed, so approach with caution.”

“Description of motor vehicle?” the dispatcher asked.

“Presumably they’re in Nowak’s car, though we don’t know. Check D.M.V. for registration. Ten four.”

“Ten four,” the dispatcher said.

Anderson hung up the mike. “Now what?”

“We might as well hit the tavern,” I said. “I doubt that he’d take him there, but we might get some lead on where he could have taken him.”

“You think maybe he took him out somewhere and bumped him?” Anderson asked.

“How should I know? Yesterday I would have said he wasn’t that stupid, but yesterday I thought he wasn’t stupid enough to pull a snatch either.”

“Where’s the tavern?” Cole asked.

I gave him directions.

En route to the tavern, I wondered if my big mouth had caused Little Artie to kill for a second time. Only this time it didn’t bother my conscience, because I never feel sorry when I hear about racketeers shooting each other up. I’ve always felt they had the right idea back in the gang-warfare days of the twenties, when they used to mow each other down by the score. These modern racketeers’ habit of using political pressure instead of guns to dispose of their rivals didn’t kill enough hoods.

Max Cole steered the felony car over to the curb and braked to a stop. “This the place?” he inquired.

“Yeah,” I said, getting out of the car.

Together the three of us entered the tavern.