Dying in the Post-War World

8

Two days later, I was treating my friend Bill Drury to lunch in that bustling Loop landmark of a restaurant, the Berghoff.

Waiters in tuxes, steaming platters of food lifted high, threaded around tables like runners on some absurd obstacle course. The patrons — mostly businessmen, though a few lady shoppers and matinee-goers were mixed in — created a din of chatter and clinking tableware that made every conversation in this wide-open space a private one.

Bill liked to eat, and had accepted my invitation eagerly, even though it had meant driving in from his home on the North Side. Even out of work, he was nattily dressed — dark blue vested suit with wide orange tie with a jeweled stickpin. His jaw jutted, his eyes were dark and sharp, his shoulders broad, his carriage intimidating. Only a pouchiness under his eyes and a touch of gray in his dark, thinning hair revealed the stress of recent months.

“I’m goddamn glad you beat the indictment,” I said.

He shrugged, buttered up a slice of rye; our Wiener Schnitzel was on the way. “There’s still this Grand Jury thing to deal with.”

“You’ll beat it,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure. Bill had, in his zeal to nail certain Outfit guys, paid at least one witness to testify. I’d been there when the deal was struck.

“In the meantime,” he said cheerfully, “I sit twiddling my thumbs at the old homestead, making the little woman nervous with my unemployed presence.”

“You want to do a little work for A-1?”

He shook his head, frowned regretfully. “I’m still a cop, Nate, suspended or not.”

“It’d be just between us girls. You still got friends at Town Hall Station, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

A waiter old enough to be our father, and looking stern enough to want to spank us, delivered our steaming platters of veal and German fried potatoes and red cabbage.

“I’m working the Keenan case,” I said, sipping my beer.

“Still? I figured you’d have dropped out by now.” He snorted a laugh. “My brother says you picked up a pretty penny for that interview.”

His brother John worked for the News.

“Davis met my price,” I shrugged. “Look, Bob Keenan seems to want me aboard. Makes him feel better. Anyway, I just intend to work the fringes.”

He was giving me his detective look. “That ten grand reward the Trib posted wouldn’t have anything to do with your decision to stick, would it?”

I smiled and cut my veal. “Maybe. You interested?”

“What can I do?”

“First of all, you can clue me in if any of your cop buddies over at Town Hall see any political strings being pulled, or any Outfit strings, either.”

He nodded and shrugged, as he chewed; that meant yes.

“Second, you worked the Lipstick killings.”

“But I got yanked off, in the middle of the second.”

“So play some catch-up ball. Go talk to your buddies. Sort through the files. See if something’s slipped through the cracks.”

His expression was skeptical. “Every cop in town is on this thing, like ugly on a monkey. What makes you think either one of us can find something they’d miss?”

“Bill,” I said pleasantly, eating my red cabbage, “we’re better detectives than they are.”

“True,” he said. He cut some more veal. “Anyway, I think they’re going down the wrong road.”

“Yeah?”

He shrugged a little. “They’re focusing on sex offenders; violent criminals. But look at the M.O. What do you make of it? Who would you look for, Nate?”

I’d thought about that a lot. I had an answer ready: “A second-story man. A cat burglar who wasn’t stealing for the dough he could find, or the goods he could fence, not primarily. But for the kicks.”

Drury looked at me with shrewd, narrowed eyes. “For the kicks. Exactly.”

“Maybe a kid. A j.d., or a j.d. who’s getting just a little older, into his twenties maybe.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Thrill-seeking is a young-at-heart kind of thing, Bill. And getting in the Johnson woman’s apartment took crawling onto a narrow ledge from a fire escape. Took some pretty tricky, almost acrobatic skills. And some recklessness.”

He held up his knife. “Plus, it takes strength to jam a bread knife through a woman’s neck.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that. But it does add up to somebody on the young side.”

He pointed the knife at me. “I was developing a list of just that kind of suspect... only I got pulled off before I could follow up.”

I’d hoped for something like this.

“Where’s that list now?”

“In my field notes,” Drury said. “But let me stop by Town Hall, and nose around a little. Before I give you anything. You want me to check around at Summerdale station, too? I got pals there.”

“No,” I said. “I already got Kruger, there. He’s going to keep me in the know.”

“Kruger’s okay,” Drury said, nodding. “But why’s he cooperating with you, Nate?”

The fried potatoes were crisp and salty and fine, but I wished I’d asked for gravy. “That reward the Trib’s promising. Cops aren’t eligible to cash in.”

“Ah,” Drury said, and drank some dark beer. “Which applies to me, as well.”

“Sure. But that’s no problem.”

“I’m an honest cop, Nate.”

“As honest as they come in this town. But you’re human. We’ll work something out, Bill, you and me.”

“We’ll start,” Bill said, pushing his plate aside, grinning like a goof, “with dessert.”