Night Extra

14

Dan Bridewell lived on the South Side, in a large plain house that seemed as sturdy and uncompromising as the reputation of an honest man. It was smart camouflage, Terrell thought, as he went up the wooden steps and rang the bell. No frills or ostentation for Dan Bridewell. No martinis and gracious living in the suburbs. Just the essentials, stripped bare: money and power. Terrell was beginning to feel angry; until now his attitude had been detached and professional, like a surgeon laying open a cancerous tissue. It had been a job to Terrell, an exacting job requiring all of his skill and experience. Now he felt it was something more than that.

An elderly woman in a black uniform opened the door. Terrell told her he wanted to see Bridewell, but she frowned slightly and said, “Well, I don’t know. He’s going to St. Louis tonight and he leaves for the airport pretty soon.”

“I won’t take more than a minute or two. My name is Terrell. I’m with the Call-Bulletin.”

“I’ll tell him: Would you wait in the parlor?”

“Sure.” Terrell removed his hat and stepped into the hallway. There was a hatrack, an umbrella stand, and the curve of stairs leading to the second floor, all of it looking solid and old-fashioned and comfortable. “Was this trip a rather sudden idea?” he said.

“Mr. Bridewell has a lot of demands on him,” the woman said. “He comes and goes where he’s needed.” She spoke as if she were discussing the parish priest.

“Yes, of course,” Terrell said gravely.

The parlor was long and gloomy, with thick, red rugs and dark, massive furniture. Terrell lit a cigarette and sat on the wide wooden arm of a chair. The room was depressing; it smelled clean and unused, but the lavender wallpaper and mauve drapes were dispiriting backdrops for the ornately framed family photographs and the heavy sofas and chairs. Brass andirons gleamed in the dim light, and a dark, curved mirror hung above the fireplace.

A footstep sounded and Terrell stood as the door opened and Dan Bridewell came into the room. “Well, young man, you’ll have to make this fast,” Bridewell said. “I’m catching a plane to St. Louis in just about an hour.”

“I’ll try my best,” Terrell said.

“What was it you wanted?” Bridewell was studying him with alert, careful eyes. He was short and stocky, with thinning gray hair, and a small paunch that tightened the gold watch chain across the front of his vest. There was strength in his square, hard face, a mixture of boldness and cunning; he looked like a man who could fight in a dozen different styles if necessary, but who wouldn’t fight at all unless he was fairly certain of the outcome.

“I’m running down a rumor,” Terrell said. “It concerns you, Mr. Bridewell, and that’s why I’m here.”

“Well, let’s hear it. I’m used to rumors. I’ve been accused of everything but the sacking of Rome in the past forty years. So shoot.”

“The story is that you and Ike Cellars are in partnership,” Terrell said.

Bridewell laughed. “That’s a new one. What are we supposed to be doing? Running a horse room?”

“Running the Acme Construction Company and Bell Wreckers,” Terrell said.

Bridewell was jarred, Terrell saw, and surprise twisted his hard, cautious face. But he recovered himself almost immediately. “I told you I was in a hurry,” he said, pulling out his watch. “Is that all you’ve got to tell me?”

“You have no other comment?”

“I have no comment at all — now or any other time.” Bridewell was studying his watch. “You’ve heard some malicious lies, or else you’re just trying to stir up a story. Why should I dignify that with a statement?”

“That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“I’ll add that it’s a dirty, vicious lie, if that will make you happy.” Color surged up in the old man’s face and his voice rose angrily. “I don’t know who’s responsible, but it’s a foul and stupid attack.”

“Do you know Ike Cellars?”

“I’ve seen him around. If you call that knowing a man then I know him.” Bridewell was breathing rapidly. “I’m used to slander, Terrell. But I don’t take it laying down. You print this rumor and it’s going to cost your paper plenty.”

“The figureheads of the companies are talking,” Terrell said. “To the police. They’ve identified you and Ike Cellars as the real owners. Two companies made money out of the Parking Authority — the two owned by you and Ike Cellars. Would you sue us for printing that, Mr. Bridewell?”

Bridewell said, “Who sent you here?” He put aside his bluster as easily as he would a topcoat. Now he was watching Terrell with shrewd, cold eyes. “Caldwell’s people?”

“No. This is just a way station,” Terrell said. “I’m after a story. Who killed Eden Myles? Who framed Caldwell and why? Looking for those answers has brought me this far.”

“Caldwell framed? Haven’t you read the police report?”

“I don’t believe it. Do you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? Is there anything sacred about Rich Caldwell? Is he so much better than the rest of us?”

“He didn’t kill Eden Myles.”

“I believe the police, young man.” Bridewell took a step toward Terrell and shook a fist in his face. “Why should I believe Caldwell? Tell me that, you smart young snoop. He’s a trouble-maker — a blue-stockinged, meddlesome prude who doesn’t have the sense to mind his own business. The great reformer!” Bridewell’s tone became savage and mincing. “Isn’t that enough to make you puke? Where was he when we built this city? Eh? When the canals were dug through to the estuary, when the riverbed was moved past Dempster Street, and when the whole center-city was tom apart to make way for new streets and office buildings? We did that without his help, or the help of the puling snobs who lived on the fat of the land in the big houses in the suburbs. The city is a stinking mess they wouldn’t dirty their shoes in. But we built it to what it is — me, Charlie Brickell, the Schmidt brothers, yes and Ike Cellars and Mayor Ticknor. Our companies and banks and guts did the job. And so he comes along now after his years in snobby schools and his years traipsing around France and Europe, and he holds his nose and tells us we did a lousy job and that he’s going to clean everything up and send us all to jail. Well, who’s in jail, Mr. Snoop? Us or Rich Caldwell?”

“Who deserves to be there?” Terrell said.

The old man stared at Terrell for a few seconds, then he said, “I accept the police verdict,” in a cold, impersonal voice.

“You’re afraid not to.”

“I’m afraid of nothing. This is my home, my city and I’ll fight for it. The men who made this city may have taken short cuts. Graft, corruption — I don’t deny it. But I’ll fight back to keep them from being victimized by a pack of holier-than-thou reformers. Their achievements are greater than their faults. You’ll learn that someday. You don’t grow big following little men.”

“You believe that bilge, I think,” Terrell said. “Well try to make it stand up to the dirty facts. Eden Myles was killed by a hoodlum imported by Ike Cellars. Your partner, Ike Cellars, framed Caldwell. Your partner committed murder just as surely as if he squeezed the life from the girl’s body with his own hands.”

“The police report convicts Caldwell,” the old man said, striking the arm of a chair.

“Why didn’t you fight it out in the courts?” Terrell said. “Let Caldwell win the election, let him make his charges against you, haul you into court—” Terrell stared without pity at the old man’s pale face. “Ike didn’t want it that way, did he? He wanted direct liquidation. He wanted to frame Caldwell for murder. Get him out of the way forever. Didn’t he?”

The old man seemed to be holding himself together with a definite physical effort. “Get out,” he said in a shaking voice. “I’ve heard enough of your slanders. Get out.”

“All right, Mr. Bridewell.”

“I’m going to St. Louis to visit my daughter. I won’t be back in the city for three months. I don’t care what happens—” Bridewell was trembling helplessly now. “I don’t care what happens to anybody.”

“Men like you always surprise me,” Terrell said. “You built the city, sure. But where’s the pride in your work? You let hoodlums run it for you, let it go to hell. Slums, bad schools, inadequate parks — why doesn’t that irritate you? Why don’t you do something about it?”

“You get out!” Bridewell yelled at him. “Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t come around threatening me, you hear.”

Terrell shook his head slowly. “You don’t just go to jail for murder, Mr. Bridewell. You go to hell.”

Bridewell didn’t answer; he tried to speak but no words passed his dry lips. And Terrell saw from the frightened look in his eyes that he had finally shaken him. “Good night,” he said.

From Bridewell’s home, Terrell drove to The Mansions, Ike Cellars’ big and brilliant nightclub in center-city. The head — waiter, Miguel, greeted him cordially and sent a message back to Connie Blacker with a bus boy.

“Drink?” Miguel said. “A touch of our old, old scotch? My compliments?”

“No, thanks. Another time, Miguel.”

“As you wish.”

A few early diners sat about the large, graceful room, eating the best food in the city, and listening to a girl on the bandstand who was playing soft, excellent piano. The bartenders stood with arms folded, grave, clean-shaven, white-jacketed, their eyes occasionally checking the tools of their craft, the lemon peel and orange slices, the fat cherries and pale yellow cocktail onions, the racks of glasses and mixers, and the sinksful of ice cubes and shavings. The atmosphere was quiet and expectant; from hatcheck girl to master of ceremonies, they were ready for the evening’s trade.

The bus boy returned and told him Miss Blacker was waiting in her dressing room. Terrell nodded a so-long to Miguel and crossed the floor to the corridor that led to the entertainers’ quarters. She was waiting for him at the door of her room, and in the soft light her eyes seemed very dark.

“I’m glad you could make it,” she said.

“You sounded pretty urgent.”

“Come in, please. It’s cluttered, but there’s a spare chair and an extra ashtray.”

“Men have lived and died with a lot less,” Terrell said. She was nervous as hell about something, he realized. Shaking in her boots.

The room was functional, and not much else; the walls were painted gray, and there was a vanity, a clothes rack, and a few straight-backed chairs.

“How’s your job coming along?” he asked her.

“Pretty well. I’m about one notch above a cigarette girl. I do a chorus with the band in the closing number — and I have a little stooge routine with the MC.” She smiled rather quickly. “Please sit down.”

“You’ll get along,” he said. “Places like this always need icing.” That was putting it clinically, he thought. She was more than just icing. More like something from the top of a Christmas tree. Like a doll. She wore a ribbon in her short, yellow hair, and her skin was like a young girl’s, flawless and clean without make-up. Her costume gave her figure an assist it didn’t really need; a white blouse, triangular shorts and full-length mesh hose — with her tiny waist and long, beautiful legs, the effect was stunning. But Terrell had an illogical feeling that she didn’t belong in Ike Cellars’ elaborately camouflaged clip joint. She was decorative certainly, but she was more than that. She belonged in a home that smelled of clean babies and a pot roast for Sunday dinner, with maybe a log fire and martinis thrown in. But he could be wrong.

“What did you want to see me about?”

She glanced at the door. “If I told you something you could use — what would I get out of it?”

“The usual tawdry things,” he said wearily. “Peace of mind, self-respect, an easy conscience. It’s a good trade.”

She sat down slowly, watching him now. “Nothing else?”

“You mean something clean and idealistic — like cash?”

She crossed her legs and moved her foot about in a quick circle. “That’s it,” she said. The light above the dressing table played with rhinestones on her small black velvet pumps. She glanced toward the door again, and Terrell saw her hands were gripping the edges of the chair.

“I think we might make a deal,” he said.

“How much would you give me?”

“Connie, I’m with a big, rich paper. But we didn’t get big and rich paying for tips in advance. I’ll need an idea of what you’ve got.”

She leaned toward him suddenly. “Get out of here,” she said, in a breathless, desperate voice. “Get out fast.”

Terrell stood quickly, but the door was already opening and he realized that he was too late. Frankie Chance came into the room, his deceptively gentle brown eyes alight with anger and excitement. Behind him was one of Ike Cellars’ bodyguards, a tall, wide man named Briggs.

“I told you not to bother her,” Frankie said.

“She wasn’t complaining,” Terrell said.

Frankie glanced at her. “Soft-hearted, doesn’t want to finger you, that’s all. But I know the story. You had a few drinks, Sam, and you began to get ideas.”

“This is pretty stupid — even for you,” Terrell said.

“Two things Ike won’t stand for are drunks and guys who molest his girls.”

“Judas Priest,” Terrell said. “Ike Cellars, defender of last year’s virgins. It’s your move, Frankie.”

Briggs put a huge hand on Terrell’s arm. “We’ll just escort you to your car.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Terrell said. He tried to pull his arm free but Briggs’ hand was as firm as a concrete cast. He looked at Connie then, but she turned away from him and sat down on the chair in front of the dressing table. “Nice going,” he said.

Briggs led him through the doorway, and glanced at Frankie Chance. “Back way?”

“Sure,” Frankie said, taking Terrell’s free arm. “It doesn’t look good dragging drunks across the dance floor.”

They took Terrell through the kitchen and out to the parking lot in the rear which was used for overflow business. Now it was empty and quite dark. An attendant came out of the shadows and flipped his cigarette aside. He seemed to know what was expected of him.

Briggs pushed Terrell against a brick wall, and the attendant and Chance held his arms.

“Sam, you’ve been a nuisance,” Frankie said.

“Get it over with,” Terrell said.

“Well, you tough sonofabitch,” Frankie said, laughing softly.

Briggs rubbed his hands with a gesture of a man about to go to work. He opened a flask then and splashed whiskey over Terrell’s face and shirt front. “Shame to waste it,” he muttered. Then he hit Terrell in the stomach with his free hand, bringing the punch up with a kind of lazy power. Frankie and the attendant tightened their grips as Terrell pitched forward, gagging against the pain spreading from his loins to his throat. Briggs hit him a dozen times, methodically and thoughtfully, and then paused and took a pull at the flask he held in his left hand.

Terrell couldn’t fight the pain any longer. He began to moan and when the sound came from him Briggs slapped him back and forth across the mouth with a hand as big and hard as a ping-pong paddle. “That should do it,” he said when Terrell was quiet once more.

“Take him home,” Frankie said to the parking lot attendant. “We don’t want him cluttering up the alley.”