Shadow of the Bomb

Chapter 5

Back in the Police Headquarters press room Monday morning, I regaled the crew with a running commentary on the Bears’ victory, and I had what seemed to be an enthusiastic audience. In the eleven months since Pearl Harbor, we, along with many other Americans, craved excuses to avoid talking about the war — especially given that our military and naval victories were more than offset by our setbacks. With Chicago’s superb pro football team, though, some of us could find an escape, however illusory.

As I reached the point in my narrative where Sid Luckman intercepted a Green Bay pass and dashed for a touchdown, I was interrupted by one Packy Farmer, who had leaned back with his feet on his desk.

“So, oh noble Malek,” he intoned between drags on one of his hand-rolled smokes. “You have the power of the mighty, yea omnipotent, Tribune behind you so you can spend a Sunday afternoon reveling in the autumnal splendor of the Wrigley coliseum while the rest of us mortals can only dream of seeing first-hand the gladiators from our fair metropolis do pitched battle in said arena against the boys from the north country.”

“Oh, button it up, Packy,” Dirk O’Farrell snapped. “Let the man finish. You sound like a frustrated sportswriter who’s had one too many bottles of Budweiser — and at nine-thirty in the morning, for God’s sake!”

“Oh, all right, I yield the floor,” Farmer sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “Let the fellow rant on.”

“No, no, it’s too late,” I said, feigning hurt feelings. “The moment is gone; the balloon of excitement has been punctured by the cruel barbs of sarcasm. Just to set the record straight, however, I got those Bears tickets after making a charitable donation.”

“That’s telling him, Snap,” Eddie Metz chortled. “He’s just jealous.”

“Indeed I am — I don’t deny it for a moment,” Packy responded. “Would that I were with a paper that has the vast resources of Col. Robert R. McCormick’s majestic Tribune, which is, as we all know, ‘The World’s Greatest Newspaper.’ We know that because they print those very words on Page 1 every single day.”

“Lest we forget them,” Anson Masters put in. “I much prefer my own employer’s front-page motto, which as you all are aware is: ‘An Independent Newspaper.’”

“In this case, ‘Independent’ equates with wishy-washy,” O’Farrell of the Sun observed. “If your rag ever took a strong editorial stand on anything, half its readers would pass out from shock.”

Masters scowled. “This from a man whose new employer, one Marshall Field III, just started publishing a newspaper late last year. And would anyone present like to remind our Mr. O’Farrell just who prints his newspaper?”

“You do, Antsy,” Packy Farmer piped up. “That is, the Daily News prints the Sun on its presses.”

“And why, pray tell, is that?” Masters asked.

“Because Marshall Field doesn’t own any presses of his own,” Eddie Metz said, enjoying the byplay.

“Just so,” Masters responded, looking smug. “Now be nice, Dirk, or we’ll evict you from our building over at Madison and Canal. We’re doing you a favor by keeping you in business, propping you up as it were.”

“Hah — you’re doing yourselves a favor,” O’Farrell fired back. “Your erstwhile publisher, the eminent Colonel Knox, now FDR’s Secretary of the Navy, hates the Tribune and its own Colonel — McCormick, that is — so much that he’d do anything to see another morning paper go up against them. Don’t pull that ‘high-and-mighty’ crap on me.”

Just as Anson Masters was about to respond, my phone rang and I never heard his retort.

“Hey, Snap, Pickles here.”

“What’s going on, my poker-playing friend?”

“Probably nothing, but I like to keep you fully informed at all times.”

“Of course you do — especially if I’m likely to slip you a few bucks or buy you a few beers.”

“Now, Snap, our friendship goes far deeper than money or lager, you know that. Anyway, here’s the skinny. The last three nights, I’ve gone back to that bar in Hyde Park.”

“The University Tavern.”

“Right. Seems like a convivial place, and I know you were interested in that Bergman chap.”

“Go on.”

“He hasn’t been there three nights running.”

“So? Maybe he’s got other things to do, like grading papers or some such. After all, it sounds like he’s on the faculty down there on the Midway.”

“Except I mentioned it to the bartender, Chester, and he was puzzled, too. Said he couldn’t remember when the guy had missed even two nights straight. Said he’s the most regular customer the U.T. has. Not a heavy imbiber or a troublemaker, just likes to nurse a few beers.”

“Your new pal Chester have anything else to add?”

“Just that Bergman, first name Arthur, comes in alone, usually keeps to himself, but occasionally starts chatting with somebody else at the bar, like he did when I first saw him and also when you were there the other night.”

“Try going back a couple of more times — that is if it doesn’t cramp your other nocturnal pursuits too much. And if Mr. Bergman still hasn’t turned up, let me know,” I instructed Pickles, figuring that’s the last I would hear of this business except for possibly having to slip him a few dollars to cover his beer expenditure. I figured wrong.