Terror at the Fair

Chapter Seventeen

I got to the pressroom at the fair Monday morning at the same time as Fred Metzger. “Any problems here over the weekend?” I asked the PR man.

“Just more police and more newspapermen tromping around all over the place,” he groused, waving his arms in frustration. “One of the officers told me several men would be added to the detail here. I asked they be in plainclothes so as not to worry the visitors. Do you know what he told me?”

I shook my head.

“He said it’s important that the police presence is obvious, so as to discourage troublemakers. I argued, but it didn’t do any good.”

“For what it’s worth, I think the badge you talked to is absolutely right. Instead of worrying visitors, the sight of more uniformed figures would be comforting to them.”

Metzger looked unconvinced, then shrugged, turned on his heel, and walked out onto the fairgrounds, presumably to glare at some cops. A couple of minutes later, the intern, Rob Taylor, walked by and gave me a wave on his way to the PR office.

“You just missed your boss,” I told him. “He’s in a funk over all the cops who are crawling around the grounds.”

He laughed. “Yeah, he told me he thinks it will scare people to see so many of them. To me, it seems like it’s a good idea, though.”

“On that we agree, Rob. By the way, how’d you happen to land this job?”

“You sound like you’re interviewing me for a story,” he said in a voice bordering on accusatory.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. An old reporter’s habit, I suppose. Hard to break.”

“That’s okay,” he said, blushing slightly. “I didn’t mean to be so defensive. As to how I got the job, I called the fair office from up at school back in the winter. I told them I was looking for work as a summer intern doing public relations—I’ve taken some courses in advertising, which is sort of related. Anyway, they told me Mr. Metzger would be doing the PR, and they gave me his number.”

“That’s pretty enterprising of you.”

He hunched his shoulders self-consciously. “They tell us at school to take the initiative when we’re looking for work. At first, Mr. Metzger didn’t sound interested, but I told him I’d be willing to work for very little money. I wanted the experience.”

“You live in Chicago? Whoops, there I go again, playing interviewer.”

“South Side, with my mother,” he said.

“Well, I’m sure you are plenty of help to your boss here. And we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“If I can help in any way, I’ll be glad to, sir,” he said.

“Remember, it’s Snap.”

“Uh... Snap, right,” he said with a sheepish smile, turning toward the PR office.

After Rob left, I sat at my desk and dialed a number.

The “hello” on the other end was fuzzy, as I had expected.

“Hello yourself, you old rascal. Are you keeping out of trouble?”

“Is this who I think it is?” muttered “Pickles” Podgorny.

“I dunno, I’ll play the game. Who do you think it is?”

“Listen, typewriter jockey, haven’t I told you many times before that you are never, ever to bother me before one in the afternoon. I work nights, as you are very well aware.”

“Yes, and I also know exactly what kind of work you do. The only blisters you’ll ever get in your so-called labors are on the fingertips of your dealing hand.”

“Have you called just to make sport of a tired old man?”

“No, although you are one tempting target. Truth to tell, I’m phoning with a hard-to-refuse offer to buy you lunch.”

“Uh-oh, why do I suddenly feel like this lunch is somehow going to cost me?”

“Don’t be such a cynic, Pickles.”

“Any cynicism I might happen to have comes from knowing you for lo these many years. What’s the deal?”

“I’ll tell you over lunch.”

“At that same old joint over on Wabash, the one near Headquarters?”

“Oh no, sorry. I’m assigned to the Railroad Fair this summer, and—”

“Ah, you mean the place where they’re dying right and left?”

“As usual, Pickles, you exaggerate.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t seem like the safest spot in town these days.” He groaned. “All right, where should I meet you?”

“The Fiesta dining car, at the Rock Island Railroad exhibit. It’s a nice clean place, white tablecloths, hearty sandwiches—and they even come with pickles, kosher dills. See you at noon.”

“You mean I’m going to have to pay to get into your dag-blasted fair?”

“I will reimburse you the princely admission fee, and the cab fare too. How’s that for a deal?”

“You’re all heart, Snap. Although it’s against my principles to take nourishment so early in the day, I’ll see you at noon—or close to it.”

In fact, my watch read ten past twelve when Pickles Podgorny peered suspiciously into the Fiesta dining car from the door at one end. I waved him to my table.

For those of you new to these narratives, Pickles is a Chicago fixture—as a former bookie and two-bit grifter, and, in his current line of work, a far-better-than-average poker player. Early in his checkered career, he ran afoul of the local gendarmes, mainly because of some small-time cons he ran. I met him more than a decade ago when he got himself pinched for operating a craps game in the back of a saloon only two blocks from Police Headquarters.

Curious about what kind of guy would be nervy enough to rattle the dice right under the noses of the law, I went to his court hearing, wrote a feature about him (which never ran), and hooked him up with a lawyer who got him off with little more than a slap on the wrist and a stern lecture from the judge.

As a result, Pickles, who now confines his gambling to poker, felt a certain debt to me—a debt I have cashed in on numerous times by taking advantage of the man’s vast knowledge of the cast of characters who inhabit the city’s seamy underbelly. In fairness, I have paid him for his knowledge and information, as I once again prepared to do.

An unshaven Pickles, all five-feet-seven of him, slid into the chair opposite me and took off his flat cap, slapping it down on the starched white tablecloth. “Helluva place to get to, this fair,” he grumbled, scratching a nose much too big for his face. “I never knew so many people liked trains. Can’t see the attraction myself.”

“Well, thanks for coming at what for you is an ungodly hour. Let us order, then I’ll tell you a story. By the way, as I mentioned on the phone, they have excellent dill pickles, and I’m willing to bet the waitress will give you an extra one if you ask her nicely.”

We ate our sandwiches in silence, and Pickles did indeed get an extra dill, which, given his nickname, is a high priority. Over coffee, he squinted at me, scowling. “All right, Mister Deadline-a-Minute, let’s get to it. What’s the angle?”

“Ah, Pickles, I trust you enjoyed your corned beef on rye?”

“Not bad. You know, when you told me on the horn you’re working out here now, I suddenly put two and two together, even in the haze of just waking up far too soon. I read the papers. I know there’ve been a couple of stiffs here the last few days, and I sez to myself, ‘Now just why would my old buddy Snap Malek be calling me out of the blue? Could it just maybe have something to do with one guy getting shot and another guy getting strangled?’”

“You are indeed a perceptive man, Pickles. I have often said so.”

“Yeah, perceptive happens to be my middle name. So what?”

“So, I’m looking for a man.”

“Would the police also be looking for said individual?”

I nodded, sipping coffee. “You read the papers, so you know at least something about the shooting at the pageant here.”

“I know a little, but I have got this feeling you’re going to tell me more.”

“I am. As you are aware, somebody put a live round in among the blank cartridges in one of the rifles used in the stagecoach robbery at the pageant they stage here several times a day.”

“Could have been an accident.”

“Could have, but you don’t believe it for a minute, do you?”

Pickles grinned. “’Course not. I just wanted to get a rise out of you. It worked.”

“Okay, score one for Chicago’s reigning king of five-card stud. Three men had the job of loading the rifles before each show.”

“Let me guess. Right after the shooting, at least one of the guys lammed, not to be seen again.”

“Bingo. Precisely where you come into the story.”

“Not so fast, wordsmith. It’ll take more than a free lunch, taxi money, and an admission ticket to this here fair to compensate for my valuable time.”

“Okay, you chiseler, here’s a double sawbuck on top of what I already gave you for the round trip in a cab,” I said, pulling a twenty from my wallet and setting it on the table in front of him. “Now can we continue talking?”

He looked at the currency, sniffed, and pocketed it. “You know I’m worth more than that, but what the hell. For old times’ sake…”

“Old times’ sake, my ass. You haven’t done a thing yet, and you’re twenty bucks ahead, plus a fat sandwich and two juicy kosher dills.”

“The pickles were all right,” he conceded grudgingly.

“Glad to hear it. Now, here’s the description of the missing rifle-loader: Thought to be in his mid-forties, white, about five-ten, sandy hair, mustache, mole on his right cheek.”

“Well, that narrows it to about a hundred thousand men in town,” Pickles grumped.

“And it’s said he talks with a slight foreign accent.”

“What kind?”

“Nobody seemed sure. Maybe German, maybe Swedish, maybe Dutch.”

“Oh swell, which narrows it to maybe fifty thousand. Does this bird happen to have a name?”

“Samuel White is what he put down on his employment form at the fair.”

“Geez, Snap, that’s just jake. Why didn’t he call himself John Doe and be done with it? Talk about the old needle in a haystack! This is ridiculous. I suppose you’re going to tell me he gave a phony address when he applied?”

“I am. A number up on Clarendon that doesn’t exist. Also, the Social Security number he gave turned out to be bogus, too.”

He rolled his eyes. “Aren’t things just peachy now?”

“Pickles, with anybody but you, I would agree the job is well nigh impossible, but given your special talents—”

“What special talents would those be?”

“Your, shall we say... knowledge of the activities of certain persons who don’t want the knowledge of their activities made public.”

“Meaning, of course, hoodlums, miscreants, lowlifes, grifters, and various others who your esteemed journal might call ‘the dregs of society.’”

“Well put, sir. I could not have said it better myself.”

“Of course you couldn’t. Did you by chance talk to the guy who fired the live round?”

“I did, and I’m convinced he’s totally clean. I believe the cops are convinced as well. He’s a young actor trying to make it in town.”

“Okay, now what about the poor sap who cashed in?”

“Pickles, I have to believe we’re dealing with a totally random event. He was a fellow in his early twenties from up in Wisconsin, an actor trying to break in as well.”

“So, how do you see all of this tying into the second death?”

“It might just be a coincidence, but almost surely isn’t.”

“Could it be somebody with a grudge against the railroad line whose exhibit was where the second murder took place?” Pickles asked as we got coffee refills.

“The Illinois Central? That might explain the strangulation, but not the shooting. There was no connection in that particular pageant act to any one rail line.”

“Back on the subject of this elusive Mr. White: Any idea how he happened to get hired by the fair in the first place?”

“Nope. But if I made a guess, I’d say he answered an ad in one of the papers. I know the fair did some advertising for a lot of positions.”

“Do you know if the cops have checked on all those outfits hiring day laborers?”

“I couldn’t say.”

Pickles slapped his forehead with a palm. “You’re not a heck of a lot of help.”

I spread my hands. “Regard this as a challenge, as well as an opportunity to make the cops look bad. I know just how much you’d relish doing that.”

“The problem is, even if I do make monkeys out of them, they’ll never know it was me. I’m not about to do anything to call attention to yours truly. I’ve had too many dealings in my previous life with what some of us laughingly refer to as ‘Chicago’s Finest.’”

“But, Pickles, think of the personal satisfaction you’ll get if you do finger the elusive Mr. White. Isn’t that worth something to you?”

The answer I got was a scowl, followed by a glare, followed by a word mouthed silently, in deference to the families with children seated near us in the crowded and festive dining car.