Three Strikes You're Dead

Chapter 14

“So it’s been three goddamn months now since Martindale got himself popped, and what do our illustrious gendarmes have to show for all their investigations? Nothin’, that’s what. Naught, nil, zero.” Dirk O’Farrell scowled and formed an “O” with his forefinger and thumb as he leaned back at his desk in the pressroom on a gray and gusty Monday morning. We all were still on our initial cups of coffee, and for the first time in several weeks, the topic on the floor was the Martindale murder.

“Aw, keep your britches on, Dirk,” Packy Farmer drawled as he rolled a cigarette. “You didn’t really think they were ever gonna get the trigger man, did you? The outfit’s boys ain’t that sloppy, y’know.”

O’Farrell lifted his lean shoulders and let them drop. “Maybe not, but I figured by this time the dicks would find some poor bastard they could hang the rap on. The way both Tom Courtney and the Crime Commission have been hammering on the department, seems like that would’ve been the logical move.”

“Interesting you should say that,” Anson Masters observed. “This very weekend, a tipster I’ve known for years strongly suggested to me that the police are in the process of doing exactly what you suggest.”

“You mean they’ve gone and got themselves a stooge?” O’Farrell demanded.

Masters nodded. “Or close to it.”

“Well, why the hell haven’t you followed up on it?” Farmer accused, waving his newly minted cigarette like a dwarf baton.

“Easy there, Cyril,” Masters tweaked. “As a matter of fact, I was about to bring the subject up. And I was also going to suggest that since our very own Mr. Malek here is a confidante of one Fergus Fahey, he would be an ideal choice to beard the noble chief in his den.”

“Heaven forbid that you should initiate any activity yourself, Anson,” Farmer said, swiveling to face me. “Well, what about it, Snap?”

“Yeah, Malek, what about it? Chop chop,” Eddie Metz put in, as usual the last one to enter the fray.

“Well, hellfire, I’ve been propping you lads up for so long anyway that it’s become a habit. I might as well stay in character. And who knows, I might even let you in on some of Fahey’s pearls of wisdom,” I muttered after stifling a stage yawn. “Anybody want to come along and keep me honest?”

“Nah, we trust ya, Snap old boy,” Farmer said, doing a yawn of his own. “How ’bout some good quotes this time around, though, huh?”

“Even if I have to make them up myself,” I said over my shoulder as I headed out the door in the direction of Fergus Fahey’s office.

“Morning, you vision of ecstasy,” I whispered to Elsie Dugo as I ambled into her anteroom. “The grand poohbah receiving visitors today, or has he taken a sabbatical?”

“Good morning yourself, you silver-tongued knave. Last I knew, he was in there, unless he stepped out his window and flipped onto a passing El,” she sassed. “Let me announce you. Are you Snap today, or Mr. Malek?”

“Let’s try the formal approach. Maybe he’ll develop a new appreciation for my importance.”

“Anything is possible,” she said. She spoke into the intercom and got what must have been a positive squawk, because she gestured toward the closed door. A haggard Fahey was seated behind his desk signing papers. He didn’t look up, so I gently laid two Lucky Strikes on the only open acreage on his blotter.

“Suppose you expect coffee in return,” he grunted, still concentrating on the papers.

“Well, isn’t this the deal we struck yea these many years ago? I scratch your back and you scratch mine?”

Another grunt, as he reached for one of the smokes and lit it up. “Okay, what brings you sniffing around?”

“I’m hurt, Fergus, I truly am. Can’t a fellow just casually drop by and say hello to an old friend every so often?”

“So you’re here just to say hello, are you? Okay, then my name is Valentino, that’s Rudolph Valentino, and I’m masquerading as a weather-beaten old homicide dick just hanging on until his pension kicks in,” he rasped, glancing up from the disarray in front of him and eyeing me dubiously. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Bad example. Valentino’s been pushing up posies for years now, and at last report you’re still alive and very possibly weather-beaten although by no means old,” I responded as Elsie brought in a steaming cup of coffee and set it in front of me. I nodded my thanks, winking and getting a wink in return as she swept out saucily and closed the door behind her.

Fahey took a long drag on his cigarette and leaned back, cupping his hands behind his head. “All right, now that you’ve gotten your requisite flirting with Elsie and the witty repartee out of your system, what’s on your mind, Snap? As you can see, I’m buried here.”

I sipped from the cup, smiling my approval. “What’s new on the Martindale case?” I asked matter-of-factly.

“Huh! I wish I had an answer. You tell me.”

“All right, I’ll make a stab at it, Fergus. How about this: The police have an alleged suspect in custody, but they’re keeping him under wraps — way under wraps, at least for now. There’s some doubt as to whether said suspect actually plugged Lloyd the Laudable, but even if he didn’t, well... he may end up choosing to confess anyway.”

“Meaning?” Fahey’s voice took on a hard edge.

“Meaning whatever you interpret it to mean,” I said lightly.

Face the color of an eggplant, the chief came forward in his chair, sticking out his chin. “And you claim to be a friend, suggesting something like that,” he snarled through clenched teeth.

“But I’m also a newspaperman, Fergus, remember? We have a reputation for being curious. And that’s just what I’m doing now — being curious. About an interesting story that’s been floating around.”

“Sounds to me like you’re doing a little fishing,” Fahey snorted.

“Care to comment on the story?”

“I do not,” he snapped, rising slowly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do, unlike certain members of the press.”

“Don’t bother to show me out; I know the way,” I said over my shoulder, keeping my tone light.

That afternoon about 5:30, I hopped a northbound El train at the Roosevelt Road station a block from headquarters and got off at Wabash and Madison in the Loop a half-dozen minutes later. The Harding’s restaurant on Wabash was similar to the others in the chain: clean, well-lit, inexpensive, unadorned, and with moderately good food.

The eatery was about three-quarters full with suppertime diners, couples, and singles. The hostess ushered me to a table for two that hugged a mirrored wall near the back. When a waitress with a script-lettered “Betty” stitched on her uniform pocket came over with a menu and a glass of water, I asked if the assistant manager, Nicolette Stover, was on duty.

“She’s on duty, all right, but what’s this assistant manager stuff? Somebody steered you wrong, Mac,” Betty said in a nasal tone that I took to be Downstate Illinois, or maybe Indiana. “She’s over there — second-shift cashier, same as always. We don’t even have an assistant manager. For that matter, we don’t have much of a manager, either, damn his cheap hide. But I never said that, did I?”

“Didn’t hear a word,” I said, returning her smile and looking in the direction Betty indicated. I saw a sallow-faced, expressionless woman who could have been anywhere from thirty to forty-five perched behind the cash register counter at the front of the restaurant, the bustle of Wabash Avenue forming a backdrop through the plate glass window.

After I ordered, I studied Nicolette Stover in profile. It would have been a stretch to term the woman pretty, as Lorraine Hokinson had, although Nicolette wasn’t giving herself much help in that department. Her hair, which I would have called oatmeal-colored, looked like it had been hacked with shears, and (assuming she did it herself) without benefit of a mirror. From where I sat, she appeared to wear no makeup or lipstick, and she never moved a facial muscle as she rang up customers’ checks and then, robot-like, gave them change.

After settling on how I was going to approach the woman, I tied into my roast pork and sauerkraut (passable but hardly first-rate) and replayed the day’s meeting with Fergus Fahey. The chief’s out-of-character behavior made it seem all but certain that Anson Masters’ informer was onto something.

Police have been beating confessions out of suspects since the birth of law enforcement, whenever that was, making it easy to believe they were doing it again now, especially given the high profile of the Martindale murder. My hunch was that an ill-starred mob lackey, probably usually employed as a bagman or a driver, was getting worked over methodically by the police someplace far removed — possibly even outside the city. And after he finally spit out a confession, he’d be given time for the bruises to heal and then be trotted out for arraignment.

I’d been covering the homicide operation and Fergus Fahey long enough to know that despite his hard-boiled demeanor, he was basically an all-right cop who was uneasy with this ham-handed approach to crime-solving, particularly when the subject of such “interrogation” was innocent of said crime. But I also was aware of the intense pressure being applied to the force in general and the commissioner and his chief of detectives in particular by the massed array of the mayor, the State’s Attorney, the Crime Commission, the press, and public opinion — all clamoring for a Barabbas to send to his death. Fahey was torn, all right; I had seen it in sharp relief etched on his face this morning, and in his manner as well. He couldn’t bear to admit to what was happening, or so I reasoned.

Such is the lot of a high-ranking cop who also happens to come with a bona fide conscience, I told myself, finishing the sauerkraut and draining what was left of my coffee. But, I argued, he went into this line of work with his eyes open, right? Granted, but should he then be put in a position where his professional future, his entire career, hinges on condoning coercion to get a confession? Maybe not, but isn’t he paid to make hard decisions? Yes, however... at this point, I ended the internal debate and brought my focus back to Nicolette Stover.

All during dinner, I watched her at her post and had yet to see even a trace of animation. Now, as the crowd in the restaurant gradually thinned, I lingered until I was confident that none of the few remaining diners were about to pay their tab. Then I left a quarter tip, rose, and walked to the cashier.

“The roast pork was excellent tonight, absolutely superb,” I pronounced as I handed over my check and two singles to Nicolette.

“Uh-huh. S’nice,” she responded in a wooden tone, her surprisingly dark eyes never leaving the cash register as her fingers danced over its keys.

“Nicolette Stover?” I lowered my voice an octave, watching her for a reaction. “Huh?” She jerked upright and tensed as if she’d just stuck her finger into an electric light socket.

“Bob McNeil of the American,” I said sotto voce, placing another of my collection of calling cards on the scarred glass top on the counter in front of her. “I’m writing a Sunday feature on Lloyd Martindale and I understand you once lived next door to him down in Beverly Hills.”

“Who told you that?” she spat, her body rigid and her face at last showing some emotion — I would have termed it terror.

“Just a source,” I replied nonchalantly. “Anyway, I’d like a few minutes of your time when you get off work. It won’t take long at all; I’m just looking for some reminiscences.”

“I didn’t say I knew him,” she fired back in a hoarse whisper, her eyes darting around the dining room either in search of rescue or hoping that we were unobserved and unheard. “Here’s your change — thank you!” She said it more loudly than necessary, turning quickly away from me and busying herself by thumbing through a stack of dinner checks. I stood watching her for what seemed like a minute but may have been less than half that time. When it was clear that she wasn’t about to look up and acknowledge me further, I gave her a crisp, polite “thank you” and spun out through the revolving door.

I didn’t spin far, though — just to the opposite side of Wabash Avenue. I took up a position leaning against an Elevated pillar, where I had an unobstructed view of Nicolette through the restaurant window. Dusk yielded to darkness as the trains pounded overhead every few minutes, shaking my pillar as well as the street itself. I lit up a Lucky, then another, and another, until I lost count of the butts on the sidewalk at my feet. Auto and pedestrian traffic gradually dropped off, and diners filed out of Harding’s in ones and twos, with almost no one replacing them.

At a couple of minutes past 8:00 by my watch — which meant I had been supporting that pillar for better than an hour — a short, pot-bellied man in a coat and tie, presumably the manager, joined Nicolette at the counter. They talked briefly, and then she slipped on a raincoat and emerged onto the sidewalk, walking north. I crossed Wabash behind her and closed the gap until we were side-by-side at Madison, waiting for the light to change.

“Hi, remember me? Can we talk now?” I said, giving her my most sincere smile.

Nicolette pivoted toward me, the fright back in her eyes. “No! Leave me alone!”

“Hey, I just want to ask you a few questions,” I told her as she started across Madison on the green.

“Get away! Get away from me!” she keened, speeding her gait. I started to pick up my own pace when I was spun around by a beefy hand on my shoulder. “You heard what the lady said — leave her alone, chum,” growled a flat-nosed, whiskey-reeking mountain wearing a checked sports coat two sizes to small for him.

“Mind your own damn business, chum,” I growled back, pushing his hand away and starting after Nicolette, now almost a half block away on Wabash’s nearly deserted sidewalk.

I didn’t see the punch, which caught me on the left cheek and knocked me to my knees. “I told you to leave the lady alone,” the big galoot mouthed, looming over me with his fists clenched at his sides as an El train thundered above us.

“All right, all right, no need for you to go and get hostile, Buddy,” I said, rising slowly, brushing off my pants and holding up a palm in mock surrender.

He unclenched his big fists, and as he did, I used all the force I had and drove a right to his stomach, which as I suspected — and hoped — was as soft and unresistant as a goosedown pillow. With a sound like a balloon deflating, he doubled over, holding his oversized gut with both paws.

The next noise I heard was his retching, but I didn’t hang around to watch. I sprinted after Nicolette Stover, who by now had crossed Washington Boulevard. She looked over her shoulder at me and started running herself. I was halted at the Washington corner by a red light and a squadron of taxis, and by the time I made it to the other side of the street, she was a full block ahead of me, climbing into a northbound Checker Cab at Randolph.

I briefly considered flagging a hack of my own and giving chase, but my cheek was starting to throb where I had taken the punch, both of my knees felt like they had been massaged with steel wool, and I had to work to get my breath back. I turned around and looked in the direction of my erstwhile sparring partner, saw that he was on his feet and walking unsteadily in the opposite direction, and decided that I had had enough excitement for one evening.

Unfortunately, others felt differently.