Three Strikes You're Dead

Chapter 19

After a wait of well over an hour, I rode back north on another slow and grimy Rock Island local, contemplating my ill fortune and feeling more than a little sorry for myself. I had hoped to talk to Martindale’s mother at least long enough to bring up the Stover name in general and Nicolette in particular to study her reaction. I thought about waiting a day or two and calling her, but I figured the stolid Preston probably answered the telephone as well as the door. Perhaps the old woman didn’t even talk on the phone any more, I mused, although I was soon to be disabused of that speculation.

The next morning, Monday, I was settling in at my desk at Police Headquarters when my phone rang.

“Malek, you got anything hot going on there now?” It was Bob Lee, the managing editor.

“Not at the moment,” I said taken aback and wondering if I’d blown a story. I didn’t normally get calls here from anyone in the Tower above the assistant city editor level.

“Good!” he growled. “Then get up here now! I want you in my office in fifteen minutes.”

I went outside and flagged a northbound cab on State Street, still puzzled by the summons. Why would Lee want to see me? Since he had succeeded Beck as managing editor last year, he and I hadn’t exchanged a word, nor was there any reason we should. Police reporters rarely had dealings with managing editors — especially when the M.E. was no booster of the reporter to begin with.

Lee was talking on the phone in his glass-partitioned office along the north side of the local room when I got there, so I shot the breeze with Kirkpatrick, the best young general assignment reporter on the staff. We agreed that FDR would probably shoot for the third term in ’40 and that Ed Kelly was almost a cinch to win next year’s mayoral election.

“Malek!” Lee bellowed as he slammed down his receiver, jerking his head to summon me.

“Reporting as requested,” I quipped, dropping into a chair in front of his mahogany desk. He stood and leaned forward, glowering at me for several seconds before speaking.

“What... the... hell... are... you... doing?” He came down on each word like a steam hammer.

“Huh? I don’t get it. What do you mean?” I said, genuinely puzzled.

“I’ll tell you what I mean,” he snapped, jangling his key chain. “Beatrice Martindale happens to be a close personal friend of Colonel McCormick. Dates back to when her late husband and the Colonel were cronies. First thing this morning, she telephones the Colonel’s office to complain that a Tribune reporter — guess who? — was banging on her door looking to get an interview for a feature he’s doing on her recently deceased son. She read me your name off the business card you had left.”

Lee paused for breath but kept rattling his damn keys. “Fortunately for you, the Colonel is out of the country, so Bessie had the call transferred down here. The lady was upset, Malek, very, very upset. She said she had always been willing to talk to our men before — even right after her son got killed. But she didn’t understand why some reporter would show up unannounced on her doorstep. And she also didn’t understand what more could be written about Lloyd Martindale that hadn’t previously been covered. And dammit, Malek, I don’t understand any of it either! I finally got her calmed down and said that I’d check the whole business out. After I got off the phone, I went to see Mike Kennedy in the Sunday Room, figuring he might have some sort of feature in the works on Martindale, and that you — for some reason — were the one writing it. But Mike didn’t know anything about it, said that he’d never even met you. So here we are. What gives?”

“I was playing a hunch,” I mumbled.

Lee pitched forward like an offensive lineman about to throw a block. “You were playing a hunch? Playing a hunch!” he roared as faces all over the cavernous local room turned toward us. “Since when do we give you a salary to play hunches?” I shrugged and made no reply.

The managing editor, as usual resplendent in a bright shirt — this one yellow — and a tweed, vested suit, sat down, crossed his arms, and leaned back, sending me a glare that told me he wished I’d disappear. “All right, Malek,” he sighed. “What’s this hunch?”

“I think Martindale was killed by somebody other than the mob,” I answered quietly, realizing the words sounded ingenuous.

“Oh you do now, do you?” Lee snarled. “And what has caused you to formulate this theory?”

“Like I said, it’s just a hunch,” I told him, realizing that the conversation was at a dead end.

“And just who do your pals on the force down at 11th and State think murdered Lloyd Martindale?”

“They think it was a mob hit,” I conceded.

Lee cocked his head, smirking. “The police believe it was a syndicate killing, the State’s Attorney believes it was a syndicate killing — in fact, as far as I know, everybody believes it was a syndicate killing. But not you — oh no, because you’ve gone and got yourself a hunch.” He hit the top of his desk with a fist, causing heads to turn again out in the big room. “Well, hunches are for swamis and fortune tellers. Around here, we happen to subscribe to the quaint old theory that facts are the basis of our reporting. Is that your understanding?”

I nodded.

“Good, good. Malek, I’m not going to pull any punches here — never do. As I think you’re aware, I’ve never been a big fan of yours, and I’d be lying if I said I was. You may have done a good job on that Capone interview down in the Atlanta pen back in ’34, but Christ, that was handed to you on a platter by his mouthpiece Ahern. Since then, I frankly haven’t been all that impressed with your work. Oh, I understand you’re pretty much off the booze now, which is all well and good. But among other things, you’re too cocksure and headstrong for my taste — this latest Martindale business proves it.”

“What are you telling me?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice even and wishing I had a glass of water.

“I’m telling you that as of right now — right this damn minute — you’re on probation,” Lee said. “I’m going to ask the city desk for weekly reports on your work. But more than that, I don’t want to hear that you’ve bothered that poor, mourning Martindale woman ever again. One more complaint from her about you, and you’re fired, gone, finished, through.” His hand knifed through the air several times like a guillotine blade. “Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, I’d say you’ve made everything quite clear,” I responded woodenly. “Anything else?”

“That’s all,” he snapped, turning to the telephone as if I were already nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

I steamed out of Lee’s office in a cold rage, vaguely conscious of the stares and questioning looks from reporters and editors and copy boys who had seen and heard at least part of the managing editor’s diatribe. Even at that moment, I reminded myself that Bob Lee was an able editor. And although I didn’t by any means agree that my overall performance over the last several years warranted this probation, I knew the only reason I got slapped with it was that phone call to the Colonel’s office from Beatrice Martindale. It seemed like when one of McCormick’s friends sneezed — even if the Colonel himself didn’t know it — the whole bloody Tribune ended up catching a cold.

Back at Police Headquarters, I spent the rest of the day mulling over my next move. I was still in a mulling mood that evening on the streetcar ride home, so much so that I totally forgot about my persistent shadows and got off the car at the stop in front of my building rather than a block north.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Mouth himself, the guy who walks into a church and never comes out,” a simpering Marko said from the front passenger seat of the Studebaker parked at the curb. “Got any more of your smart-assed comments for us today, Buddy?”

I should have ignored him, of course, but it had been a bad day, and I was in no mood to suffer fools gladly, even if they were mafia toughs. “Oh, put a lid on it, you baboon,” I fired back, turning to enter the building.

“Why, you two-bit punk, I’ll—”

“Marko,” the driver barked. “Shaddup, will ya!” Marco did shut up, and I changed directions, opting for Kilkenny’s rather than my apartment. It had been a day that called for a bracer or two.

The saloon was nosier than usual, and I soon found out why. “Snap, compadre!” the Killer boomed as I stepped across the threshold. “Diz here’s got some splendid news for us.”

The focal point of the crowd gathered at the bar, Dizzy Dean pivoted on his stool and gave me a wave and a thumbs-up. “Howdy there, Mr. Snap. Ah really don’t know what all the fuss is about.”

“Sure he does, Malek,” Morty Easterly hollered, holding his beer stein aloft. “He’s pitching tomorrow against Boston. And his arm feels great again, doesn’t it, Diz?”

“Ah’m plannin’ to mow them Bees down awright,” Dean affirmed with a broad grin, patting his right arm. “And this here steak’ll give me all the strength I need, shore ’nuff.” He pointed with his fork at the T-bone on the plate in front of him, “Mr. Snap, say hello to Augie Galan here, a fine outfielder and a durn fine hitter, too. I oughta know — he had the whammy on me when I was with the Cards. And he’s also the only guy whatever hit himself a homer both left-handed and right-handed in the same game. And now, him and me, we’re gonna play as teammates in the World Series this year. That’s a guarantee.”

I reached across Dean and shook hands with the dark-haired Galan, also seated at the bar, who’d been playing with the Cubs since the early ’30s. He smiled and turned his attention back to his own steak, content to let Dizzy do the talking — as if he could have gotten a word in edgewise anyway. Returning to the end of the bar closest to the door, I started in on a beer when a hand came down hard on my shoulder. It was Marko.

“Let’s go, punk. We’re gonna take ourselves a nice long ride. Nobody calls me a baboon and then walks away. You got yourself one heap of trouble.”

“No thanks, anyway,” I replied, pulling back and looking around the noisy room for some help.

He lowered his voice still further. “I said let’s go.” He began backing me toward the door, his hand pushing against my chest, and I was vaguely aware that the room had gotten quiet. Over Marko’s shoulder, I could see Dizzy Dean, suddenly alert, getting to his feet and gesturing silently toward the back bar. The Killer nodded and flipped him the autographed baseball, which Diz plucked effortlessly out of the air in his right hand, cocking his arm in the same fluid motion. It’s difficult to describe the next sound I heard, the closest I can come is when my mother used to take the rugs out into our little back yard in Pilsen and beat them with a broom handle. The ball hit Marko in the back of the head, making that same “whap,” and the pupils of his eyes rolled up and out of sight in the sockets before he sputtered with a wheeze and crumpled to the wooden floor.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” the Killer pronounced as the room became even more silent and Marko rolled over onto his back, his now open suit coat revealing a shoulder holster and an automatic. “Who the hell is he, Snap?”

“Marko for starters, I don’t know the last name,” I told him, picking the baseball up off the floor and tossing it back to Dean. “Thanks, Diz,” I said as I realized my hand was shaking.

“Lord above, this is terrible,” the Killer said. “This is just...” He halted in mid-sentence because of the figure who loomed in the doorway — the driver of the Studebaker.

“What the shit!” the hoodlum spat, gaping at Marko’s prone and unconscious figure and reaching inside his coat. Then came that sound again. This time, the ball fired by Dizzy Dean was a frontal shot, hitting the driver in the right temple. He went down without a murmur, and the revolver he’d already drawn skittered along the hardwood, coming to rest at Morty Easterly’s feet.

“Call the police — right now!” I ordered the Killer. “And get Dizzy outta here. If the cops want to know what happened, tell them some guy you never saw before popped both these hoods with a club and then ducked out the door. But for God’s sake, make sure that nobody mentions Dean. Now I need a car, fast.”

“I got mine parked right outside,” Augie Galan volunteered. “Where do you want to go?”

“Just a few blocks. What about Diz?”

“You okay?” Galan turned to his famous teammate. Dizzy Dean, back on his barstool and more than a tad shaken, nodded, stroking his arm. “When I got traded, the boys on the Cards said this town wouldn’t be like St. Looie, and they was right,” Dean drawled, shaking his head. “But it shore as heck is interesting.”

“Okay, where we headed?” Galan asked once we were rolling in his new Lincoln Zephyr.

“A bar over on Diversey, it’s just a few doors west of Clark. I’ll show you the way.”

“That was amazing — what happened back there in the saloon,” Galan pronounced as we drove south on Clark. “Dizzy had this reputation with the Cardinals for making a lot of noise and then always ducking out or hiding when the fight actually started. But tonight... look what happened. He must really think a lot of you.”

“We don’t really know each other all that well,” I said. “It’s the Killer’s steaks he thinks a lot of.”

Galan pulled up in front of the Centurion. “Wait here,” I told the outfielder, who seemed remarkably calm through all of this. “I should be back in fifteen minutes. If I’m not, call the police and tell them that a Tribune reporter named Steve Malek went into the Centurion and never came out.”

He nodded like this was something he did every day. I went inside. The place, decorated in red and black Moderne style, was dark and the jukebox was loud. Within seconds after I’d eased onto a chrome stool close to the door, and before I could get the bartender’s attention, a blonde in black patent spike heels, spangles, and an acre of creamy cleavage teetered over, rubbing an ample hip against me. “Hey, how ’bout buying a girl a drink?” she cooed.

“Love to, but I’m here on business. I need to see the Brother. Now.”

She jumped as if she’d been goosed with a cattle prod. “Why din’t you say so, mister? I’ll get him,” she replied, probably as earnestly as she knew how. She swivel-hipped to the other end of the bar and leaned across it, cupping her hand and saying something to the bartender. He looked toward me, nodded, and picked up the phone on the back bar, mouthing words into the instrument. He then told me that the Brother was “on his way.”

He must not have had far to come, because within three minutes he materialized next to me. It was the first time I’d gotten a look at him in the light, and I was surprised at his appearance. The dark, wavy air had liberal doses of gray mixed in and his long face, dominated by that Roman nose, was deeply lined. I mentally added ten years to his age.

“Hello, again, Mr. Malek,” the Brother said in that now-familiar high voice. “You have something for me?”

“I’m afraid it’s not what you want,” I answered somberly as he sat on the stool next to mine. “You — or the organization — have had a tail on me for weeks now, right?”

His thin mouth formed what he probably thought was a smile, and he nodded. “Perhaps.”

“Not perhaps,” I contradicted. “Well, something’s happened to a couple of your men — at least I assume they’re your men — and I wanted you to hear it straight from me.”

The Brother’s hint of a smile disappeared. “Go on.”

“I’ll start with day before yesterday — Saturday. Your driver — I don’t know his name — thought it would be good sport to whack me across the face, which he did.” I indicated the vestige of a bruise. “Then tonight, when I got off the streetcar from work, Marko sat in the surveillance car outside my place and started riding me. I called him a baboon, which pissed him off. The upshot was that I was in this saloon a few minutes later when Marko — he’d followed me there — came in and tried to drag me out. Said he was going to take me for a long ride, which isn’t hard to translate as the last ride I ever make.

“Well, some folks who I’d never seen in the saloon before didn’t take too kindly to this attitude of Marko’s and they cold-cocked him from behind. Then the guy I call the Driver because I don’t know his name came in looking for Marko with his automatic drawn and got the same treatment.”

“It appears they were careless,” the Brother observed impassively.

“Among other failings. Anyway, the reason I tore over here is to ask you not to take it out on the bar. Those people were just protecting me, and your boys were out of line all the way.”

He nodded grimly. “Unfortunately, Marko is a baboon. I would expect something like this from him. But the one that you call ‘the Driver,’ he has more sense than he apparently showed.”

“Yeah? Maybe, but it didn’t make a whole lot of sense for him to take that swipe at me the other day.”

The Brother drummed manicured fingernails on the polished surface of the streamlined bar. “What condition are they now in?”

“Your guys? I can’t say for sure, but they’re probably going to have king-sized headaches for several days. And when I left the saloon a few minutes ago to come here, the cops were on their way over.”

The smile crept back. “It will be a lesson well-learned,” the Brother said quietly. “Mr. Malek, you may not value my word, but others do. I say this: I am prepared to guarantee that neither of those men will ever set foot in that establishment again, wherever it is. And they will not get revenge against you, your friends, or the establishment.”

“Well, I appreciate that.”

“You should. And now, to ensure my guarantee, I want your word on something as well.”

“There’s always a catch, isn’t there?”

His smile broadened, then disappeared as if it had been erased. “We have discussed this matter before. May I assume that you continue to search for the killer of Lloyd Martindale?”

“Yeah... and still without success.”

“But you plan to continue?”

I raised my shoulders and turned my palms up. “Yes... if I don’t get myself fired first.”

He scowled. “For one who has your experience and your ability, that seems unlikely.”

“Don’t be too sure. But that’s my problem, not yours. Make your play.”

“It’s as I said to you before, Mr. Malek. If you discover the identity of the murderer, my organization wants to know before the police, and before it appears in your newspaper.”

“I still don’t get it,” I told him as frosted pilsener glasses of beer were placed on coasters in front of us by the bartender. “You’ve got your net out all over town, and way beyond. And it’s got to be a damn good net. Christ, you ought to be able to find out who knocked off Martindale a lot easier than I can.”

It was his turn to gesture with his shoulders. “To use your own words, don’t be too sure.”

“And you obviously don’t place much faith in the ability of the police to find the killer?”

Although he didn’t open his mouth or alter his expression, the Brother made a noise that actually sounded like a laugh, and I knew why. In the last two months, there had been at least nine mob killings in Chicago, most of them execution-style, and not one had been solved. (Business as usual in the city that Capone made infamous.) Despite this, the syndicate was upset because, or so the Brother intimated, they were being unfairly tagged with the Martindale rubout.

“Okay, so I keep looking, and if I learn something, I tell you first, right?” He nodded.

“And your men stay away from that saloon and my friends, right?” Another nod.

“One more thing,” I said as I got up to leave. “Am I still going to have a tail?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Malek,” he replied, adjusting the knot of his silk tie. “Good night.”

Augie Galan was still parked outside in his gleaming Lincoln Zephyr. “I was just about to come in. You okay?” he asked as we pulled away from the curb.

“Yeah, under the circumstances. I’m as okay as anybody who just made a deal with the devil.”

Galan looked over at me, rolling his eyes, and I didn’t blame him.