Three Strikes You're Dead

Chapter 21

When I stumbled out of bed in the morning, my head pounded, and this time — unlike New Year’s Day — with good reason. After having been routed by Nicolette Stover, I had beat a retreat to Kilkenny’s, which was still less crowded than normal, and I knocked down four — maybe five — scotches.

“Better go easy on that Gaelic elixir, Snap,” the Killer had cautioned, genuine concern showing on his broad, ruddy face. “You aren’t used to it anymore, and it can bite you good.” In fact, he had tried to talk me into having a beer when I came in, but gave up when he saw my overall state. “Want to talk?” he asked, which is the closest he ever comes to putting his nose into the business of his regulars.

“No, but if and when that time comes, you will undoubtedly be the one I spill my guts to, and then I’ll run off at the mouth so much that you’ll beg me to shut up,” I responded as I dove into the first scotch. I probably didn’t utter more than a dozen words the rest of the night, and when I finally tottered back to my place, I was in no condition to know — or even care — if my moves were being watched.

I felt practically sober and hangover-free when I got to my desk in the Headquarters pressroom, although I apparently wore the ravages of the previous night.

“Christ, Snap, you look like the wrath of the gods,” Packy Farmer boomed, clearly amused. “I don’t know what it was you did last night, but you must have had a good time doin’ it.”

“Not very damn much,” I grumbled. “I hope nobody around here plans to do any loud talking today — I’m not up to it.”

“Hangover alert!” Dirk O’Farrell pronounced in his version (which wasn’t bad) of radio announcer tones. “This room is now officially designated as a quiet zone until further notice, or until Mr. Malek of the noble and revered Chicago Tribune passes out. Which, judging from his appearance, could be at almost any moment now.”

“Very funny,” I snorted. “See what kind of sympathy you get from me the next time you come dragging in here on a Monday morning looking like a cadaver, as you surely will.”

O’Farrell had started to respond when Eddie Metz, who had been hunched over his phone, cradled the receiver and announced that he’d just gotten word from somebody in the Times sports department that Phil Wrigley had fired Charlie Grimm as Cubs manager.

“I’m not surprised, the way they’ve been staggering along. Who’s taking over?” Farmer asked.

“Guess,” Metz smirked. It wasn’t often that Eddie got information of any kind first in the pressroom, so he was making the most of it.

“Let’s not play guessing games around here,” O’Farrell groused.

Eddie giggled. “Give you a hint. The new guy’s already a Cub and a player, too.”

Anson Masters cleared his throat, always a prelude to a proclamation. “That would be Billy Herman, of course,” he pronounced in an oracular tone. “He’s got the maturity for the job.”

“Wrong,” Metz cackled. “Anybody else?”

“If it’s not Herman, then it’s got to be Augie Galan,” the City News kid weighed in.

“Wrong again. How ’bout you, Snap?” Eddie asked.

“I can barely talk right now, let alone think,” I muttered. “Hell, what about Hartnett?”

“Bingo!” Eddie barked. “Ol’ Gabby’s going to be the skipper now.”

“Sounds like a decent choice at that,” Farmer said. “He already has to be able to handle the pitchers, right? So why not let him handle the whole team? Is he going to keep playing, too?”

“My guy at the office didn’t know,” Metz answered, his moment in the spotlight quickly slipping away.

“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” O’Farrell said between drags on his cigarette. “From back of the plate, you can see all of your men and the whole damn field — ideal spot for a manager.”

“Well, I just hope Gabby doesn’t head the team in the wrong direction, like that Corrigan guy who landed his plane in Ireland yesterday thinking it was California,” Farmer said. “His compass was frozen and the sky jockey thought he was flying west from New York, ’stead of east.”

“Cyril, if you believe him, I’ve got a big bridge in Brooklyn that I would like to sell you,” Anson Masters rumbled. “According to the wire service reports, the aviation authority banned him from flying across the Atlantic because his plane wasn’t safe. It’s clear that he thumbed his nose at them.”

“I dunno, maybe his compass really was froze,” Metz volunteered.

“Eduardo, Eduardo,” Masters scolded. “I don’t care how dark or cloudy Corrigan said the conditions were; in a 3,000-mile flight, you’re going to see the sun and the earth sooner or later. And you’re not going to tell me that an experienced aviator did not at some point along the way notice the position of the sun and also the interesting fact that there was water — lots and lots of water — under him instead of the Iowa cornfields and Kansas wheat and Rocky Mountains that should have been down below.”

Metz turned his palms up. “Say what you want, Anson — he’s a hero at the moment.”

“Heroes is something we can use more of on the Cubs right now,” Farmer observed dryly. “Like for instance maybe Mr. Big-Bucks Dizzy Dean.”

“Hey, go easy on Diz,” I said, opting to not share that I knew the pitcher. “He pitched a helluva game against Boston the other day.”

Dirk O’Farrell scowled. “And about time, too. What’s that make it, now, four wins for him? Which means that each one of them’s been worth — what? — about forty-five grand.”

“He’ll get more,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel. “He’s at his best under pressure.”

O’Farrell looked doubtful. “Well, he’d better win some more, or they’ll never catch the Pirates. Bill Lee can’t pitch every day.”

“They’ll never catch ’em anyway,” Metz declared, trying to sound like an authority.

The baseball discussion rambled on in a desultory fashion for several more minutes and was running out of steam when my phone squawked. It was Catherine Reed.

“Hi, how have you been?” I said brightly, hoping that I sounded like I was glad to hear from her. For weeks, I’d thought about phoning Catherine, but I always found some reason for not calling. Because of what she had told me about that depraved son of a bitch of an uncle, which was followed immediately by her plea that I walk away from the Martindale murder, I was reluctant to see her. She might not ask again about my progress on the so-called investigation, but one question would always hover over us, even if unspoken: Are you still hounding that poor woman?

“I’ve been fine, Steve,” Catherine said with what sounded to me like strained enthusiasm. “Just fine. I realize this is late notice, but I thought maybe you would like to come to dinner tonight. I know Daddy would enjoy it.”

“How is he?”

“About the same as last time you saw him. Some days are better than others, but he does seem to perk up around company, what little we get. And he particularly liked it when you were here, what with all your newspaper stories.”

“A few of which are actually true,” I said. “That is a capital invitation, and I accept.”

“Wonderful! Around 6:30 again?”

At 6:35 that evening, I climbed the steps of the stucco house in Oak Park. Catherine looked more bright-eyed and animated than I remembered as she swung the door open, accepting my box of chocolates with a curtsy.

“Daddy, Steve Malek’s here,” she called out as we walked into the sitting room where Steel Trap Bascomb obviously spent most of his waking hours. “How’ya?” he asked from his armchair, raising a hand in greeting.

“Keeping ahead of my creditors, Steel Trap, but just barely. You too?”

“Damn right, damn right. Bastards, all ’em.”

I took the chair opposite him that Catherine gestured me to. “What do you think about Hitler?” I asked, pointing to the copy of the Daily News resting on Bascomb’s lap — its headline: HITLER MAY MOVE AGAINST CZECHS.

“Bastard,” he muttered. “Ought to be shot. Or strung up.”

“Daddy!” Catherine gasped. “What a thing to say about anybody — even him.”

He turned and looked at his daughter defiantly. “S’true. He’s a prick, greedy. Wantsa whole world.”

“I agree,” I put in. “And the way the English and the French are pussyfooting around these days, it seems like they’re willing to hand it over to him.”

“Damn right,” he nodded, his lined face and rheumy eyes sending Catherine a “So there!” expression.

“Let’s go on into the dining room now,” she said.

“Damn right,” Steel Trap seconded.

I did the best I could as a raconteur while we devoured the ham and au gratin potatoes, remembering from my previous dinner with them that Steel Trap didn’t like to talk while he was eating. But he didn’t mind listening. His facial expressions indicated that he enjoyed my stories, particularly the one — and it was true — about the pickpocket who got nabbed in the act of lifting a wallet by a house dick at Marshall Field’s. “When they handed him over to the precinct for fingerprinting, it turned out that this dip had an extra finger on his right hand,” I said.

“Oh, now, really!” Catherine scoffed as Steel Trap made a chuckling noise deep in his throat. “You’re making that up, Steve,” she insisted.

“It’s God’s truth,” I swore, holding up a hand like I was taking an oath. “The precinct guys were so impressed they even took photographs of his hand. It was as if he had two ring fingers. Claimed he was born that way, which I suppose must have been true. How else would it have happened? His left hand was normal. He claimed his moniker was ‘Eleven Fingers.’”

“Knew one like ’at,” Steel Trap put in. “’Cept with two thumbs onna same hand.”

“Oh, go on, the both of you!” Catherine chided, her eyes moving from me to her father and back again as she tried to look reproving. But it seemed she was obviously entertained. “I don’t know whether to believe a single word that either one of you says.”

“Hey, it’s a weird and wacky world out there, Lady,” I cracked. “I don’t make the news, I just report it.”

“Well, that was a good enough story, true or not, to earn you some apple pie a la mode — that is, if you’re interested,” she said.

“I could get real interested real fast,” I responded, and I did. After he finished his wedge of pie with ice cream, Steel Trap got to his feet without a word to either of us and shuffled back into the sitting room.

“It’s Tuesday, and that means ‘Fibber McGee and Molly.’ Daddy never misses it,” Catherine explained.

“So he can still enjoy stuff like that, huh?” I asked as I heard static coming from the sitting room. Steel Trap was warming up the radio.

“Well, he seems to laugh in all the right places,” she said. “And he really loves it when Fibber opens that hall closet of his and everything comes crashing down around him.”

“For that matter, so do I,” I admitted. “Sure, the program’s corny and predictable, but it’s funny anyway. Besides, I’ve got a closet that’s sort of like Fibber’s myself.”

“Shame on you,” Catherine teased, drinking the last of her coffee and folding her linen napkin into a neat rectangle. “Steve, it’s a beautiful night, and I thought we might go for a walk around the neighborhood — unless of course you want to stay and listen to the radio with Daddy.”

“Well... seeing as how I’m not really in the mood for corny jokes, you’ve twisted my arm. Let’s go.”

The sky was clear and the air still dispensed that freshness from the rains earlier in the day. After having lived on Clark Street for two years, I’d forgotten what quiet was like. And Catherine’s neighborhood was quiet, so much so you could hear the crickets rubbing their legs together, or however they make that noise. Nobody was out driving, or even walking. Maybe they were all inside tonight listening to Molly groan at Fibber’s gags and puns.

“Seems really peaceful here,” I commented as we passed under elm trees that filtered the glow from street lamps, making dappled patterns on the sidewalks.

“It is,” Catherine agreed. “Have you ever lived in the suburbs, Steve?”

“Never. Closest was Logan Square, back when I was married. But there, people sat out on their front steps on nights like this. You could walk down the block and stop three or four times to chat. Sometimes you’d even get a bottle of beer handed to you if you were lucky.”

“There’s not much of that around here. Oh, our neighbors are all very nice, but everybody pretty much keeps to themselves. Sometimes, I really wish there were more people sitting out on their front steps or porches.”

“I understand, but I believe that most of those folks back in Logan Square would trade places with you in the flick of a cigarette lighter. This is pretty nice living.”

She nodded. “Oh, I know, and I’m not really complaining. It’s just that sometimes it gets so... lonesome.”

We walked for a half-block before I responded. “I mean no disrespect to him, Catherine, but I suppose your Dad really isn’t much company for you most of the time, is he?”

“No... but that’s not really his fault. I don’t mind looking after him at all.” Another half-block of silence. “I had hoped you would have called sometime,” she said tentatively.

“It’s been busy at work, and—”

“Oh, I’m sure it has.” Now her tone was apologetic. “Of all people, I should know how hectic a reporter’s life can be, shouldn’t I? Having been around Daddy all those years.”

“Yeah, sometimes it can get pretty crazy.”

“Did you ever locate that girl — except she really isn’t a girl any more of course, is she?”

“Huh? Oh, you mean the one who had lived next door to Lloyd Martindale,” I said, feigning puzzlement, then sudden realization. “Yes. Yes, I did see her, but very briefly. She didn’t want to talk to me, though, and nothing ever came of it.”

“I thought maybe you were angry with me for what I said when you were here before.”

“Angry? Why?”

“Because I suggested that you not try to find her, that you just let her be, which I had no business doing. And when I did bring it up, it seemed like you were irritated, which is understandable.”

“I wasn’t irritated — not at all,” I lied. “In fact, I’d forgotten all about it, Catherine.”

“Well, all right. That’s good,” she pronounced with finality, although I sensed just then that she would have liked it better if I had said I remembered at least something of our earlier conversation.

We had now covered perhaps a half dozen residential blocks in Oak Park and had yet to encounter another person on the sidewalks. “Well, it’s getting late,” I told her, showing my wristwatch as confirmation as we passed under a streetlight. “I’ll walk you home and then head for the El.”

“That’s not necessary, Steve,” she protested. “We’re closer to the station right now than we are to our house. That would make an unnecessary round trip for you.”

“Hey, it’s late. You shouldn’t be walking home alone,” I insisted.

We had stopped at an intersection, and I could see her puckish expression as we stood in the blue-white nimbus cast by a street lamp. “You mean those crowded and dangerous streets, with all the ruffians and brigands lurking behind every tree?” she asked.

“Okay, so maybe I won’t need a sword and a club to protect you from ruffians and brigands, after all. I still want to walk you home, though.”

“But I don’t want to be walked home,” Catherine insisted, a new resilience evident in her voice. “Good night, Steve,” she said, holding out a hand with formality and, I sensed, finality.

I grasped her hand, returning her firm grip and forcing a smile. I felt pulled in two directions, but only for a few moments, then whatever struggle I was having passed.

Catherine returned my smile, saying nothing, then pivoted gracefully and walked off in the direction of her house. I stood and watched until she blended into Oak Park’s still and gentle July darkness; then I started toward the Elevated station and the ride back into the city.