Seriously?

by Duane Lindsay

  But Lou’s not having it. He’s in thinking mode, following an idea. He says, “Remember we stopped and wrote down plate numbers?”

  “I do, Lou, but maybe now’s not the time?”

  The cops breathing hard now and he taps Lou on the shoulder. “Sir? I said I need your license and registration.”

  “Hold on, buddy,” Lou says, brushing the cops hand like he’d swat a fly away. “Cass; we got to go find those guys. And I know just the way to do it.” He smiles at her, like he’s got everything wrapped up.

  The cop says, “All right! Get out of the CAR!”

  “You bet,” agrees Lou, like he hasn’t a care in the world. He pulls the handle, the cop steps back, hand on his black service piece, Adam’s apple bouncing like the ball above the words in a Mitch Miller singalong.

  “Up against the car,” yells the cop. “Hands on the roof, feet back.”

  “Sure thing,” agrees Lou, not doing either one. He steps toward the cop, the cop steps back, fist tightening on his piece. Lou, moving faster than expected, takes three quick steps, puts an arm around the cop’s shoulder—he has to reach up to do it, the kid’s so tall—and says, “Your holsters not unsnapped, Slim.”

  The kid looks surprised, jerks a fast peek at his belt and sees that, sure enough, the leather strap is snapped closed, keeping him from drawing his piece. His thumb is moving to correct that though as he tries to pull away from Lou.

  Who says softly, “I have information about the fire.” And waits for the reaction.

  Which is, from the cop, to stop the thumb on the strap and stare at Lou like’s he’s just pulled off a magic trick. The subject of the fire has been the main topic in the briefings the last couple of mornings and the cop’s aware that if he gets some up-till-now-unknown information about it, he’s going to look pretty good tomorrow. Maybe get a commendation, maybe offered one of the Chief’s cigars, that being how the wily old top cop keeps his small force motivated. Since there’s no money in the budget even for donuts, the cigar’s the best he can do.

  “What do you...” The kid cop stammers, finished gamely, “know?”

  “I know who was in the bar when it started, I know how it started, I know who started it.”

  “Oh, my God,” says the cop. This is maybe the biggest news he’s heard since joining the team. Screw the cigars, this is going to vault him right over Pat and Leon on the promotions list. “Who?” he says. The gun’s forgotten in the rush of solving a big case.

  “Nazis,” says Lou. He pauses, waiting for the reaction, which is not at all what he expects. What he expects is, “Do go on. Please tell me more,” or words like that. Interest, maybe even praise. What he gets is:

  “Nazis? Are you out of your damn mind? You’d telling me that Nazis burned down the bar?”

  Lou’s thinking, no; my partner Monk, along with Cassidy here – the lady looking fearful over there in the passenger side? —torched the place to get me away from the Nazis. But he’s not going to say that part, so he beams at the cop, with a look that’s either encouraging or idiotic and says, “You got it, Slim!”

  Slim’ says, “Up against the car. Hands on the roof, feet back.”

  The ticket for speeding is a hefty fifty-seven dollars. For resisting arrest, which is what Darryl the kid cop called what Lou did when he refused to put his hand on the car, was night in the local jail for Lou, the nearby Happy Night’s Motel out on route 30 for Cassidy.

  In the morning she’s bright and chipper to the judge, spinning a yarn about her husband –Lou smiles at her like an innocent man would, if one was here—and his pranks and listens to that judge as he lectures at great length about respecting the police.

  The judge calls Lou to a podium, asks questions he already knows the answers to, slams a wooden mallet and says, “One-hundred-thirty-seven dollars,” which causes gasps from the locals watching from wooden benches behind them, that amount being what they could expect to earn in a month working, if they had jobs, or the desire to get them. One of them, a middle-aged Hispanic lady named Consuela who does work; at the Happy Night’s Motel out on route 30, and personally she doesn’t even make that.

  “And,” the judge gauging Lou’s appearance as if sizing up a felon or his wallet, decides enough is enough and adds a mere, “Fourteen dollars for court costs.”

  Now, back in the car, Cassidy’s giving Lou yet another lecture, this one about the inconvenience of staying at a place like the Happy Night’s Motel out on route 30 without a change of clothes or makeup and she says, “I must look a fright,” until Lou leans over and kisses her.

  “You look swell,” says Lou, fervently enough to convince her. “Thanks for paying my fine.”

  “Yeah,” says Cassidy. “It’s a good thing I had that much in cash with me. They would have kept you there until I could get back to Chicago and get some dough from Monk.”

  “Even better that they didn’t search you and find that gun,” says Lou. He’s got the BelAir up to thirty as he swings on to the state road and is about to open the big Detroit V8 until he figures, maybe slow might be best.

  As they pass the Lucky Strikes billboard, Cassidy waves at Darryl the kid cop in the big Ford Fairlane and Lou doesn’t go a mile over the posted limit until they hit Blue Island.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said about plate numbers, Lou.” They’ve stopped at their favorite White Castle for an early lunch (‘buy ‘em by the sack!’) and the car reeks of onions. Monk, she figures, will not be amused. It’s not In-N-Out burgers, but, they’ll do.

  “You know a lot of people in Chicago. They can track plates, give us registrations, right? Like names and addresses? Now we go see these bozos and find out what’s what.”

  “My idea exactly.” Lou’s chewing a toothpick to get a stubborn piece of hamburger out of his left lower molar. The tooth has been giving him grief lately and he knows a dentist visit is in his future. The thought worries him; he doesn’t like dentists.

  “We’ll start with Angel at the Trib,” he mumbles around it. “He oughta be able to fill us in.”

  “Ok. And Lou?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s stay away from those two cops; Bristol and Cassowary. I’ve had enough cops for a while.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ––––––––

  Just Call Me Angel of the Morgue

  The Chicago Tribune is the largest paper in the Midwest, a broadsheet that leans so far Republican that the owner, the self-titled “Colonel” Robert McCormick printed that Thomas Dewey beat Harry S Truman in the 1948 presidential race. It’s got a twenty-five-story building on North Michigan Avenue right at the Chicago river and a reputation for slanting the news so far, it’d fall over in a stiff breeze.

  Lou parks Monk’s Chevy in a lot three blocks south and they walk through the lobby with a nod and a, “Nice day, Frank,” to the elderly ex-cop who guards the elevator.

  “Looking for Angel,” says Lou and gets a “He’s where he is,” back.

  Where Angel is, is in the newspaper filing department called the morgue because it contains the dead articles. Angel’s five-six, maybe twenty-five or thirty, maybe served in Korea as a company clerk, maybe didn’t; with a scarred complexion, from acne and too many street fights after too many boilermakers. His height makes him cocky when he’s sober, mean when he’s drunk and too small to be much more than a pushover to whoever he picks fights with.

  Originally Angie Martinelli, he’s as skinny and jumpy as an underfed cat and Lou knows for a fact that he smokes Marijuana, but he’s the best copy boy the Trib has ever seen, running an information business from the morgue, where all the old stories are filed. He chose Angel because, “I can raise the dead. Stories, I mean; dead stories. Get it, Lou? The Dead?” This is Angel’s high point of wit and explains a lot about the constant fighting.

  He ogles Cassidy like she’s todays special down at the Deli and Cassidy’s starting to take offence when Lou slips between her and the long woode
n counter that Angel’s leaning on. Angel looks around Lou’s shoulder and offers her a leer and a, “Hey sweet thing; how’s tricks?”

  Lou gathers a handful of shirt, hauls Angel halfway across the counter until they are nose to nose. Angel smells of fried meat and grilled onions, probably from the beer and burger special down at Billie Goat’s bar.

  “Angel? You know my reputation on the street? For fighting? You remember Millie the Model?”

  Angel sucks in a breath and his eyes get big. “Yeah, Lou; I got it. Don’t mess with the dame, izzat it?”

  “The dame,” explains Lou very patiently, “is my wife. Cassidy, meet Angel. Angel, my wife, Cassidy.”

  Eyes are taking up a whole lot of Angel’s face as he manages, “Yeah, yeah. Good ta meet’cha, ma’am.”

  “Charmed,” says Cassidy, meaning it. She’s seen a lot of men in her single days and this one is hardly the worst. Barely makes the top fifty, with the top five spots being reserved for the various Lotharios in the steno pool where she was working when she met Lou. Six through ten would be rodeo cowboys back in Rawlins, Wyoming and the trucker who helped her when her car broke down in Iowa. That louse figured a ride for her meant a ride for him though he was sore and sorely mistaken when she left him at the side of the road.

  Lou lets go of the shirt. “I need some info...”

  “That’s what I’m here for...”

  “Run some plate numbers...”

  “Help out the public, when they come in, that’s my job...”

  “Do a reverse track on them...”

  “Not like I got other things to do...”

  “Angel? Shut the hell up.”

  Angel grins at that like he’s just been part of an Abbot and Costello bit; Who’s on First and he gets to be the funny one. “Can’t help you there, Ace. We don’t keep that sort of files here. You want to know who won in ’48? It wasn’t Dewey. You want sports or local crime, we got that and then some. But plates are State and a no go for the Trib.”

  “I know that, Angel. I didn’t figure you for one of those new computer gizmos, what do they call it?”

  “Univac,” says Cassidy, and both men turn to look at her surprised. “What?” I read stuff; and not just Ladies Home Journal either.”

  “Right,” agrees Lou, like he’d know a computer from a race horse. “That one. I figured you’d know who to talk to. When your guys, the reporters, want to trace a plate, where do they go?”

  “Gee Lou; I don’t know. That’s kind of outside my usual routine. I could maybe get in Dutch with the boss.”

  “Angel,” says Lou. “You don’t have a boss to get in Dutch with. There’s nobody who knows this place like you and they know it. And sure as hell nobody else wants to be down here.”

  “Fine. No need to bust a gut.” He pulls out a reporter’s notebook, spiral pages, small enough to fit a hip pocket, tears off the top sheet. He scribbles with a stubby well-chewed pencil and slips the page across the counter.

  “Here, this’ll do ya. The cops have a reference room downtown, a cave like this one where they keep the records. Go see Georgie, tell him I sent you.”

  Lou looks at the paper. George Capman and an address on Wabash. He pockets the note and slides over a fresh carton of Chesterfields Cassidy hands him from her purse. He adds a hip flask of Bourbon he picked up from a nearby liquor store. It’s in a brown paper bag that disappears with the smokes to a drawer under the counter. Angel looks around like there’s anybody to see in this dimly lit room and nods.

  “Thanks Lou.”

  “Thanks Angel.”

  As they leave Cassidy’s aware that he’ll be watching her ass for the next week.

  Lou tries to apologize for Angel but Cassidy laughs him off. They’re doing a stroll south, past the river and into the canyons of the loop, enjoying the breeze from the lake and the pleasant weather.

  “He’s a jerk but doesn’t mean anything by it,” says Lou.

  “Sure, he does. He’d peel me like a grape if he had half a chance.” Cassidy’s aware that she’s beautiful; she’s been told about it from every boy and man she’s ever met except for Lou before they were married and Monk, ever. She smiles at that and thinks about Lou’s friend. Dion Monkton. He’s got the looks of a movie star, the brains of that big computer they were just talking about, and the quirky off-putting manner of a loser. Cassidy gave him a chance once, pre-Lou, and was both astounded and depressed about how bad good looks could deceive.

  Once she got to know him and he loosened up, a little—he’s still a work in progress, she thinks, and will be until he’s turned over to some very understanding woman for final touch up—she realized what a great guy he is.

  But before that? Forget about it. Monk, tall and elegant looking, Lou, short and stocky; no woman’s idea of a good date. But oh, how wrong those perceptions.

  They take a left under the El tracks, the green and cream-colored cars shrieking and sparking above them. Not for the first time down here in the heart of the city Cassidy wonders why the place doesn’t burn down every year, not just the ones with cows in them.

  She says, about Angel and all men, everywhere, all the time, not exaggerating or making stereotypes at all, “Men look. That’s what they do. It’s part of their makeup. And all women...”

  They’re passing Marshall Field’s big downtown store and she pauses at the window to look at a skinny mannequin wearing a blue dress with pearls and an apron. She cocks her head, appraising the look and decides it fits her point. “Check her out, Lou.”

  He stops and looks at the plastic woman. Nice hair, thin, makeup on the plastic skin, good breasts...

  “Hah,” says Cassidy.

  “Hah, what?”

  “I caught you checking out her chest.”

  “No, you didn’t!” Lou argues with the conviction of a teenaged boy denying the National Geographic’s his Mom finds under his mattress.

  “Yes, I did.” There’s a crowd flowing around them, oblivious, people going to or from an office and to or from a lunchroom. There’s a Wimpy’s on the corner doing gangbuster business. It’s not In-N-Out burgers, but, it’ll do.

  “You probably already had her half naked. A man sees a woman and he automatically wonders what she looks like naked. Even if he’s just had sex, if he sees another woman, he’s wondering.”

  “We don’t... I don’t...”

  “Relax, Lou. I’m just saying. It’s the way men are.”

  They walk on, Lou a bit hesitantly thinking, am I in trouble? What did she mean by that? I wasn’t looking... much. He’s thinking about putting up a spirited counter debate but spots the numbers on a brass plaque on the brown brick building they’re passing. He looks at his paper, nods and holds the door for her. They go undisturbed down a dark set of stairs at the side of a dingy marble-floored entry, their footsteps echoing eerily as they go down two flights. Through a door at the base and they come out into a brightly lit basement the size of the entire buildings’ footprint.

  It’s all one gigantic room, lit by rows of fluorescent bulbs hanging under white reflectors from the high ceiling. Under them are row after row of beige filing cabinets, each six feet high, making for a metal maze that seems endless.

  They’re standing in front of a tiled counter, goggle-eyed at the sight of all that real estate when a guy pops up in front of them like a jack-in-the-box.

  “Jesus!” says Cassidy, swallowing her gum. She starts coughing and swallowing to make it come up or go down, doesn’t much matter which.

  Lou says, “Shit,” and looks about to attack something.

  The guy’s in his fifties but looks like he never grew out of his teens. He’s got red hair, apple cheeks with freckles, a red bow tie and a grin that says, “Ain’t life a bowl of cherries!” His teeth are large and white like he’s eating Chiclets or grave markers.

  “Help you ma’am?” He asks to the still choking Cassidy. And, “I’m Ritchie!” he tells Lou.

  She holds up a hand—wait! —
swallows, grimaces as the recently opened Wrigley Spearmint goes down. It may be minty fresh but it’s still a wad of gum in her esophagus. Finally, it’s gone and she gathers herself, smiles at the little person and says, “Got a few license plates. I need to run to owners.”

  “Sure,” he says. He’s grinning like a child’s toy and Cassidy’s thinking she’s going to be seeing that in her sleep for a couple of weeks. She gets an image of him in a Hitchcock movie, like a crazy kid’s doll that’s come to life, got a big knife and that crazy grin and he’s hunting down people to...

  “What department are you with, detective?”

  “What?” Cassidy’s startled again, still seeing that movie clip, this time in the new technicolor they got, the blood red and dripping from the blade...

  “Your precinct.”

  “I don’t... precinct... what?” She looks to Lou for clarification but he’s just standing there smiling like this whole thing’s is a joke.

  “I’m not a cop,” she says. “I just need to find these plates.” She pushes a paper across the counter.

  The guy’s smile slowly dims. “Oh,” he says. “I’m so sorry ma’am, but I’m not allowed to give out that information to the public.” Sadly, like he’s a balloon with a slow leak, his shoulders slump. He pushes the paper back to her.

  She turns to Lou for help but he’s just standing there smiling some more, amused and she gets the idea maybe he’s getting her back for her teasing him about men.

  Fine. She straightens so her chest is puffed out. It’s at about the little guy’s eye level and she inhales, making her C-cup expand to a D, maybe a D-minus. It doesn’t matter because his eyes are on the top button of her blouse and she does the trick she earned way back at Richardson High school back in Rawlins. Not the one where she can tie a cherry stem with her tongue, a trick that got her a lot of free drinks but the one where she...

  A subtle turn of her left shoulder, a small stretch lowering her right arm just so and the proper tension with her breathing and the top button of her blouse slips apart. Her white lace bra, the one Lou was earlier admiring, from Frederick’s of Hollywood, is suddenly showing. She remembers her idol, Norma Jean Baker, as Marilyn Monroe, once saying, “Show a man the hem of your panties and he’ll follow you anywhere.”