by Craig Rice
There was a very brief argument with the cab driver as to whether or not the mutt was allowed to ride in the cab. The mutt settled it with a plaintive remark about the weather and the hardships of a dog’s life.
Malone leaned back against the cushions, and gave the address of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar. There was still a dollar bill in his pocket, that would pay for the cab. Joe the Angel would either cash the check for him, or hold it until tomorrow, meantime tearing up the mortgage on the mutt and even allowing a small advance.
Perhaps he and the mutt might go out and see a little of the town. It was still early. He felt that he owed the mutt a little entertainment. And perhaps he deserved something of the sort himself.
The check!
Malone felt in his pocket, drew it out and looked at it.
“Stop,” he called to the driver. “Stop under a streetlight.”
The driver pulled over to the curb, stopped and said anxiously, “I hope the pooch isn’t feeling carsick.”
“He feels fine,” Malone assured him. He looked again at the check, in the bright glare of the light. “And I feel finer. Drive on.”
The check was for ten thousand dollars.
29
“So YOU bring me the little dog,” Joe the Angel said cheerfully. “Have a drink on the house, Malone, no?”
“I’ll have a drink on the house, yes,” Malone said, “But I do not bring you the little dog. I just dropped in to pay my bill.”
For the first time in his life, Joe the Angel looked displeased at the prospect of a bill being paid. He poured a drink for Malone, and put a saucer of beer down on the floor.
“Malone,” he said earnestly, “a hotel is no place for a dog to live.”
“I live there,” Malone said defensively. “And for that matter, a saloon is no place for a dog to live, either.”
“You live here too,” Joe the Angel said. “Almost, you live here.”
“Look,” Malone said, downing his drink. “I am going to find the dog a nice home. Not a hotel. Not a saloon. A nice place in the country, perhaps.”
The mutt looked up from his beer and whimpered.
“Someplace where he’ll have a bed of his own,” Malone went on enthusiastically. “Three meals a day. A family to love him. Children to play with.”
The Polish janitor from the City Hall looked up from his glass of beer and said, “Cats.”
The mutt barked enthusiastically.
“It is in the nature of dogs,” the janitor said, folding up the Racing Form and sticking it in his pocket. “In my neighborhood there are many cats for a good dog to chase.” He walked to the door, and said, “Cats!”
The mutt bounded enthusiastically toward him.
“Come back here,” Malone said.
The mutt hesitated for a moment, then came back slowly.
“Traitor!” Malone said accusingly. He pushed his glass across the bar for a refill and said. “I’ve got a check here that’s too big for you to cash. But I’ll endorse it and leave it with you. You can advance me a few dollars against it, and tomorrow we’ll take it to the bank. Then I’ll pay you the bar bill and the advance.”
“All the advances,” Joe the Angel said.
Malone took the check from his pocket and looked at it lovingly. He wished he didn’t need to cash it. He wished he could frame it and hang it in his office. Finally he borrowed Joe the Angel’s pen, endorsed it and shoved it across the bar.
Joe looked at the figure and said “Wow!” He added, “Now I know I should have been a lawyer instead of a saloonkeeper!”
“Just a grateful client,” Malone said modestly.
“How much cash you want, Malone?”
The little lawyer thought fast. Five dollars would handle taxi-fares and breakfast. On the other hand, he knew where a poker game was going on, and the night was still young. Besides, it didn’t seem quite appropriate for a man owning a ten thousand dollar check to ask for a mere advance of five dollars cash.
Joe the Angel laid two twenties and a ten on the bar, and gazed again at the check, with the expression of an art lover gazing at a newly discovered masterpiece. Suddenly he put a heavy hand down on the money and glared at Malone.
“Malone, how long we have been friends?”
Malone blinked. “I don’t know. A long time. As long as I can remember.”
“Thirty years,” Joe said. “And you trust me, and I trust me. Now you come in after thirty years and try to gyp me with a bum check.”
“You’re crazy,” Malone said. “The check’s all right.”
“Malone,” Joe the Angel said accusingly, leaning on the bar, “when do you think I am born? Yesterday? You think I’m poor ignorant fella, I can’t read the newspapers?”
Malone said “Listen. That check is made out to me. It’s dated today. It’s properly signed, by Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx. What the hell do you think is the matter with it?”
“Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx,” Joe the Angel said. “Malone, I read in the newspapers all about Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx. He’s crazy. Tomorrow we take the check to the bank, the man at the bank looks at the check and says ‘Mr. Rodney Fairfaxx, he’s crazy. Take the check away.’ Thirty years or no thirty years, you don’t give me a check from a crazy man, Malone.”
He put the bills back in the cash register, slammed the drawer shut and said, “He goes around killing postmen.”
“Now wait a minute,” Malone said. “The police let him go. He didn’t kill any postmen.”
Joe the Angel sniffed and said, “He thinks his sweetheart is still alive, when she was drowned almost forty years ago.”
“Damn it, she is alive,” Malone said.
“You’re crazy too,” Joe the Angel said. He looked at the check again and said, “And he gives you ten thousand dollars. That proves he’s crazy.” He handed the check to Malone. “The drinks I cannot take back. I put them on your bar bill. And I will keep the little dog.”
“The hell you will,” Malone said, reaching for an empty beer bottle.
Joe leaned across the bar and aimed, inaccurately, at Malone’s nose. A Times reporter at a nearby table abandoned his drink to come to Malone’s rescue. A bookie at another table came to Joe’s rescue. A perfect stranger joined enthusiastically and impartially in the battle, just for the joy of it. A man from the coroner’s office and another perfect stranger started a fight of their own to one side. The mutt ran around happily, biting everybody except Malone.
Someone called the police, and Malone decided to withdraw gracefully. He felt in his pocket for the check; it was safe. Scooping up the mutt, he headed for the sidewalk.
Behind him, inside Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar, the sounds of combat were still going on. A squad car came screaming up to the curb.
“What’s going on in there?” one of the cops asked Malone.
Malone shrugged his shoulders. “Fight of some kind, I guess.”
He took a few steps down the street, paused, and felt through his pockets. A dime, a nickle, and two pennies. Seventeen cents, and, a ten thousand dollar check.
The sensible thing he told himself, was to walk back to his hotel, get a good night’s sleep, and take the check to the bank in the morning.
Of course, there might be a few dollars in the petty cash box in his office. Enough, at least, to get him into that poker game. No, he remembered, he’d investigated that earlier today.
There were plenty of people he could borrow from, but somehow borrowing a five or a ten seemed beneath the dignity of a man who had a ten thousand dollar check in his pocket.
After all, he probably should go home to the hotel. The mutt was undoubtedly tired.
At that moment a taxi stopped in front of him. The driver leaned out and said, “Hi, there. Going anyplace, Mr. Malone?”
Malone hesitated for one half of a second and said, “Yes, Charlie.” He pulled open the door and got in. The mutt curled up comfortably beside him.
“Nice dog you got there,” Charlie said. “Like
to have a dog like that myself. Where to, Mr. Malone?”
The little lawyer thought for the other half of the second.
“Anywhere,” he said. “Anywhere that a man with ten thousand dollars can buy a drink.”
30
“Be reasonable, Fred,” Malone said. “The check’s perfectly good. And I’m not asking you to cash all of it for me. Just a few hundred dollars.”
Fred, manager and part owner of the Blue Star, shook his head. “Have one on the house, Malone?”
“Thanks,” Malone said. “Now look, I’ve done you a few favors. Remember that business about your brother-in-law and the—”
“I’d be glad to oblige you, Malone,” Fred said. “But the guy’s nuts. I take his check around to the bank tomorrow and they’ll laugh at me.”
Malone sighed and said, “Well, thanks anyway. And thanks for the drink.”
“Of course, if you want to borrow some dough—” Fred said.
“No, thanks,” Malone said. “I’ll get this cashed somewhere.”
He glanced at the clock over the bar. Twelve-thirty. So far he’d visited nine night clubs, saloons and restaurants. He’d received nine drinks on the house, and nine turn-downs on cashing even part of the check.
Going home to bed was still the sensible thing to do. But now he had a noteworthy cab bill to reckon with.
He got back in the cab and said, “Let’s try the Casino.”
“It’s getting late,” Charlie said.
“I know,” Malone said. “It always does, this time of night.”
He didn’t like going to the Casino, for two reasons. One, because it was Chicago’s smartest night spot, and he knew he needed a clean shirt. Another, that it belonged to Jake, and asking its manager to handle the check problem for him was like asking Jake a favor.
He left the mutt with Charlie, straightened his tie, and walked in.
The manager was polite, and apologetic. He bought Malone a drink. He explained that he would be glad to cash the check, but it would have to have Jake Justus’s okay. And it was impossible to reach Mr. Justus by telephone. Mr. Justus was ill.
Malone walked out into the main room of the Casino, glanced briefly at the end of the floor show, then picked his way between the tables. Suddenly a voice hailed him. He turned around and saw Elizabeth Fairfaxx and Bob Allen a few feet away.
He walked over to greet them. Bob Allen, he noticed, was wearing a tux. Probably Elizabeth had bought it for him, to celebrate. It seemed to be dark green, and the tie appeared to be maroon. For a moment Malone wondered if he was going color-blind. Otherwise, the lanky young man was unchanged. He still looked as though he were there to empty the ash trays. Malone noticed that people at surrounding tables were staring at him. No wonder, with a bottle-green tuxedo.
Elizabeth said, “Please sit down and have a drink with us. We’re all so grateful to you, Mr. Malone.”
“It was nothing,” Malone said airily. “I’ll have rye and soda, thanks.”
He looked appreciatively at Elizabeth Fairfaxx and reflected on how much he liked everything about her, especially the freckles. Yes, for her sake, he’d even strain himself and like her unemployed-actor fiancé. He hoped he wouldn’t have to defend her in a murder trial.
“Uncle Ernie came home tonight,” Elizabeth said. “He feels fine. I think maybe it did him good. What do you think about Uncle Rodney’s memorial idea? I think it’s wonderful. Even if she isn’t worth it, it’s wonderful anyway.”
“Except that it seems to leave you stranded,” Malone said.
She beamed and said, “That doesn’t matter. I have Bob.”
“How about Kenneth?” Malone asked.
“He’ll get along fine,” Elizabeth assured him. “In fact, we’ll all get along fine.”
Malone finished his drink, tried to think of something to say and finally managed, weakly, “That’s fine.”
When he left, Bob Allen said his first word of the evening. It was, “Goodbye.”
Glida was behind the hat-check counter. She winked at Malone as he went by. He winked back, and wondered what would happen if he asked her to cash a ten thousand dollar check for him. She’d probably manage it. Only somehow he didn’t want to ask Glida.
Out in the cab, he put in a few minutes concentration, while Charlie looked alternately at his watch and at the meter. At last Malone named an address in South Chicago.
He got the same answer at the address in South Chicago. A drink on the house. The offer of a loan. And refusal to touch a check that had been signed by Rodney Fairfaxx.
He gave Charlie another address.
Charlie said, “Jeez, Malone, that’s almost to Evanston.”
It was a long ride, and at the end of it, he got the same answer, and another drink on the house.
In desperation, Malone consulted his address book. The resulting trip led to Desplaines, to Maywood, to Cicero, and to an obscure address on West Lawrence Avenue.
Charlie made only three complaints.
One was, “I never saw a guy drive so far to get a drink.”
The next (acidly), “Malone, I know a nice saloon in Boston, if you’d care to drive that far.”
Finally (plaintively), “Malone, I don’t know about you, but I got to get up in the morning.”
By that time the sky had turned a faint and dismal gray. The mutt had been sound asleep for hours. And the meter charge, including waiting time, had reached $62.30.
“One more stop,” Malone said. “This will be the last.” He gave the address of Max Hook’s apartment. It would be the last stop, too.
Regardless of the hour, he knew that the fabulous gambling ruler would be up and around. Max Hook never went to bed until the last reports came in. Malone hated to ask Max Hook for a favor, even a little favor like cashing a ten thousand dollar check, but right now, it looked like the only thing to do.
Riding up the private elevator, Malone found himself wondering, not for the first time, how many occupants of the apartment house on Lakeshore Drive knew the identity of its owner, who lived in the two-storied penthouse. But it was too late for any serious wondering. The little lawyer closed his eyes and slept for the last six floors.
He opened his eyes as the elevator operator slid back the door that led into Max Hook’s living room, blinked, and said, “I must have gotten on the wrong train.”
“Nice, isn’t it, Malone,” Max Hook said. He smiled from behind the big golden-oak desk that had accompanied him on a series of travels and through a series of experiences with interior decorators. “Like a little of old Mexico.”
Malone said, “Very nice.” He stared at a pottery jar, from the top of which a cactus plant leered at him insultingly. “What happened to all the little pink lampshades?”
Max Hook explained that he had a new interior decorator. No more little pink lampshades. Now, it was a little bit of old Mexico.
“Expensive,” Max Hook said, “but you know me. I always like to have everything nice.” He glanced around at the room. “Just between us, Malone, I don’t like it.”
Malone decided to look at Max Hook instead of the room. The Hook was enormously fat, and almost entirely bald. His huge pink face was deceptively friendly.
“I’m glad that Mr. Justus is all right,” Max Hook said. “You had me worried for a while. And where is the little dog?”
Malone spoke before he had a chance to think. “Downstairs in the taxi.”
“In weather like this?” Max Hook gasped. He pushed one of the many buttons on his desk, called into the phone, “Joe, bring the little dog upstairs from Mr. Malone’s taxi. Thank you.”
“How did you know about the dog?” Malone demanded.
“My boys get around,” Max Hook said, smiling. He pushed another button and said, “Bring Mr. Malone a gin and beer.” He glanced around at the decorations and said, “I suppose I’ve got to drink tequila. The hell with it. Bring me a gin and beer too, also a saucer of beer for Mr. Malone’s dog.” Pause. “Yes, I sa
id saucer. And, dog.”
Malone said, “Look, Max, I wish I had time to have a drink with you, and to let you pat my dog, but—I’ve got a cab waiting downstairs, and I just dropped by to see if you could cash a check—”
“Sure,” Max said. “Anytime. How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars,” Malone said.
Max Hook said, “Want it all in big bills, or small money.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Malone said. He stopped on the verge of saying, “Just enough to pay off the cab.”
Max Hook pushed another button and said, “Georgie? Open the safe and get me nine G’s, nine C’s, and a fistful of change. Gotta cash a check for a friend.”
The elevator boy walked in with an indignant mutt.
“Scrappy, isn’t he?” Max Hook said. “Ever think of entering him in a show?”
The mutt growled.
Max Hook pushed one of the buttons again and said, “Bring in a saucer of cream along with that saucer of beer. And rush it. Malone has a taxi waiting.”
The fat man beamed at Malone across the desk and said, “So you have Ernie Fairfaxx on your client list now. I hope you rook him for plenty.”
The little lawyer pulled a cigar from his pocket, started unwrapping it, and said, “He’s not exactly a client of mine. It’s none of my business, but why?”
“That guy,” Max said admiringly.” That Ernie Fairfaxx! Wish he were working for me! Took my places for about two hundred grand. Took a friend of mine in Vegas for almost as much. And in New York—”
Malone looked around the room for a place to drop the cigar wrapping, gave up and stuffed it in his pocket. “Max, we’re old friends, but you’re making it all up. Nobody who drinks like Ernie Fairfaxx—”
“Drinks?” Max Hook stared at Malone. “We’re not talking about the same Ernie Fairfaxx.” He paused. “Or maybe we are.”
The door burst open and a small ball of feline fury bounded in. A young man shoved her aside with one foot and put a tray on Max Hook’s desk. Max Hook picked up the saucer of beer and the saucer of milk, and put them on the floor beside his desk. The gray kitten snarled an insulting remark to the mutt. The mutt responded with an even more insulting remark.