Chicago

by David Mamet

  “I heard you,” Callaghan said.

  “Somebody said I should talk to you.”

  “Well, yeah, you’re talking to me,” Callaghan said. “Whaddaya want?”

  “I want a tip on a couple of guys,” Mike said.

  “Who are they?” Callaghan said.

  “You tell me,” Mike said.

  He took the photo of the two men in overcoats from his lapel pocket, and passed it to Callaghan.

  “I can’t make it out,” Callaghan said. “Two silhouettes in the background.”

  “. . . Best you can.”

  “Gimme a hint.”

  Mike spread his hands.

  “I mean, do I know? What team do they play for?”

  “I think I know, but I don’t know,” Mike said.

  “Who sent you to me?”

  “Fella said, ‘See Callaghan.’”

  Callaghan looked hard at the photograph. “Because?” he said.

  “I think because you’re Irish,” Mike said.

  “Well, yeah, there’s something about these guys,” Callaghan said. “They been there, and they might be Irish, or Squareheads, or Krauts, for all that.” He paused. “Talk to Danny Doyle.”

  Callaghan stood. The band began to play “Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?” “Yeah yeah,” Callaghan said. He raised his hat to the band in acknowledgment. He turned back to Mike. “Go see Danny Doyle.”

  Chapter 12

  Mike had not fired a handgun since France, and then only in a short burst of target practice, conceived by a fellow pilot as a break in the boredom of a week of constant rain and, thus, no flying.

  The pilot had buttonholed a Marine gunnery sergeant into coming by with, as the sergeant put it, a few “helpful hints.”

  “First of all,” the Marine had said, “this here weapon is a forty-five caliber. This weapon is good for blowing the chest out of some guy who is five, ten feet away. Is it more accurate than that? Yes, it is. You are not. One a’ the fucken Huns, farther away than that? Run. As he is, prolly, going to have a rifle.

  “He has got a rifle, there is going to be, of him, more than one. Why would you want to make him mad, or draw attention to yourself? His friends come running; reasoning backward, then, best thing that you could do? Not shoot him. You come down, behind his lines? Run. Or hide. They got you outgunned? Throw the pistol away, raise your hands. That’s what this pistol’s good for.

  “The one time you would want to use this pistol is: a guy’s attacking you; or you’re on the way back to our lines, you need to eliminate a sentry, midst of some firefight; or otherwise, not calling attention to yourself.”

  He held his hand out, and a flier took his pistol from its holster and handed it to the Marine. The Marine checked the chamber, found it empty, dropped the magazine and racked the slide several times, locked it open, and sighted down the bore, using his thumbnail in the breech to catch and reflect the light back through the open chamber.

  “It’s filthy, and a filthy weapon is more prone to malfunction. Why you would want to increase those chances is beyond me,” he said. “But, then, we all have our little ways.”

  It had become the catchphrase of the Aero Squadron.

  There was not a botched or bounced landing, ground loop, or other demonstration of inability not greeted by someone uttering the Marine’s phrase. It was employed as frequently in reference to machinery: the coy reluctance of the Rhône engine to kick over in the cold; the inevitable jamming of the Lewis guns; the Nieuport’s legendary preference for enemy-held territory over which to quit.

  The new pilots, on arrival, were already considered dead, because this saved the veterans from both emotional attachments and the effort of reappraisal when, in the first few flights, the new man actually died.

  When was the new man accepted?

  This was not determined by the group, but by the man himself. He put forward his claim by the first bold usage of the sacred phrase.

  “Where’s your observer?”

  “Yeah. He’s in the back, down there somewhere. He’s dead.”

  “We all have our little ways.”

  The police pistol range stank of cordite, gun oil, and solvent. Sergeant Doyle’s “Voice of Command” put Mike in mind of France.

  “The Great Mystery,” Doyle told the recruits, “will be revealed to you only through practice. They say, ‘You can’t know what a man will do under pressure.’ I tell you, you know exactly what’ll do: what he was trained to do.”

  Doyle sucked in his belly as he addressed the men.

  “Those of the older lads, who came through it, may inform you that the pistol is an effective tool with which to hit the broad side of a barn only if thrown. Why? They had no experience, and were just repeating what they had been told was the case. As I was, over there, where the thing was the mark of the officer caste, used as a symbol, to encourage, or in its active mode, to shoot that man wishing to go anywhere other than over the top.

  “One had one’s trusty Springfield, and was taught to rely upon it; and it, in fact, worked peachy. However, Eighteenth and Western, three a.m., when the woman’s screaming, there’s a shot or two, and some fellow in a hurry crashes out the door and takes off running toward you, with intent, it falls to you, then, as per your instructions, to shout, ‘Halt! Police!,’ giving force to said command by drawing your revolver and loosing off three or four shots into his chest.

  “No, we will note, ‘three or four shots’ do not constitute six, or the full complement of your cylinder. You will save the other rounds, lest his partner, done raping the woman and perhaps the man, come, in the interim, out of the house, to find you with an empty gun.

  “‘Won’t I have seen him, Sergeant? This other man?’ No. You will not. For, as you draw and fire, your field of vision, normally so broad and wide, will constrict to the width of Queen Anne’s pussy, and your world will consist of the man running toward you. It will fill with his chest. It will fill with the second button on his shirt or coat, and it is at this button you must fire.

  “How? Aiming, as you were taught in your scant weeks at the academy, and carefully aligning your two sights, then loosing half a breath and squeezing gently? No. For we could school you ’til the cows come home and hand over their wages, but you will not do so. You will instinctively crouch, lean forward, and lose all track of time.

  “Well and good. Do not, however, lose track of your shots. Count them, please. It will save your life.

  “To return to the second button of his shirt or coat: Forget your sights. Look at this coat button, look at it. ’Til the individual threads stand out. And they will. Stare at it. That’s the death spot. You may be distracted by his hands, which may, in fact, hold a knife or a gun. Would you like those weapons gone? The wiser man would kill the fellow holding them. Shoot at the death spot. Grab your revolver. Jerk it from the leather, thrust it toward the target spot, and, when it’s there, pull the trigger. One. Two, three shots. ‘Mustn’t you aim?’ Do you aim when you point your finger? ‘Jim, look at that fine-looking girl acrost the street.’ ‘Which one, Mickey?’ ‘That one there,’ and there’s your finger on the redhead.

  “Three or four shots. That’s what we’re going to practice. And then you can look around. And, should you see the second man, why, then, same treatment. Should you not? Why, then, reload.

  “‘But, Sergeant,’ you say, ‘I fired, contrary to regulations. Before I had determined that this man was a malefactor. Suppose he was the deranged husband, running from the house to seek help?’

  “This is a matter not for philosophy, but of foresight. For you, should that prove to be the case, will then frost the poor unfortunate with the throw-down gun each thoughtful police officer has carried since the world began.

  “I think that covers it.

  “Everybody, on your way out, put your hand in the box, take six, six empty cartridge cases, place them in your right-hand jacket pocket. Off you go.”

  Doyle motioned for the class to sta
nd, and they stood and filed out the room. The door, when opened, admitted the sounds of a far-off submachine gun, and the pop, pop-pop of revolver practice. Doyle turned to Mike.

  “Cop, down Chicago Heights, shot down? What’s in his pocket? Empty shells, six shells, right-hand jacket pocket. They’re training them out there”—he gestured toward the range—“to save their brass. Training inspectors.” He jabbed his finger again. “Teaching the boys to fucking kill themselves. Chicago Heights cop? Reloading? Under fire. Bent down, picked up the brass as he was trained to do. My boys, inspector comes by, ‘Show me the brass in your pocket.’ ‘Yes, sir, here they are.’

  “Impromptu checks, make sure they aren’t letting the brass fall to the ground.”

  “Why?” Mike said.

  “Why?” Doyle said. “More work for the janitors.”

  He closed the door to the range and sat on his desk. He took a tin of snuff and opened it and filled his lower lip. He gestured at the wall racks behind him. One held eight Thompson submachine guns, the other eight Winchester riot shotguns. “The procurement of armaments,” he said, “offers to the observant many elements of which I am sure constitute Greek tragedy.” He pointed at the Winchesters.

  “The fucken riot gun, which you will remember from your year abroad, is far and away the better weapon for the tasks which fall to our lot. But it will kick you in the shoulder. So, the inspectors, charged with the choice, suggest these newest marvels.” He waved at the Thompson guns. “Their professed argument, that since Mr. Brown and the boys have ’em, Mr. O’Banion has ’em, we should have ’em, too.”

  “How’d those boys get ’em?” Mike said.

  “My theory,” said Doyle, “is that the manufacturers gave ’em to ’em. I would.”

  “I would, too,” said Mike.

  “Valentine’s Day? Best advertising campaign in history. ‘Rat tat.’ Ev’ police force in the country, ‘We had better get some of those.’ Like the ladies and the Brand-New Hat. The thing here being firepower.”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “You are a proponent of the tried and true.”

  “I’m a Marine,” Doyle said. “And if there’s one thing that they taught me in the corps, that’s it.”

  “Somebody’s stealing the guns, the armory,” Mike said.

  “Somebody’s stealing everything,” Doyle said. “Everyone’s stealing something.”

  He took the bandanna from his trouser pocket and blew his nose.

  “Jackie Weiss,” Mike said. “Teitelbaum.”

  “Hey, now, there’s more of them to love. It’s just that most of it’s outside their bodies.”

  Mike said, “What did they shoot them with?”

  “Oh, that’s your question,” Doyle said.

  “Can’t a fellow veteran stop for a friendly chat?” Mike said.

  A voice on the range called, “Sergeant . . . ?” Doyle raised his hand to indicate one second. He paused. “The Chinese,” he said, “invented gunpowder. And used it, just as we do now, to foil the evil spirits.”

  “The question is, then,” Mike said, “what is evil?”

  “Well, that is decided,” Doyle said, “by the fellow holding the gun.”

  “Sergeant,” the man called from the range. Doyle rose.

  “At the end of a long day,” he said, “why or how were any of ’em shot? My job, though—and I thank the Lord that I was wise enough never to seek promotion—has the benefit, I come too close to the edge, someone, someone might take me aside, and shake his head minutely, to warn me from the abyss.”

  “Which is?”

  “Don’t ask too many questions,” Doyle said. “And certainly don’t know the answers.”

  Mike handed Sergeant Doyle a photograph.

  “No, I don’t know who these fellas are,” Doyle said.

  He handed the photograph back to Mike.

  “I know who they aren’t: they aren’t from around here; and I know what they are.

  “And, should this become something other than mere journalism, do you have or do you require a mohaska?”

  “I have the Luger,” Mike said.

  “Then remember,” Doyle said, “the one phrase you never want to use. It is: ‘Wait here ’til I fetch it.’”

  He clapped Mike on the shoulder, gently, and walked off.

  Mike had obtained the Luger in the mess of his Ninety-Fourth Aero Squadron.

  They were at the aerodrome, just south of St. Mihiel. The German had been shot down that day as part of the morning sortie for which Mike was not called.

  The German was sitting by the stove of the barn used as the squadron’s mess hall. He was shivering from the cold, from fatigue, and from the aftereffects of the adrenaline. And he was overcome with shame. All the American fliers recognized his state; and all knew not that it might, but that it most likely would one day be them, their disgrace and captivity the marginally better of the two most likely outcomes of their continued flights.

  The German felt Mike looking, and looked back at him. Mike knew and the German saw he knew that the only true respect for grief was silence.

  Mike nodded, and started out of the mess. He fastened the belt of his leather flying coat around his waist, cinching it tight. He felt something in the large side pocket. He reached into it and removed the nearly full pint bottle of Cognac.

  He turned back into the room, and stood in front of the German. The German, again, looked up, and Mike offered the bottle to him. After a moment, the German took the bottle. Mike started to leave, but the German gestured for him to stay.

  The German reached into the folds of his flying coat and removed a Luger pistol. He held the grip with his thumb and first finger, and presented the pistol toward Mike.

  Mike took the gift and nodded his thanks.

  He’d fired the pistol several times, for recreation, while in France. He brought it home, and it resided, with his other war mementos, in his bedside drawer.

  He’d often thought about the German, who had retained the weapon through no one could know how many searches, cursory and more extensive, and at what risk.

  As a pilot Mike understood: that the German was through fighting, and had kept the pistol for the one purpose only, which was to end his own life.

  In his more maudlin moments Mike experimented with congratulating himself on having saved the man from suicide. The notion was too pretty for him; but, on one drunken night, he had shared the story with Parlow, who said the story made him “want to throw up.”

  “This Kraut,” Parlow said, “who, one, we didn’t start it; two, fair fight? He lost? The better man would learn to live with it; three, he’s, I guarantee you, back in Deutschland, with a wife already fat, and four kids who stink of cabbage; and four, who your children will, most likely, have to fight, because that fucking country, like that Kraut, is a sore loser. And, five, if I want any more of your war stories, believe me, I’ll ask you, which I won’t, ’cause, end of the day, they all sound just like: I loved him, he promised to marry me, he disappeared and left me pregnant, and that’s why I’m a whore. Or a lawyer. As the case may be.”

  Chapter 13

  The apartment was cold, as the landlord was only required to provide heat between five p.m. and five in the morning. Mike had often speculated upon who paid what to whom to bring about this ordinance. “But if there were no do-gooders in the world,” Parlow said, “they wouldn’t be constrained to provide heat at all.” Which Mike knew was just a conversational gambit, as Parlow hated the blue-stockinged reformers with a passionate delight. “Their pussies, man and woman, have been stitched up from birth, and I defy the most persuasive Mick ever born to cadge a drink from them.”

  “But, and I will speak under correction,” Mike said, “these same moral adventurers, whose implied hypocrisy you so rightly deplore, are they not also those who favor Prohibition?”

  “Yes,” said Parlow.

  “. . . Thus being immune to indictment for refusing a man a drink,” Mike said.

 
“I do not see it,” Parlow said.

  “As they, in their rightly decried hypocrisy, would likely not only refuse to serve, but probably lack the access to spirits.”

  “They have access to coin,” Parlow said, “and I have set my fantasia in a speak or restaurant, and my poor desiccated hero approaching the philanthropic table.”

  “How does he recognize them, these philanthropists?”

  “By their pinched and disapproving mien,” Parlow said. “By the awful though expensive cut of their clothes, proclaiming at once their superiority to earthly things, and their financial ability to so hold; by the fare before them, consisting if not of actual raw vegetables, then of some substance equally sad; by the set of the women’s noses and the effeminacy of the men.”

  Mike gestured for another round.

  “And, to make an end, by that thin, burnt-out bearing, proclaiming to the sentient world their English derivation and pagan lack of reverence for the Holy Mother Church.

  “Let them drink in hell gazing in wonder at celestial images always denied them, of their masters, holy and temporal, and pleading for the chance to mitigate, if not their punishment, their shame, by acceptation of the Holy Sacrament, its blessed balm ever receding as they tread the road of burning pitch.

  “Yes, there is balm in Gilead, its name is Revenge.”

  Mike had, in fact, attended a Mass just prior to, and as a subterfuge enabling, the afternoon’s tryst with Annie Walsh.

  He sat three rows behind her and to her left, in love with her piety, in love with the very head scarf which she would remove on the apartment stairs, shaking out her hair in transformation from dutiful religious virgin to lover.

  Having told her father she was going to Mass, she would not consider the sin of nonattendance. The subterfuge and the unlicensed love she held, when she examined it, as merely a betrayal of her father, who, as a man, was, of course, not entitled to her utter frankness. But though she might affront, she would not lie to God.

  Mike understood that the religion’s duty did not and was not intended to excuse the subsequent transgression, but that she had chosen to perform it nonetheless, as an obligation. He loved her for her ability to choose. She had chosen to be his lover and to pay the cost, and he loved her strength. He loved everything about her.