The Search for Maggie Ward

by Andrew M. Greeley

  Finally they dropped me in the snow, a mass of undifferentiated pain. Blood was pouring out of my mouth, I could hardly see through my swollen eyes. I was curled up in a fetal position now to protect myself from more blows.

  You want to take the girl off to hell? Sure, you’re welcome to her. I don’t want her anymore.

  McCarron, a real hero, kicked me viciously in the back. “You’re lucky, fucker, we didn’t kill you. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

  Next time you won’t get behind me in the sun, hillbilly.

  I lay there in the falling snow for a long time. I could freeze to death, I told myself, if I did not stand up and move. But the snow piling up on top of me seemed to be a soothing blanket. Why fight it?

  There would be no one in the Forest Avenue station at this hour. Someone might stumble over me on the street. A car might come by. I could hobble to Oak Park Hospital, almost a mile away.

  It never occurred to the winner of two Navy Crosses that he could also push the doorbell of the nearest house.

  I decided that no friend of Maggie Ward’s would send me to God’s judgment seat before my time. So I chose Oak Park Hospital.

  Or was it Apache Junction? Or were they the same?

  And where was the guy in the fleet admiral’s uniform?

  I struggled to my feet and tried to straighten up. A dagger of pain raced through my chest and gut. I fell back into the snow.

  All right, dummy, you don’t try to straighten up; got it?

  I tried again and collapsed again into the snowbank.

  The third time I made it.

  No thanks to you, you fucking specialist in wars in heaven.

  Many light-years later, covered with blood, bent over in pain, and compulsively shivering from the cold, I stumbled into the emergency room at Oak Park Hospital (the secular name chosen long ago so as not to offend Protestants). Sister Mary Norbertine, who had been present for my birth, stared at me in horror. “Jeremiah Keenan, with whom have you been fighting?”

  Fucking nun would say “with whom.”

  “The Dutchman. Next time he won’t get behind me in the sun.”

  “I’m going to tell your mother, young man.” She gently led me to something that might have been an operating table. “You’re too old to get into fights.”

  “Especially when I lose. Next time I’ll win.”

  CHAPTER 41

  I HID THE TRIBUNE WHEN I HEARD MY FATHER‘S VOICE IN the hospital corridor.

  General Marshall might replace Jimmy Byrnes as Secretary of State because the President had grown weary of Byrnes’s propensity to act independently. The State of the Union message had been a flop. Bernard Baruch and the other American delegates on the Atomic Energy Committee of the United Nations had resigned in frustration because the Russians did not want to negotiate—being busy, as it later developed, building their own bombs from plans stolen by Klaus Fuchs and Julius Rosenberg. Dean Acheson, who would be later denounced as soft on communism because he said he would not turn his back on Alger Hiss, was designing plans to save Europe (for which he would still later be denounced as an architect of the Cold War). Europe was in desperate need of saving as coal shortages forced the suspension of industrial production in many countries. Film Daily voted Lost Weekend the best picture of 1946. Ben Hogan won the Los Angeles open.

  And, like Ray Milland in Lost Weekend, I wanted a drink, a nice big, soothing drink to kill the pain.

  “Feeling better now?” Dad’s voice was relaxed, his face tense, his fists clenched.

  “Yeah.” I tried to sound bored and casual. “No major damage except some loose teeth and two black eyes.”

  “And bruised ribs and kidney and badly cut lips and some internal bleeding.”

  “A few aches and pains. The bleeding has stopped, by the way. He wasn’t much of a puncher. If it wasn’t for those two hoods …”

  “They’re on their way to other jobs in Cuba.” Dad flipped open a small spiral-ring notebook. “A friend of mine talked to a friend of The Waiter’s. It’ll be a long time before those punks seek a little extra money on the side.…”

  For those of you who don’t know the history of the Chicago Outfit, The Waiter was Paul “The Waiter” Ricca, Capone’s successor, or rather Frank “The Enforcer” Nitti’s successor (the real-life Enforcer did not fall off a roof as claimed in the film about “The Untouchables”).

  “Sit down, take off your hat and coat, stay awhile.”

  He grinned crookedly. “There’s a lot of your grandfather in you.”

  “I don’t drink as much.”

  “Mr. McCarron’s Cadillac, bought, I suspect, on the black market, was towed away from LaSalle Street by the police today despite the bribe he had given to the beat cop to park in a no-parking zone.” He ticked off the line in his notebook. “Funny thing, his was the only car on a street of illegals which was towed away.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. It was found that he has several moving violations for which he has not put in a court appearance. So he couldn’t even drive the car away from the police pound. The federal government is interested in his tax returns. He has been suspended from trading because the governing board wants to take a look at the ways he made money on pork bellies during the meat-price run-up.”

  “Funny thing. I bet they’re not looking at anyone else.”

  “Now that you mentioned it.” Dad smiled cheerfully. “There are a number of other things which might happen if he doesn’t get the message.”

  “He’s not very bright.”

  I thought about telling him of McCarron’s threat to kill me. Navy Cross winners don’t admit that sort of thing, do they?

  Not if they’re damn fools.

  “They tell me he’s certain to get himself hurt eventually. He spends a lot of time over at Colosimo’s telling everyone what a big war hero he was and pushing people around. Sort of person who likes to talk about his friends in the mob but who doesn’t understand any of the mob rules.”

  “A bit of a nut.”

  “He’ll find himself in Dutch with the Outfit if he pushes the wrong person around, even if he does it after a few drinks; the son-in-law, say, of some higher-up.”

  We let that hang in the air for a moment. The Outfit was strongly committed to the preservation of the family.

  “Speaking of his war record, I don’t think he was ever at Iwo or Guadal. Almost no one was in both battles. And my friends at Navy have no record of a Colonel Wade McCarron. They’re checking up on him.”

  I told him the name of my contact and he jotted it down.

  “That could be a big gun if we need it.”

  “He’s a bit of a nut,” I repeated.

  And I let him get behind me in the sun.

  Damn fool.

  “What about the girl?”

  “Maggie? Lay off her. She’s a nice girl.” My ribs hurt whenever I became too enthusiastic. “She had nothing to do with it.”

  “Why’s a nice kid like her hanging around an overgrown punk?”

  “Maggie has a fatal flaw. She collects strays.”

  “It could be really fatal if someone in the Outfit decides to go after him.”

  “Nothing in her life has prepared her to have much judgment about men.” I rested my head on the pillow. “Save in one case.”

  “Are you finished with her?” His pencil was poised over the notebook. Maggie might be on her way out of town on the next train.

  “I don’t think so, Dad. Anyway, she’s not involved in this mess.”

  “If you say so.” He flipped the notebook closed. “I hope you’re not having any crazy ideas about going after this punk by yourself?”

  “Who, me?” I asked innocently.

  “Let me do it my way.” He eased the notebook into the inside pocket of his double-breasted gray jacket. “The idea is to remove the danger, not to get even.”

  “Right.”

  “When are they going to let you out?”

  “W
hen Sister Mary Norbertine is ready to forgive me for getting in a fight.”

  We both laughed. I stopped quickly because of my aching ribs.

  “They want to keep me here another day to make sure nothing starts bleeding again. I suppose I’ll be home the day after tomorrow. Mom brought the torts book so I could study for exams. I’ll start in on that tomorrow morning, when they stop giving me this magic-dream medicine.”

  “Don’t get addicted.”

  “No danger of that.”

  Not when the Dutchman and his crowd lurk on the periphery of your morphine-induced dreams.

  After Dad left I returned to those dreams. They were soothing, the way I later learned the last stages of oxygen deprivation, before your brain begins to be damaged, are soothing.

  Much later, the corridors were dark, I was aware of someone else standing at the doorway.

  “Sister Mary Norbertine said I could come in if I didn’t wake you.” Maggie looked like a fifth grader, scarf pulled down over her head, coat collar turned up, as she stood at the door.

  My heart flooded with love. And desire.

  “I won’t tell.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t look very impressive, do I?”

  “It was my fault.”

  “Thanks for coming, Maggie. Your voice kills pain better than drugs. Sorry I can’t get out of bed. Sister Mary Norbertine would kill me if I tried.”

  “I’m responsible.”

  “And I wasn’t even nicked during the war, funny, isn’t it?”

  “I caused it.”

  “Maggie, this has to stop.” I lifted my head off the pillow. The dagger shot through me again.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” she said as she rushed toward me. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

  She meant it, poor girl child.

  “You have this bad habit of picking up strays, young woman.” I gingerly eased my head back into its proper place.

  “Strays? Oh, you talked to Jean Kelly; I forgot.”

  “Two bad choices. One good one.”

  “Who’s the good one?” She sounded puzzled. I wished I could see her face in the dark.

  “Modesty prevents me …”

  “Oh, you’re not a stray, Commander.” Now her laugh was cheerful. Young. Loving. “Not at all. Different class completely.”

  “What class?”

  “Men who keep me. Buy me clothes. Lacy underwear. Nylons. Take me to nice places and nice dances. Spoil me completely. I never felt sorry for you.”

  “Uninitiated twenty-four-year-old?”

  “You didn’t need to be taught anything, Jerry.” Her voice was a soft caress. “You knew how to be sweet to a woman. All you lacked was experience. I felt a little sorry for you because you were lonely and guilty and looking for adventure, but not really sorry. You definitely don’t fit into the category Jean would call ‘strays.’ ”

  “What category then?”

  “ ‘Sweet’ and ‘cute’ are the only adjectives I want to use in a hospital room at night with you all bandaged up.”

  Well, that was clear enough.

  “I hope you’re finished with your latest stray.”

  “I certainly am.” She sounded offended that I even had to ask.

  “Promise me something?”

  “Anything, Commander.”

  “Only sweet and cute boys from now on. No more strays.”

  She giggled like a thirteen-year-old.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You sound so much like Dr. Feurst.… ‘Ya, ve vill haff no more of dem fellas, nein? Only nice boys from now on, like dat poor luffzick sailor boy, ya?’ ”

  “I am not lovesick.…” I stopped laughing because of my aching ribs.

  “I should leave. I either provoke you or make you laugh and you hurt either way.”

  She made no move to leave, however.

  And we were joined by Sister Mary Norbertine.

  “You did wake him up, dear, didn’t you?” She did not sound the least bit angry. “I knew you would.”

  “She didn’t, S’ter.” I defended my woman.

  Oh yes, she was my woman again. Definitely. I would write that down in the journal as soon as I had a chance.

  “Don’t listen to him, S’ter. I did too.”

  “Well, I don’t know, Mary Margaret, whoever marries this young man will have her work cut out for her.”

  “Yes, S’ter,” Maggie agreed docilely. “But he’s not really bad. If you know what I mean.”

  “Getting into a fight at his age. I don’t see why a nice young woman like you would want to visit him, Mary Margaret.”

  “Margaret Mary, but don’t call her Peggy.”

  They both ignored me. Maggie had made another conquest.

  “He can be very sweet, S’ter,” she purred. “And he means well. You know what men are like, especially if they’re Irish.”

  So it went. I wondered after Maggie left whether Sister had come to my room to forestall too much intimacy. I doubt it now. She merely wanted to know, womanlike, whether I appreciated how fortunate I was to have an adorable little girl like “Mary Margaret” care about me.

  The next day they took me off painkillers and let me walk around a little. In that era, before health-care inflation, hospital stays were long and leisurely affairs.

  The next evening I was studying contracts, without too much interest, when my friend from the Bureau of Personnel called.

  “Hey, Jer, I talked to your father yesterday. Couldn’t find him today. He told us you were having trouble with this phony McCarron. I wouldn’t doubt it. He’s a bad actor. A general discharge from Pariss Island. Taking money from young recruits in crooked gambling, picking on civilians in bars, beating up a woman who walked out on him. Charming and personable crook at first. You know the type. Doctors call him a psychopath or something like that.”

  “Beating up on women?”

  “She wasn’t a whore either. Girl he met at the USO. She wouldn’t press charges, or we would have had a general court-martial. Don’t turn your back on him.”

  “I did once.” I struggled out of bed, ignoring the sudden jabs of pain. “I won’t do it again. Send photostats to my dad, will you? Thanks.”

  I was half-dressed when Packy showed up.

  “Where you going, hero?” He frowned, dangerously.

  I told him where and why.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “It’s my fight.”

  “Why did we beat the Japs?”

  “We had more planes and ships than they did.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s my fight.”

  “It’s your car too. I drove over in it. But I don’t think you can drive it to North Sheffield.”

  “You win.”

  “Let’s go.”

  I should have asked the man at the Bureau of Personnel how quickly Wade McCarron went after women who turned him down.

  His attack on me suggested he moved quickly.

  CHAPTER 42

  PACKY AND I SAT IN THE CHEVY AND WATCHED THE LIGHT on the third floor of Maggie’s old three-flat.

  “It looks peaceful enough,” he said dubiously.

  “I’m not taking any chances.” I hurt, I ached, I was in agony. Every ice rut that Roxy hit on our ride from the hospital had been a reprise of my beating.

  I wouldn’t be much good in a fight.

  Unless, I told myself with true Navy Cross heroism, I had to be.

  I glanced at my watch: nine-thirty.

  “I’m going up there.”

  “Is she home from work yet?”

  “Maggie wouldn’t waste the electricity.”

  And she’s still saving money because of the cost of my maroon leather notebook.

  “You can’t go alone.”

  “You’re the reserves. Give me five minutes and come up after me.”

  “Police?”

  “What can they do? We have no evidence against him.”

&
nbsp; If I had known just how dangerous the night would be, I would have called the police instantly.

  I struggled painfully out of the shotgun seat of Roxy, took a deep breath, decided inhaling was a mistake and hobbled up the unshoveled wooden staircase to the door of the three-flat.

  I put my finger on the buzzer, hesitated, and tried the door. It was open.

  Someone else had come before me and left the door open. There were four other apartments.…

  Don’t let him get behind you in the sun this time.

  I slipped through the door and climbed quietly up the steps. At first, each step sent a new shot of agony through my body. Then, as the adrenaline began to flow, I forgot about my aches and pains.

  I paused on the third floor landing. Someone—male—was shouting in Maggie’s apartment.

  “Go get Packy,” CIC advised me. He was right about how you won the war. Quantity, not quality.

  He might hurt her.

  I crept closer to the door.

  “That peckerwood is trying to destroy me. They took away my job. They took away my car. I’ll kill them all.”

  Maggie’s reply was muffled.

  “He’s your friend. You’re part of the plot. The peckerwoods are always scheming to get me.”

  So I pushed the door open.

  Maggie was cowering near the stove. He was holding the collar of her chenille robe in his hand. Her hair was a mess, BUT there was no sign that he had hit her yet.

  Thank God.

  “Well, Colonel McCarron,” I said genially, now aware again of all my aches and pains, “nice to see you again. Haven’t seen you since your general discharge at Parris Island. Phony.”

  “I’ll kill you,” he thundered.

  “You seem to have lost your hired thugs. I hear they had to take a little trip to Cuba. Too bad; it will be a fair fight this time.”

  “I’ll kill you!” With a brutal shove, he sent Maggie flying across the room and against her bed.

  “I doubt it very much.”

  But I wasn’t sure. I had no experience in either American boxing or Japanese martial arts with a badly injured body. Well, I would soon find out what it was like.

  “Get out of here!” Maggie yelled furiously. “I don’t want you stupid men fighting in my apartment.”

  She pushed McCarron toward the door, as if she were a bulldozer and he a pile of dirt. “Get out! I don’t want to see either of you ever again.”