“I think we should go downtown,” Monk said.
“And see Angel?”
“Yep. And see Angel.”
“Glad you’re so good at research, Monk.”
“Let’s drive,” Lou said.
“Downtown? Are you crazy? What’s wrong with the El?”
What’s wrong was that it wasn’t Monk’s new Bel- Air, a car Lou coveted as if it was his neighbor’s ass. “We might have to go somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere.”
“Why not take the Merc?” Monk asked.
“Cause it’s a piece of crap. I want to take the Bel- Air. It’s a nice car and I want something nice, all right?”
On the way downtown Lou asked, “How much you pay for this?”
“That’s not a proper question, Lou.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not ethical.”
“What’s not?”
“You can’t ask how much a man paid for something.”
“Monk, how long have we known each other?”
“What’s that got to do—?”
“How long?”
Monk considered, peeling back the years like an onion. Twenty-two Lou could have told him.
“Since 2nd grade, I think. That’s what? —twenty-one years?” His tone was amazed.
“Close enough. And we were in Korea together, right?”
“Sure. I was company clerk and you were an MP.”
“Right. And you can’t tell me how much the damn car costs?”
“Well, it’s not that simple Lou. There’s a principal involved here, a moral premise, if you will.”
Monk was big on the word ‘premise.’ Part of the reason for his nickname was his ability to find philosophical quandaries in the most ordinary events. Politics made him crazy. He had opinions on everything from the U-2 spy planes to the bomb to Richard Nixon. He hated the Vice President. He practically yelled out loud at the opinion-letters page in the Tribune.
So, Lou wasn’t surprised when he balked at the sales tag of a new car.
“It smacks of conspicuous consumption,” Monk said, cocking his head and looking like a blue jay, as if considering all points judiciously. “Of course, there’s nothing wrong with conspicuous consumption per se; it’s just a matter of conscience, I would think.”
“Monk,” Lou said.
“Hmmm? What?”
Lou held out an ad from the Sun Times. “1958 Bel- Air $1,751.”
“So? Just because you can derive the information elsewhere, Lou, doesn’t mean the question is moot. It’s still a moral dilemma.”
“Monk. You’re so full of it your eyes are brown.”
Chapter 8
Gotta love Chicago politics, huh?
They got to Michigan Avenue around three and parked in a lot near the river. It cost a buck, a worthwhile price for such a ride. Red and White leather seats, automatic transmission and the best V-8 Detroit could make. Lou decided he had to have one.
But he considered, as they walked up the stairs of the Art Deco Tribune building, how unlikely that would be. A self-employed PI wasn’t going to get a loan, he didn’t have any money, or prospects for getting any. But an automatic transmission, he thought, and a leather interior. He could get a pair of those fuzzy black dice.
A guard was stationed on the fourth floor, blocking the way to the editorial and news desks, protection for the owner, Colonel McCormack. A retired cop, given the job as patronage said, “What’s your business?” his tone surly with boredom and inflated self-importance.
“Angel Martin,” Lou said.
“The copy boy?” His look dripped scorn. Clearly, he was here to protect much more important people.
“Why the security, Pops?” asked Monk.
“Bomb threats.”
“Considering the editorial content of this rag, I can’t imagine why.”
“Screw off,” said the guard. He sniffed, “you want Angel?”
“Sure.”
A few minutes later a thin jerky kid appeared from down the hall, dressed in a sort of page boy Philip Morris drag. He nearly ran away when he saw them.
“Angel, it’s me, Lou Fleener.”
The kid seemed panicky. “Go up to five,” he said in a comical stage whisper. “I’ll meet you there.” He turned and dashed off.
They went back to the elevators, pressed five and wandered down a hall until they came to a huge window that looked down on the entire fourth floor. There must have been a hundred and fifty desks arranged in a maze. Near one end was a central group of twenty desks flanking an old-style switchboard. The operator wore a headset and plugged thick cords into dark holes. Even through the glass they could feel the tension, hear the clack of the industrial Remington typewriters as re-write men pounded the keys with two fingers. They could see the desks shake. Somewhere farther below was the rumbling thunder of the huge presses.
Angel appeared suddenly. “Lou Fleener,” he said.
“What do you want?” Five-six, scarred complexion, Angel had changed his name from Angie Martinelli. He was as skinny and jumpy as an underfed cat and Lou knew for a fact that he smoked Marijuana. He was the best copy boy the Trib had ever seen, running an information business from the morgue, where all the old stories were filed. He called himself Angel because he could raise the dead. This joke was his high point of wit.
“Information,” Lou said. Angel stole information from the Tribune’s own files and the paper was never the wiser.
“Of course, information. That’s what I got. On who?”
“Duke Braddock—”
“Jee-sus!”
“And whoever runs the other mobs.”
“That’d be Tony Scolio and Guzman Cermak—”
“Guzman?” Lou asked.
“And Rufus Black,” Angel concluded. “You’re taking on the mob?” His voice squeaked with disbelief.
“More or less,” Lou agreed.
“I can’t do this right now, Lou. We’re on deadline.
First edition goes to bed at five.” He gestured down. The news floor throbbed with activity as if an ant hill had been kicked over. A very big impressive ant hill. “I’ll get what you want and meet you.”
“Where?”
“The Goat’s. Around eight.” He cast a wary glance at the reporters below, suspecting them of spying on him, which they might well be doing, being reporters.
“The Goat,” Lou nodded. “Eight o’clock. See you, Angel.”
But he’d already gone.
Billy Goat’s Tavern was located underneath Michigan Avenue, it’s corner front door beckoning over dark streets, loading docks and garbage cans. It could have been Victorian England, for all the light and atmosphere it got. It was a street below and a world away from the important bustling activity above.
The Goat’s was a hangout for reporters, a no man’s land of long standing. A truce between the traditional rivals, the Sun Times and the Colonel’s mighty Tribune, it was the only place in the city where police beat reporters from both rags would bend elbows in peace.
Angel met them in a dark rear booth, carrying a thick pile of folders and a stein of beer.
“These are bad guys, Lou,” he said without preamble. “I been reading. These are some very bad guys.”
“So are we, Angel.”
Angel snorted his beer. “Not like these guys you’re not. To them you’re nothing at all. They kill people, Lou. A lot of people. I mean, I know about that trick thing you do, And Monk’s got brains, I’ll give him that...”
“Well thank you Angel,” Monk said through a mouth full of hamburger. He was on his third beer, battling impatience with booze.
“...but those don’t do you no good against a Tommy gun or a bomb. These are bad, bad guys.”
“We’ll be careful,” Lou promised. “Whataya got?”
“I got a bunch of guys as bad as anything Capone ever put together. We’re talkin’ mobsters, Lou.”
&nb
sp; “Yeah, yeah; I got it. They’re tough guys. Who are they though? What do they do? And where can we find them?”
“You want to find them? They’ll find you dead, you try and find them. Lou, you can’t do this.” Just the idea of somebody approaching this level of gangster made Angel shaky. “Monk,” he said, “you’re the brains here. Surely you can talk to him.”
“I want them more than he does. Tell us.”
Angel sighed and snatched a smoke from Lou’s pack of Pall Malls. Monk drew a Camel from his own deck and Lou shrugged and tapped one out himself. Moments later they were squinting through a cloud of acrid smoke.
“Tony Scolio runs the west side. Cicero, that’s where the Mayor—Richard J. Daley himself—comes from. Also, Al Capone.” Angel grinned a little sickly grin. Gallows humor, probably. “Gotta love Chicago politics, huh?”
“Gotta,” agreed Lou.
“The west side’s always been good for talent. Scolio hangs out in a restaurant called Spaglio’s, an Eye-talian place out on Pulaski and 26th.”
Monk was taking notes. The pad had ketchup on it. “Go on.”
“Guzman Cermak’s the near north. They call him ‘Cermak the Surgeon.’ He does—”
“Why?” asked Monk.
“Why what?”
Why do they call him the surgeon?”
Angel looked annoyed at the interruption.
“Because he likes to cut people, ok? They say he carries a scalpel around with him. I could tell you stories...”
“Don’t, please.”
Angel looked disappointed. “Right. Cermak does all the drugs and women and gambling from Soldier’s Field to Chicago Avenue. The Lake to Kedzie. Him you can find in his office, a place in the Hudson building on Wacker. Just like he’s a real business man.”
“And Rufus Black?” asked Monk. His voice, deep and rich, sounded spooky in the dim light and thick smoke. Angel shivered.
“Jeez, don’t do that. Rufus Black runs the coloreds down south. He’s got everything from Midway to Hyde Park. This time of year, he’ll be at Comiskey Park.”
“He’s a Sox fan?” Lou asked.
“Just because he’s a crook and a coon don’t mean he’s stupid. The Sox are gonna take the whole series this year. You just wait and see.”
“Like hell,” Lou said. “How’d they do today?
“Split a double header.”
“They’re still two out?”
“Right. But they’ll pull it out this year for sure.”
“You want money on that?” Monk asked.
“Right, you’re a Cubbies fan, huh.” Angel shook his head with disgust. “And you a south sider. When are you guys gonna give up? The Cubs ain’t won a pennant since ‘07 and they never will.”
“The Curse of the Billy Goat,” said Monk and they all looked at him.
“It’s the reason they haven’t been in a playoff series since 1945.”
“What is?”
“Listen, will ya? I’m trying to tell you. The owner of this place, Bill Sianis, the Greek, he bought a ticket for his goat Murphy, but he wasn’t allowed in because, said the Cubs owner, P. K Wrigley, “the goat stinks.”
“Sianis swore that there’d never again be a World Series at Wrigley Field. And sure enough, ahead two games to none, the Cubs lost the Series to the Tigers. After that Sianis yelled at Wrigley, “who stinks now?” The Cubs hadn’t been back since.”
“And they ain’t gonna be back this year either,” said Angel.
“But back to the gangs,” Lou suggested.
“The Cubs. Give me a break.”
“The gangs,” Lou repeated.
“They’ll kill you if you mess with them.” Now that Angel was back on something important, his fear of mere mobsters had lessened. “The God damn Cubbies.” He snorted. “Seriously, why you going to mess with these guys? I know you’ve got more sense, Monk. Why you doing this?”
“Because we’re crazy?” suggested Monk.
Chapter 9
I only read it for the articles
Probably, Lou thought. Very probably.
“What now?” Lou asked.
“We go see them.” Even seated Monk had the jittery motion of someone pacing the floor.
“Huh?”
“We go see them. We know who they are, we know where they are. One of them took Amanda Braddock. We go find out who.”
“Gangsters? We go see gangsters?”
“Yes.”
“No.” Lou shook his head adamantly. “Uh-uh. We need a plan. Can’t just go off halfcocked. Gotta be responsible, think things through. That’s what you always say and by God, it’s good advice.”
“Lou?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be an ass.”
Monk’s house on south Halstead, a brick and clapboard cottage on a narrow lot had a real garage in the alley to hold the Chevy. A postage stamp back yard filled with Snapdragons and Tulips in a riot of color, Monk’s latest fixation. Lou was draped across a green sofa, Monk sat stiffly at the chrome and Formica table in the kitchen. The table was new, from Sears, the chairs padded with plush red vinyl.
Ten in the morning, the temperature nearing a hundred, and all the windows open to catch any slight breeze, they’d stripped to T-shirts the minute they entered the house. They heard the low buzz of cars passing by, felt the slow pulse of an overheated city.
Lou leaned over to the coffee table, also new, and picked up a copy of Playboy magazine.
“You’ve got a subscription?” he asked, holding it up. The centerfold unfolded by itself and he had no choice but to look. A pretty blond looked back over one shoulder, fresh from the bath, holding a terry cloth robe as if caught seconds before being clothed. Sure, Lou thought, photographer just passing by, girl caught by surprise... happens all the time.
“That Hefner guy’s something, isn’t he? Who’d a thought it—coffee table porn with real writers doing the articles.”
Monk spun around on the chair, elbows on knees, looking haunted. “C’mon, Lou. We’ve got to go see them.”
“I only read it for the articles.” Lou turned the page to see that ‘Darla’ was a Co-ed at Stanford who wanted to be a stenographer. She certainly looked able to.
“The longer we wait, the longer that poor girl is held.”
“The interview is with John Updyke, this month. Last month it was Mickey Spillane. You know he used to write comic books before the war? That he created Mike Hammer?”
“She’s probably scared to death.”
‘‘‘I—the Jury’; that was a good one. Boy; I didn’t see that ending coming, did you?”
“God Dammit!” Monk bellowed and Lou, startled, dropped the magazine. Darla looked up from her bath, naked and sudsy, but wholesome. “If you won’t come with me I’ll go alone.”
“All right, Jeez.” Lou took a long moment to light a long Pall Mall from its red pack. Smoke billowed and settled as if it couldn’t handle the heat either. “You can’t do this alone. You don’t know what to do.”
“Let’s just go.”
“But we really should have a better plan. I can’t believe I’m the one saying that.”
“No, we don’t. We break in on these guys and ask them about Amanda. We’ll know from their reactions if they know anything. Soon as we find the right people we call Ben and he gets his daughter back.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. He’s got a lot of guys, Lou. He’ll send some of them.”
“Better one’s than Millie, I hope.” Lou dragged himself up off the sofa, rising out of his smoke like a hairy Aphrodite. “I guess I’m in the mood for some food.”
“You mean?”
“Italian food.”
Monk finally stopped fidgeting.
“At Spaglio’s.”
“An Eye-talian place on Pulaski and 26th,” Lou agreed. He pulled on his shirt, picked up the car keys and his hat. “We’ll take the Mercury. If things get tough, they won’t know who we are.”
“Better,” Lou said. What a good idea.
“Turn here,” Lou said, forcefully. Monk had missed every turn in the last twenty minutes. “On Roosevelt. Left!”
“That’s not Roosevelt,” Monk insisted. “It’s Lincoln.”
“Lincoln? Lincoln’s back near downtown, we’re halfway to the west side. Jesus, Monk, where’d you learn to drive?”
In the Army, of course, where they all learned. Before the war they rode the El because who could afford a car in the city? They went to war and the Army gave them Jeeps.
But the Army didn’t give maps to Chicago and Monk, brainy though he might be, would never ask for directions.
“Left, dammit!”
A pale green and yellow CTA bus idled at the light, waiting for the green. Monk ground the gears looking for first and jerked ahead, narrowly missing it.
“Don’t yell, huh?” he said. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“And isn’t that a depressing thought. Monk, you’re going to kill us before the gangsters get a chance.” They pulled over to a curb on 26th and Monk twisted the key. The engine chugged to a stop, the carburetor gurgling as the car shuddered and died. The air was as thick as molasses and mosquitos attacked in swarms as soon as they opened the door.
“Korea wasn’t this bad,” Lou bitched. He wore a tan short sleeve bowling shirt over a cotton under shirt, already damp with sweat. He left the jacket in the back seat.
“What do you think?” Monk swatted blood suckers as he looked anxiously at the front door of the restaurant down the block. “You think they’ll have guns?”
“Of course, they’ll have guns. Monk, they’re thugs.”
“I know. But,” he waved his hands in worried frustration, “what if they use them?”
“We’ll try our best to not let them do that.”
“Yes, but...”
“Yes, but,” Lou mimicked, laughing. “What an old lady you are.”
Missing Amanda Page 6