by Milton Ozaki
Two miles south of Kreutzburg we met state highway No. 8 and followed it for eight miles to Crown Point. As soon as we neared the town's outskirts, a series of red and green neon signs began proclaiming: Justice of the Peace—Weddings—24 Hour Service. I passed up the first six, then slowed the car a little.
“Any particular one?” I asked.
“Of course not, darling.” She was close beside me, her hip touching mine and her hand resting lightly on my arm. “There's one, in that big white house.”
“It's a nice house,” I agreed. “Shall I drive in?”
“Yes, let's! It looks different than the others, more clean and... and sort of like a church.” She laughed, a little nervously. “Look at the big lawn in front, Carl. I'll bet the kids love it. Do you like kids, darling?”
“Sure.”
“So do I. Let's have three of them, two boys like you and one girl like me!”
I didn't answer. I knew that zero-hour was approaching, but my mind was as muddled as though it had been in cold storage for six months.
I parked the car in the driveway and got out. The big guy got out on the same side I did and stood just behind my left shoulder. Alice came around the car and hugged my right arm while Shirley parked the Chewy. The old lady paired off with Patrick and the four of us went up six steps to the porch of the white house. I rang the bell.
The justice of the peace was an old geezer in a high collar, string tie, and wrinkled shirt. Old-fashioned pince-nez glasses rode the bridge of his beak of a nose, and he beamed benignly upon us through them like a miser scanning entries in a bankbook. The room he led us into had formerly been the living room of the house, but the regular furniture had been removed to make room for a dozen folding chairs against one walk in case the happy couple brought an audience, and for a packing crate altar, which took up most of the floor in front of a gas-grate fireplace. On each side of the altar, a fancy candelabrum on a cheap brass stand stood sentry.
While Alice and Shirley waited, I paid him ten dollars for a narrow gold wedding ring, five dollars for the license, and another five dollars for a handsomely engraved certificate of marriage which was shaped like a book and had white, imitation leather covers. The ceremony was over almost before I realized that it had started. We stood in front of the altar—me on Alice's right, the big guy right behind me, and the old lady off to Alice's left—and, adjusting his pince-nez with one hand, the J. P. began in a tired sing-song: “Do you, Alice Carstairs, take Carl Good to be your lawfully wedded spouse...” The next thing I heard was: ”... therefore, by virtue of the power placed in me as a justice of the peace of Lake County, I pronounce you man and wife.” Beaming, he added unctuously, “You may kiss.” Without waiting to see whether we did or not, he walked away to write his name on a page of the marriage certificate.
There were tears in Alice's eyes. When I bent and touched her lips with mine, she reached up impulsively and, putting her arms around my neck, pulled my head down and kissed me in a way which made me feel as though there were springs in my shoes.
“Darling,” she murmured, clinging to me, “—oh, darling!”
I patted her shoulder and thought: So this is what it's like. This is the big event that everybody goes around singing about. Actually, I was more than a little touched at the way the ceremony had affected her. Through the tears, her blue eyes were as starry and adoring as a picture book bride's, and there had been a real promise in the way she kissed me. To keep from grinning like a slap-happy groom, I had to remind myself that she was the world's finest actress and that it was all a prelude to something else, something probably calculated to make her a young widow.
While she was being wished happiness by Shirley and Patrick, I slipped the J. P. a ten spot. He beamed paternally as though money wasn't everything, whisked the bill out of sight, and laid the marriage certificate into my hands as delicately as though it had been freshly painted.
When Shirley and Alice had their tears under control, I started for the door. We left, arm in arm, like any pair of newlyweds.
The plot became trickier. When we reached our cars, the big guy went over and climbed into the green Chewy with Shirley. They waved goodbye to us, then backed out of the driveway without further ado and drove off in the direction of Kreutzburg.
“Well!” I said. I almost added, “What the hell?”—but didn't.
“It feels wonderful, doesn't it? she asked, leaning her head against my shoulder.
“The air? It sure does.”
“Silly! I mean being married.”
“Oh.” I concentrated on backing the car out into the street.
“You aren't sorry, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“I'm glad, darling. I don't want you ever to be sorry.”
“What's next on the program, Alice?”
“Whatever you want to do, darling. We needn't go back to the park.”
“Shall we head north, toward Chicago?”
“You're the head of the family now. I'm going to leave everything to you.”
“Maybe we'd better find some place to spend the night.”
“All right.”
I simply couldn't believe that the old bag and the big guy had actually gone off and left us on our own. For the next fifteen minutes, I went around blocks and zig-zagged through the town, trying to spot a tail. I saw none and finally concluded that the ambush, if there was one, was going to be established near the place where we stopped for the night—or somewhere on the highway outside of Crown Point. Normally I would have taken highway 53 to U. S. 30, followed it until it met U. S. 41, and then taken 41 north to metropolitan Chicago. Instead, I turned south on 53, skirted the north end of Cedar Lake, and went west to Brunswick, which was near the Indiana-Illinois line. Apparently indifferent to where we were going, she laid her head against my shoulder and closed her eyes. I glanced at her briefly, turned south again at Brunswick, and continued to Klaasville, where I turned west and headed into Illinois. It was nearly midnight and we were approaching Crete when she murmured: “Darling, why don't we stop some place?”
“Sure. Any place in particular?”
“No. I'm just anxious to have you all to myself.”
“Okay, Mrs. Good.”
I spotted a clean, modern-looking motel and turned into its driveway. The cabin assigned to us had a large room, three chairs, a gas plate, and a tiny bathroom. While she undressed and climbed into bed, I checked the locks on the doors and windows. I turned out the light. I was positive no one had followed us there, and I was equally positive that our arrival could not have been anticipated. As I slid down and felt her arms reach for me, I reminded myself that there was a deadly gimmick to her lovey-dovey act and that after the build-up there'd be a terrific letdown. But, like a condemned man presented with a sumptuous last meal, I decided to enjoy myself while I could.
I did.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The pale grey of dawn was seeping through the window of the cabin when I awakened. Thinking I had heard the sound of someone prowling nearby, I raised my head and listened intently. Then I realized that she was crying and that the pillow was damp with her tears. “What's the matter, honey?” “N-nothing...”
I raised myself on one elbow and tried to see her face, but she turned it away from me. “Alice—tell me what's the matter?” When she remained silent, I asked, “Did I do something I shouldn't?”
“N-no,” she replied in a thin voice. “I d-did!”
“For Pete's sake,” I muttered. “What are you talking about?”
“Y-you don't 1-love me.”
“Oh, for Pete's sake. Why do you suppose I married you?”
“I d-don't know.”
“Look, honey.” I took her into my arms. “Tell me what's wrong, then let's go back to sleep. It's hardly dawn yet.”
She sobbed, “You w-went to sleep and... and I was lying here... j-just being happy... and thinking about the ceremony... and then I remembered... s-something...!”
“What did you remember?”
“I'd never told you what my 1-last name was, but you knew. When you filled in the application for the license, you put down Alice Carstairs without even asking me!”
It was my turn to be silent. Like a dope, I had filled in her last name without asking her about it.
“S-so you k-knew who I was and w-what I'd been doing even before you s-saw me. You d-didn't care about me at all. You certainly don't l-love me. I c-can't imagine why you married me!”
“For chrissake,” I said harshly, “suppose I did know who you were? The marriage was your idea. You railroaded me into it, didn't you, even bringing along a punk to make sure I didn't ditch you? I sure as hell don't know what you're crying about! You knew you were sucker bait when you came swimming over to me, so what did you expect me to do? I couldn't run—even though I knew you were on the make for the dough—so I figured I might as well see what happened. That tumble in the grass was as much your idea as mine. You started it—and I just came along for the ride.” I snorted.
“Carl... you don't think I gave myself to you because of that money, do you?”
“You're damned right I do. You and Dippy Bain are the only ones who know I've got it and, as soon as you found out I was at the park, you rushed right out to do your dance. Why else would you make the play you did?”
“You've got it all wrong! You've—”
“Like hell, Alice. I sat beside you in the bar of the Hudson Hotel yesterday afternoon. You didn't give me a second glance and probably don't remember it, but I'm the guy who picked up your earring. I thought you were beautiful and I asked the bartender what your name was. That's okay, in spite of your fancy black disguise, I spotted you as Dippy Bain's moll when you passed me the pay-off dough. You tried to double-cross Bain by putting the boys on my tail and telling them to give me the big push. I'll bet you were surprised when they didn't bring the dough back to you!”
“Carl, please—you've got it all wrong!”
“Okay, go ahead and try to show me. Tony Wells told me about the way you put the screws to him. You've probably done the same thing to a dozen other guys—and I never heard of a lousier trick anywhere. Go ahead, run off at the mouth and tell me what a wonderful girl you are. Convince me. I wish to hell you could!”
“Carl, 'please listen to me.” She pounded my chest with a fist. “You've got to listen to me!”
“I'm listening.”
“I want to tell you all about everything, Carl—all about me —so you'll understand. Because you've got some things wrong. Oh, you're right about... about what I did to Tony Wells and some of the other men, but that was just a job, something I was told to do—and they deserved it, in a way. That isn't what I want to tell you about, though. Are you listening?”
“Go ahead. Make it good.”
“I hardly know where to start, Carl. It's all sort of mixed up in my head. I guess the beginning was about five years ago. I was working as a waitress in a Chicago restaurant and a big, good-looking man started coming in and sitting at one of my tables every day. I didn't know who he was—and I didn't care—but he always left me a nice tip and I noticed that the owner acted as though he were someone important. A few weeks later, I was made the hostess— and one of the other girls told me it was because Mr. Pisano had suggested it to the boss. As a result, I got a bigger salary and started wearing nice clothes while I worked... well, you know how hostessing is. I began to think I was somebody. Then, shortly after that, this Mr. Pisano stopped on his way out one night and said he wanted to talk to me and that he'd be waiting in his car outside when I finished work.”
“You didn't know who Pisano was!”
“No. Honestly, I didn't. I was just a kid and didn't read the newspapers much, and I thought he was merely a nice guy who liked me and wanted to help me. I was grateful to him, too, because he'd gotten me the hostessing job. Well, to make a long story short, I met him after work that night. He took me to one of his clubs. That was the beginning. For the next two years, he gave me everything I could think of—and I was his girl. I guess I don't have to explain that to you. Anyway, that's the way it was and I got to know all about the Pisano mob and the places he had a finger in. I was quite a character, I guess. Then I made a mistake.”
She stopped and remained silent so long that I said, “Go on, Alice. You wanted me to listen.”
“I made a mistake. I let myself get in trouble. When Pisano found out, he told me that I'd have to have an operation because he already had a wife and kids and didn't want another family hanging around his neck. I refused. I told him I loved kids and that I intended to have it, whether he wanted it or not. He acted like a madman. After calling me every name he could think of, he threw a thousand dollars in my face and told me to get out and stay out. Before I left, he slapped me around and... and hurt me—and the next morning one of his boys brought me a one-way ticket to New York and made sure I got on the train. I was awfully sick on the train and, a few days later, I lost the baby. I really wanted that baby, Carl. You've got to understand that.”
“Why the dirty bastard!”
“He killed my baby—and I swore I'd get even with him. As soon as I got to New York, I sold everything he'd given me—clothes, jewelry, everything—because I didn't want to have anything to remind me of him. I intended to turn over a new leaf, to make something of myself, and—well, I guess I didn't know exactly what I was going to do, except that I knew I wanted to make him suffer some day as I had suffered. I did office work for a while, then I became a waitress because I needed more money, and then, one day about two years ago, a man stopped me on the street and asked me if I'd ever done any modeling. I told him no, but he was a photographer and said I was just the type he'd been looking for. I posed for him a few times, and suddenly I discovered I was a successful fashion model. I had more jobs than I could take care of, I was making a lot of money, and I began meeting a lot of wonderful people. One of the people I met was a man from Philadelphia who knew Dippy Bain, the big boss there. He introduced me to Dippy at a party last year and, during one of our conversations, he bragged that he was thinking of moving in on the Chicago mob. I told him I knew Pisano and Chicago and how the joints were organized, and he was interested. He told me Pisano had borrowed money from him and hadn't paid it back. Right away, I saw a chance to get even with Pisano, and I suggested that he'd be doing Chicago a favor by getting rid of Pisano and taking over the rackets himself. He said he'd think it over.”
“This was a year ago?”
“No, I guess it was less than a year, because it was about six months ago when Dippy called me and asked if I'd be interested in going back to Chicago and helping him undermine Pisano. I leaped at the chance, Carl, and it wasn't because of the money he offered me. I went to Philadelphia, talked things over with him, and then took the next plane to Chicago. I wanted to get started, I wanted to begin paying Pisano back for the things he had done to me. I was willing to do anything to accomplish that, anything at all.” “Wait a minute. Were you Bain's girl friend?” “No. I wasn't anybody's girl friend. After what Pisano did to me, I couldn't bear the thought of a man touching me. I was accused of being frigid, but I didn't care. I didn't even care about wearing pretty clothes. I bought the same kind of dresses, the same kind of suits, year after year—and always in black, because that's the way I felt. You see, I didn't want men to be interested in me. Nothing made any difference.”
I nodded. “Okay. So you came to Chicago.” “Yes, I came here and rented a suite at the Hudson Hotel and started doing as Dippy had told me to do. I'd given him a list of the big joints which were paying off to Pisano, and, when word was passed to me, I'd go to the club, get the owner interested in me, and lure him out to the park. For the last six months, that's all I've done. It was hard to do it sometimes, but I kept reminding myself that they were Pisano's boys and that every time I hurt one of them I was hurting Pisano, too.”
“Wait, Alice. What do you mean, “when word was pa
ssed to you'? You were in charge of things, weren't you?”
“No, someone else—some other woman—is in charge.” “For chrissake,” I said, “is this the truth, Alice?” “I swear to God that every word is true, Carl.” Inwardly, I groaned. “Okay, let's hear the rest of it.” “She phoned me last Monday and told me that The Golden Spoon was next on the list. So I started going there, just like I had to the other places. Pisano suspected what was going on, of course, by then, and both Louie and Bennie Fidulla had been told to watch out for strangers who came nosing around. That's why you got into a jam there.”
“Was Millie White working with Bain's outfit?”
“I don't think so. I do know that someone always preceded me into each of the clubs and got the information on its operating methods, but I doubt if it was Millie White. I think it was probably Bain's girl friend who took care of that, some way, because getting it was very important, even more important than what I did.” She shrugged. “I used it, of course, when I showed them the films, but I just repeated what I'd been told.”
“By phone?”
“Yes. Tuesday I heard, indirectly, that Pisano was ready to cry uncle and that Bain was forcing him to pay back a half million dollars. I was so happy I felt like... like—”
“Dancing,” I said drily. “So you rented a ballroom and danced.”
“You know about it. It sounds silly now, I suppose, but at the time it seemed like a sort of grand gesture, like dancing at the funeral of someone you've hated for a long time. You see, I knew that Pisano loved money and power more than anything, and now he was losing both of them.” She tossed her head. “The pay-off was to be Wednesday morning and Bain flew in from Philadelphia to collect the money. I don't know what went wrong, but Bain went back east that afternoon without the money and, about five o'clock, I got a phone call from her, telling me to rush things with Bennie Fidulla. Later, she phoned me again and told me that Pisano had come through with the pay-off, after all, and that you were to take it to Philadelphia to Bain. She told me to call you, arrange a meeting, get a receipt, and so on. You know about that. The brief case was waiting for me at the Club Mimi. It contained more money than I'd ever seen before, but it didn't mean anything to me except that it was something which Pisano loved and which he'd been forced to give up against his will. I knew it had hurt him to part with it, and I only wished that there was some deeper way to hurt him, but I couldn't think of any. Then, yesterday afternoon, I heard what you'd done to him—and I was so happy that I cried. That's why I came to the park, Carl. I felt so grateful, I wanted to see you and thank you and—”