“Been working them for almost two years.”
“Sixteen months and two-and-a-half weeks. Not counting sick days.”
“And if I fall off the saddle?”
“Monica’s ridden bareback before.”
“From what I hear, everything from Arabian to zebra.”
He pointed the needle nose of another paper airplane at me. “And don’t forget the Dixieland band.”
“Never.”
He read something more into my voice than rebellion. “Infatuation, Grenadine? With a member of the opposite sex? Doesn’t jibe.”
“Forget Freddie Bickel so soon?”
“A man who polishes his toenails with Revlon’s Coral Pink isn’t a member of the opposite sex.” Slinging a brotherly arm around my shoulders, Brad saw me to the door. The standard lecture was coming. “Journalism is a business just like any other business, Grenadine. The people who run a newspaper are interested in only one thing: the bottom line. It has to be black or someone isn’t doing his job. Altruism is a fanciful notion you’ll read on the editorial page, but inside the belly of the beast, it’s all about the color green. The sad sap who doesn’t understand that is going to be very disappointed. I’m not complaining, mind you. Just the way it is. And to sound off about slant or style, or to think that editorial decisions are made with the heart and not the head is a waste of energy.” His brotherly instincts returned. The intensity of those blue eyes that saw men die and a daughter crippled could pin just about anybody to the wall. “Why aren’t you home having babies, Iris? Like your sisters?”
“Because I’m allergic to baby powder.”
He catapulted me into the bullpen with a pat on my rump, his way of giving co-workers the wrong impression.
Chapter 14
THE FROSTED GLASS window inside his door clattered. Just about every man in the newsroom was pecking out a story one key at a time, but divided attentions said they were more interested in guessing what Innes had said to me than in meeting deadline. Monica Seagraves was the exception. Touch-typing at the speed of sound, she locked her beady brown eyes onto me before glancing back at her notes and pounding the keyboard.
I went down to the newspaper morgue. Back issues were stored on dust-laden racks and research notes stacked in metal bins. Obits had a special section, ready to be pulled and published when the unfortunate demise of a well-known figure took place. Research had gone into each bio: meticulous, pre-approved, and filed alphabetically. I rifled through the K drawer.
In ’38 alone, the cops picked up Johnny Kirk more times than there were legal holidays in the year. Criminal offenses ranged from contributing to the delinquency of a minor to burglary, larceny, break and entry, and assault and battery. Other charges piled up. Fugitive status. Damage by baseball bat. Assault with a tire iron. Conspiracy to operate a book. Possession of a concealed weapon. Suspicion of bombing. Gambling. Possession of a fictitious driver’s license. And last but not least, conspiracy to commit murder. Miracle of miracles, he was never indicted. Not in 1938 and not in any other year beginning with ‘19’. He had more luck than an Irishman carrying a four-leaf clover. Or else he had a friend, or several friends, in the upper echelons of law enforcement.
The freight elevator was always the fastest exit. I knew where to find the key and how to work the contraption. Once on the loading dock, I took a roundabout route between rolls of blank newsprint and made my way to riverside parking. The pavement was always wetted down from water traffic and the air damp with spray. Since parking the car an hour ago, the Bel Air’s left front tire had developed a flat. I called the auto club from the lobby. By the time I made it back downstairs, the right front tire had also deflated.
On our way to the garage, the tow truck driver brought me up to speed. An epidemic of vandalism had struck downtown, everything from tire punctures to broken headlights and jammed exhaust pipes. “Kids,” he intoned. “Whooping it up over summer vacation.” Though he shook his head in dismay, he was one happy camper. He’d probably pocketed more tips in the last few days than during the entire month of June.
I talked myself into feeling better about the situation. Convinced myself I hadn’t been targeted by someone who wanted to make a point. Vanquished my worst fears that an unknown foe intended to scare me off the story. Eventually I laughed at the absurdity of life in the big city and even kicked myself at the thought that anyone would be afraid enough of my pen to give a damn.
But the garage mechanic pointed out two slashes that only an eight-inch shiv could have produced. Kids, I reasoned, don’t generally carry lethal weapons in their short pants. The mechanic was eyeing me, worry etched into his grease-monkey face. I laughed him off and said, “Kids.”
“Kids,” he repeated, but he wasn’t any more persuaded than I was.
A half hour later, I rolled out of the garage with two new tires, determined to uncover the identity of Dick Byrnes’s murderer if it killed me. Metaphorically speaking.
Chapter 15
STARR PARKED ACROSS the street from an eleven-storey granite-and-glass mausoleum gusseted by soaring Corinthian-capped columns.
Minimal ingenuity had gone into the hulking neo-Classical rectangle that occupied a full city block of prime downtown real estate. Housed in the single building like the two faces of Janus, City Hall faced LaSalle Street and the County Building hugged Clark Street, while a sky-high lobby demarcated the twin tenants of local government. As it is with all seats of authority, the setting and tone was imposing enough, but the inner workings painted a different picture.
After elbowing his way through a lunchtime crowd, Starr strolled inside with a graceful flow of body and limbs as if he hadn’t a care in the world. In fact, he was focusing on everything and everyone around him.
I followed him through the revolving doors. In the lobby, our footfalls reverberated in syncopation. Stern sentries spaced at predetermined intervals glare at everyone. Citizens and civil servants bustled about. Far-off voices echoed against walls of fluted marble and polished brass. Starr boarded the next available elevator. I stepped beside him. The operator cranked the lever. We rode up as if strangers, our eyes sticking fast to the floor indicator. Evergreen disinfectant failed to mask cigar smoke.
On the second floor, Starr bypassed the line outside the City Council visitor’s gallery and banged through the Press Only entrance. Put out by his bad manners, I stood my ground. The door soon yawned with a backhanded shove of his long arm.
“Your mother must be overbearing,” I said to him.
“Met her, have you?”
“Let’s say, I recognize the symptoms.” I showed security my press credentials, and we climbed to the balcony.
“Where did you disappear to last night?”
“Hot date.”
“Dinner with your mother?”
He had the presence of mind to blush.
The smoke-filled City Council Chamber was set up for fifty aldermen, desks forming parallel semi-circles around a central podium. Chandeliers spaced every fifteen feet emitted enough light to reveal money being passed under the table. Frontispieces above the wainscoting depicted Labor, Commerce, Electricity, the Chicago Fire, Gifts of Illinois to the Nation, and Education. This homage to decency and goodness had nothing to do with actuality. The council was a rubber stamp for the mayor. Had been for eons. Every alderman hated the other forty-nine, but by uniting against a greater evil—the very citizens who elected them into office—they formed a private club very few penetrated.
The smoke-filled chamber roared dissent. When everyone quieted down, Johnny Kirk stood up and thrust out his paunch. “What does the 10th Ward alderman have to say about these here gondolas the 35th Ward alderman proposes to waste our hard-earned tax dollars on?”
The 35th Ward alderman, though present, crossed his arms and said nothing.
The 10th Ward alderman lumbered to his feet, took in his fellows, rolled his cigar, and slanted his eyes toward Kirk. “Stupidest idea since Kraft Singles.” D
uty done, he sat.
The 35th Ward alderman exploded out of his chair. “All due respect to the 10th Ward alderman, but does the 19th Ward alderman wipe your ass, too?”
The two aldermen pushed aside chairs and squared off, but it was only for show. They had long passed the time when a disagreement turned into bloody noses and bruised pride. They may have been two former hoods from the streets, but now they were middle-aged and didn’t want to rumple their silk suits. So when the mayor called for order, the uproar subsided and sides regrouped.
My colleagues furiously scribbled longhand into flip notebooks, smirks splashing their usually unaffected demeanors and chuckles escaping the corners of their mouths. One exception stood out. A member of my own gender sat in the front row of the gallery. Her picture hat shaded a pair of beady eyes. The artificial glow of distant lamplight brought out the half-moon rise of a tense cheek. Using the fountain pen received from her editor upon getting her first byline—a suck-up piece about the Junior League—she employed the broad looping strokes of Gregg shorthand. Sensing a hateful glare stabbing her in the back, Monica Seagraves twisted around and gazed at me from beneath her floppy hat. She batted her eyelashes. I sent her a munificent grin. In step with her social standing as the daughter of an industrialist-turned-philanthropist, she embraced the manner of a penguin catching a ride on an Arctic floe and once more faced front.
Taking his cue from the dais, the 3rd Ward alderman volunteered as the voice of melioration. “I say these here gondolas are a cultural investment for the city.”
The 22nd Ward alderman begged to disagree. “Doncha think it’s about time this town was known for something other than gangsters and machine guns. Jeez! Gondolas will only remind everybody this is still Capone’s town. And I, for one, don’t want our city to be known as the gutter of America, thank you very much.” With a grandiose sweep of his arm, he bowed to the gentleman of the third ward and awaited the fireworks.
After hitching up his pants, the alderman representing the third ward took the challenge. “Since when did you have a say about anything? You sit on the mayor’s lap and speechify when he so chooses to move your lower mandible. That’s when you muddahfugging have your say.”
Steam rose from the engine of disharmony. Some aldermen chose laughter to dispel the tension.
The 13th Ward Alderman addressed the alderman representing the third ward. “Oh yeah? And which one of your slimy relatives owns this here gondola company? More important, how much is your take gonna be? Because I’d like a percent, say fifty off the top.”
The war of words escalated. Disassociating himself from the discord, the mayor sneaked out via a private exit. Not to be outflanked, Kirk let himself out via a different door. I followed Starr out of the gallery. Monica twisted around and latched a cagey eye onto us but took special interest in my partner. Like all men, Starr was susceptible when it came to perfume-scented women, especially if they enjoyed a reputation of being easy.
I said to him, “Whenever she gets the chance, she treats my editor to vanilla ice cream cones.”
“One for each hand?”
When we stepped into the corridor, the air quality improved. We took the stairs, our footsteps tapping variegated marble. “Imagine Kirk showing up in City Council as if he hadn’t just snuffed out Dick Byrnes.”
“I thought you thought the wife did it.”
“Changed my mind.”
“Clue me in when you stop changing your mind so I’ll know who to eliminate from the list of suspects.”
“There’s a list of suspects?”
His thumb and index finger popped up sequentially. “The baby doll and Kirk.”
“Now that we know you can count to two, see if you can add a few more.”
“Exactly how many suspects are lurking in that convoluted mind of yours?” Starr asked.
“Seven. Maybe eight.”
“How do you figure?”
“The missus. Her boyfriend. The bimbo. Her secret lover. The mayor. Kirk. Arezzo. And you.”
“Me?” His laughter was uneasy. “I’m one of the good guys.”
“The murderer always returns to the scene of the crime.”
“Not always. Besides, Byrnes wasn’t killed at the Harmon House. Said so yourself. He was dumped there. Big distinction.”
“Doesn’t mean you didn’t do the dumping. Or the mayor didn’t hire you for damage control ... and other things.”
He pulled up on the landing and pivoted on a heel. His look was direct and unblinking. He pushed back his fedora. Twin Roman candles lit up his eyes. For the first time, he was seeing an opponent to be reckoned with.
His scrutiny made me uncomfortable. I tugged at the hem of my jacket and released stress with a stretch of my neck. “You have to check the gangways and vestibules to keep up with me. Ask anybody.”
“I have.”
“And?”
“Said you’re a cheap date and an easy lay.”
“I’m an expensive date and hard to catch.” I had to be honest with myself. There was a certain hypocrisy of aligning myself with a man like Starr. His client could be a murderer or, at the very least, someone whose political future might be damaged by whatever I found out. Cooperating with a hired gun was the same as working with the enemy and could very well damage my journalistic integrity.
He stroked a thumb across his lower lip. “Slip in and out of shadows, do you?”
“Dangle from the skylights.”
“Sneak up on a person’s tail?”
“Won’t even know it’s me biting you in the assets.”
He turned sideways and glanced at me from the corners of his eyes. Then he resumed climbing.
“Let me guess,” I said, keeping up with him. “The mayor asked you to cover his ass. Slap on some glims. Flash the gogs. Deep-six the investigation. Plug the leak. Get out the old peashooter. Maybe even silence the canary.”
“This is The Mayor you’re impeaching. Capital T, capital M.”
“Bet he turned himself into the plural. As in our office, our problem, our royal ass.”
He ground to a halt. “Anyone ever tell you, Grenadine, that you have a jaded slant on life?”
“As my mother always says, Az es klingt, iz misstomeh chogeh.”
He gave me a quizzical look but said, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
We reached the top floor and walked briskly past several doors before Starr barged into Alderman Kirk’s office unannounced. A full thirty seconds later, he hurtled back out. “Flew the coop,” he said.
“Wouldn’t you, after what happened?”
“Over gondolas?”
“Let’s face it. Everyone suspects Kirk. Even if nobody’s saying it out loud, he’s probably the killer. And now they want their pound of flesh. The cops. The mob. Byrnes’s brothers.”
He shifted his eyes. “He has brothers?”
“Three. They’re big, they’re burly, and they’re mean.”
He inserted a toothpick between his lips. “My advice, Grenadine. Write your fluff piece on the southern hick and stop looking for the killer. Could get you into more hot water than one of Pennyroyal’s midnight raids.”
“Heard about them, have you?”
“The dick likes to keep his prime suspects on their toes, looking over their shoulders, and flat on their backs. And you ought to know.” His last remark was laden with meaning.
I felt myself go hot with anger. “Somebody’s got a big mouth.”
Triumph flickered in his eyes. “It’s a small town.”
“Not that small.” I was too mortified to come up with a glib remark. Nobody knew about Pennyroyal and me. We both wanted it that way, or so I mistakenly believed. “You do know why he made such a vile, slanderous, underhanded suggestion to ... to impugn my integrity and ... to ... to ....”
“You are mad.” The toothpick moved from one corner of his mouth to the other. The stillness between us was palpable. He was weighing everything in his mind and adding hi
s own personal stake into the mix. “Because he wants to discredit you?”
He probably decided I was a slut, anyway. “I really don’t care what you think of me, Starr.”
“Sure you do.” Sending a parting salute, he headed back toward the staircase.
I wheeled around and strolled in the opposite direction, muttering to myself and swearing off all men forever. Banging through the gold-lettered outer doors of the mayor’s office, I bumped smack into Monica Seagraves. She came up short, crossed her arms, and admired my outfit: an off-white linen affair with fitted bodice, swing skirt, V-neckline, mother-of-pearl buttons, cinched belt, and matching bolero jacket. “Going to church, are we?”
Compared to her long-sleeved scarlet dress with dolman top, stand-up collar, black buttons, and pleated skirt, I looked like a virgin bride. “Coming from the cathouse, are we?”
“Ha-ha-ha, you’re so funny, Iris. But as a matter of fact, if you happen to run across a fat cat, I’m offering a reward.”
“Furry or rich?” I asked.
She harrumphed, stared at me through ball bearing pupils, and turned on a heel.
I executed a plié and parked myself in the straight-backed chair next to Shirley Wickham’s desk.
“Can I help you, Iris?” Shirley asked, drumming a pencil against her desk. Her large eyes were inquisitive, her manner reserved, and her personality stiff. She had a heart-shaped face, bouffant hairdo, and middling fashion sense. In the right light and from a distance, she could wow every gentleman in her sights. Up close and personal, she was a Red Delicious apple that had spent too much time in the icebox.
Aware of a delightful fragrance in the air, I sniffed. “What perfume are you wearing?”
“Tabu,” she answered. “On sale at Marshall Field’s.”
“Know where I can find Kirk?” I asked, idly perusing the many documents on her desk.
Smiling pleasantly, she stacked the papers into a neat pile and flipped them face down. “Just left.” She exchanged the pencil for an emery board and began filing her fingernails.
The Green-Eyed Dick Page 11