Seriously?

by Duane Lindsay

  Works for bras, too. The little guy stares, realizes he’s staring, jerks his head up and sees Lou, a man, a big man, watching him watching her and he’d swallow his gum too if he had any or was able to swallow. His mouth’s gone dry and his eyes... keep... going back to that open button and she says, from somewhere way far away, “Can’t you help me? Just this one time?”

  He feels a fingertip, one covered with a very sharp red polished nail, touch him gently under the chin. There’s a slight pushing pressure and his head is lifted until he’s looking in her eyes.

  “It can be just our little secret, ok?”

  “Secret,” he says. “Ours,” he says. “Little.”

  Twenty minutes later she and Lou are walking up the stairs, not talking because of all those echoes. They go through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk.

  “Told you,” she says brightly.

  “That was real slick,” says Lou. They’ve walked hand in hand back to the lot, retrieved the Bel Air from the attendant, tipping him a quarter, and Lou’s about to turn out into traffic.

  “You’re not mad?” Cassidy’s been wondering since they left the archives. Lou seems to be in fine spirits but with men you never know. He could be smiling on the outside and about to blow his stack, covering it with casual replies to her probes.

  But Lou’s not one to hold things in. “I’m fine.” He glances from the road while a big CTA bus idles by, and he smiles. “I mean it; pretty slick. But you gotta show me that bra trick sometime.”

  “Happy to,” she says, laughing. Lou could be annoying, he didn’t look all that great, not when sitting in the same county as Monk, but he made her feel safe and made her smile and if that wasn’t what love is all about, she didn’t know better.

  She slips her hand in his and neither one takes them back, not even to smoke a cigarette.

  “Let’s eat out,” she announces. “There’s not much at home and the meat counter’s going to be closed soon.” The Chicago butcher’s union had decided that the new practice of wrapping cut meat in cellophane and putting it out for shoppers was bad for the butchers.

  “It’s our job to cut the meat to order,” they announced at their last bargaining session and, backed by mayor Richard Daley’s heavy Democratic machine, managed to make rules that inconvenienced thousands of housewives every single day. Butchers closed their kitchen at four and locked the meat cases. If you hadn’t shopped early, you weren’t going to shop at all.

  So, “I spotted a little Italian place on Milwaukee. We could have a table for two, some red wine, music...?”

  “I’m in. Give me directions and let’s go.”

  “And Lou?”

  “Yeah?” The CTA bus he’s stuck behind is belching enough smoke to choke a coal miner.

  “Later tonight I’ll show you some other tricks.”

  The next morning Lou’s up early, eager to go, Cassidy’s taking her usual hour plus to get ready. It used to be a problem, one faced by almost all men about almost all women, but Lou’s decided the result is worth the wait and he reads the sports section until she appears.

  “What’s the plan, Stan?” Cassidy is worth the long wait. She’s wearing a light blue dress with a fake pearl necklace and heels and he can’t quite recall where he’s seen that look before but he likes it a lot.

  “We’re off to Skokie this fine morning, ma’am.”

  “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I get enough ma’ams from the rest of the lugs. Why Skokie?”

  “It’s where we will find one...” He glances at the papers on the seat between them, “Bobby Festerman.”

  “He’s a Nazi?”

  “Everybody we’re going to visit today is a Nazi.”

  “How swell! It’s like the fourth of July and Christmas all rolled into one magical day!”

  “Mind the sarcasm... ma’am.”

  “Why would a Nazi sympathizer live in Skokie, Lou?”

  “Irony, I suppose, assuming he knows the meaning of the word.” Skokie’s the largest Jewish community in the Chicago area. Several times the local bigots and holocaust deniers tried to get permits to demonstrate but always were met with unfriendly clerks, angry police and a furious neighborhood backlash. They kept trying though.

  The drive is quick, up Lake Shore Drive against the incoming rush hour traffic and in less than an hour they’re in front of a small tan brick bungalow house. Thick trees and a perfect yard with grass a deep green, a red shingled roof and a sprinkler attached to a brown hose snaking across the lawn that makes rainbow patterns as it whirrs back and forth.

  Lou and Cassidy park on the street and walk up the narrow concrete walk, knock on a blue door. A woman opens it. She’s elderly, with graying hair and an exasperated clipped tone that suggests she’s had strangers at her door before.

  “Yes” Either wariness or weariness, hard to tell.

  Cassidy answers, “Mrs. Festerman? We’re here to see Bobby.”

  “Why? What’s he done this time?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bobby. What’s he done? You are cops, aren’t you?”

  “Um,” says Cassidy as Lou take over.

  “Yes, ma’am; we are. Officer Bristol and this is officer Cassowary.” ‘Cassowary’ is giving Lou a look. “We just need to ask your son a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  “Nothing serious ma’am; just routine. There was a hit and run over on Winslow Ave last Saturday night. Around ten PM. A witness saw a blue Plymouth Fury in the area. Matches what your son drives.”

  “It wasn’t him,” says the woman. There’s neither relief or resignation in her voice, as if it’s good he’s not involved in this one, but something else is sure to follow. “He was with me Saturday. We go to the church hall and play Bingo every Saturday, came home together around ten.”

  Lou closes his notepad. “Well, we don’t need to see him, do we? Thanks for your time Mrs. Festerman.”

  They walk to the car and Cassidy says, “She’s lying.”

  “I know. How do you know? Women’s intuition?”

  “Shove it, Lou; there’s no such thing. I saw her eyes as she counted back to Saturday. There’s no Bingo, I’ll bet.”

  “That’s what triggered me, too. Must be ‘Man’s’ intuition, huh?” He’s grinning like a ten-year-old and she’s torn between swatting him or hugging him.

  “Why don’t we go see somebody else and come back to this guy?”

  “That’s what I was thinking, too! Got to be ‘Man’s’ intuition.”

  This time the choice is easy.

  “Ow.”

  Next guy on the list is Jimmy Jackburn of suburban Niles, not too far away. Lou consults his Standard Oil maps and they get to another brick house, this one red. The yard looks like it hasn’t seen water for a month, with brown patches between the stubby green tufts. The sidewalk is cracked and uneven, the screen door is crooked and creaks when Lou tugs it open.

  The doorbell works. They can hear it ringing inside and Lou presses it hard for a full minute before giving up.

  “Exciting, this life of a private eye,” says Cassidy.

  “Lady, you don’t now the half of it. Still think this’ll be fun?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Lou steps back from the porch to look through the windows. Inside, the house is sparsely furnished; just a couple of chairs and a table near the back of the living/dining area. There’s no television he can see and no pictures on the wall.

  “I’m calling the cops!”

  Lou turns to see a middle-aged man in faded shorts and a thin blue shirt coming around the corner of the neighboring house with a green hose in one hand and a beer in the other. It’s nine-thirty in the morning so maybe the beer is a little early but the guy’s got an angry look like this might not be his first.

  “The hell you people want?” he demands. The hose is pointing down and spraying the grass at his feet, which he doesn’t seem to notice. “Are you more of them?”

  Them? T
hinks Lou. Nazis, maybe? He steps over, hand out, big, big smile, like he’s the mayor of friendly town and Cassidy joins him, also smiling. The man, confused, shuffles the beer and the hose to one hand and accepts the handshake but not the smiles.

  “Are you?”

  “Nope,” says Lou. “Just the opposite. You’re referring to Mr. Jackburn’s association with the Nazi party, I assume?”

  The man chews on this sentence for a moment and nods slowly. “Jimmy, he’s one of them. Moved in a few months ago when the old tenants died. Mexican folks, a couple of kids. Nice folks. Kept the yard up, never any trouble.

  “So this guy moves in.” There’s some serious disgust in the word this— “And things go to shit. Oh; sorry. Pardon my French ma’am.”

  Cassidy’s getting a bit tired of all this ma’aming she’s been getting lately. “He’s a bad one?” she asks.

  “Is he! Him and that crowd he hangs around with. I don’t mind people’s politics; I figure it’s like religion; none of my business. But Nazis? That’s just crazy. I fought in the big one against those guys and I sure as shit don’t want one as a neighbor. Pardon my French, ma’am.”

  “Sure.” Cassidy looks around. “He’s not here?”

  “Nah. Hasn’t been for a couple of days now. Went off Saturday night with a couple of his pals and they all showed up here ‘bout two AM. I guess they’d been drinking because they showed up in those Nazi uniforms he likes to wear. Can you believe the gumption? Wearing those things in public?”

  “No sir,” says Cassidy. “I cannot. Thanks for your time. We’ll be going now.”

  “Hey; you going to get him in trouble?” The sound of hope.

  “Yes sir, we are. We most certainly are.”

  Back in the car, back on the road, this time heading for Evanston, a wealthy suburb north on the lake, Lou says, “You catch the part about coming home in uniforms?”

  “I did. That means their street clothes must have gotten burned up at the bar.”

  “All those guys, they’ve got to come home in their Nazi costumes?” Lou starts to laugh, thinking about it. “That’s got to be like the guy sneaking out the window when the husband comes home, has to run away buck naked.”

  “Probably worse,” agrees Cassidy. “The naked guy might get a little sympathy. Who’s going to worry about these guys?” She looks at the list. “Who’s next?”

  Doesn’t really matter who’s next because he isn’t there. Nor is the next guy or the next one after that. Lou and Cassidy drive all over the city, from north Schaumburg to the western suburb of La Grange. Nobody’s home, nobody’s seen them and good riddance.

  “Seems like our Nazi party is keeping a low profile.”

  “Scattered like cockroaches.”

  “I’ll have the chicken in a basket, please.” They’re at a Dairy Queen on the side of the road in some small-town west of the city. It’s somehow become evening and the ice cream stand is buzzing with kids in baseball uniforms, families and teenagers sharing sodas. The sky’s gone from harsh blue that hurts the eyes to a muted purple that’s sinking into black. A pair of orange sodium lights over the picnic benches makes an oasis for them all. Big moths swarm around the lights.

  They’ve decided to eat in the car and the windows are open. They listen to the chatter and the low drone of Cicada and the click and buzz of June bugs flying into everything. They’ve got fries in a red plastic basket between them on the seat and sodas perched precariously on the dash and the radio’s playing something soft. Lou dabs a bit of ketchup from her lip and she smiles at him.

  “This is a perfect evening, Lou.”

  “Yeah; it is. Long drive home though.”

  “True, but it’s nice all the same.”

  “Can you believe we checked every address and came up empty?”

  “No. Hard to believe I’m actually depressed about not talking with a Nazi.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ––––––––

  A Fine Mess We’re In

  ––––––––

  Monk’s talking with a Nazi.

  They’re in the kitchen of the old farmhouse, sitting at the scarred wooden table, still covered with a red and white checked tablecloth. Erich, in a macabre imitation of a perfect host, has set the table with crocheted napkins he found in a drawer in the parlor. He’s placed ashtrays and set out cold beer before sending Aldo out to drag the shackled prisoners out of the barn.

  “Sit, sit!” he says, a jovial demon. He’s wearing his Nazi Colonel uniform, complete with the armband Swastikas, the cap and boots and the polished leather belt.

  And the Luger in its holster with the snap off.

  Aldo shoves Bonnie to a seat against the wall and gestures to Monk to take a seat across the table from Erich. He retreats to the farthest wall and crosses his arms, the perfect guard.

  Erich pushes a new pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes across the table next to a shiny silver lighter. “Please feel free to smoke. These are your brand, yes, Mr. Fleener?”

  Bonnie starts to speak but is shushed by a tiny nod from Monk. She slumps back in her chair, head drooping.

  Monk, though hungry and exhausted, is alert and interested. He’s out of the barn for one thing, and not being punched anymore. His bruises from last night are sore and he’s stiff but it looks like Erich wants to talk. Which beats being beaten.

  “Where are the owners of this place?” He looks around the room, a typical Midwest farm kitchen. “This is certainly not your style.”

  “They are... away,” says Erich.

  “Away. Sure. That’s a Nazi evasion for ‘dead’?”

  Erich grins at this, like he’s happy to be accused of murder. “As you wish. If you prefer blunt words... yes, they are dead. Beer?”

  “Thanks, I’d love some.” Erich slides a bottle and Monk takes time to open it, shakes a cigarette out of a pack. He picks up the Zippo and studies it before flicking open the lid and lighting it. There’s an engraved picture of a US bomber and the words Ball Aircraft. He sucks in smoke and lets it out through his nose.

  “Ah... first one of the day.” He holds out the lighter, watching the glow of the lamp shine off it. “Stolen, I assume, from some pilot.”

  “Yes. I prefer to think of it as ‘liberated.’”

  “Of course, you do.”

  Monk sips some and winces; it’s warm, the way they serve it in Europe. “Why am I here?”

  “Because, Mr. Fleener, I wish to know how to find your associate.”

  My... associate?”

  “Do not play coy, Mr. Fleener. I admit, I first thought the fat man was Lou Fleener, but seeing you, I realize that’s wrong. You run the detective agency and use that man as your, how do you say it? Hired muscle?”

  “Sure,” agrees Monk, getting the idea immediately. These guys called Lou, probably got his number from a business card. I answered, said I was Lou and they jumped to the conclusion I’ve got to be the boss because of how I look. Aryan. White. The Boss. “What do you want with him?”

  Erich smiles, projecting warmth and good will, like a snake who wants you to think he’s the Keebler Elf, offering those new cookies. “I wish to talk with him,” lies Erich. “I respect him, Mr. Fleener; I really do. It’s amazing how he fights, for such a hefty man.”

  “He’s something all right,” agrees Monk. How do I get out of this? More importantly, how do I get Bonnie out of this? “I assume he beat you up?”

  Erich loses a lot of that good spirit. “He proved to be... more than I expected.”

  “I bet he did.” More beer, still warm; he takes another drag from the cigarette and he snuffs out the butt. “He does that to a lot of people. You want me to tell you where to find him? Not gonna happen.”

  “Yes,” says Erich, letting the letters hiss as he exhales his own smoke. It’s kind of impressive to see and Monk’s appreciating the theatrics. “You will tell me, though.”

  “Possibly,” agrees Monk. “Probably. I know what you guys ar
e capable of. Going to take you a while, though.”

  From the corner the big man standing guard snorts.

  “A long while,” adds Monk.

  Erich sighs—more theatrics—and considers Monk over the top of his beer. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “It does,” says Monk. “If I tell you what you want, you’ll just kill us then.”

  “I could kill the girl first,” suggests Erich. “Make you watch.”

  “That’s the problem with threats,” Monk’s thought about this before, especially during the time they were being pursued by mobs just as eager to hurt them as these maniacs are now. He decided not to give in. “Once you make them, you have to go through with it. You’ll say that you won’t hurt the girl, but you’ll do it anyway.”

  “Not if you cooperate.”

  “Even if I cooperate. Face it, you’re a Nazi. I won’t believe anything you say.”

  “There’s worse than dying,” says Erich, conversationally. It’s as if he, too has thought about this. “There is rape.”

  “A fate worse than death? You’ve been watching too many movies.”

  “Or torture.”

  “Yes, there is. And now; having suggested it, you’ll do it anyway, whether I talk or not. The problem with expecting mercy from people like you is that you don’t have any.”

  “I see,” says Erich, as if sadly. “I was hoping for something more reasonable. Well...” He nods at the guard. “Aldo? Please take the Mr. Fleener back to the garage and beat him. Beat him a lot.”

  “And the girl?” says Aldo. “His tone is hopeful.

  “Not yet. We have time. Let’s see how Mr. Fleener holds up.”

  It’s well after midnight when Lou backs the Bel Air into the little garage. He’s still stretching after getting out and pulling open the big garage door and complains as they walk through the dark backyard to the house.