Seriously?

by Duane Lindsay

Erich sits quietly fuming for nearly ten minutes before dialing the Daily Defender.

  Lou, exasperated, says, “What?”

  Bonnie and Cassidy are downstairs bonding, Lou and Monk are upstairs not so much. They’ve had beer and they’re watching the Blackhawks beat the Redwings and Monk is wearing the Stan Mikita jersey, proving Bonnie spoke correctly when she said she looked better in it.

  This should have been a good Friday night get together with guys, sports and beer up and girls doing whatever down. The eve of the big conclusion to the Nazi affair.

  But no. Everything, Lou keeps reminding Monk, is ready. The cops are in place, the Hotel security people are in place, the Nazis don’t have a chance in hell and, “What is your problem, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” says Monk, looking as sheepish as a work of art come to life, slumming in a sports uniform. He’s pacing the room like he forgot it’s dimensions while Lou’s leaning back in the deep embrace of the couch wondering exactly why Monk bought this damn thing in the first place. It isn’t comfortable, it sucks you into its folds and will not let you out. Trying to get up while holding a beer is an invitation to a lecture from Cassidy about spilling.

  And it’s green. Not a deep rich green of a dark forest, no, but a bright happy green of an undercooked asparagus stalk.

  “Will you please stop pacing?”

  Monk’s on his thirtieth lap of the open kitchen/dining/living room circuit, the game is about to enter the third quarter and Lou’s trying to watch the tiny Zamboni machine smooth the ice.

  He says, faking concern, “What’s got you in such a lather, pal?” He smiles with bright insincerity, hoping this will calm whatever opening night jitters Monk is facing.

  “I don’t know,” he says on his way by. “I just don’t...” and the words fade away as he goes into the kitchen.

  “Thinks it’s any one thing,” he concludes as he circles back. When he gets near the couch Lou yells, “SIT!”

  Startled, Monk does, though on the edge and looking like a stallion about to bolt.

  “Talk,” says Lou. “To me.”

  “Fine.” Deep breath. “I’ve been over this in my head a hundred times. What’s in it for Erich?” He stops there, as if this is the whole issue.

  “Erich,” Lou explains carefully before Monk can gallop off on a tangent, “planned all this. He’s the boss, the star. He’s the one who gets to say at his trial, “I did it! I won one for the Gipper. Nazis Rule, Heil Hitler and all that crap. The crowd roars and Erich is a hero to whatever part of the world still believes in that garbage.”

  Monk says, “Yes, all that’s true.”

  “And?”

  “What’s in it for Erich?”

  Lou’s head falls. It’s like talking to an echo. He knows Monk is smart but sometimes, Honest to God, he wants to hit him with a brick. “You said that. I answered. What are you talking about?

  Monk stares at his lap for several moments, breathing in and out and probably counting to a hundred in Aramaic. He looks up, begins to speak, stops, counts some more, this time in Latin.

  “Lou. We’ve been friends for what? Thirty years? I know you, I love you as a friend. You know me. In all that time have I ever given you reason to think I was obsessive about things.”

  “Sure,” says Lou. “All the time.”

  Not what Monk expected but he goes on. “Or crazy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Neurotic?”

  “Hundred percent,” says Lou cheerfully.

  Monk, who has an entirely different world view of himself, one that he thought everybody understood, especially Lou, has to reconsider. He was intending to get agreement that he wasn’t crazy or neurotic or obsessive but he rolls with it and changes tactics.

  “Erich is going to do a demonstration, very publicly, tomorrow, right?”

  Lou, not at all annoyed by the dumbing down approach says, “Yes.”

  “And he has this group—Gerald Weebs and all the others—followers, who are going to do that demonstration.”

  “Right.”

  “And he’s going to use the distraction, which you correctly pointed out to me, thank you by the way...”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “To go into the Hotel and kill the Israeli Prime Minister David Ben-Gurian.”

  Lou nods and sips some beer. He’s sitting as close to upright as he can on the damned treacherous sofa, paying close attention.

  “So, first problem; how does Erich intend to kill Mr. Ben-Gurian?”

  “I do not know,” says Lou. “But it hardly matters because we’ve moved him and surrounded his room.”

  “Exactly. But Erich doesn’t know that. He thinks Ben-Gurian will be in his room preparing for his speech with Mayor Richard Daley later Saturday.”

  “Okay.”

  “So how does Erich think he’s going to get away?”

  “He goes to the room, waits until the maids or whatever are away, opens the door, shoots the guy, maybe with a silencer, closes the door and takes the elevator down and out.” Lou’s proud of himself for figuring that.

  “A fair assumption,” agrees Monk. “But what if something goes wrong? Housekeeping hangs on a while, Ben-Gurian is down at breakfast, he’s got company, some aides or even a woman, spent the night? How does Erich handle that, kill him and still get away?”

  “Maybe he isn’t trying to get away,” suggests Lou. “Maybe... he’s like a martyr, dying for the cause. Huh?”

  “Anything in your meetings with him say he’s the martyr type?”

  “No,” Lou admits, “He’s as self-centered a jerk as I ever met. Present company excluded of course.”

  “Of course,” agrees Monk, missing the friendly insult. “But what if... and this is what’s nagging at me, what if Erich plans to send somebody else? Somebody he doesn’t care gets caught, to do the killing?”

  “Like he’s doing to his troops,” says Lou, catching just a glimpse of where Monk’s heading. “He doesn’t give a damn what happens to them.”

  “As long as it’s noisy. I imagine his wet dream is a fight between them and the cops. Or a citizen’s group. Maybe the Jews, maybe the coloreds. He’d love to get that kind of publicity. And while that’s going on, he kills Ben-Gurian and everybody’s too worked up to even look his way.”

  “So, he gets some other stooges to kill the guy.”

  “My thought,” agrees Monk. “But he doesn’t have his main killer...”

  “Because you killed him,” says Lou. “Good work, that.”

  “Thanks. Bonnie did most of the heavy lifting. Got the knife, got me food so I’d be stronger.”

  “She’s pretty good, Bonnie is,” says Lou.

  “Yeah, she is,” says Monk. He gets a faraway dreamy look in his eyes and for a moment Erich and something as absurd as Nazis goes away. “I’ve never met anyone like her, Lou. She’s resourceful and smart—did I tell you she has a degree in finance? And she is so beautiful...”

  “And she looks much better in that jersey than you do,” says Lou. “Or Stan Makita, either. Oh, crap, Monk! The game is on!”

  Over, actually. They’ve talked through the end of the game and announcers are talking about the Blackhawks as sure bets for the Stanley Cup.

  “Better be,” says Lou. “I got money on it.”

  Monk, back on his obsession, says, “So he doesn’t have his main guy to kill Ben-Gurian and he’s not going to do it himself. What’s he going to do?”

  “Send somebody else,” says Lou, not wanting to do this anymore.

  “He doesn’t have anybody else. That’s what I’m telling you. Aldo is dead, the two other real Nazis you beat up so bad they’re probably still in hospitals someplace. Who’s he got he can trust with a gun?”

  “Maybe it’s not a gun,” says Lou absently, thinking about getting another beer.

  “If he’s not going to shoot,” says Monk, “Maybe he’s planning on...”

  “A bomb!” They say together.

&nbs
p; “Monk, he’s going to blow up the whole damn room.”

  “I think so, Lou.”

  “Crap! I gotta tell Larry.”

  Cassidy Adams has never taken Lou’s last name.

  Bonnie says, “You and Lou, you’re married, right? How come you didn’t take his name?”

  “Just can’t see myself as Cassidy Fleener.”

  They’re on the Fleener couch though, in the Fleener living room, one floor down from where Monk is driving Lou crazy.

  “Adams does sound better, doesn’t it?” Bonnie has a Scotch neat, Cassidy’s drinking red wine in a glass from a bottle they bought at Bruschetti’s Italian Deli.

  “It does.” She doesn’t mention she came disastrously close to marrying Donny Basset back in Rawlins when she was sixteen and convinced, that marriage was the only way out of town. She’d be Cassidy Bassett. She shudders.

  “On that point,” Bonnie says. “You and Lou don’t seem... like... you know.”

  Cassidy’s been here before. “A likely couple? Like I’m me and he’s... him?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Yeah, you did. But that’s okay. I did it myself when I met him. Fell in love without knowing it and almost threw him away. Would have been the worst mistake of my life.”

  “Because of the money?”

  “No, though that was part of it. Lou didn’t have any, didn’t have any prospects of getting any and frankly, didn’t really have any interest in it.”

  “So where... if you’ll excuse my asking... did you get... um...”

  “Rich. We’re rich. We are,” Cassidy says, her tone suggesting this is one of the first things she notices when she wakes up, “rich. Beyond my wildest fantasy.”

  “How?” Bonnie asks.

  “How did it happen? Long story.”

  “Do tell.”

  So, Cassidy sips wine and tells the story of Monk and Lou against all of Chicago’s mobs and her unlikely joining them and, “Monk figured out how they were laundering money.”

  “And you just took it?” Bonnie takes the bottle and refills her glass.

  “Mm-hmm. Started by robbing all the mob’s places, then, once everybody was dead or in jail, Monk doped out this secret accounting ledger Lou found and we hijacked a truck with a lot of beer and a whole lot of money.”

  “Monk’s really smart, isn’t he?”

  “He is that. Smartest man I’ve ever met. He’s as smart as Lou is tough.” She considers Bonnie over the rim of her wine glass. “You like him, don’t you?”

  “Monk? Well, I’m sleeping with him, so... It’s hard to think of him as Monk, though.”

  “Especially after last night,” agrees Cassidy with a wicked grin.

  “Does anybody—ever—call him Dion?”

  “His ex-wife did.”

  “He was married?” There’s that disbelieving tone again.

  “He was,” Cassidy says. “To a horror named Inez. He should probably be the one to tell you this, but he’s also got a daughter. Corrie, she’s eight. Melinda took her—took everything—in the divorce and Monk hasn’t seen her in four years.”

  “I can’t believe that he...” Bonnie’s shaking her head at this new side of the man.

  “You have a lot of trouble accepting who we are. Me and Lou, Lou’s ability—by the way, you think you heard stories about him fighting? You should dance with him. It’s what I fell in love with, at first. Monk’s brains. Seems even the money part you got trouble with.”

  “I guess. It all seems so odd.” She leans closer. “You say Lou’s a great dancer. Is he as good in... you know?”

  “In the sack?” Cassidy gets a faraway expression, recalling specific times and places. “Yeah, he’s great. His touch is wonderful but sometimes...” She shrugs. “He gets a little goofy.”

  Bonnie snorts an inelegant laugh. “Goofy? All men are, once they’ve had us a while.”

  “Isn’t that the truth. I had a guy once, he wanted...”

  There’s a lot of talk that would make Monk and Lou very nervous hearing, comparisons made, exes stacked up against currents, size...

  “I like you,” says Cassidy a lot later. “I’m glad you and Monk...”

  “Monk,” says Bonnie. “If I’m going to be with him, I’ve got to come up with something better than Monk.”

  “Are you going to stay with him?”

  Bonnie looks at her drink. Am I? She’s wondering. She looks back up at Cassidy.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I guess I am.”

  “Great. There’s just one thing.”

  “What?”

  “I love Monk—a lot. Almost as much as I love Lou. And I gotta tell you Bonnie; if you hurt him, I will kill you.”

  “That’s another of those things you guys say, right? ‘I’ll kill you?’”

  “Sure,” says Cassidy. “You can think that if it helps you sleep nights. But don’t hurt him.”

  “I wouldn’t even consider it,” Bonnie lies.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Almost There

  Saturday morning, six AM.

  The calm before the storm

  There’s a kind of hush

  Everybody’s in bed.

  Monk and Bonnie

  Lou and Cassidy

  Erich and a hooker

  Carlton and George (George drugged.)

  Bristol and Cassowary (each with his wife)

  Gerald Weebs

  Everybody anxious and unsettled as they begin the day.

  There’s a kind of hush.

  Saturday morning, six AM.

  Three blocks from State and Water street, on their way to the confrontation at the Ambassador. Lou makes the light at Wabash on the yellow, to a chorus of angry horns.

  Monk says, “Wait.”

  Lou lets up on the gas a little and glances over. Monk’s got that look—the one that says he’s just figured out the meaning of life or why women do what they do—sort of goggle-eyed in astonishment, but with dignity.

  “What?”

  “I got it. It’s all wrong.”

  “What is?” The elevated train is rumbling overhead as Lou weaves in and out of the support columns.

  “Everything. I know what Erich’s doing. I know when he’s doing it.” He looks at his watch, seems pleased. “But I don’t know where he’s doing it.”

  Lou says, “Well...”

  “Pull over!” Monk yells and Lou, startled, nearly rear-ends a family vacationing from Milwaukee, lost and searching for the Lincoln Park Zoo.

  The car is still vibrating as Monk gets out. He’s yelling for Lou to join him as he shoves a man out of a phone booth on the corner. “Sorry,” he says, not meaning it, and the guy hustles away offended.

  “Lou, call him. You got to call him.” Monk’s dancing with excitement and desperation. “We’re not too late,” he’s mumbling as Lou joins him.

  “Call who?”

  “Call the Angel. He’s the only one who can help us this fast.”

  “What are you talking about, Monk? I don’t have a number for Angel. I want him, I go see him.”

  “Can you get a number?”

  “Possibly, for the Trib maybe, but not for Angel. There’s no phone down in the morgue.”

  “Well, shit,” says Monk. “Get back in the car, Lou. Get us to the Trib.”

  There’s a circular pullover on Michigan Avenue, just north of the river, where car dealers like to film commercials. It’s scenic and right in front of the Tribune building, an elegant concrete skyscraper built of classical lines.

  Lou pulls in, jerks to a stop from fifty, burning the brakes and doing the clutch no good. The Bel Air shimmies and Monk throws open the door and legs it toward the Tribune main entrance.

  Lou follows, ignoring a beat cop yelling at them to, “Move that piece of crap or I’ll have it towed.”

  Lou calls out a greeting to the started old guard at his desk in the lobby by the elevators as they race by. Monk’s about to push a button but Lou calls
out, “Stairs are faster,” as he keeps going. He doesn’t know what Monk’s thinking but he recognizes the urgency so he takes the stairs two at a time and they race into the basement morgue nearly out of breath.

  Angel says, “Lou?” Does a double take, “Monk?”

  Who says, “Angel.” He takes two deep breaths. “You got to tell us. There’s a guy, a Jewish guy. He’s here to see mayor Daley at some literary thing. Tomorrow, Sunday. His name is...”

  “Jeez, Monk; slow down. You’re gonna give yourself an attack.” He turns to Lou. “He like this all the time?”

  “ELIE WEISEL!” shouts Monk, grabbing Angel by his shirt.

  “What? What’s that even mean?”

  “Lou, beat him up.” Monk’s got a dangerous look like he’s rabid and about to bite somebody.

  “Nah.” Instead, Lou gently pries Monk’s hands off the terrified Angel, smooth’s Angel’s collar and his feelings and says, “What Monk, in his frenzied way is saying, is that he saw an article in the paper about a person named Elie... why...”

  “Wiesel,” says Monk, still frantic but more docile.

  “Wiesel,” agrees Lou. “I have no idea why, but we need to find this man, very quickly.”

  “Because,” says Monk, but Angel interrupts, glaring at him.

  “You could a said so. Jeez, Monk. I thought Lou was the scary one. Sure, I remember now. He’s a Jew, here to give a speech to some group with the Mayor.”

  “Where’s he staying?” demands Monk, getting another angry look from Angel.

  “The Plaza. Over on the Gold Coast. He’s...”

  But Monk’s already hallway up the stairs yelling over his shoulder, “C’mon Lou!”

  Back in the car, Lou driving, and Monk is frantic. They skid around slow cars, horn blaring and brakes squealing and Monk frets beside him.

  “I should have seen it earlier. I should have seen it.”

  Lou’s too busy driving crazy not answer as he makes a two wheel turn left onto Michigan, narrowly miss a CTA green and white bus and straightens out. The Plaza is three blocks ahead and he makes it in fourteen seconds.

  There’s no road side pull off so Lou barrels the Bel Air into the valet station. He and Monk jump out and Lou throws the keys to a very startled kid in a red uniform as they dash through the front doors and across a lobby as ornate, if smaller than the much newer Ambassador.