Bassett came out of it slowly.
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Chapter 14
It was hot as the Sahara desert and getting hotter every minute as we walked over Grand Avenue. I took off my coat and carried it, and then I took off my hat and carried that, too. I looked at Uncle Am alongside of me and he didn’t even look warm. He was wearing a suit coat, a vest, and a hat. There must be a trick to looking as cool as that, I thought.
We crossed the bridge and there wasn’t even a breath of breeze off the water.
At Halsted, we went south a block and a half and turned in at the door of Bunny’s rooming house. We climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of his room.
Inside I could hear the bed creak. He shuffled to the door in slippers and opened it a crack, then wider when he recognized me.
“Hi,” he said. “I was just going to get up. Come in.” We all went in.
Bassett leaned against the inside of the door. Uncle Am and went over and sat down on the bed. The room was like an oven and I loosened my tie and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. I hopped we wouldn’t be here long.
Uncle Am was staring at Bunny with a funny look on his face. He looked puzzled, almost bewildered.
I said, “Bunny, this is my Uncle Am. And this is Mr. Bassett, the police detective working on Pop’s case.”
I looked at Bunny and couldn’t see anything to be puzzled about. He had on a faded dressing gown over whatever he’d been sleeping in, if anything. He needed a shave and his hair was mussed, and he’d obviously had a few drinks the night before. But not enough for a heavy hangover.
Bunny said, “Glad to know you, Bassett. And you, Am; Ed’s talked about you a lot.”
I said, “My uncle’s a little screwy, but he’s a good guy.”
Bunny got up and walked over to the dresser and I saw there was a bottle there and some glasses. He said, “Will you gentlemen have a — ”
Bassett interrupted. He said, “Later, Wilson. Sit down a minute first. I want to check up on that alibi you gave Madge Hunter. I let it go because of another angle. But I want to know now if you can prove what time it was you —”
Uncle Am said, “Shut up, Bassett.”
Bassett turned to look at him. His eyes got hot with sudden anger. He said, “Goddam you, Hunter, you stay out of my way or I’ll — ”
He was taking a step toward the bed, but he stopped when he saw that my uncle wasn’t paying any attention to him, none at all. He was still staring at Bunny, with that funny look on his face.
Uncle Am said, “I don’t get it, Bunny. You’re not what I thought you’d be. You don’t look like a killer. But you killed Wally. Didn’t you?”
There was a silence you could have cut in chunks. A long silence.
It stretched out and lasted until it became an answer in itself.
My uncle asked quietly, “You’ve got the policy here?”
Bunny nodded. He said, “Yeah. In the top drawer there.”
Bassett seemed to wake up. He went over to the dresser and pulled open the drawer. He reached under some shirts and groped around. His hand came out with a thick envelope of the type they keep insurance policies in.
He stared at it. He said, “Maybe I’m dumb. How could he collect on this? Madge is the beneficiary, ain’t she?”
Uncle Ambrose said, “He was planning to marry Madge. He knew she liked him and that she’d be looking for another husband pretty soon. Her type always marries again — she wouldn’t have wanted to go back to being a waitress when a guy with a good job like Bunny’s wants to support her. And she isn’t so young any more and — well, I don’t have to draw a diagram, do I?”
Bassett said, “You mean he didn’t know about that premium receipt and thought Madge wouldn’t know about the policy until after he’d married her? But how’d he account for having hidden the policy?”
Uncle Am said, “He wouldn’t have to. After they’re married he could pretend to find it somewhere among some stuff of Wally’s. And Madge would let him use it for starting his own printing shop; he could talk her into that, because that way it would give them an income for life.”
Bunny nodded. “She was always at Wally to get ambitious that way,” he said. “But Wally didn’t want to.”
Uncle Am took off his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. He didn’t look so cool any more. He said, “Bunny, I still don’t get it. Unless — Bunny, whose idea was this? Yours — or Wally’s?”
Bunny said, “His. Honest. He wanted me to kill him, or I’d never even have thought of it. He kept dogging me. I don’t mean he ever came right out and said ‘Kill me, pal,’ but after I took to going around with him and he found out I needed money for my shop, and that I liked Madge and she liked me, he kept at me.”
Bassett asked, “How do you mean, kept at you?” “Well, he told me where he kept the policy — in his locker at work, and said nobody else knew about it. He’d say, ‘Madge likes you, Bunny. If anything ever happens to me —’ Hell, he worked out the whole thing. He told me that if something happened to him, it’d be better for Madge if she didn’t know about the policy right away, that if she got the money direct she’d head for California or somewhere and blow it in, and he wished he could fix it so she wouldn’t know she had the money coming until she was safely married to some guy who could invest it for her.”
Bassett said, “But man, that wasn’t suggesting you kill him. He just said if he died.”
Bunny shook his head. “That was what he said, but not what he meant. He told me he wished he had the nerve to kill himself, but that he didn’t. That anybody’s be doing him a favor —”
Bassett asked, “What happened that night?”
“Just like I told Ed, up to half past twelve. I took Madge home then, instead of half past one. Afterwards, I figured she wouldn’t have known what time it was and if I said one-thirty I’d be protecting both of us.
“I’d given up looking for Wally by then. I knew where there was an all-night poker game on Chicago Avenue over near the river. I was walking up Orleans Street and was almost to Chicago when I met Wally coming the other way. Heading home with four bottles of beer. He was pretty tight.
“He insisted I walk home with him. He gave me one of the bottles to carry. One. He picked the darkest alley to cut through. The street light was out at the other end of it. He quit talking when we started through it. He walked a little ahead of me, and then he took off his hat and carried it in his hand — and, well, he wanted me to do it, and if I did I could have Madge and my own shop like I’ve always wanted and — well, I did.”
Bassett asked, “Then why did you —”
My uncle said to him, “Shut up, copper. You’ve got all you need. Let the guy alone. I understand the whole thing now.”
He walked over to the dresser and poured some drinks out of the bottle. He looked at me, but I shook my head. He stopped at three drinks and gave the stiffest one to Bunny.
Bunny stood up to drink it. He gulped it down and started for the bathroom door. He was almost there when Bassett seemed to realize what was happening. He yelled, “Hey, don’t —” and started across the room to grab the knob of the closing door before it could lock on the inside.
My uncle stumbled into Bassett, and the bathroom door’s bolt slid home with a click.
Bassett said, “Goddam it, he’s gonna —”
“Sure, Frank,” my uncle said. “You got any better ideas? Come on, Ed, let’s get out of here.”
I wanted out quick, too.
I almost had to run to keep up with him after we were downstairs and out on the sidewalk.
We walked fast, under the blazing afternoon sun. We walked for blocks before he seemed to realize I was there with him.
> He slowed down. He looked at me and grinned.
He said, “Weren’t we a couple of marks, kid? Going hunting for wolves and catching a rabbit?”
“I wish now we’d never gone hunting.”
He said, “So do I. My fault, kid. When I saw that note an hour ago I knew Bunny did it, but I-couldn’t guess why. I’d never met him, and — Hell, why should I excuse myself? I should have gone to see him alone. But no, I had to grandstand and go along with Bassett.”
I asked, “How did the note —? Oh-oh. I see it now, now that I know there’s something to see. He spelled the name right; that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
Uncle Am nodded. “Anderz. He’d heard it over the phone from you, and you didn’t spell it for him. He’d have written it ‘Anders’ if he hadn’t read it on the insurance policy he said he didn’t know existed.”
I said, “I read the note and didn’t see it.”
My uncle didn’t seem to hear me. He said, “I knew it wasn’t suicide. I told you about that psychological quirk of Wally’s — he couldn’t have committed suicide. But I never dreamed he’d gone downhill to where he’d pull a stunt like that. I guess — well, if that’s what life did to him, Ed, it’s just as well. To play a trick like that on Bunny —”
“He thought he was doing Bunny a favor.”
“Let’s hope so. He should have known better.”
I asked, “How long do you think he’d been planning this?”
“He took out that policy five years ago in Gary. He took that bribe from Reynolds to vote for his brother’s acquittal, and then he voted for conviction. He must have figured the Reynolds gang would kill him for that.
“But either something happened to change his mind, that time, or he lost his nerve. He scrammed out of Gary and covered his trail. He couldn’t have known Reynolds was here in Chicago, or he wouldn’t have bothered with Bunny. He could have gone to Reynolds and had the job done cheaper.”
“You mean for five years he’s wanted to —”
“He must have kept it in mind, Ed. He kept up the policy, once he had it. Maybe he decided to ride it out until you were through school, started in a good job. Maybe he started working on Bunny about the time you started to work at the Elwood. My God.”
We were waiting for lights to change, and I saw we were waiting to cross Michigan Boulevard. We’d walked plenty far, farther than I’d realized.
The lights said, “Walk,” and we went across.
My uncle said, “Want a beer, kid?”
I said, “I’ll take a Martini. Just one.”
“Then I’ll give you one in style, Ed. Come on, I’ll show you something.”
“What?”
“The world without a little red fence around it.”
We walked north two blocks on the east side of Michigan Boulevard to the Allerton Hotel. We went in, and there was a special elevator. We rode up a long time, I don’t know how many floors, but the Allerton is a tall building.
The top floor was a very swanky cocktail bar. The windows were open and it was cool there. Up as high as that, the breeze was a cool breeze and not something out of a blast furnance.
We took a table by a window on the south side, looking out toward the Loop. It was beautiful in the bright sunshine. The tall, narrow buildings were like fingers reaching toward the sky. It was like something out of a science-fiction story. You couldn’t quite believe it, even looking at it.
“Ain’t it something, kid?”
“Beautiful as hell,” I said. “But it’s a clipjoint.”
He grinned. The little laughing wrinkles were back in the corners of his eyes.
He said, “It’s a fabulous clipjoint, kid. The craziest things can happen in it, and not all of them are bad.”
I nodded. I said, “Like Claire.”
“Like your bluffing down Kaufman’s loogans. Like the swat between the eyes you gave Bassett telling him where the Waupaca money is. He’ll spend the rest of his life wondering how you knew.”
He chuckled. “Kid, a few days ago you were a bit startled because at your age Wally had fought a duel and had an affair with an editor’s wife. You ain’t doing so bad yourself, kid. I’m a bit older than you and I’ve never yet killed a bank robber with a twelve-ounce poker, nor slept with a gun-moll.”
“But it’s over now,” I said. “I’ve got to go back to work. You going back to the carnery?”
“Yeah. And you’re going to be a printer?”
“I guess so,” I said. “Why not?”
“No reason at all. It’s a good trade. Better than being a carney. There’s no security in that. You make money sometimes, but you spend it. You live in tents like goddam Bedouins. You never have a home. The food is lousy and when it rains you go nuts. It’s a hell of a life.”
I felt disappointed. I wasn’t going with him, of course, but I’d wanted him to want me to. It was silly, but that’s the way it was.
He said, “Yeah, its a hell of a life, kid. But if you’re crazy enough to want to try it, I’d sure like to show you the ropes. You could get along; you’ve got what it takes.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But — well —”
“Okay,” he said. “I wouldn’t talk you into it. I’m going to send a wire to Hoagy and then go back to the Wacker to pack up.”
“So long,” I said.
We shook hands. He went off and I sat down at the table again and looked out.
The waitress came back and wanted to know if I wanted anything else and I told her I didn’t.
I sat there until the shadows of the monstrous buildings got long and the light blue of the lake got darker. The cool breeze came in the open window.
Then I got up, and I was scared as hell that he’d gone without me. I found a phone booth and called the Wacker. I got his room and he was still there.
“It’s Ed,” I said, “I’m going along.”
“I was waiting for you. You took a little longer than I thought.”
“I’ll rush home and pack a suitcase,” I said. “Then shall I meet you at the depot?”
“Kid, we’re going back by rattler. I’m broke. Just got a few bucks left for eats on the way.”
“Broke?” I asked. “You can’t be broke. You had two hundred dollars only a few hours ago.”
He laughed. “It’s an art, Ed. I told you a carney’s money didn’t last long. Listen, I’ll meet you at Clark and Grand in an hour. We’ll catch a streetcar out to where we can grab a freight.”
I hurried home and packed. I was both glad and sorry that Mom and Gardie were out. I left a note for them.
Uncle Am was already at the corner when I got there. He had his suitcase and a trombone case, a new one.
He chuckled when he saw how I looked at it. He said, “A going-away present, kid. With a carney, you can learn to play it. With a carney, the more noise you make, the better. And some day you’ll play yourself out of the carney. Harry James’ first job was with a circus band.”
He wouldn’t let me open the case there. We got our street-car and rode away out. Then we walked to a freight yard and cut across tracks.
He said, “We’re bums now, kid. Ever eat a mulligan? We’ll make one tomorrow. Tomorrow night we’ll be with the carney.”
A train was making up. We found an empty boxcar and got in. It was dusk now, and dim inside the car, but I opened the trombone case.
I let out a low whistle and something seemed to come up in my throat and stick there. I knew what had happened to just about all of Uncle Am’s two hundred dollars.
It was a professional trombone, about the best one you can get. It was gold-plated and burnished so bright you could have used it for a mirror, and it was a feather-weight model. It was the kind of a tram th
at Teagarden or Dorsey would use.
It was out of this world.
I took it out of the case reverently and put it together. The feel and balance of it were wonderful.
From the trombone playing I’d done in the Gray school, I still remembered the positions of the C-scale. One-seven-four- three —
I put it to my lips and blew till I found the first note. It was fuzzy and sloppy, but that was me, not the trombone. Carefully I worked my way up the scale.
The engine highballed and the jerks of the couplings came along the train toward us and past us, like a series of firecrackers in a bunch. The car started moving slowly. I felt my way back down the scale again, getting more confident with each note. It wasn’t going to take me long to be playing it.
Then somebody yelled “Hey!” and I looked and saw my serenade had brought us trouble. A brakeman was trotting alongside the car. He yelled, “Get the hell outa there,” and put his hands on the floor of the car to vault inside.
My uncle said, “Give me the horn, kid,” and took it out of my hands. He went near the door and put the horn to his lips and blew a godawful Bronx cheer of a note — a down-sliding, horrible-sounding note — as he pushed the slide out toward the brakie’s face.
The brakie cussed and let go. He ran alongside a few more steps and then the train was going too fast and he lost ground and dropped behind us.
My uncle handed me back the trombone. We were both laughing.
I managed to stop, and I put the mouthpiece to my lips again. I blew and I got a clear note — a clear, beautiful-as-hell, ringing, resonant tone that was just dumb luck for me to have hit without years of practice.
And then the tone split and it was worse than the horribly bad note Uncle Am had just played for the brakeman.
Uncle Am started laughing, and I tried to blow again but I couldn’t because I was laughing too.
For a minute or so we got to laughing at each other, and got worse, and couldn’t stop. That’s the way the rattler took us out of Chicago, both of us laughing like a couple of idiots.
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The Fabulous Clipjoint Page 19
