by Don Satalic
***
Joe opened the door to Vookie's and took the four steps down into the darkly paneled barroom. There were horseshoe booths along the wall and the bar ran parallel and just opposite them. At the rear was a small stage where every weekend Eddie booked a jazz band, a tambura group, even promising magicians, comedians and ventriloquists.
Between the horseshoe booths were small rectangular booths for two people, four people on the weekends. On jutting pedestals above each two-person booth were three-foot statues, replicas of Grecian goddesses. Others had artificial tropical plants. The bar was a work of Italian art. The bar top was Sienese marble, yellowish-white that contrasted perfectly with the dark mahogany beneath it. The bar was more ornate than the paneled walls, with fluted wood columns supporting the heavy marble and recessed panels every four feet. It had a brass foot rest and brass-legged stools. The mirror behind the bar was etched with arabesque patterns and framed in rich mahogany.
Vookie's could hold fifty people comfortably and sometimes more when he booked a hot act. Eddie had an agreement with the local cops to stay open past his license in exchange for a white envelop every week. The Chicago way.
"Joe, you're back," said Eddie from the bar. Vookie's had the usual late crowd, a rough bunch if you didn't belong. Joe belonged.
"Hey, Eddie, did Ludko call?"
"No... nobody," answered Eddie shaking his head.
Before he bought Vookie's, long before the war, Eddie used to work for Joe. Joe needed help and Eddie was out of work, so he came with Joe on a few "bar checks." In those days the nightclubs and dance clubs were always packed. Joe and Eddie both loved music, the girls, the atmosphere. It was a dream job.
Club owners, especially lucrative downtown club owners, always suspected their bartenders of clipping the till. They'd hire Joe to check them out on hectic nights, usually weekends. It was just too obvious for one guy to sit alone at the bar and eyeball the cash register all night.
But if two guys came in together, ordered drinks, sat around and shot the breeze, it looked perfectly normal. On the busy nights, piles of money would accumulate on the ledges of the cash drawers. Bartenders would make change quickly from those piles. Waiters and customers were shouting orders. The pace was hectic.
Joe and Eddie would look past each other to see if the bartenders would ring up a sale every time they put more cash on the pile. Sometimes bills would find their way into a "special" pile or under the register. Eddie once remarked to Joe, "Look at this guy. He'll skim off at least hundred bucks tonight." A professional bartender is like a sleight-of-hand magician. He can remove any number of bills off the pile nightly.
But if he sees anyone looking at him, he'll shuffle the stolen cash back into the pile, like nothing happened. Eddie enjoyed the bar checks. They went to exciting clubs with headliners like Kay Kaiser, Stan Kenton, Count Basie, Dizzy Gillespie.
He noticed how much money was being made and told Joe he was going to open a small place of his own some day. Joe found out about a place up for sale on the South Side. Eddie had some money saved but not enough to make the buy. Joe offered to help him out. Eddie bought the place and named it "Vookie's," a corruption of a Serbian word that meant "wolf." He promised Joe he would pay him back– it just took longer than either one of them expected. After a while, Joe told Eddie he could forget the balance if he could use Vookie's as his second office.
Joe headed for his "always reserved" booth in the rear, running the gauntlet of "Hellos" and "Wha'chyuh been up tos" from the bar and the side booths. In a way, they protected him from the outside world. He was a local. Grew up in this slag-hard neighborhood. Had his share of fights and scuffles.
At the end of the bar "One Two" Johnny stopped him with, "Hey Joe?" That voice– in an instant– closed the gulf of time between then and now, a brown leather boxing glove crashing into the left side of his jaw, splitting the corner of his mouth. The world froze and turned into a soft quiet blur as Joe fell to the canvas.
A shattering glass behind the bar broke Joe's trance. "...Hey... Johnny how are you? Haven't seen you in a while. Are they keeping you bottled up these days?" Joe carried a memento from that boxing match, a little scar on his upper lip, inside corner. Johnny was already a tough ring-wise fighter when they first met in the local ring all those years ago. In the clenches, Johnny would rub the laces of his gloves on Joe's back to get him mad, throw his concentration off.
It worked. Joe started throwing wild punches, only to be pounded by carefully executed lefts and rights. Johnny let a few punches slip just so the laces of his gloves would cut Joe's face and eyes, drawing blood and anger. He skillfully cut the ring off and moved in and landed his famous "one two" combination– a right cross followed by a left hook that changed Joe's mind about a boxing career.
They stayed ring friends after that, but Joe kept at his studies. Johnny fell in with a few Outfit crime members, mostly muscle jobs to collect money, but then they took him on a few burglaries. A job went soar, and Johnny ended up in prison. Not for too long– it was his first offence. It happened again, which is how Johnny got his nickname: he served two prison terms for burglary.
Johnny wanted to believe the nickname was for his wicked combination from his South Side Boxing Club days. A "combination that would rock the nation," he used to say.
But Johnny knew it was a slur. They didn't start calling him that until after his second term in prison. This last stretch was commuted to a term overseas with the army for the D-Day invasion. One-Two Johnny was a truly hard case, and it's going to be "One Two Three" Johnny fairly soon. He was implicated in a liquor warehouse heist about a week ago. He's going to be picked up for interrogation maybe tomorrow.
"I wanted to talk to you about something, Joe. Do you think you could give me a listen?" said Johnny.
Joe already heard about it. "John, you're in an awful way with that 100th Street thing, you know."
"Yeah, I know, but this time it ain't me," complained Johnny in a whisper. "I know who's in on it. I can't rat, and I can't do no more time. That'll be strike three. I'll never get out."
"Step into my office," invited Joe, as they walked over to the rear booth. Johnny had a natural rhythm in his walk, as if he were always listening to music. He was a few inches taller than Joe, well over six foot with broad shoulders and a broad face to match and caramel-colored eyes and a few thousand more miles on his face. Joe was older but didn't look it. He had a stunning smile and the suave look of someone who had seen it all– twice. They slid into the booth. Everybody knew what they would talk about. Not much is a secret in this part of the city.
"John, what do you need me to do?" Joe didn't want to take Johnny's case, another case fraught with complications and a sea of troubles.
"Look, you've been gone for a while. Since I got discharged from the army, I got a job at Wisconsin Steel, the coke plant. I'm straight now. A citizen. That thing with the liquor warehouse ain't me."
"So, how'd you get messed up in it?"
"That's an Outfit warehouse. They hit their own place for the insurance, and their guy Sergeant Kavanaugh in the 103rd Street Precinct is lookin' at me. I been up two times for robbery. I'm tailor-made for the fall," he paused, shaking his head, and added, "My pisans."
"When are they supposed to pick you up?"
"I heard tomorrow."
"John, you know what they're going to do. They're going to tell you to confess. If you don't, they'll put you out on the street...."
Johnny understood that meant a contract would be on him. "You know, I got Tommy in Catholic School. I'm doin' good by him since his ma took off on us," he said and paused for moment, weighing his options. "Joe, if I say anything, that kid is an orphan, and if I don't say anything he might as well be an orphan cuz I'm going down forever for this."
Joe had to take this case as much for Tommy as for Johnny and maybe himself, no matter the trouble. "Okay, you're going to need ab
out two grand for bail. I'll get a bondsman. Can you afford bail?"
"Yeah, I got some money saved," Johnny said with a look just short of hope.
"Okay, drop it off at my office tomorrow morning. Wilma will be there. She'll know what to do, and I'll have her sister take care of Tommy." He looked at him with his clear steel blue eyes. "John, I'm not going to sugar this pill– it won't be easy. I'll do my best, and if I pull this off, I'll need most of that bail money."
"I know you will, Joe, I know. If you get me out of this, I won't need the bail money."
Joe looked across stone-faced at Johnny and said, "Now in a few seconds I want you to get up from this booth and shake your head, like you just got bad news. Act like you're mad, like I turned you down flat. Then, later, talk me down at the bar. Tell everyone I wouldn't take your case, that I won't do anything for you."
Johnny knew what was coming, so did Joe. He gave Joe a grave look, got up from the booth fast, turned toward the bar, threw his hand down in disgust, and went back to the end stool to finish his beer. After he sat down, Eddie went from behind the bar over to Joe's booth.
"Anything wrong, Joe?"
"Nothing at all."
"Hey, Ludko called. He's got some important info for you." Eddie handed him the paper with the Drake Hotel's number and a man's name. "Page him here and ask for this name. Use the backroom phone, if you want."
Joe left the booth and headed for Vookie's backroom. It was dingy, but spacious, and often the venue for middleweight poker games, games the Outfit didn't care about. He sat down and made the call to The Drake Hotel Bar.
Looking at the scrap of paper, "Yes, I'd like to talk to a Philip Orsini," Joe asked. He laughed to himself at the countless names Ludko's had invented for himself over the years. The bartender handed the phone to Ludko.
"Hey, you'll never believe who is rooming with our little Miss Kemidov," challenged Ludko. He didn't wait for an answer. "Frankie Ferrel. Remember him?"
"Yeah, yeah... Frank Ferrel. Wasn't he one of Dixie Monahan's guys? If I remember, Monahan was one great gambler with wild streaks of awfully good luck," Joe said.
"Not too gooda luck. Somehow Monahan ended up owing two-hundred grand to the Outfit. He jumped the states to the Orient with another guy way before the war. Some say Ferrel killed Monahan in Turkey or somethin' like that," added Ludko.
"Lud, be careful of that guy," he warned. "What the hell is she doing with Ferrel?"
"Look, I talked to that sourpuss for over an hour. I couldn't get anything out of him, just his name. I thought he almost made me when I started talking about horses."
"How would he make you on that?" Joe asked incredulously.
"It's a long story, but he's not too bright, so nothin' came of it," said Ludko.
"You're sure he's not brighter than you think?" asked Joe.
"Nah...positive." Shaking his head, "Nobody that ugly could ever have any brains."
"You better hope," said Joe. "He's nobody to mess with. Anyway, Philip, get over to the Trianon, pick Benny up, and meet me at Commercial Ave. Ferrel has changed the plan."
"Yes, boss, be glad to." Ludko handed the phone back to the bartender along with a tip and said, "Thanks." He walked out of The Drake Hotel and over to Michigan Avenue where his Lafayette was parked, an unremarkable car that looked like every other car and was a perfect fit for an unmemorable guy. He took off for the Trianon Ballroom on 63rd and Cottage Grove.
Ludko pulled out on Lake Shore Drive and headed south. He rolled down his window and let the warm night air rush through his car. A couple of scraps of paper started to wrestle around in the back seat. He turned on the radio and was enjoying the dazzling light show that the city and the lake put on after dark. Cruising along the lake on a warm summer's night, radio on, listening to Bing Crosby sing Day and Night, it was a little piece of pleasant. He wouldn't see the car tailing him until he made the turn on to Cottage Grove Avenue. For now, he simply enjoyed the music and the cool night air.
He made the turn and spotted the tail. Lights in his mirror.
"So, that ugly rat made me after all," Ludko said out load. "But he can't know me." He tried to remember: Had they ever met before? No, he must have remembered me from the hall by their room. He sped up, so did the other car. The stop light up ahead was about to turn red. He blew the light hoping that that would shake the tail.
It didn't.
Ludko picked up speed, so did his pursuer. The street lights were flying by and the night air rushed in through the open window. He made a right turn so sharp, everything in the front seat slued over against him– racing forms, newspapers, shoes, hats. He slammed on the brakes and hit the lights. Pitch black.
The pursuer sped past him into the night. He drove slowly to the next block made a left then another left, turned on his lights, and got back on Cottage Grove heading toward 63rd Street and the Trianon, his heart still pounding so hard he could feel the beat in his ears. I shook 'em.
He eased into the parking lot and took a deep breath. He entered the Trianon's lobby with its candelabra chandelier and grand staircase leading to the ballroom. Tex Beneke's Hey-Ba-Ba-Rebop was playing, and the dance floor was packed.
The Trianon was the most expensive and extravagant dance hall in the country. Decorated in Louis XVI-style decor and elegant furnishings, it gave its patrons the fantasy of wealth and sophistication. The dance floor could accommodate three thousand dancers and had six floor men to keep the guests in line. Management banned smoking by its female patrons, but not male patrons. Smoking by women contradicted the ballroom's image as a dance establishment that upheld traditional, middle-class behavior in a way that less highly regarded dance halls and cabarets did not. Still, some women insisted on smoking, and the floor men would routinely remind them: "Ladies, please, you are not permitted to smoke. This is the Trianon."
After about twenty minutes, Ludko spotted Benny on the floor with what appeared to be a beautiful girl, at least from the back. Despite his extra weight, Benny the Hat was an outstanding dancer, one of the best on the South Side. Ludko went over and tapped him on the shoulder and said, "We gotta go."
"Who the hell is this guy, Benny," she asked.
"Uh...he's like my boss, sorta," replied Benny. "I hav'ta go, but I'll catch yuz here next week, right?"
She squeezed her eyes down thin and said, "Well, I don't know. We'll see. Go on with your boss here."
"Ahh come on. I'll teach yuz some other steps. What do yuh say?" pleaded Benny.
"I don't know," she said and walked off.
"Boy, this better be good. I don't get to meet girls like that every day yuh know," complained Benny as they went down the grand staircase toward the door. Benny stopped at the coatroom to pick up his hat. He gave the girl his ticket.
"Thanks," he said as he handed her a liberal tip.
"Boy, you sure throw the money around," remarked Ludko.
"Hey, she took good care of my Stetson. It's a Whippet, cost ten bucks."
Ludko filled Benny in on the way to Joe's office– about the tail from The Drake and how cleverly he ducked it. Benny was moderately impressed. As they made their way south, Benny kept talking about the girl he just met, how beautiful she was. They arrived at Joe's building and went right up to his office. When they got there, Joe was on the phone with Detective Donnelly from the Grand Crossing Police District, a longtime friend. He hung up. "Hey, that was Donnelly. I told him about Frank Ferrel. Have a seat." They each brushed off the dust from the chairs in front of Joe's desk and gave him a "look."
"What?" said Joe. "I'm getting a maid already."
Ludko said, "About time. Hey, Joe, somebody tailed me from The Drake. I ducked him at Cottage Grove."
"It had to be Ferrel," said Joe.
"Who's Ferrel?" asked Benny.
Ludko turned to him and answered, "He's a killer. Works for the Outfit."
Benny took his hat off.
"It ain't what you think," Ludko said. "Do
n't get excited. He ain't in the Outfit, just works for 'em."
"Oh, yeah, like that makes me feel any better," moaned Benny. "Joe, what's goin' on here?"
"He's somehow involved in this Polina case. Ludko found out about him only today," said Joe. Looking at Ludko he continued, "I talked to Detective Donnelly. He thinks Ferrel probably killed Monahan, and being with Miss Kemidov can't be good news." The windows behind Joe's desk were open, and the cool night air glided into the office.
"Monahan? The gambler? That guy killed him?" Benny asked in a strained, high-pitched voice.
"Well, that's what Donnelly thinks. He's a contract killer probably hired by the Outfit to even the score with Monahan, but I can't figure why he's with Polina."
Ludko said, "I don't know, maybe Ferrel's her bodyguard, just like he was for Monahan. Hey– she ain't tied up with the Outfit is she?"
"I doubt it," said Joe, leaning back in his chair. "I'll have at least a few answers tomorrow when I get a reply back from London. But Ferrel puts a new drift on this thing. We have to find out why and how he's involved. That's where you come in, Benny. You have to be at The Drake in the morning."
"Me?"
"Yeah, you."
With a turned down smile, Benny reluctantly nodded his head. "Okay."
"But for tonight, Benny, you have to fill in for me. Ludko's going to take you to the Blue Moon Club in Beverly."
Benny perked up and said, "Hey, that's a good Jazz club. Lotta pretty girls in there."
Joe handed Benny a photograph of a would-be politician. "See this guy?"
"Yeah," answered Benny. He passed the photograph over to Ludko.
"He's an up-and-coming politician, supposed to be at the Blue Moon tonight. If you spot him hanging on any of those girls, get pictures with this camera." Joe handed him a tiny Minox camera loaded with high-speed film for low-light conditions, like inside bars, restaurants, or clubs.
"Hey, now this assignment really spins my hat. Who we workin' for?"
"Alderman Clancey," Joe answered. "And get pictures of the guy not pictures of the girls, okay?" Joe shook his head. " You have to be at The Drake in the morning. Pick up the shadow on Ferrel."
"Sure thing, Joe," said Benny. He looked over impatiently and said, "Come on. We'd better get goin', Lud."
Before they left, Joe said, "Ludko, you can help Benny for as long as you want, but drop by tomorrow morning." They both headed out the door and down the stairs.
Joe stepped into his darkroom, a large converted closet, and started to develop the film of the businessman's wife from a few hours ago.
In the darkroom, in the total blackness, in the silence, Joe carefully removed the film from the Contax camera. He groped in the blackness for the stainless steel developing tank, about the size of a large coffee cup. He opened it, felt inside for the film reel, and removed it. As he wound the film around the reel, Polina occupied his thoughts. What was her connection to Ferrel? To the KGB? Why had he let himself into the kind of case he swore he wouldn't take again, not ever again, not after the Manhattan Project matter? What compelled him? He wanted no more smoke, no more involvement with professional killers working for governments, friendly or not.
The film was completely on the reel now. He dropped it back inside the little tank. He put the lid back on. It was safe from light now. He pulled the dangling chain and light flooded the closet. He opened the door. Joe went over to his bathroom sink and mixed a dilution of Rodinal developer. He measured out what he needed, made a dilution, and poured it into the tank. It always amazed him that the developer could enter the tank but not the light. He started the rhythmic agitations of the tank, which would reveal the images on the film now safely rocking inside. Every thirty seconds he would invert the tank a few times and set it back down on the shelf by the sink.
Now, in the light, looking at himself in the mirror, he justified the Polina case as one where he could actually help someone, a case where he could bring some good out of a war that brought so much evil into the world. Maybe Ludko was right– Ferrel was just a bodyguard– a frightened woman, desperately trying to help a family member escape a network of ruthless Soviet agents, agents Joe knew were capable of everything.
