Chicago

by David Mamet

  “Honey, I do it for a living.”

  Chapter 9

  Halsted was the longest street in Chicago. It ran from the Mob enclave of Chicago Heights thirty-three miles north to its terminus in the trolley barns, and two blocks west of the Lake. Lita Grey was born southeast of Chicago. She now lived on the Lake.

  On the Lake the new apartment palaces of the stock market money housed those made fortunate thereby and their dependents, among them Lita.

  Her ninth-floor corner apartment had a wide east and north view of Lake Michigan. And she delighted to sit in the window seat, drink in hand, watching the water. She most particularly enjoyed the storms.

  The February storm battered the plate glass now and again, with no discernible rhythm, and the wind howled.

  She had her long legs drawn up under her. The cashmere throw was tucked beneath and over them, and finished round her shoulders. The shawl was gold, and chosen, as were all her clothes, to set off her violet eyes, her tawny blond hair, and the warm ivory of her skin, that combination regularly referred to in her press releases as “exotic.”

  A small silver cigarette box and its matched lighter sat on the taboret just to hand. She took a deep sip of her highball and set it down next to them. The wind banged the windows.

  “You can say one thing,” she thought. “The wind? It’s not as if it’s ‘angry,’ or any of that. It’s not as if it ‘wants to knock us down,’ or ‘to destroy the works of man,’ or anything. It’s not even that it doesn’t care. We are not here for it. And, so, we should not take it personally.”

  Jackie Weiss’s lawyer sat on the couch behind her, his hat in his hand. She saw his reflection shiver as the wind buffeted the window.

  “I hope, Miss Grey,” he said, “that they’re strong enough to resist the storm.”

  “And I hope you,” she thought, “someday regain the ability to speak your native tongue. When you come here on an errand of extortion, which, one would think, would be the happy excuse for that cocksuckedness which you call your profession.”

  “. . . Miss Grey . . . ?” he said.

  “Ruth might of took his hat,” she thought, “when she took his coat—but, of course, he is indicating the brevity of his errand: come here, give me an envelope, two weeks, one week, to clear out. Contract with the Chez? My question? None of his concern. Concern more of that bulbous cow Jackie had to climb on top of once a month. Or, more likely, the concern of the North Side.”

  “Miss Grey?” he said. “Mrs. Weiss has, graciously, I think . . .” In the reflection Lita saw him start to draw the envelope from his jacket pocket.

  Ruth Watkins was Lita’s colored maid and longtime adviser. Lita and Ruth had determined, in council, that for their démarche to have effect, it must be made not only before even a cursory perusal of the envelope, but before the full announcement of its message.

  “Once they go there,” Ruth said, “you’re arguing about a number, and the only thing worse than that is that they get to say their number first. You must come down, out of the blue, to interrupt their thinking.”

  “Yeah?” Lita said.

  “They think. These Jews? Sit around a table?” Ruth said. “‘She’s got to take ten grand. I’d bet she’ll take five. Wait, the bitch might hold out for—I don’t know what she might think she could hold out for. Something must be done!’ . . . They kick it around . . .”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “‘All’s we care about, is not the number’—that’s their strategy—‘big or small, what difference?’”

  “Tell me why again,” Lita said.

  “Because, because,” Ruth said. “Be assured, it’s less than this.” She waved her arm, indicating the apartment. “Else they’d just send a note: ‘Please keep everything until the end of time.’ ’Cause, think about it, what do you have to offer this old hag? She can’t fuck you, she can’t sell you, she can’t eat you, you’ve got nothing for her, ’cept your nuisance value. Alright. ’Cause? You think about it? One day—had to come—one day, there would be somebody Jackie sends with the envelope.”

  “That’s right,” Lita said.

  “‘. . . Honey, thank you for the last twenty-five years, but you’re old, your pussy is loose, and I need some young thing. You understand.’”

  “That’s right,” Lita said.

  “But. That day, you’ve got one tactical advantage. That day, you could cry and stomp around . . .”

  “He liked me.”

  “Also, could have been, the old lady died, you throw a headlock on him, drag him to the priest. It’s all a matter of time,” Ruth said. “That happened? Pride of your youth? ‘Ring or no pussy’? I’d bet he’d go. He don’t go? Later on? He gets tired of you, or his dick gives out? I’d say you’re going traveling.”

  Ruth took a deep breath.

  “Lookit,” she said. “People are different? My thing is: You’re like to get beat? Go down attacking. Other fella might know something ’bout his weakness you don’t know.”

  “‘It’s not about the envelope,’” Lita said.

  “The correct move,” Ruth said, “for them? Is to send the sheriff. So that, you’re reduced? Trading a blow job for the right to take your vanity case.”

  “Mink coat,” Lita said.

  “Baby, let me tell you something. That mink coat is, likely, going to the sheriff’s wife. F’Mizz Jackie ain’t got her attorneys here, and, if they’ve got an inventory, and it’s gone? Like, you or me’s going to prison.” Ruth looked at Lita. “Alright,” she said. “Lita. Other hand, they call, make the appointment, send over their liar? That’s a sign of weakness.”

  “. . . Sign of weakness . . .”

  “Yes. That’s right. ’Cause he’s bringing the envelope.”

  “And we can’t just take the envelope?”

  “Where we are, we can’t leave . . . and we can’t stay. No we can’t . . . the envelope is like, a fella brings you flowers. You take those flowers, what are you going to have to do?”

  “Fuck him,” Lita said.

  Ruth smiled. “Break down the bargain,” she said. “Fella goes in the park, picks some roses, hands them to you, you lay down?”

  “No,” Lita said.

  “Now: flowers he bought cost him five dollars. Fella says, I didn’t have the time to buy ’em, here’s a five-dollar bill. Is this a better bargain?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Ruth said, “that’s all they’re doing with the envelope. Bringing flowers, so that they can fuck you. No. You have to administer the situation.”

  Lita admired her reflection in the window. She smoothed her hair, and adjusted the small diamond brooch near her neck. It depicted a violin, and she mimed caressing it, in indication of its sentimental value. She took the handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eye. Then she turned from the windows and faced the lawyer sitting on the couch. She looked down at his card.

  “Mr. . . . ?”

  “Bennish,” he said.

  “Mr. Bennish,” she said. “I have in my possession . . .”

  “Gifts?” he said. “Gifts that Mr. Weiss may have made you are, of course—”

  “Letters.”

  “—we have no, absolutely no objection to your continued possession of that which—”

  “Letters and documents,” Lita said. “Transferring to me: ownership of this apartment—”

  “Miss Grey,” Bennish said.

  “Ownership—”

  “Are you suggesting you have notarized and filed deeds?”

  “—of various accounts. Of stocks. And bonds.”

  Ruth, prim in her maid’s uniform and cap, stood, hands clasped, in a corner of the room. She gave the slightest nod of encouragement to Lita.

  “And a deed—” Lita said.

  “Again I ask—” Bennish said.

  “—a deed-of-gift. Promising me, on his death, a substantial amount of cash—”

  Bennish began to shake his head.

  “And promising
me one half his interest in the Chez Montmartre.” She stopped.

  “I don’t believe you,” Bennish said.

  “I can produce the documents, if you wish me to,” Lita said.

  “Why would I not wish it?” Bennish said.

  “Because, with them, unfortunately, will come . . .” She hesitated a quarter second, then went on. “Letters from Mr. Weiss to me . . .”

  “Oh, please,” Bennish said. “If you think—”

  “And—”

  “Oh be still,” Bennish said.

  “Don’t tell me to be still,” Lita said. “And from Morris Teitelbaum to Mr. Weiss. And a letter from him to Mr. Teitelbaum.”

  Bennish cleared his throat. He adjusted himself on the couch. “Concerning?” he said.

  “Well,” Lita said.

  “Letters about what?”

  “Well, alright . . . Talking about some boats.”

  “Some boats? Yes?”

  “And Mr. O’Banion,” Lita said.

  “How would that benefit you?” he said. “The release of such letters?”

  Lita lifted the cover of the cigarette case. Ruth took up the little table lighter and lit the cigarette Lita had taken from the box. She performed the suggestion of a curtsy. Lita gave her a dismissive nod, and Ruth left the room.

  The man had gone.

  “Well,” Ruth said, “toothpaste don’t go back in the tube.”

  “Tooth powder does,” Lita said.

  “Tooth powder does,” Ruth agreed, “and tooth powder makes a good silver polish. Speaking of which, ball in their court? They may strike back with a list of ‘walk out of here in your shift if you fuck with us.’ I don’t think they will, but they might.”

  “If. If they disbelieve I have the letter,” Lita said.

  “Alternatively,” Ruth said.

  “What if they rat us out?” Lita said.

  “Rat us out?”

  “To O’Banion.”

  “Well, baby,” Ruth said, “on the spot? You had to improvise.”

  “Improvise what?” Lita said.

  “Improvise about O’Banion,” Ruth said.

  “No. There is a letter,” Lita said.

  Ruth sat up. “There is a letter?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ruth said, “From?”

  “From Teitelbaum to Jackie.”

  “What is it?” Ruth said.

  “I don’t know. Jackie was reading it,” Lita said. “It’s about Mr. O’Banion and some boats.”

  “How do you know that it’s important?” Ruth said.

  “Because he put it in the safe,” Lita said. “I’m not stupid.”

  Ruth shook her head.

  “But what?” Lita said. “They say that knowledge is power.”

  “Power is power,” Ruth said. “People say differently don’t understand power. Or knowledge. Knowledge is what gets you killed.” She shook her head. “Alright,” she said, “let’s get it.”

  “I can’t get it,” Lita said. “I told you. It’s in the safe.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ruth Watkins said. “Uh-huh . . . Alright . . .”

  Chapter 10

  Parlow was cleaning his pipe. The stem was cracked, and fit only with difficulty back into the bowl. But he had carried it in France and was devoted to it.

  The proof of the front page was tacked up on the City Room wall. The ink still glistened. Mike was looking at it absently. It read Gangland Shootings.

  “. . . the death of Morris Teitelbaum,” he read, “co-owner of the Chez Montmartre, following by three weeks the assassination of his partner, Jacob Weiss.”

  “Let’s go,” Parlow said.

  “I’m thinking,” Mike said.

  “You’re paid to work,” Parlow said. “And thinking is not working. Colonel McCormick said so.”

  “Colonel McCormick,” Mike said, “inherited money.”

  “Yes, he did,” Parlow said. “A shitload of it. From the poor sodbusters out there ‘busting the sod,’ to whom his daddy sold the machines, to sow the virgin plains in wheat.”

  “Shut up,” Mike said.

  “The better to make bread,” Parlow said. “Whence we find, these ruminations, carried forward, may present another hypothetic mystery.” He lit his pipe. “In this case: what would the Squareheads and Yon Yonson up there do, Old Man McCormick hadn’t the talent, make the machines to till the soil or whatever they do, to get the wheat to make the bread, to live in the house that Jack built?”

  “Don’t you have any fucking work to do?” Mike said.

  “. . . To spread on the surface the butter they make from those black-and-white cows one sees on motor trips up north?”

  “Gimme a fucken drink,” Mike said.

  Parlow leaned forward in the swivel chair. He took the long chain from his pocket, found the correct key at its end, and with it unlocked the bottom drawer on his side of the partners desk.

  He took out the bottle of rye. He called across the City Room, “Beano: two fucking Dixie Cups.” He put the bottle on the desk. He waved out the wooden match, puffed again on his pipe, and dropped the match into the last two inches of the French artillery shell that served them as an ashtray.

  “War war war,” he said. “War in the air, war on the ground. Love in the trenches, and mud in Paris.”

  “Shut up,” Mike said.

  “Mademoiselles mad with their choice of heroes to clasp to their diminutive, poxed breasts, and Lester the Little Rabbit knew, as sure as shooting, this time, it was spring!”

  “Shut up.”

  “Paris,” Parlow said, “in the spring. Gave me hay fever.”

  “You’re lucky that’s all it gave you,” Mike said.

  “That’s not all it gave me,” Parlow said. “Gave me an understanding of culture and art, and their ineffable power, not to ‘still,’ no, neither to ‘assuage,’ but to reveal the essence of the Soul of Man.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Forty-eight hours,” Parlow said. “But I saw all the museums.”

  Mike took the sheets of paper from the typewriter. The copyboy dropped two Dixie Cups on the desk.

  “Thanks,” Parlow said.

  Mike slipped the papers into the wire wastebasket.

  “That’s the wrong way to tickle Mary,” Parlow said. Mike nodded. “Colonel McCormick says that waste of paper is an additional tax levied upon the logging industry.”

  “I should think,” Mike said, “the logging industry would be right chuffed at the consequent increase in demand.”

  “So you might think,” Parlow said, “if you were a dangerous Bolshevik or Red, interested only in the dissolution of the Social Fabric.”

  “Don’t you fucking have work to do or someplace to go?” Mike said.

  “‘To tell all is to tell everything, Catherine said, her staid demeanor belied by her lack of interest in the downward progress of the gown’s last shoulder strap, over that shoulder which even the years of tennis and riding could not rob of its willowy aristo form.’

  “All of these broads,” he said, “North Side equestrian broads? Swear that they lost it putting Charlemagne over the last water jump.”

  “Maybe they did,” Mike said.

  “Maybe they did at that,” Parlow said. “Who are we to say?” He worked his chair to the side of the desk, bent, and took the discarded sheets from the wastebasket.

  “‘Sources high and ensconced in the world of our North Side,’” he read, “‘have suggested a possible resolution of their interests with those of the territory left untenanted by the late demise, by lead, of Jacob Weiss, showman and father. Now followed by that of his colleague Morris Teitelbaum.’ Who are those high sources?”

  “That would be me,” Mike said.

  “And what was their proposed resolution?”

  “Hell do I know?” Mike said. “I’m throwing chum to the fish.”

  “To bring up what?”

  “I dunno,” Mike said. “Some comment from th
e Outfit?”

  “They said they din’t do it,” Parlow said.

  “Who?”

  “The South Side,” Parlow said.

  “Do what?” Mike said.

  “Ice Jackie Weiss.”

  “Who did it, then?” Mike said.

  “Unclear,” Parlow said, “but they loved your quip, about ‘he died of a broken heart.’ You should have been there, they picked up the tab for dinner.”

  Mike looked at his watch. “Time to go,” he said.

  Crouch was the city editor, and, like most men dedicated to a cause, he took seriously the signs and trappings of his devotion. These, in his case, were an ancient rumpled suit, a green eyeshade while at work, a Fatima cigarette perennially held between his lips, his eyes screwed up against the smoke, nicotine-stained fingers and teeth, a dirty shirt, and frayed and ink-stained cuffs. He was small, usually unshaven, and had looked every day of his fifty-eight years since his accession to the desk in 1913.

  He loved to opine that it was not important to be able to “write.” He always pronounced the word as if in quotes.

  “The Rewrite men can write sufficiently badly,” he’d say. “Leave the adjectives to Miss Fisk, and the sports page. Here’s what I’m looking for in a reporter: observe; tell me the facts; and if you’re sure, if you’re sure, then you connect them.”

  And since Jackie Weiss’s funeral, Mike had been troubled by Parlow’s comment about the overcoats.

  At Weiss’s funeral, he, Parlow, and Poochy had stood back with the gravediggers, behind the chairs, as the rabbi concluded his obsequies. Now the same rabbi was burying Teitelbaum.

  “The sine qua non of a journey is disequilibrium,” Parlow said.

  “I’ve always thought so,” Mike said.

  “With this one exception,” Parlow said. He inclined his head toward the grave, where they were lowering the casket into the ground.

  “Bitch of a time,” Poochy said, “getting into that hard ground.”

  “Nah,” Mike said, “we did it in France. Trick is, you make a fire on it, melt it down the first foot, rest of it’ll come right up.”

  “Is that true?” Poochy said.

  “Well, you think about it,” Mike said.