Chicago

by David Mamet

“No, I have to think about this,” JoJo said. “I have to think about this.” He finished the drink and stood up from the stool. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I give up on the candy,” Mike said.

  “You don’t wanna work it out?” JoJo said. “Okay. The candy bag, ah this is so fucken inside . . . Walter. Is caught at the box. Door’s open, jewels are coming out, the maid comes in. Walter turns, now comes the body language, stooped shoulders, head down, ‘You caught me.’ He takes the remaining jewels, sweeps them visibly into the empty drawstring bag. Ties the strings with a simple, ‘resigned’ bow—huh? ‘Goodbye.’ He sighs. He raises his hand, ‘Wait,’ he turns back to close the door on the safe. Bag with the rocks goes into the coat pocket. He turns back to the maid, in his hand now, the other drawstring bag. This one, full of hard candy. Face down, shoulders slumped, he holds this bag in front of him, ‘You got me . . . ,’ hands it to the maid. He leaves the room, and walks, sadly, down the stairs, sorrowful and ashamed.”

  “This is the white broad?”

  “The maid? Fucken Lutheran. Don’t matter. What does she do? As Walter walks away.”

  “She looks in the bag.”

  “She. Looks. In. The. Bag!” JoJo said.

  “’Cause she’s a thief?”

  “’Cause she’s a woman. Give her a bag full of jewels? She cannot not open it. Whether she prunes it or not. Got to see what’s inside. I walk down the stairs. The elevator.”

  “What if she opens the bag before you hit the street?” Mike said.

  “Well, here’s the fucking genius,” JoJo said. “And you can forget ‘Discoverer of Radium.’ The Swedish broad? Saw me sweep the jewels into this bag, tie the bag with a simple bow. I give her the bag, she goes to open it, she can’t get it undone.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because, I, previously? I put the candies in my other bag, I took the drawstrings apart, and fucken spliced them into each other, then tied the bow. And glued it. Now the broad, her problem was: what to do about the burglar? Now it’s: how do I get this fucken knot out of this string, than which nothing is more occupying. Aaand, and here we get to ‘I love it,’ I get tossed? The way in? What does the cop find? Bag of hard candies, I, my goodness, bought to distribute, the poor kids at Hull House. How beautiful is that?”

  “What if you get tossed the way out?” Mike said.

  “Then I’m fucked. But I’ll tell you what. If he’s current, I don’t think O’Banion killed him,” JoJo said.

  “Be—”

  “Because why would he? I don’t get it. Jackie Weiss . . . ? If he’s current, he’s, if he’s current, he’s getting protection from O’Banion, question, why would anybody drop him?”

  “Fellow washed up in the dunes, bag of candy in his pocket. You know him?” Mike said.

  “He’d’ve had to’ve studied downstate, with Walter,” JoJo said. “What you want, someone bunked up with Walter, long enough, cement a friendship.”

  Mike rose, left a ten-dollar bill on the table, and handed a twenty to JoJo. He started putting on his coat.

  “And, if I were you,” JoJo said, “be careful, ’cause a lot of people getting killed.”

  “Yeah, who’s getting killed?” Mike threw the line away, and began buttoning the overcoat.

  “That black girl, worked for Jackie Weiss’s broad.”

  “What would she have to do with a safe guy . . . ?” Mike said. He put a cigarette in his mouth, and took a match from the holder, and scraped it on the holder’s side. He lit his cigarette.

  “You, I am sure, didn’t hear nothing from me,” JoJo said. Mike dropped the burnt match in the ashtray.

  “I think you’re bullshitting,” Mike said.

  “No you don’t,” JoJo said. “What are you smiling about?”

  A further five dollars at police headquarters had opened to him the Bertillon files of the parole board of Cook County. Two hours’ study had given him the name and photograph of Donald Byrne, Joliet Penitentiary, 1923–1928, cellmate, for three of those years, with Walter Johnson. Mr. Byrne, according to his card, would be forty-one years old, and a comparison of his statistics with those of the dead man in the dunes suggested he would grow no older.

  “It’s all in knowing where to look,” Mike said.

  “Who said that?” the clerk said.

  “Lewis and Clark,” Mike said. “Don’t they teach you nothing . . . ?”

  Chapter 32

  Parlow had just entered the Sally Port, and was shedding his overcoat as Mike came in.

  “As I put it together . . . ,” Mike said.

  “For the love of Christ,” Parlow said, “let me get a drink.”

  They walked through the smoky room and Mike ran down the story as he understood it, as if giving it to Rewrite.

  “Weiss’s safe is cleaned out . . .”

  “Maybe the broad got it,” Parlow said.

  “Lita Grey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe she did,” Mike said.

  “Aaand took the mink coat,” Parlow said.

  “Maybe she did,” Mike said, “maybe she didn’t, but, now? Now? Why is Jackie Weiss on the spot?”

  “Because he did something they didn’t like.”

  “Or, or,” Mike said. “He had something that someone wanted; he, we can assume, had been asked for it nicely, and had demurred.”

  “A fact not in evidence, but what the fuck,” Parlow said.

  “They toss the Chez? It ain’t there; where is it?”

  “Maybe at his Li’l Love Nest,” Parlow said.

  “They break into the love nest, they open the safe: some guy? The Candy Man? Opens the safe . . . says it isn’t there.”

  “Alright.”

  “So how do they treat him?”

  “They shoot him and dump him in Hegewisch.”

  “Why . . . ?”

  “Because they believe he opened the safe, found what they wanted, and held out on them.”

  “Right. Now—”

  “Good to see you back,” Parlow said.

  “Shut up,” Mike said. “Now—” But they had arrived at the back booth, and it was occupied not only by the Tribune, but by the American.

  “Whence this ecumenicism?” Parlow said.

  In the booth Crouch had just lit a new Fatima from the stab of the old.

  The occasion was the presence, in the booth, of a journalist from New York. He was being congratulated on his paper’s extraordinary scoop, their page 1 photo of the electrocution of Ruth Snyder.

  “. . . on the story from day one,” he said. “And the betting was two-to-five that she did it. At the outset, then, then five-to-one against execution.”

  “D’you bet on it?” Mike said.

  “I didn’t bet on it,” the New Yorker said.

  “As that would’ve been of questionable taste,” Mike said.

  The New Yorker stopped.

  The boys were trading Tales of the Unwritten Law. The New Yorker was being grilled on the Ruth Snyder murder. The suppressed testimony, backstage gossip, and police embellishments which were, to the reporters, as Crouch said, “the intoxicating liquor, the ambrosia, of the news, the true news, fresh from the still, before it is denatured.”

  Snyder and her paramour, Judd Gray, had murdered Snyder’s husband. Gray, an undergarments salesman, it seems, was the punch line to a City Room joke which the visitor posed to the group: “Why was Judd Gray like a bad dentist?” Parlow answered, “Because he was filling the wrong cavities.”

  The visitor’s face fell.

  “Oh, no,” Parlow said, “I stepped on your joke. What have I done. I’m so sorry. And hope you will not understand my boorishness as indicative of the local standard of courtesy. Allow me to buy a round.”

  Mike slid into the booth opposite Parlow.

  “Buy a round,” Parlow said. Mike waved a new round for the table, indicating Parlow to pay.

  “You fellows will like this,” the New Yorker said. “It puts me in min
d of a hunting tale.”

  The table nodded him their agreement: yes, the story was, likely, more than twice-told, but they would be courteous to the chap from out of town.

  “This fellow, you see, discovers his wife is cheating on him. Where does she go? To a hot-sheets resort of note. How does he know she goes there? He follows her car. She parks the car, in she goes. Half-seen, through the entryway, she embraces a man even our husband, in his enraged grief, can espy is not himself. He goes to the desk. ‘What room did my friends go into, please?’ ‘Room two oh nine.’ Tritty trot, tritty trot, off he goes to buy a gun.”

  The waiter brought the round of drinks, Mike motioned him to write it down, he nodded and left.

  “However deep his grief, our unfortunate cuckold retained that innate sense of self-preservation which separates us from the unthoughtful. He reasons, ‘If I, in my state, walk into a pawnshop and demand a gun, the pawnbroker will remember me. Perhaps he won’t conclude the sale, perhaps he will call the cops, and so on.’ Better, he reasons, than trying to evade notice, he will act in a fashion counter to intuition, and purchase a gun openly where he is a valued customer. He’ll buy a sporting arm, no one will question him, and, should he walk away from the crime undetected, no one will connect him with it.

  “Who would kill his wife, he reasons, with, for instance, a new, purpose-bought expensive shotgun? He goes to his Fifth Avenue sporting goods store. Over the years he has been a valued customer in their fishing department. What prodigies of bamboo and waxed twine, of perfectly balanced reels and flies tied by the greatest artisans, who went blind in their construction—”

  “Get on with it,” Mike said.

  “He enters the store, and is nodded to the elevator. ‘Third floor, Mr. Smith? Fishing equipment?’ the boy says. ‘No,’ he says, ‘take me up to the gun room.’ Up he goes. Delighted to see him and his interest in blood sport, they quiz him. What does he want to shoot? He improvises, ‘Birds.’ What sort of birds? ‘Um, pheasants.’ He takes a gun from the rack. ‘I’ll take it.’ ‘This is a beautiful Parker VHE twelve gauge, side-by-side, citation grade, its stock of Circassian—’”

  “Stop showing off,” Mike said.

  “‘Circassian walnut. There is no finer gun for upland game. Try it out.’ ‘I’ll take it,’ he says. ‘The price—’ the salesman says. ‘It’s for a gift,’ the fellow says, ‘and I’m . . .’ He pulls out his watch. ‘I forgot my brother’s birthday. I’ll take the gun.’ ‘You won’t be sorry,’ the salesman says. He summons his minions, and instructs them to package and wrap the shotgun, one-two-six.

  “The salesman says, ‘Now. What might your brother like to accessorize the . . . ?’ ‘If he wants something, I’m sure he’ll come in,’ our man says, ‘and you can charge it to me.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Ammunition?’ the salesman suggests. He brings a box from under the counter. ‘What? Yes, yes, two.’ ‘Two boxes?’

  “‘No. Two shells,’ the husband says. ‘Wrap it up.’ Husband’s looking at his watch. The assistant comes back carrying the unwrapped shotgun. ‘Sir,’ he says, ‘we found a slight dent in the forestock . . .’ He shows it. ‘I don’t care,’ our guy says. He reaches for the gun. ‘Oh no, sir,’ the salesman says, ‘Von Lengerke and Antoine could not let a less-than-perfect gun leave this store. At that price, no.’ ‘My brother,’ the man says. ‘I’m late for his birthday party . . .’

  “‘Yes, I understand,’ the salesman says. He waves the offending gun away, and takes another shotgun from the rack. ‘This is the Purdey,’ he says. ‘Yes, a Purdey shotgun. In the presentation grade. The price is, of course, much much higher, the platinum fittings . . .’ ‘I’ll take it,’ the guy says. ‘There were only five of them made, we were allowed one. It lists for six hundred dollars. In light of the inconvenience we have caused and of your value as a loyal customer, perhaps you will allow us to offer it to you with a twelve percent discount.’ ‘I’ll take it,’ the guy says. He takes the gun, grabs two shells from the box, and walks out of the store. Calls, ‘Write it down.’ Off he goes to the hotel.

  “In the cab, muttering, ‘Two one nine, two one nine.’ Gets to the hotel. In the lobby he looks at the key rack, yes, two one nine, key still gone, still in the room. Loads the gun. Second floor. Two one nine, two one nine. Finger on the trigger. Kicks in the door. Old fat man, at the sink, in a towel, shaving. Our man looks around. In the bed, fat old lady in curlers, reading a magazine.

  “Old guy shaving looks at our guy. ‘Mother of God,’ he screams. ‘Is that a presentation-grade Purdey?’ Our man allows that, yes, it is, old guy puts his hands out, lovingly, ‘Might I just hold it?’ Our guy offers the gun to the guy. Gun goes off, blows the old lady in two. Blood, shit, and hair all over the walls.”

  The fellow from New York howled at his own joke. “. . . All over the fucken walls . . .” Parlow looked at Mike.

  Mike’s own personal “murder by firearm” story had been, over the year, excised from the group’s memory. They had passed through the inadvertencies of constant concern for the bereaved; and time had enforced the dictum never to mention a rope in the house of a hanged man, and there were no new inadvertent, hurtful reminders of Mike’s loss.

  The murder of Annie Walsh was history, and that which was history was not news.

  Her death fell, like the school fire at All Saints, into that category of event which was in no wise a fit subject for domination through humor, and so, again, it, being of no use, was put aside.

  It had been half a year since Mike had come back to work, and like many another returned wounded, his disfigurement had soon ceased to be remarked upon, and then ceased being noticed.

  But the fellow from New York had called it up. And Mike told him, “Your story is bullshit. You want to learn to tell a better story? Go out there and get your nose broke, you fucking ponce.”

  Mike pushed his chair back and stood.

  “And you sold a few papers with that execution shot, didn’t you?” Mike said. “That girl dying . . . No one who saw that photo ever will forget it. But, anyone, actually saw a dead body, they didn’t cherish the sight, but they looked away.”

  “Say,” the New York man said.

  “You piece of shit, you ever see a dead body?”

  “I saw a photo of one,” the New York man said.

  “And what did that do for you?” Mike said. “Or was it just ‘French postcards’? I’m talking to you. Was it ‘news’? Or revenge. The fucking girl getting fried . . . ?”

  “Say that it was,” the New York man said. “By whom? ‘Revenge’? On the part of whom? ‘By society’? Yes.”

  “‘Society’ didn’t suffer in that murder,” Mike said. “The victim fucking suffered; and whatever society thinks it was owed was paid when she received the sentence and died. But she wasn’t sentenced to have her fucking picture took.”

  The man turned his head. Mike grabbed him by the collar, wrenched him around, and slapped him hard.

  “Don’t you turn away from me, you fucking cocksucker,” Mike said.

  Mike felt Parlow’s arm around him, restraining him. He consented to be walked away.

  Parlow whispered, “You’re out of your mind.”

  Mike said, “Yeah. That’s true.” Parlow relaxed his grip.

  Mike turned back to the table. “Wait ’til something happens to you,” he said. “Then come and talk to me about revenge.”

  Parlow put his hand on Mike’s arm. Mike shrugged it off and walked to the door.

  Peekaboo and Mike were two-thirds of the way through a bottle which not only was advertised as, but tasted like, prewar scotch.

  “Put that photo of that poor white girl, the cover of their newspaper,” Peekaboo said. “I’d call that an act of perversion.”

  “They killed that girl.”

  “Your girl?” Peekaboo said.

  Mike shook his head. “Ruth Watkins, worked for Lita Grey,” he said. “They tortured her. They killed Jackie Weiss, they went to his house, they kil
led the maid. Opened the safe. Killed the safecracker.”

  “That ain’t The Trail of the Lonesome Pine,” Peekaboo said. “That’s revenge.”

  “Spanish say, revenge is a dish best eaten cold,” Mike said.

  “Revenge like lobster,” Peekaboo said. “Best hot or cold. But they ain’t wrong. White boy, killed my brother, what can you do?”

  “What can you do?” Mike said.

  “Well, alright,” Peekaboo said. “White boy, out driving, some night, wintertime, Li’l Buggy, his best gal. Someone? Waylaid him? Coupla fellows.” She gestured, What can you do?

  “They’d kill the fella, rape the girl?” Mike said.

  Peekaboo shrugged.

  “What can you do?” she said.

  “How they put her back together?” Mike said.

  “. . . Put her back together?”

  “The white girl,” Mike said, “after they raped her.”

  “After they raped her? The white girl . . . Didn’t have to ‘put her back together.’ Left her, all her underthings off, as if, or, just as usually, the case, her boyfriend’d been fucking her.”

  “And then they’d kill her too,” Mike said.

  “‘Too’?” Peekaboo said. “Honey: they’d kill the white boy second. First thing, force him to watch. Rape her, then kill her, n’then do him.” She looked at him as if to say, Who brought you up?

  “Reason I mention it. My brother? Before he died. However he died. He understood, spoken or not, you understand, his friends would take revenge. And he died with that. That’s not nothing.”

  “No. No, it’s not nothing,” Mike said.

  “Now, they didn’t rape them nuns . . . ?”

  “They may have,” Mike said. “You never know.”

  “Yeah. Those nuns. Didn’t do anything. But that’s the way of the world.”

  She rose wearily. “Yeah, you know,” she said. “You got to do what gon’ make you feel better, sugar.” She sighed.

  “The white girl, in the buggy,” Mike said. “How’d it come down? Set it up like she killed the boyfriend?”

  “That’s right,” Peekaboo said. “He was trine, fuck her, she fought for her honor—he’s trine break her neck—so she killed him.”