A Death in Pilsen (A Snap Malek Mystery)

by Robert Goldsborough

  "Didn't that bother you, Charlie?"

  "Sure, but then you know Edwina. She is–was–very headstrong."

  "And she was always at Horvath's?"

  "Yeah, as far as I know. She told me it was such a friendly place. Said it reminded her of some of the pubs back home, even though the beer wasn't as good. She complained a lot about that. I told her it didn't seem proper for a married woman to be going into bars by herself, but she just laughed and called me an old-fashioned boy."

  "Did you ever go in there with her?"

  "No, I never did. I probably should have, but I was always…"

  "Afraid of what you'd find?" I put in.

  He gnawed at a fingernail. "I guess, maybe. Or maybe she'd think I was spying on her. Edwina had quite a temper."

  "I got that impression the few times I saw her. Anything else you can tell me that might point us to what happened?"

  "No…no. The way I figure it, somebody followed her home and forced his way into the apartment. Then he must have…tried to…" Charlie began to sob quietly, and I looked around at the guard. He wasn't paying any attention to us.

  "Okay, I'm going to talk to McCafferty, that lawyer I mentioned," I told him, "and I'm also going to pay a visit to Horvath's. I'll try to stop by again in the next few days, okay?"

  "Okay, Stevie. And thanks," he said, sniffling and dabbing his eyes.

  When I got back to the pressroom late that afternoon, they all looked questioningly at me, but nobody said anything, which I appreciated. For all the carping I've done about this crew over the years, on balance they're a decent sort.

  * * *

  First thing the next morning, back at Headquarters, I looked up Liam McCafferty's office on

  LaSalle Street and dialed his number. A crisply efficient, but pleasant, feminine voice answered and I gave her my name, adding that I was a Tribune reporter based at 11th and State. "May I tell Mr. McCafferty what this is about?"

  "I'm afraid not. It's a very sensitive subject," I replied in what I hoped was a conspiratorial tone.

  "Can you be more specific, sir?"

  "I'm afraid I can't. But I know that Mr. McCafferty will definitely want to talk to me."

  "Very well. Hold the line please." The voice had become distinctly less pleasant.

  I waited for what seemed like three minutes, but probably was less, before I heard a voice laced with brogue say "McCafferty here."

  "This is Steve Malek of the Tribune. You may be aware that there was a murder in Pilsen the night before last."

  "I read the newspapers, including yours, Mr. Malek. They all had the story with varying degrees of detail, the afternoon editions yesterday, the morning ones today." His tone was businesslike, but not unfriendly.

  "You may also be aware that the man being held is named Malek."

  "And why do you suppose that I picked up my telephone?" he replied with a slight chuckle. I liked the sound of his voice.

  "Okay, so you're on to me. Charlie Malek is my cousin, and I want you to defend him."

  "I do not come cheap, Mr. Malek."

  "And I do not pay cheap, Mr. McCafferty." Brave words from one who had no idea what kind of dollars were involved.

  "Well put, sir, well put indeed. I gather from the news reports that your cousin is in the Bridewell. Foul place. Never liked it. Should be torn down like the Bastille was. I just finished a case two days ago, so your timing is excellent. I shall endeavor to pay a visit to him today."

  "Thank you," I said, giving him my phone numbers in the pressroom and at home. I was pleased that the great lawyer had agreed to take Charlie on, but I also knew that my being with the Tribune was a factor.

  Talk around town was that, second only to money, the silver-haired, glib Liam McCafferty craved publicity, mountains of it. And the Tribune was printed on mountains of paper, a million copies a day, and even more on Sundays.

  CHAPTER 6

  That evening, as usual, I went over the day's activities with Catherine at dinner, concentrating on my visit to Charlie in jail as well as my hiring of Liam McCafferty.

  "It looks bad for him, doesn't it, Steve?" she asked, the concern evident in her voice.

  I nodded. "You and I could tell from the very first that theirs was not a marriage made in heaven, or anyplace resembling it. Unfortunately for Charlie, several of their fellow residents of Pilsen know the same thing, as the cops quickly discovered when they nosed around that fine old neighborhood."

  "He couldn't possibly have done it, could he?" In the few times she'd been around him, Catherine had developed a genuine fondness for Charlie, although the tone of her question carried a ring of uncertainty.

  "Of course not! I told you what he said today about Edwina's going to Horvath's bar all the time. I think the secret to what happened may lie there."

  "But wouldn't the police have already checked out that possibility?"

  "They might have visited the place, darling, but I hardly think they'd spend much time there. Why should they? After all, they believe they've already got their man. And I'm sure they're going to try to link him to the killings of the Degnan girl and those two women. They're absolutely desperate to get that case wrapped up and sent to trial."

  She shuddered. "That's horrible, Steve."

  "Yes it is. McCafferty's prime concern will not be who killed Edwina. His job is only to try to get Charlie off the hook, and he'll have to do that by attacking the State's Attorney's case."

  "You don't sound very confident."

  "There's not a lot to be confident about. As good a defense attorney as this silver-tongued Irishman is supposed to be, he simply may not be good enough this time around."

  Catherine began clearing the table. "Have you got a better idea?"

  I think she knew what was coming–in fact, I'm sure she did. "I'm going to do a little looking around at Horvath's," I said in what I hoped was a matter-of-fact tone.

  She sat down, crossed her arms, and fixed me with those wonderful, penetrating gray eyes. "Steve, I won't try to talk you out of it, but are you really sure this is a good idea? You know how you seem to attract trouble. There was that night down in Beverly Hills that you told me about years later, and that rough business at the University of Chicago during the war, when that guy tried to strangle you. You were lucky both times. How many lives do you think you've got left?"

  "At least as many as a cat," I answered. "Hey, it'll be all right. I'm not going to take any foolish chances."

  "Promise me that you'll be careful–extra careful," Catherine said. "You never know what kind of people hang out in these bars."

  "And some of them are people who are a lot like me," I said with a rueful smile. I was referring to the uncounted hours I had spent in 'Killer' Kilkenny's saloon up on

  North Clark Street in the years between my marriages, when drinking was more important to me than anything else, including my work. "I will be home early, that I promise."

  CHAPTER 7

  I drove east to Pilsen for the second time in the last few days. I had passed Horvath's Tap many times on visits back to the old neighborhood to see my folks, but had never set foot inside. Turns out I hadn't missed much.

  The corner tavern fronted on

  18th Street, occupying the first floor of a three-story brick walkup, with what I assumed were apartments on the upper floors. The wooden sign over the door proclaiming its name was hand-lettered and faded, the paint peeling. The small horizontal window next to the door was filled with a red-and-blue neon Pabst Blue Ribbon emblem. Inside, the joint was dark and stale-smelling, a beery, all-too-familiar saloon odor.

  A half dozen men and a couple of women sat at the bar, which must have been about forty feet long, and a few couples were scattered through the booths. The jukebox was playing "To Each His Own" by Eddie Howard as I dropped onto a stool near the left end, three seats from the nearest other patron.

  "What'll it be?" the tall, bony bartender muttered listlessly.

  "A Schlitz on dr
aught and a minute of your time."

  "The Schlitz you can have," he grunted, walking along the bar to the pull. He drew a glass of the beer with just the right amount of foam and shuffled back, banging it down in front of me. "That'll be four bits, or do you want to run a tab?"

  I dropped two quarters on the worn and nicked mahogany surface. "I've got some questions," I told him.

  "Well, I ain't got any answers," he sneered. "In case you didn't notice, I'm at work."

  I leaned forward on my stool. "Yeah, and really exerting yourself, by the way. How'd you like to keep working, Mac," I mouthed quietly, but in the most belligerent tone I could muster.

  "What the hell's that supposed to mean? You pickin' a fight with me, Mac?"

  "Not if you drop that surly attitude of yours and listen for a minute."

  He put his hands on his hips and considered me through heavy-lidded eyes. "You a cop?"

  "Nope. I'm a newspaper reporter–Tribune–working out of Police Headquarters." I flashed my press card. "I've got some questions about Edwina Malek, the woman who was killed last–"

  "That didn't have nothin' at all to do with this place," the bartender growled. "Cops have already been in here asking questions, and I don't need to waste my time talking to any damned reporters."

  "Oh, I think you do," I said, still keeping my voice low enough not to be heard over the music. "You own this fine establishment?"

  "Part owner," he huffed, sticking out his long, thin jaw. "What's it to you?"

  "I may not be a cop, but I've got lots of friends on the force. More important where you're concerned, I've also got friends–some very important, very powerful friends in…the…Building…Department. Got it?"

  He opened his mouth to speak, but I made a slicing motion with my hand to cut him off. "They owe me some favors, if you get my drift. I wonder if your wiring is up to code," I said, looking around. "They've been getting a lot tougher on that sort of thing, as you may be aware. What about your plumbing? An inspector been around lately?"

  "Few months back," he mumbled, running his rag absently over the surface of the bar.

  "Seems like they're probably due to come back real soon, huh? You should know that there's a really tough new inspector on the plumbing side. Talk is that he's closed down two bars in Austin and another one up Lakeview way until they fix their problems. Nailed the doors closed.

  "I can get you the names of the places if you're interested. Be a shame to have this joint shuttered. Looks like a nice spot for neighborhood folks to gather. But, well, the law's the law, right? And there's also a mean bird who does the electrical inspections now…"

  The barkeep–I soon learned that his name was Maury–made a face and let out air. "Okay, okay, what is it that you're after?"

  "Names. Names of people in here who'd been friendly with Edwina. And, by the way, nobody else who hangs around this place needs to know that I'm with a newspaper, got it? If I find out you've told anybody, you can be damned sure some city inspectors will start showing up real soon. Now, what about some names?"

  "I gave the cop who came in here a few, but he didn't seem to care," Maury said. "He was just going all around the neighborhood talking to people. After all, it was the husband what did it, right?"

  "Maybe. But I happen to be the curious sort," I said, pulling out my reporter's notebook. "Let's start."

  He wasn't happy, but that was hardly my concern. "Well, first off, there's a woman, but I haven't seen her tonight," he said, scanning the room. "She's a regular, nice lady named Marge. She and Edwina were pretty chummy."

  "Her last name?"

  "Don't know for sure that I've ever even heard it," Maury said, stepping away to fill a drink order at the other end of the bar.

  "Does this Marge come in here most nights?" I asked when he returned.

  "Pretty much. She's a war widow. I think her husband caught it in the D-Day invasion."

  "Attractive?"

  He nodded. "And lively, too, at least sometimes, when she's not thinkin' about her dead husband. She and Edwina liked to sit at the bar. Marge and the guys were always after Edwina to sing. She had a real good voice, said she wanted to be a nightclub singer some day. I'd rather listen to her than most of this stuff on the jukebox," he added, jerking a thumb in the direction of the brightly lit music machine in the corner.

  "So she could really liven the place up, huh?"

  "Oh, yeah. And the two women, they both laughed a lot, but I think Marge, she forced herself to be cheerful sometimes. Anyway, the guys enjoyed hanging around them."

  "Is that all that the guys enjoyed?"

  "Look, Mister, I don't go snoopin' around into the lives of my customers. That ain't my way. I figure a tavern is a place where people are entitled to their personal privacy. Lot of 'em come in here to get away from their troubles."

  "I totally agree about the privacy thing, except that this happens to be a murder case, and murder is hardly a private issue. Who were these guys that liked to hang around the ladies?"

  "You didn't get any of their names from me, see?" he said, leaning toward me. "I don't want no trouble."

  "Okay. It's a deal. Go ahead."

  "Well, there's Karl, last name's Bohemian, begins with a 'V.' Something like Vocek." He spelled it.

  "A regular?"

  "Pretty much, although he hasn't been in tonight, either. Not yet, anyway." Maury left again to serve another beer to a loud guy down the bar who was telling Negro and Jewish jokes. "So there's this rabbi, see, and–"

  Mercifully, I didn't hear the rest of the joke because a new song on the jukebox drowned out the loudmouth.

  "Any idea where this Karl lives?" I asked when Maury came back.

  "Someplace close by. I think he walks here."

  "What does he do?"

  "Works as a foreman at that big Western Electric plant out in Cicero."

  "Making telephones, eh?"

  Maury nodded. "I guess. That's what they do there. I never asked him."

  "He married?"

  "No business of mine."

  "That's not an answer to the question."

  He gritted his teeth. "Yeah, he's got a wife. Never met her, though."

  "What's he like?"

  "Tough customer. Seems to be grumbling about something whenever he comes in. His job, or his wife, or the White Sox, or the weather. It's always something, that's just the way he is. I think Edwina and Marge both saw him as a challenge. They teased him a lot to loosen him up, and he got so he liked it. They actually got him laughing quite a bit, and he loved to hear Edwina sing, particularly that one from the war, 'A Nightingale Sang in

  Berkeley Square.' He musta asked for it almost every time she came in." "And she'd always sing it?"

  "Hell, yes. She loved being asked. She sang quite a bit in here. Said she wanted to do it professionally some day. Just like some English singer, name was Vera Lynn, I think. I never heard of her."

  "Your loss," I said scribbling some notes. "Who else liked Edwina?"

  Maury looked uncomfortable. He clearly wasn't enjoying the conversation. "Len, last name of Rollins. And before you ask, he lives in the neighborhood, smokes like a chimney, is single, and works on the loading dock of a furniture warehouse over on Loomis down near the canals."

  "Hey, you're getting very good at anticipating my questions, Maury. Rollins a regular in here?"

  "Yeah, pretty much. He's down at the other end of the bar now," the barkeep said, lowering his voice unnecessarily, given the noise level in the room. "He's the short guy in the brown jacket, wearing a flat cap."

  "Oh yeah, I see him," I said after I'd leaned back and peered around the backs of several others hunched on their stools. Rollins, who looked to be short, was puffing on a cigarette and looking straight ahead with glazed eyes. "What's he like?"

  "Solemn sort, hits the bottle pretty hard, but don't quote me on that," Maury answered. "Hard to get more than a sentence at a time out of him. Funny thing, though: He's another one what
loosened up around Edwina. She could really bring those guys out of their shells. She was good for this place, too," he added in a melancholy tone.

  "Now she could be kinda sarcastic when you first met her, but once she got to know you, she was very friendly. Loved to joke, too. She had a sort of English sense of humor that really got the boys going."

  "Didn't care much for her husband, though, did she?"

  "Never met him," Maury huffed.

  "She talk much about him?"

  "Enough so you knew she wasn't very happy at home, I'll say that much."

  "What was her beef?"

  "Said all he ever did was work, day and night. Weekends. Never gave her any money, never wanted to go out anywhere. Guy sounds like he's a real stick-in-the-mud as well as a goddamn murderer. But I guess you think somebody else did it, huh?" he spat, daring me to contradict him.

  "Maybe. I just like to be sure."

  "Why're you so interested, anyway? What do you know that the coppers don't know?"

  "I happen to know Edwina's husband, and he's just about the last person in the world capable of committing murder," I said quietly.

  "So you're conducting your own investigation, huh? Cops ain't hardly gonna like that," Maury said without hostility.

  "Like I told you before, they know me. We get along. So that's two guys so far who liked to spend time around Edwina when she dropped in here. Anybody else?"

  He wrinkled up his face and stroked his oversized chin. "Mmm, well, there's Johnny Sulski, of course, and Big Ben Barnstable."

  "Barnstable? The old light heavyweight, right?"

  "Yep, that's him. Doesn't box any more these days, of course. Says he took his share of punches over the years, and that was more than enough."

  "I seem to recall that he gave as good as he got, though. What's he doing now?"

  "Works in some gym out around Madison and Central. Even helps manage the place, far as I know, and works with the young fighters."

  "What's he like?"

  A shrug. "Easygoing. You might think that he'd be one rough customer, given his old line of work, but he's as gentle as a lamb, always in good humor. Loved to spend time around Edwina. She asked him all about prize fighting and was fascinated by his stories of life in the ring and all those characters he fought. Sometime back in the thirties, they say he went six rounds with Braddock once, and was still on his feet at the end–this against a heavyweight, no less, and a one-time champ to boot."