She was still wide-eyed. "I will. What are you going to do?"
"First off, I'd like to talk to the four guys you told me about. Not tonight–only one of them is here anyway–but over the next several days. One at a time, of course."
"But shouldn't something be done right now?"
"There's really not all that much of a hurry, Marge. In the first place, the so-called wheels of justice tend to turn very slowly, even in a murder case. Charlie's going to be cooling his heels in the Bridewell for some time. Also, we've hired one of the best defense lawyers in the city for him, a guy named Liam McCafferty, so nothing figures to happen right away."
She looked doubtful. "So then you don't think I should say anything to the cops?"
"To be honest, even if you did, it wouldn't help right now. But here's something you can do: Next time I'm in here, you can point out those guys to me. Now I already know who Rollins over there is," I said, nodding toward the bar. "So I'll need you to finger Sulski, Barnstable, and Karl, whose last name we don't know."
"Geez, how am I going to do that without them thinking something funny's going on? Wouldn't it look weird, me pointing a finger at one of them for you?"
"I think we can figure out a way to be a little more subtle about it," I replied in what I hoped was a reassuring tone.
"But when will you be back?"
"Well, tomorrow's Saturday, and I've been told by my wife that we've got plans for the evening. This place is open Sundays, right?"
"Yeah, and it's usually pretty crowded."
"It's a deal. Let me give you my phone numbers at work and at home," I said, pulling out my notebook. I scribbled them on a sheet, tore it out, and handed it to her."Why don't you give me any numbers where I can reach you?"
She gave me her home number and the one at the store, both of which I wrote down.
"How about 7:30 Sunday night?" I asked.
"I'll be here," Marge said, sounding as though she'd rather not.
CHAPTER 9
After I finally had worn Catherine down and she agreed to marry me, we talked for a long time about where we would live. I was in favor of somewhere on the north side of Chicago, mainly because it was familiar to me. I had lived in
Logan Square with Norma during the last several years of our marriage, and then I had a three-room apartment on North Clark Street near Wrigley Field, as a bachelor for eight years after the divorce. However, I realized almost from the first that Catherine wanted to be wedded not just to me, but also to Oak Park, where she had lived all of her life, except for the two years of her own unfortunate marriage, when she resided right next door in Berwyn. She specifically wanted to stay in the solid old stucco house on
Scoville Avenue where she had grown up and then returned to for the last dozen years or more, taking care of her increasingly senile father, the once-great police reporter Lemuel 'Steel Trap' Bascomb. After Steel Trap died in '42, she stayed put in the roomy, two-story house with the elm-shaded yard. The truth was, she wanted to live there more than I wanted to live anywhere else, so I yielded. Besides, I'd come to rather like the village myself. It seemed to be a graceful combination of half-city, half-suburb. But our understanding from the beginning was that I would bear the lion's share of the expenses. Something to do with pride–no pun intended.
Another reason Catherine was wedded to Oak Park was the job that she loved–assistant librarian at the village's public library, where she had worked for close to a dozen years.
So it was that I moved into the stucco on Scoville. As it turned out, I also went to Catherine's church, although not every Sunday. I was willing to change for the lady, but only up to a point. She was a regular attendee at a place of worship on
Lake Street, a few blocks from the house, called Unity Temple, which was part of a denomination I'd never heard of–Universalist. It was about as far from my own religious experience as I could imagine. Although long since lapsed, I had been raised Catholic and grew up attending mass in an ornate Pilsen sanctuary filled with incense and candles, statues, and white-skirted altar boys, and the Latin liturgy, of course. This Oak Park church, if you can call it that, is a square, mostly windowless, concrete building that is widely recognized as an architectural landmark.
Services take place in a two-story-high room, also square, with seats rising steeply on all sides and with a surprising amount of natural light streaming in through a gridwork of twenty-five skylights recessed into the coffered ceiling.
The worship itself was, to me at least, surprisingly informal, with a homily–sermon, rather–that could just as easily be about politics or education as about religious themes. Having said that, I found the whole experience to be somehow refreshing. I can only imagine what my late, sainted mother would have thought of that spiritual journey.
I bring this up because Unity Temple would arise the next morning in conversation.
* * *
When I got back home from Horvath's Friday night, Catherine first expressed relief that I was home safely, then pressed me for details about the evening. I filled her in on Maury and Marge and the four men they had named as particular 'friends' of Edwina's.
"So you're going back to that bar and talk to all four of them?" Catherine asked, concern evident in her tone. "Is that wise? Why not tell the police and let them do the questioning?"
"As I said before, they think they've got their man. They've already been to the bar, and they're not about to send detectives out again on what they view as a fool's errand."
"That really puts Charlie in a bad–oh, wait a minute, Steve. I almost forgot! That lawyer you got for him, McCafferty, called tonight. He needs to talk to you. I told him you'd be home late, and he said that he'd be in his office tomorrow, even though it's Saturday. He said for you to call him there."
* * *
First thing the next morning, I phoned Liam McCafferty, who picked up on the first ring. "Ah, yes, Mr. Malek. I thought you should know that your cousin is not being overly cooperative."
"Oh? How so?"
"I cannot be specific, of course–attorney-client privilege and all–but Mr. Charles Malek does not seem to be interested in helping himself. Indeed, he does not seem the least bit concerned about his fate."
"In your experience, is that unusual in situations like this?"
"Very much so. Even though the loss of a loved one can be devastating, in almost all cases a defendant places self-preservation above all else. Your cousin does not at the moment seem overly interested in self-preservation, however. May I impose upon you to intercede with him?"
"Yes, of course. I'll try to see him later today or tomorrow. How would you describe his mental state?"
"Depressed. Extremely depressed and fatalistic about his future."
I told McCafferty that I would call him with a report after seeing Charlie, then joined Catherine at the kitchen table for breakfast.
"Steve, do you remember that I asked you to keep tonight open?"
"Yes, right, although to be honest, I'd almost forgotten. Is there a movie you want to see over at the Lake or the Lamar?"
"No, it's to do with Unity Temple. You may recall my telling you that it was designed by the famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright. Well, they're marking the fortieth anniversary of the building's construction tonight, and Mr. Wright is coming to give a lecture about it."
"Hmm. I think I'll pass on that. I'm not sure I want to…wait a minute! I've just changed my mind in mid-sentence. Yes, by all means, let's go. I want to meet this Frank Lloyd Wright fellow. He and I might just be able to do some business."
Catherine gave me a puzzled look, but before she could respond, our back doorbell rang. It was old Mrs. Anderson, the widow who lived next door. She was returning a casserole dish she had borrowed.
"Oh, come on in, Mrs. A.," Catherine said cheerfully, "and have a cup of coffee."
"Well…all right, but I'll only stay for a few minutes. I don't want to interrupt your morning."
"You're not i
nterrupting anything. We've just finished breakfast, and are having another cup ourselves, right, Steve?"
"Right. Have a seat, Mrs. A. It's always nice to see you."
Mrs. Anderson rarely smiled, and she did not make an exception this morning although she did toss off a nod in my direction, which for her was an animated response.
"I'm glad you stopped by," Catherine said as she poured coffee for our visitor. "We're going to the Unity Temple tonight to hear Frank Lloyd Wright speak, and I thought you might like to come along with us."
The elderly woman reacted with what I would describe as a fierce frown. "Huh! I would not walk across the street to hear that devil," she snorted. "Don't you know about him? He used to live here in Oak Park, way back when–but of course you're both far too young to remember that. He designed all sorts of houses, had a big family and all–six kids. Was very well known and well paid, a real big shot.
"Then do you know what he did? Left his wife and children, that's what. Just went off to Europe or someplace in about '08 or '09 with another woman from right here in the village, the wife of a client, yet! Named Cheney. They both up and deserted their families, just like that. It was the biggest scandal this town's ever seen. It was talked about for years afterwards.
"A few years later, the Cheney woman he ran away with–well, I say that what happened then was God's own avenging hand at work. She and some others got burned to death in a fire at Wright's place in Wisconsin that was set by some crazed servant. The big shot himself should have died, too, but he was someplace else at the time. Lord knows he deserved to die–a sinner of the very highest order. No, thank you anyway, my dear," she said, putting a hand on Catherine's arm. "I shall not be going to hear the great Mr. Frank Lloyd Wright!"
* * *
Before going to listen to this "sinner of the very highest order," I made my second trip of the week to the Bridewell. I was parked in a visitors' chair when Charlie shuffled over and slumped down on the other side of the screen. He had been fairly low when I'd visited him before, but now he was even lower. If I were to liken his expression to that of a dog, the breed would be a basset.
"Hello, Stevie," he said in a voice devoid of emotion.
"Hi, Charlie. I understand that you've met Liam McCafferty."
"Yeah. He was in here yesterday."
"He told me you didn't seem interested in what might happen to you."
"What's the point, Stevie?" he sighed. "They're determined to strap me into that chair."
"Nonsense! You've got the best damn lawyer in the city. He's got a terrific record, and I'm zeroing in on some possible suspects. I spent last night at Horvath's."
He just shook his head. "Nothing's going to matter, Stevie."
"Goddamn it, don't talk that way! Now listen to me: I want you to cooperate with McCafferty…tell him anything you can think of, no matter how unimportant it seems to you, that might help your situation. We're going to get you out of this mess, but you've got to help yourself."
He nodded without conviction, staring down at his hands on the metal surface of the counter.
"All right, McCafferty will be back here to see you, probably on Monday, and you will help him to help you. Do you hear me?"
"Okay, Stevie," he said, but I had a feeling that my pep talk had fallen flat.
CHAPTER 10
The sanctuary in Unity Temple was close to full when Catherine and I arrived a few minutes before 7:30. Our aged neighbor may not have forgiven the architect his transgressions, but apparently many others in the community had–or else they either weren't aware of those transgressions or didn't gave a rap.
A tall, very slender, silver-haired woman in a tailored blue suit stepped to the rostrum and favored us with a broad smile. "My, but it's nice to see so many of you here tonight on this very special occasion in the life of our temple. I won't ask for a show of hands to see who among you remembers when this wonderful building was completed, but I will confess that I was here myself at the time. Of course, I was very, very young then," she said with a self-deprecating chuckle.
She waited for the requisite tittering to die down before continuing. "We are so privileged tonight to have the world-renowned architect himself here to talk to us about this masterpiece of design. It gives me great pleasure to present…Mr. Frank…Lloyd…Wright!"
The great man suddenly materialized. Apparently, he had been behind a door, waiting like one of the Barrymores to pop out and make a dramatic entrance onstage. And he got applause worthy of a Barrymore.
Although in his late seventies and brandishing a cane, Wright was still an imposing figure in a black cape, a long crimson scarf, and his trademark wide-brimmed, flat-crowned hat. At a quick glance, he could have passed for a Roman Catholic bishop.
He doffed the hat, flipping it casually aside in what probably was a practiced motion, then stepped to the rostrum–or was it a pulpit?–surveying his audience with piercing eyes.
"Here," he intoned, spreading his arms wide, palms up, and looking up as if embracing the heavens, "is the very place where modern architecture was born. Look around you, all. This is a hallowed place. Is it any wonder that people travel here from the world over just to see this edifice, this temple, this welcome haven of refuge in the midst of that hurly-burly existence we call urban living?"
He was just getting warmed up. He ran a hand through his thinning white hair and leaned on the lectern.
"My goal here was not merely to create a religious structure, but one that fully embodies the principles of liberal religion for which this church stands: unity, truth, beauty, simplicity, freedom, and reason. Here is where you will find the first real expression of the idea that space within the building is the reality of the building. And it glows with the same radiance today as when it first opened its doors to its worshipers almost four decades ago. I remember that time as if it were yesterday."
The architect went on to discuss his storied career, focusing on such seminal structures as Tokyo's Imperial Hotel; the Johnson's Wax headquarters in Racine, Wis.; Fallingwater, the dramatic house built over a waterfall in rural Pennsylvania; and the Guggenheim art museum in New York City, which was still on the drawing boards.
Using no notes, he then talked in general about architecture and his other favorite subject–himself. I scribbled down a few of his better quotes: "The mother art is architecture." "Without an architecture of our own, we have no soul of our own civilization." "Every great architect is, necessarily, a great poet. He must be a great original interpreter of his time, his day, his age." "My lieber meister, Louis Sullivan, once said that 'form follows function.' That quote has, I believe, been misunderstood. Form and function should be one," he said, interlacing the fingers of his hands, "joined in a spiritual union."
Then, in self-revelation, he added: "Early in life, I had to choose between honest arrogance and hypocritical humility. I chose the former and see no reason to change."
After tossing off a few more aphorisms, he glanced at his watch: "I see that I have exceeded my allotted time. I thank you very much for your attention." As he bowed theatrically and stepped back from the lectern to enthusiastic applause, the blue-suited lady came forward.
"Thank you so much," she said to the architect. "What a simply grand evening, and it's not over yet! Mr. Wright has graciously agreed to take questions from the audience, and immediately afterward we will be serving coffee and sweets in Unity House, which adjoins this sanctuary."
Hands flew up around the room, and the Mrs. Blue Suit pointed to one. "Mr. Wright," asked a bald man toward the back, "what is your favorite design creation?"
"The one that's on my drawing board at that moment," he answered to laughter.
"Mr. Wright, what do you think of Mies van der Rohe?" posed a woman down in front who wore a large, broad-brimmed hat with flowers on it.
"A truly engaging fellow. Likes good cigars and fine wine. I must say that I enjoy his company. But what he needs is to spend some time with me and my boys up at
Taliesin learning about organic architecture. It would do him a world of good. He has been quoted as saying 'less is more.' Sometimes with Mr. Mies, less really is less." That drew a few laughs and a smug smile from Wright.
"How do you feel about Eero Saarinen's work?" came a question from the upper level.
"I traveled to South America with his father once, and all I learned from him was how to fill out an expense account. (more laughter) I've never met this younger Saarinen, but based on his work, I would term him possibly the best of the eclectic architects," he said dismissively.
After Wright had aimed a few more barbs at other architects and their work while heaping praise on himself, our mistress of ceremonies called a halt to the festivities, and we all migrated over to the social hall. Catherine and I stood at the outer edge of a throng that pressed in on Wright, asking questions and seeking autographs. Some had copies of his books that they asked him to sign. He smiled beatifically and patiently responded to each query and request, perhaps hoping there might be a prospective client somewhere in this well-to-do suburban assemblage.
Gradually, the crowd dispersed in the direction of the refreshments, and I approached the man himself.
"Mr. Wright, my name is Steve Malek. I'm a reporter with the Chicago Tribune."
"Mr. Malek," he acknowledged with a nod, indicating that because of a cup of coffee in one hand and a cane in the other, he was unable to shake hands. "Do you know what I've said about journalists?"
"I'm afraid I don't."
His eyes twinkled. "I'm all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. Let's start with typewriters."
"Interesting words," I parried, "from someone who has used the press so skillfully over the years."
"Well said! Well said!" Wright responded with a hearty laugh. "How did you like my talk?"
"Entertaining, I must say. I have a proposition for you."
"Indeed?" He raised his eyebrows.
"My son is an architecture student at the University of Illinois in Champaign, and–"
A Death in Pilsen (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 7
