"Agreed again. In there anything that we need to talk about on my beat?"
"Quiet day so far," he replied. "What about you?"
"Same."
"Still searching for someone to take your cousin's place in that cell at the Bridewell?"
"Yes I am, Fergus. I know you don't much like to hear that, but what else can I do?"
He released a world-weary sigh and shook his head slowly. "Just don't become part of the news yourself, okay?"
"Okay," I said with a grin, getting up and leaving. "See you around."
* * *
At the dinner table that evening, I told Catherine I would be making another visit to Horvath's.
"Is this really getting you somewhere, Steve?" she asked as she served me tuna casserole. "From what you've told me so far, I can't see that you've really learned anything."
"Except that none of the three guys I've talked to has an alibi for the time Edwina was killed."
"But what does that prove?"
"That any one of them could have done it."
"I know this is hardly my métier, but it seems to me that you've got to have both evidence and motive for the killing. Where are they?"
"There may never be any hard-and-fast evidence," I conceded. "As to motive, they all supposedly lusted after her to varying degrees. What I'm trying to find out is whether one of these guys, in his lust, tried to force himself on Edwina at her and Charlie's apartment and a scuffle started, with her ending up getting knifed in the chest."
Catherine nodded, lips pursed. "Just where do you stand with that?"
"Nowhere, yet. I've got one more guy to talk to, and he's supposed to be at Horvath's tonight."
"I don't mean to sound like a cross-examining attorney in a courtroom, Steve, but what if you don't get anything out of this last man? Then what?"
"I've got to persuade the cops to grill all four of them until one cracks."
"But you've said that your friend the chief isn't inclined to do that."
"I'll figure out a way to talk him into it, somehow. Along those lines, by the way, I've asked him to see if any of these guys have records."
"And you still remain absolutely convinced that Charlie couldn't have done it?"
"Absolutely, unequivocally."
She lifted her shoulders and let them drop. "I know it's fruitless to try to talk you out of going to that bar tonight. But you've got to promise me that you'll be careful. Things could get out of control."
"I promise. If anything happened to me, that would hardly help Charlie's cause, would it?"
CHAPTER 18
I left for Pilsen early because I wanted to take a detour before hitting Horvath's. I turned down a quiet block of
19th Street and cruised by the building where I was born. I hadn't seen the place in the half-dozen years since my parents had died within a few months of each other, and I was curious as to how it looked. Everything looked the same–why wouldn't it–except that whoever lived there now had a different lamp in the living room window, an ornate gold thing with an oversized shade that filled the window. I preferred my mother's red-and-blue Tiffany, which my sister Marcia had now. Marcia lived in a bungalow in Downers Grove with her husband, an auto mechanic named Matt, who was a decent sort, if a little on the dull side. They had two kids, Betsy and Matt Jr., both of whom were in high school.
I hadn't seen much of Marcia and her family since the folks died–no particular reason–but since we'd been married, Catherine thought we should get together with them occasionally, like on holidays. So we had begun to, which was all right, I guess.
It was raining when I drew the coupe to the curb on the side street off of 18th that ran next to Horvath's. The joint was less crowded than I'd seen it before, so there were plenty of open stools.
"How long you gonna keep coming in here?" Maury said in a tired voice after I sat down.
"There you go again, not being as hospitable as you should," I chided. "You are the host in here, the face of this establishment. How in the world do you expect to get new business with that kind of attitude?"
"There's some business I can very nicely do without, thanks."
"Well, I guess I've been told. But I'll pretend I didn't hear that comment and request a Schlitz."
As Maury shuffled off, I looked along the bar, but found no one who looked like Marge's description of Sulski. Karl Voyczek, who sat several seats from me engrossed in reading a copy of the evening tabloid, The Times, was the only familiar face present.
I nursed my beer for more than a half hour and contemplated ordering another when the door swung open and a blocky, light-haired specimen in a black coat and a pugnacious expression walked in. This had to be Sulski.
"Hey, Johnny," a guy halfway along the bar called out, "how's it going, big guy?"
Sulski grunted his reply and made for a barstool two removed from me, with no one between us. He dropped onto the seat like he planned to stay awhile.
"Evening," I said, hoisting my glass in his direction. I received the second grunt he'd uttered since entering.
"Still raining?" I persisted. His third grunt sounded like it could have been a yes.
"Have the usual, Johnny?" Maury said, getting a nod in answer. He put a highball in front of Sulski that looked to be scotch and soda.
I ordered a second beer and turned toward my neighbor. "I'd like to talk to you about Edwina Malek," I told him.
He spun toward me, light blue eyes blazing. "So you're the one, huh? The snoopy type who's been nosing around here lately. I heard about you last night. Just what's your story?"
"Edwina was married to my cousin," I told him, "and I know he couldn't–"
"Yeah, yeah, I heard that part, too, from Maury. Well, goddammit, I hope your miserable cousin fries."
I glared back at him. "Even if he didn't kill her?"
"Oh, don't give us that horseshit in here, Mac. Who the hell else would have done it?"
"Maybe somebody who knew her and, shall we say, got his advances rebuffed."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sulski snarled, flexing his fists.
"Just what I said, Mac. Story is there are a lot of joes who hang out in here that were plenty interested in Edwina. Guys who get interested in women sometimes do strange and violent things. "
"I ought to knock you right through the door and into the middle of next week!"
"Strikes me, Mr. Sulski, that you're reacting strangely for a man who claims that somebody else killed Edwina. Like maybe you're using your anger as a sort of cover for…well, for a guilty conscience."
"Shit, that does it!" he raged, getting up and kicking over the stool that was between us. "I'm going to–"
"Take it easy, Johnny," the bartender urged, leaning across the bar and placing a hand on his bicep. "We haven't ever had any fighting in here as long as I've run the place, and we're not going to start now."
"Well, get him the hell out of here, Maury," Sulski yelled, "or honest to God, I'll kill him! I will–I'll kill him!"
"Interesting word coming from you, kill," I said. Sulski was now being held back by two other men who had jumped off their stools.
"It's really time for you to leave," Maury said, his voice quavering. "Please take your business elsewhere. And there's no charge for your beers."
"No, I insist," I retorted, pulling out my wallet and placing two dollars on the bar–more than I owed. "And, Mr. Sulski, a word of advice: Be careful how you throw around that word 'kill.' Good night." I left with all the dignity that I could muster. I felt that every eye in the place was on me as I pushed the door open and walked out.
But I didn't get far. I was halfway across the side street toward my car when Sulski came barreling after me like a runaway locomotive.
"You son-of-a-bitch," he yelled, throwing a roundhouse right that glanced off my cheek as I ducked. His second punch caught me in the gut and doubled me over against the side of the coupe.
I could feel the nausea rising within me, but I
stifled it and caught him with a left to his Adam's apple. He started to gag and I hit him with a right, this time to his own gut, but he took that punch better than I had, making a puffing sound and counterpunching to my face, once, twice.
I wasn't much of a fighter. What little I had learned about defending myself early on came in this very neighborhood. A chunky Polish kid who I only ever knew as 'Stosh' had tried to keep me from walking down a block of
19th Place, claiming it was 'his street.' Stosh had pushed me in the chest and I'd shoved him back. Pretty soon we were swinging at each other, with maybe half the punches connecting. I lost the fight that day and ended up with a bloody nose, but I came back a week later and knocked him down about three times after I figured out that he couldn't block rights to his stomach.
I realized that Sulski reminded me of Stosh as I gave him a couple of jabs in the side, one of which spun him around. Before he could react, I got him again with an uppercut to the solar plexus that caused him to retch and double over with a groan.
At this point, I was bleeding over one eye and felt dizzy. I leaned against the coupe, watching him hold his belly and trying to figure out whether I had the strength–or the inclination–to hit him again.
By this time, half a dozen of the Horvath stalwarts had tumbled out onto the street and were trying to wedge their way between us. "That's enough, fellas," Big Ben Barnstable drawled as he pushed his way in and put a large, vise-like hand on each of our shoulders.
"Good thing I came out jest now, in time to stop this here bout, boys. Now I can't say much good about your form, either one of you," he said good-naturedly, "but if you'd like to take lessons, we've got us this fine gym not too far away where I earn my keep. We've also got us a real good instructor, a former middleweight named Haas. He can work with you, make you look like you know what you're doing with your fists."
That brought a laugh, albeit a nervous one, from the onlookers and effectively sucked the tension out of the moment. Sulski and I glared at each other, but it was clear that glaring was all we were going to do now, especially with the big former boxer standing between us like a brick wall.
The crowd, if you could term it that, all turned and headed back into the bar, including Sulski. I obviously was the odd man out, so I climbed into the Ford, mopped the blood off my eyebrow with a handkerchief, and drove home, frustrated and just plain mad.
CHAPTER 19
First, of course, I had to face the proverbial music at home. One of the many endearing things about Catherine, though, was that "I told you so" does not occupy a pigeonhole in her roll-top desk of phrases.
She was up in the bedroom reading Hershey's "A Bell for Adano" when I got home. "Oh, Steve!" she said, jerking upright in bed as I walked in. "Lord, are you all right?"
"Just a scuffle," I answered. "But you shoulda seen the other bum."
Rather than asking for details, she hustled me into the bathroom and began ministering to the cut over my eye. "Fortunately, it's not big enough to need stitches," she said, "but still, we're going to have to sterilize it. I'm afraid this is going to hurt just a little."
I let out an "ouch" or two as she worked, cleaning off the dried blood, dabbing iodine on the wound, and finally finishing up with a small bandage from the first-aid box she kept in the medicine cabinet.
"Do I really need that thing?" I asked, gingerly running a finger over the bandage.
"Absolutely. We've got to keep the wound clean, and it very definitely is a wound. Do you want to go over what happened?"
So we talked, or rather I did. I gave her the literal blow-by-blow, not leaving anything out. Since she'd already seen the damage, why bother holding back?
"So now what?" she asked with a frown after I finished my narrative.
"I'm giving a lot of thought to Sulski right now," I said. "A guy doesn't act that way unless he's got something to hide–something big."
"But you didn't exactly handle the situation tactfully," she pointed out with irrefutable logic. "You just bore in on him like a bulldozer, which is hardly a way to get information. Based on what you've told me, I'm not surprised that he reacted the way he did."
"It pains me to say it, my darling, but you are absolutely right. I was trying too hard, and I shot off my mouth. This business is getting to me."
"With reason," she conceded, smoothing the bandage gently with a hand. "You've been under a lot of pressure over this horrible business with Charlie."
"Yeah, I guess. Dammit, I just know it has to be one of those four guys. And thanks to my bull-in-a-china-shop approach tonight, I never did find out whether Sulski has an alibi for the night Edwina was killed. Not that he would have told me anyway."
"My advice, oh noble Lancelot, is to get a good night's sleep," Catherine said, continuing to stroke my brow with a pleasantly cool hand. "Then you can, as Oliver Goldsmith wrote, 'live to fight another day'."
"Oliver Goldsmith? Where do you find all this stuff?"
"Comes from working in a library for years and years," she answered, wrinkling her brow. "You pick up all sorts of things."
"I will have to take your word for it," I said, yawning. "That 'another day' your friend Goldsmith wrote about will come plenty soon enough for me."
* * *
The next morning, I had to endure the jibes of my colleagues in the pressroom when they saw my bandage and the eggplant-colored bruise that had developed above my eye.
"All right, Snap. Out with it," Packy Farmer demanded. "Just what happened last night? I thought when you chose to tie the knot again, your carousing, brawling days were well behind you. Seems that I was mistaken."
"Yeah, let's hear it, Malek," Eddie Metz said. "A bar fight? An angry husband? An angry wife–yours, maybe?"
I held up a hand. "I could regale you chaps with any number of exciting tales as to how I came to sport this wound. I will merely tell you that some things defy explanation and this, dear friends and colleagues, is one of them."
"A pretty speech indeed," Dirk O'Farrell snorted. "Is that the same oration you delivered to your wife last night?"
"Ah, Dirk, I am happy to report that said wife, wonderful helpmeet that she is, not only knows the full story of my battle scars, she also dressed my wounds in a manner worthy of the late, great Florence Nightingale."
"We're happy that you have pulled through," Anson Masters rumbled, "and that you are still able to fulfill your duties here. Speaking of which, it is time for you, sir, indeed for all of us, to make our appointed rounds in search of news to feed the voracious appetites of our hundreds of thousands of readers."
"Hey, Antsy, that's your best bit of morning cheerleading yet," Farmer said. "Almost wants to make a fellow go to work, but not quite."
However, we all did disperse to our respective beats.
"Good morning, mother-in-waiting," I told the comely Elsie as I entered her two-by-four office. "Is the lord of the manor present this fine morning?"
"Before I inquire about your face, I'll remind you that today is Good Friday," she said sweetly. "You will recall that the chief always takes this day off to spend with his family, and to attend mass."
"Right–I should have remembered, especially since my son is coming home from college today for the Easter weekend."
"But do not think that because Mr. F.S. Fahey is away from his office today, he's not working," Elsie cautioned. "He has already phoned and dictated three letters to me in the last hour, and I expect several more calls from him. Now, what's the story with your face?"
"'Tis indeed a sad tale and one that I'll not burden you with, save to say that it has nothing whatever to do with domestic strife. In fact, it was my good wife who bandaged me up."
"The warrior home from the battle, licking his wounds, eh? That Catherine of yours sure has to put up with a lot."
"She bears it well. Next time the old gentleman calls in, say that I asked after him and wished him a Happy Easter. And the same to you, young damsel," I said, turning to leave.
"Not so fast, hotshot reporter. Not only is my boss firing off dictation to me from home, he also wants to talk to you."
"This very day? This holy day?"
"Yes, today. In fact, I was about to phone you in the pressroom when you came down to grace me with your presence. The Chief's orders were that you could go into his office and call him at home. Highly irregular, I must say."
"Irregular indeed," I replied, taking the sheet from her on which she had written his home phone number. Sitting at one of the guest chairs in his office, I lit up a Lucky–force of habit in that environment–and dialed. Fahey answered on the second ring.
"Elsie said it was okay to get you on the line," I said by way of apology.
"Yeah, yeah. My wife always wants me home on Good Friday, but somehow my work doesn't also take the day off."
"There are those who might say that you just miss being here where the action is, Fergus."
He grunted. "Interesting crowd you're hanging out with in that Pilsen saloon, Snap. Or at least a couple of them are."
"How so?"
"You asked me to have Records run a check on these guys, as you may recall."
"I thought maybe you'd forgotten, or else just ignored me like you sometimes do."
"Well, I wasn't keen on the idea, I'll say that. But the boys upstairs came up with stuff. You interested in what they got, or are you just on the line to make smart-assed cracks?"
"Fergus, I'm interested, very interested, and I promise, no more cracks."
He cleared his throat. "That'll be the day. First, Len Rollins."
"Yeah, the drunk," I said.
"His imbibing habits aren't mentioned in what I've got," Fahey said testily. "On October 7, 1939, he was involved in a fight during a craps game in a warehouse along the Stetson Canal at 23rd and Loomis. He and one Jock 'Squirrel' Lenzi got into it during the game, and he stuck Lenzi."
"With a knife?"
"That's usually what you stick someone with," Fahey commented. "Rollins got six months at Stateville for assault with a deadly weapon. It probably would have been longer, but witnesses said that Lenzi actually was the one who started the fight. By the way, once they patched the Squirrel up–the wound was minor–Lenzi got three months himself, for assault."
A Death in Pilsen (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 13
