The Green-Eyed Dick

by J. S. Chapman

  “Where are we going?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question or a philosophical one?”

  He angled his head, his eyes diving into mine. I averted my glance, and he laughed. Before long, after leading the way down long passageways and around sharp corners, he opened an access door and ushered me through.

  Chapter 7

  WE ENTERED A room teeming with activity. Anybody who was anybody was here. Anybody who wasn’t necessarily anybody but wanted to be was here. Reporters proliferated like rabbits. Cameras exploded like popcorn. Hawkers sold cheap souvenirs. Bigwigs schmoozed with socialites. Insiders traded jibes with philanthropists. Powerbrokers huddled with influence peddlers. Politicians mingled openly but whispered behind cupped hands. And curiosity seekers basked in the limelight. The gathering marked the official grand opening of O’Hare International Airport, this first phase launching a long-range vision that would transform the airfield from a rinky-dink airport into a major transportation hub.

  “I can say this for you, Starr. You’re becoming useful. Like a wrench or a picklock.” He narrowed his eyes. “Okay, maybe a few other things.” Satisfied, he pressed his hand to the small of my back and escorted me to the open bar. We marked time by sipping drinks and keeping eyes and ears peeled.

  In his glory, Chicago’s newly elected mayor presided over the shindig even though the venture had been approved, funded, rubberstamped, and constructed on the last mayor’s watch. Normally it would have been Dick Byrnes’s job to protect his boss from interlopers and hangers-on. Today, Detective Pennyroyal filled the role. Somewhere he had acquired a clean shirt, new tie, fresh shave, and sober attitude.

  The mayor handed out backslaps and boisterous guffaws. Though not handsome, he fit all the basics of a powerful man: tall, robust, baritone-voiced, and smartly dressed. Graying hair gave him a distinguished look. A hearty laugh made him seem accessible. And the double chin conveyed power and privilege. With little fanfare, the premier moment arrived. Smiling broadly, Mayor Moore cut the ceremonial red ribbon using a pair of prop scissors. He made sure the press photographers got his best profile: the jowly right.

  Standing in the mayor’s foreshortened shadow, Shirley Wickham applauded. Age indeterminate, she wore a simple black dress trimmed in white piping. Two bobby pins encrusted with rhinestones secured her dark hair. Bright red lipstick stroked her thin lips. Of average height, she wasn’t a looker, but she was definitely stacked. In a society run by men, breasts counted more than brains and beauty combined. As the mayor’s personal secretary, she typed at the speed of lightning and protected the mayor’s backside with the same concentration as a gun-toting moll. No one could remember when she first started working for Gerald X. Moore, but she had always been there, even when he was a nobody.

  Starr was working the crowd, checking over this joe and giving the once-over to that mary. He winked at every skirt, glad-handed every politician, shot down every reporter with an imaginary gun, and laughed at jokes only he got. He toddled past two attractive janes who wrote color articles for the Observer, tipped his fedora, and winked at the redhead. She turned her back on him and fingered an obscenity over her shoulder. Heartbroken, he grabbed his chest, fell against a wall of people, and disappeared into the crowd.

  The redhead spoke to her friend in a tightlipped monotone. “Then I tell the bastard, swap spit with me one more time, buddy, and your wife’s gonna know everything there is to know about Alderman Johnny Kirk.” She looked up. Blood drained from her face.

  Wearing a gray Homburg and puffing on a Havana, Johnny Kirk—fatter than Buddha and bolder than nickel-plated brass—gave the redhead a checkup. Rolling the cigar between chubby fingers, he expelled smoke into her face. She waved away the fumes and sent him a dirty look. He answered with an indecent stare that stripped her naked. In a huff, she spun around and made a quick getaway, dragging her friend along.

  Undeterred, Kirk scouted for a new piece of ass to harass. Instead of walking, he shuffled. Instead of breathing, he wheezed. Instead of observing, he ogled. As city alderman representing the notorious 19th Ward, Johnny Kirk boasted a spotty reputation going back three decades. Reputed bagman for Alfonse ‘Scarface’ Capone, he became the wheelman for Frank ‘The Enforcer’ Nitti after Capone went down for tax evasion. When Nitti committed suicide rather than face time in Leavenworth, Kirk signed on as accountant for Tony ‘Big Tuna’ Accardo. Other posts in the Chicago Outfit included bodyguard to Tommy Esposito, button man under John Bogart, and arm-twister for Joey Arezzo. Rumor had it that he’d been involved in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, where six members of Bugs Moran’s gang were lined up against the wall of a garage and executed by four members of Capone’s gang. In this town, it wasn’t a big deal to move from mob chum to public service.

  Starr reappeared. His over-the-top hijinks covered a multiplicity of sins, the chief one of eavesdropping on conversations. He bumped into Kirk. “How’s the alderman game over at City Hall? Up to your fat ass in kickbacks, I’ll bet.”

  The fat man sucked the nib of his cigar, savored the aroma, and released a cloud of smoke straight into Starr’s face. “The Nineteenth Ward was bled dry years and years ago. Times are tough these days. Probably heard I been pushing through pension reform. Serve twenty years as alderman, get a lifetime pension.”

  “Any alderman who can put in twenty years without singing the jailhouse blues deserves a pension,” Starr said.

  “I like the way you think.” He dragged the cigar out of his mouth and puffed smoke toward the ceiling. “Nothing’ doing say the powers-that-be. Instead, they want to put gondolas in Lincoln Park Lagoon. Thirty they want. Get two, says I. In no time at all, they’ll be making baby gondolas.”

  Starr cocked his head in the direction of Jerry Moore. “Mayor’s in a good mood.”

  “That’s because his chief honcho isn’t around to make everybody jittery.”

  “Then you know,” Starr said.

  Kirk glanced in Pennyroyal’s direction. “Heard Byrnes kissed off in the arms of his second true love.”

  Both men sniggered.

  “How’s your Ford Woody?” Starr asked.

  “Sold it last year.”

  “And your cabin up in Lake Geneva?”

  “Unloaded it back in February. Wisconsin fish have been tapped out. All you can hook nowadays is a dairy cow or two. Even that’s iffy.”

  “How did the mayor react to the news?”

  “That his comptroller was bumped off in a gangland hit?” Kirk tugged the cigar from his mouth. “How do you think? Put a twelve-hour clamp on the press.”

  “Doesn’t seem particularly upset, though.”

  “Mayor’s broken up about it. Vowed he’d get the bastard who done it if it’s the last thing he does. Ain’t holding my breath, though.” Kirk winked at a brick-house mama, who immediately widened the distance separating them. “On the other hand, Arezzo’s not exactly losing snot over the bastard. Chicago’s finest have been sticking to him like Johnson’s Baby Oil.”

  “The police think Arezzo ordered the hit?”

  Kirk slid his eyes toward Pennyroyal. He was making small talk with Shirley Wickham. The seasoned cop and the executive secretary made an odd pairing, yet their tête-à-tête was as cozy as a tea set. “If I were you, Starr, I’d watch my back.” Kirk tipped his hat and lumbered away.

  Starr gazed across the room and took the pulse of Monica Seagraves. Cuing into his blatant onceover ... and twice over ... she shifted slightly, giving him a prime view of her plucked eyebrows, wet mouth, and plump assets.

  I came abreast of him. “My advice, Starr? Stay clear of her. She’s like eating a cold fudge sundae in December. Sticks to the roof of your mouth and hard to swallow.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  I tossed back my hair and pointed my nose in the air. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Only that you make it with every Tom, Dick, and Harry. If,” he emphasiz
ed, “you can get a story from between the sheets.”

  We were on the move, shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes like pinballs, ears alert. “Strictly cotton,” I said. “A hundred-and-eighty count. But if you’re referring to Tom Stacy and that bacchanal at the Press Club―”

  “Don’t forget Harry Darnell.”

  “My boss’s boss? We just flirted a little. Okay, more than a little.”

  “And since you made it with Tom and you made it with Harry, that leaves―”

  “I don’t dick around.”

  “Unless you can get a scoop.”

  “In your wildest dreams.” I rethought his proposition. “We can talk.”

  Monica made her move on Pennyroyal, reeling him in like a grizzly bear to the honey pot. Like all men, he was susceptible to flattery, especially when the lady cooed, clucked, and drooled. Feigning disinterest, he stood broomstick straight, mouth set into a horizontal line, arms folded over chest, and eyes shielded by polarized sunglasses.

  “Something fishy about this airport, don’t you think?” I said to Starr.

  His eyes were focused on the lovebirds but his ears were attuned to my every word. “Fishy?”

  Over the years, O’Hare had been known by several names. Orchard Place. Douglas Field. The 803rd Special Depot of the Army Air Force. But when the city chose it as the site to meet its future aviation plans, the commission unearthed a dead war hero. “You’ve heard of Edward ‘Butch’ O’Hare,” I said.

  “The pilot who posthumously won the Congressional Medal of Honor for shooting down five Japanese Zeros and crippling a sixth before his own plane took a hit? Who hasn’t?”

  “Not everyone knows Butch was the son of ‘Easy Eddie’ O’Hare.”

  He regarded me with sober curiosity. “The lawyer who kept Al Capone out of jail all those years?”

  According to legend, God came to Fast Eddie in a vision and told him he was screwed unless he turned state’s evidence. Probably he could see Capone’s days were numbered. Or maybe he truly repented his life of crime. No one will ever know whether he was motivated by nobility or self-interest, but in exchange for telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, his son received an appointment to Annapolis. Butch O’Hare went on to redeem the family name, but the price was a steep one.

  “And we all know who the beneficiary of Capone’s legacy is.”

  Starr finally tore his eyesight away from Monica. “You really think Arezzo had Dick Byrnes knocked off?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but anybody who can buy an election can also buy an airport. And anybody who can buy an airport ... well ... he has all the incentive in the world to keep the details from coming out.”

  Breaking away from Starr, I weaved in and out of intimate chitchats and talkative cliques while keeping a close eye on Pennyroyal. The cop side of him noticed my oblique advance, but the seducible side continued flirting with Monica.

  She stood out like a floozy, every item of her wardrobe gauged to attract attention, from the skintight clothes to the dazzling jewelry. She flattered him with batting eyelashes. He undressed her with a look. She asked question after question. He uttered monosyllabic answers. She listened with enrapt attention. He puffed out his chest. She poked him in the side. He lowered his hand to her butt. She puckered her lips. He whispered in her ear. She turned around and grinned in my direction. He lowered his shades and watched me watch them. She laughed gaily and trotted off. He reset his sunglasses.

  I would have given anything to wipe the grin off his face. I was about to when Tom Stacy, investigative reporter and Pulitzer Prize winner, waylaid him. Last year Stacy blundered onto a fluke story, racked up national attention, and voilà, he became la crème de la crème overnight. Ever since, the editors of all the papers have been trying to woo him away from the Daily Standard, and all the girls have been trying to woo him into their underwear. He was the new golden boy on the block. Tall, Hollywood gorgeous, and cunning.

  Stacy eagerly scratched a sharpened pencil into a flip notebook. “Your demotion must’ve come through,” he said to Pennyroyal.

  “Just filling in for Byrnes until he feels better.”

  “I hear he’s got a nose cold.”

  Pennyroyal referred to his watch. “Could turn into double pneumonia any minute.”

  “I also heard ... off the record ... that he dug up dirt on Kirk.”

  Pennyroyal admired a tall dame standing in the mayor’s foreshortened shadow. “Probably why Byrnes came down sick all of a sudden.”

  “You’re saying Kirk’s on the take?” Stacy flicked his eyes sideways and admired the same broad. “And Byrnes had the goods on him?”

  Auburn hair set off her pencil skirt, sleeveless blouse, patent leather belt, and endless legs. She made an impression, just not the right kind of impression. The way she pushed back the waves of her hair epitomized the type of woman she was and the wares she had to offer. She sent a special kind of Morse Code in the mayor’s direction. Pennyroyal sent a different kind of code toward Shirley Wickham, but the mayor’s lapdog had already picked up on the scent.

  “A land deal,” Pennyroyal went on. “Direct involvement with the mob.”

  “Arezzo?” Stacy asked.

  “Bogart’s got more brains before breakfast than Arezzo ever had after lunch.” Pennyroyal sighed and said, “He’s gonna be missed.”

  “Bogart’s going somewhere?”

  “If Arezzo has anything to say about it.”

  Intrigued, Stacy leaned closer. “I thought Kirk was working for Arezzo.”

  “That’s what Kirk wanted Arezzo to believe.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “So was Arezzo. Not anymore.”

  “So Arezzo intends to kill three birds with one stone ... Byrnes, Bogart, and Kirk.”

  Pennyroyal shrugged.

  “How? By using the secret dossier?”

  Pennyroyal stayed tight-lipped.

  “The one Byrnes put together?”

  Pennyroyal didn’t confirm or deny.

  The statuesque lady had come within a yard of the mayor. Shirley Wickham upended her chin. Two uniformed cops converged on her. She made a scene and called for help, using a name that became garbled in the struggle. No one came to her rescue. One of the cops twisted her arm behind her back and pinned it there. She let out a high-pitched squeal. After that, she went along quietly but kept looking back at another girl, a brunette propped against a support column. Impassively watching the drama unfold, the brunette lifted a cigarette to her lips. When her hand trembled in an idiosyncratic manner, I took a second look. The wig had thrown me, but there was no mistaking the yellow halter dress.

  After the commotion died down, the girl tore anxious eyes away from her auburn-haired friend and fastened them on me. Though both ladies were in the same trade, this one wore fragility over her heart. Underneath the wig and halter-top, she was wholesome as a schoolgirl, fresh-faced as a virgin, and only slightly used up. Given a little luck, she still had time to get out and live a normal life with a boring husband and a couple of brats. Luck for girls like her, though, was scarce. Probably she’d wind up on a garbage heap like all the other girls who arrived in the big city with stars in their eyes and hope in their hearts only to see their dreams scattered to the winds.

  She dropped the cigarette and squashed it beneath the toe of a pirouetting shoe. She’d made up her mind about something. She walked in my direction. When Johnny Kirk crossed her path, she stopped short, reached down, and adjusted the strap of a shoe. Then she twisted around and rummaged for something in her purse. As if remembering something, the girl strutted away and disappeared into the mob.

  Stacy pressed Pennyroyal. “Who has the secret dossier now? You?”

  “The murderer.” Pennyroyal let his eyes drift across the room toward Kirk. Stacy followed his gaze. The fat man was standing by himself, cigar smoke swirling around him.

  “Kirk’s the killer?” Stacy asked.

  “Didn’t say t
hat.” Pennyroyal pushed at the knot of his tie and thrust out is chest. “But when Bogart gets sent up, Kirk would be wise to hightail it to Miami. And then take a slow boat to South America.”

  “He’s being set up?”

  Pennyroyal winked.

  “Tomorrow night, I heard. A sting operation.”

  “Sooner.”

  “Where?” Stacy said, scribbling into his notebook.

  “For me to know and you to find out.” Pennyroyal ripped off the top three sheets of Stacy’s notebook, crumpled them into a wad, and stuffed the wad into his breast pocket. “Off the record, right Stacy, like always? I scratch your back. You powder puff mine.”

  Stacy grinned. Beneath the grin beat a calculating mind. Plunging a hand into his pocket, he strolled away and joined a crowd of newspaper types who greeted him as the hail-fellow well met. While lapping up praise and platitudes, he still had the gall to twist around and wink at me.

  I aligned myself next to Pennyroyal. “Tell me again why the mayor ordered the newspapers to keep a lid on Byrnes’s nose cold?”

  “Get this into your head, Grenadine. Nothing’s going to spoil the mayor’s tenure.” Beneath the stern cop exterior, he chuckled callously.

  “Except the next election, the usual kickbacks, shakedowns, and muckraking, and a murder or two.” Chuckling more callously, I moved off.

  The terminal had become increasingly rowdy. The atmosphere was thick with body odor, false laughter, and conceit. Hostesses brought around hors d’oeuvres, petit fours, and Rhine wine in plentiful quantities. Invited guests and gatecrashers had arrived for the pomp but were staying for the boisterous circumstances.