“There’s a law against jaywalking, Starr,” I said, catching up.
A car honked. We flagged it down the street with matching obscene gestures. The driver shouted several ugly words and roared off.
“I’m tempted to make a citizen’s arrest,” I said, “but the thought of frisking you gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“That’s good, since the thought of you frisking me gives me the cooties.”
Bloody Maxwell was the neighborhood of my childhood. I came back only when forced to, which seemed to be more often these days. Every time I crossed the invisible boundary at Taylor Street, memories came flooding back, of smoke-filled air, ramshackle tenements, gunshots ringing out at two in the morning, and late-night visitors coming over to the house. Back then, we lived in a simple working-class bungalow built in the early 1900s. Since my parents hadn’t separated yet, we were a happy family of five.
“Know the history of Bloody Maxwell, Starr?” I didn’t wait for one of his pithy replies. “Back in the last century, the stationhouse cost the city a bundle. Fifty-thousand smackers on the barrelhead.”
“And to think I could’ve died without ever knowing.”
After earning his J.D. degree at night school, Daddy converted the second-storey attic into an office. Callers gained access by ringing a buzzer on the alley side and climbing the back stairs to a private entrance. A window was strategically positioned so he could identify his guests and ring them inside, or as the case may be, not ring them inside. The police gained immediate access along with certain high-powered individuals who went strictly by fatuous nicknames. Most of the time, though, Daddy dealt with his clients over the telephone, in the jailhouse, or at the courthouse, using a fountain pen to make cryptic notes on a legal pad only he was able to decipher. While John Grenadine prepared defense cases for assorted crooks, liars, thieves, and known associates of the Chicago mob, my sisters and I played downstairs, unaware of the kind of men Daddy dealt with. Mom kept a close eye on us girls but not close enough. Sometimes I wandered upstairs and climbed into Daddy’s lap while he prepared defense strategies and called in favors from bail bondsmen and crooked cops.
The neighborhood hadn’t changed in all those years. The familiar odors of smoke, drifting soot, and putrid garbage filled the air like sweet memories. The streets thrummed with constant noise, including the occasional firecrackers that weren’t really cherry bombs as my mother claimed, but gunfire. The population lugged around the same baggage of despair, hope, anger, and pride. Just like then, Maxwell Street continued to flourish as a lively bazaar for dickering and backdoor deals. The shop owners from twenty years past may have moved to classier neighborhoods farther north and west, but their bakeries, butcher shops, secondhand stores, sweatshops, bookstores, publishing houses, and theaters stayed behind, operating under the same managements but from a safer distance. One day, the city fathers would bulldoze everything in sight and start from scratch, but in the meantime, Bloody Maxwell prospered as a magnet for maggots and worms.
Stuffing balled fists into his trouser pockets, Starr trod lightly, pretending an attractive woman wasn’t marching lockstep beside him. “I get it, Starr. You’d rather bump gums with a bunch of horny-toed cops than be seen with a brainy broad.”
“Something like that.”
People from all walks of life were pouring into and out of the squat building officially known as the Sixteenth Precinct. Fat mamas and skinny-assed addicts. Respectable businessmen with buckled briefcases and housewives carrying sensible pocketbooks. Plainclothes cops in brown suits and pimps wearing loud shirts and tons of swagger.
“Since half of Bloody Maxwell’s uniforms is on the take, and the other half wants to be,” I said, “I’d watch my step if I were you.”
“I pretty much know my way around, better than you.”
Bloody Maxwell’s relationship with the underbelly of Chicago’s West Side symbolized only part of the community’s dubious charm. Since the late 1800s, thousands of penniless refugees hailing from Europe poured into the ghettos. The ethnic labels of Little Italy, Greek Delta, and Jewtown described a honeycomb of urban overcrowding manifested by ardent nationalism, strict territorial boundaries, and mouthwatering cuisine. The names stuck even if most of the inhabitants had long since left. But the tradition persisted with new waves of immigrants arriving every day. Fifty foreign tongues were spoken in clipped consonants and slaughtered vowels, but miraculously, everybody understood the vernacular of the streets: money.
Six shallow stairs led up to the main entrance. I stepped aside to give way to an old black joe coming out of the stationhouse. “Hey, Johnson.”
He hitched his neck around. At first, he didn’t recognize me. Then a broad smile split open his mouth. The years hadn’t taken any inches off his imperial posture, and hard living only toughened the menacing physique, but he still conveyed a sense of genteel nobility. He lifted his hat in greeting. “What’re you doing here, Princess?”
“Come to show my friend around.”
Johnson was about to square off against World Heavyweight Champion Joe Louis when a broken hand sidelined him. Forced to change careers midstream, he took along every mean trick from the boxing ring and added a few more, which held him in good stead when it came to barroom brawls and back alley scuffles. He once worked for my father, serving summonses and hauling in bail jumpers. He was always sweet to me, but he delivered a mean uppercut, and you’d never want to cross him. These days he reported to only one boss.
He sopped up Starr with a cynical eye. “You picked the right gal. You listen to Miss Iris, hear. She knows everything there is to know and then some.” He leaned down and delivered a peck to my cheek. “Give my regards to your daddy.”
“Sure will, Johnson.”
He lifted his hat again and strolled down the street as if he owned it. In a manner of speaking, he did.
“Do you know who that is?” Starr said, watching Johnson get into a ’53 Cadillac Eldorado convertible. He wheeled his eyes around and regarded me in a new light. “That’s Joe Johnson. He was this close to being heavyweight champion of the world.”
“The looeys and captains get the biggest cut.”
“Sirloin or prime rib?”
“Filet mignon.”
“And the homicide dicks?”
“I’ll give you two guesses, but you’ll only need one.”
A gaggle of women reeking of vanilla and gardenias sauntered outside. Starr held the door open for them. They sent air-kisses his way. He was a man easily taken in by sashaying hips.
I fanned my face with a breezy hand. “You’re letting the cool air out.”
“And keeping the hot air here, where it belongs.”
“Hold something against women, Starr?”
“Every chance I get.” He herded me against the stone archway. The abutment jammed against my spinal column. Lowering his eyelashes toward a strategic part of my anatomy, he said, “Who’ve you been sleeping with, Grenadine? The looeys, the captains, or the dicks? And where have you been doing it?”
“Heard about the underground jail cells, have you?”
“Nice and private down there.” He leaned down to give me a kiss, but I ducked beneath his armpit and slipped inside.
Hotter than a Turkish bathhouse, the waiting room was packed. Starr rammed behind me. As I suspected, his suit was stuffed with plywood. He followed close as I pinched through grinding bodies. Window shades blocked out the worst of the afternoon sun and ceiling fans provided circulation, but Bloody Maxwell wasn’t a place for the fainthearted or claustrophobic. At the front desk, I came up for air and slapped my elbows high up on the platform.
A pot of mums was perched on one side of the scratched oak, and a service revolver decorated the other. The sergeant in charge had beefy shoulders and cauliflower ears from lending out his head as a punching bag one too many times. His buzz cut reflected the buttery ceiling, and his pudding face exuded nothing but malice. He was used to directing traffic, ca
lling out names, barking orders, and kicking butt, but the loaded gun, placed inches from an itchy trigger finger, served as insurance. I heard he only had to use it once, and from then on, everybody listened up and got in line.
“Why if it isn’t Iris Grenadine,” he said, leering at me, “my old playmate.” The distal phalanx of his index finger pulsated. He was famous for using his fingers for deeds other than squeezing off a .44.
“Up yours, Ralphy Souza.”
“How I wish.” Ralph Souza was a member of the notorious Souza crime family, most of them buried in Mount Carmel Cemetery or taking up residence in the big house. As a kid, Ralphy was a runner for his uncles. They ran a betting parlor on Loomis Street until a police raid forced them into early retirement behind bars. At thirteen, Ralph figured he better find a lawful occupation.
“What’s with the daisies?” Starr asked.
“Pennyroyal’s bright idea. Thinks it jazzes up the place.”
“Bloody Maxwell’s still the sleaziest precinct in town,” I said.
“Nobody asked your opinion.” Ralphy was the same age as my older sister Rose, and when she brought him by the house one day, he took a fancy to me. I kicked him in the shin and stomped on his foot. Ever since, he’s been trying to get under my skirts. Rose never forgave me for stealing away his affections.
Pennyroyal emerged from the back offices. Monica Seagraves was hanging off his arm like a shopping bag. A lipstick print tagged the underside of the detective’s jaw. Since the pair was on display like mannequins in a store window, they cooed but didn’t kiss. His supple fingers, capable of arousing an alley cat, stroked the length of her arm. After making sure I was taking in every move, he reached into his pocket and offered her a mint. She sensually popped the treat into her mouth and sucked on it as if she wanted to suck on something else.
“Sergeant Souza!” Pennyroyal called out. “The lady’s cat is missing. Take down the details.”
Ralph was slow in picking up a pencil. “Cat’s name?”
“Kitty Cat,” Monica answered, gazing dreamily into Pennyroyal’s eyes.
“That’ll narrow it down some.”
“Eats like a pig,” Monica went on.
“I take that to mean he’s corpulent?”
“Pleasingly plump, like me.”
“Reward?”
“A blow job,” I said to Starr. “On the house.”
Monica gave me the eye. “Ten bucks.”
“I’ll get on the case personal,” Ralph said.
Monica blew him a kiss and made her way out of the stationhouse. Souza was about to crush the police report, but when he got a load of the bump and grind of her hips, he rethought the advantages, flattened out the report, and stamped it.
Pennyroyal signaled Starr with a nudge of his head. I tagged along. When we arrived at his office door, Pennyroyal said, “Not you, Grenadine.”
The slamming pine panel met the tip of my nose with barely a quarter-inch to spare. Someone behind me guffawed. I twisted around. Souza was playing pocket pool. I outstared him. He un-pocketed his hands and raised them in all innocence though his grin said otherwise. He came at me, rushed me against the wall, and gated me between two meaty arms. He bared yellowing teeth. “Doesn’t look like Pennyroyal likes you much,” he rasped, “but he sure takes a fancy to your competition.”
“Bet you didn’t know Monica Seagraves is really a man in drag.”
His jaw dropped open. “No fucking way.”
I cocked my head toward Pennyroyal’s door. “So, uh, what’s up with the missus?”
His eyebrows bunched together like caterpillars. “Lieutenant Libby Pennyroyal is hunting down bad guys.”
“Word is she’s been stepping out.”
He toyed with the collar of my dress. “Where didja picks up the spiffy threads, Iris?” In the heat of the day, I had removed the bolero jacket and left it in the car. The form-fitting bodice accentuated the curves and dips of my figure while the skirt ballooned around pleasing legs. Ralphy Souza had no fashion sense. His interest was only in the subterranean geography.
“I always thought you were a skank, Ralphy Souza, and my opinion hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Remember when we played doctor?”
“Been trying to forget.”
“You wore pink underwear.”
“You’d never catch me in pink nowadays.”
“When you moved away, I cried myself to sleep every night for two weeks.”
“And consoled yourself with Mary Kay Fitzpatrick.”
“She became a nun.”
“After you, can’t say that I blame her.”
“Does your daddy still own that mansion by the lake?”
“And still has his bodyguard. The one who said he’d cut off your nuts if you ever got more than a peek of my pink underpants.”
He pouted. And pondered. And thinking better of testing the loyalty of Daddy’s bodyguard, backed off and headed for the can, snorting the distance.
I stamped feeling back into my thighs and got a grip. Ralphy Souza didn’t scare me. His brother Johnny—the one serving five to ten in Joliet—did. With time off for good behavior, he was scheduled to get out next year.
I hunted down the sturdiest chair in the vicinity and shoved it in front of Pennyroyal’s door. After an easy climb onto stocking feet, I made out the dulcet confluence of two tenor voices soaring through the open transom.
“Byrnes ... Kirk ... sting ... tonight,” Pennyroyal was saying.
The rickety chair rocked with my weight.
“Mayor ... Arezzo ... kickbacks ... graft,” Starr was saying.
Just as the conversation was getting interesting, they clammed up. I leaned closer, pressing the pads of my fingers against the door. On the other side, a chair scraped across the floor. Footfalls headed my way. The transom cranked shut. I awaited the door being thrown open and the embarrassing denouement to follow. Instead, shoe heels grazed back whence they came, and the voices restarted, but muted and impossible to make out.
Souza pounded out of the men’s room, cackled, and sneaked a quick peek under my skirt. He strolled back down the corridor, clambered up to the sergeant’s desk, and with a final scratch to his crotch, called out the next name. A redhead leaned over the desk and twirled his tie. Since I had bigger things to worry about than Ralphy Souza’s trick pony, I crept into the men’s room.
At the far end of the urinals, a door locked from the opposite side awaited inspection. Having been in Pennyroyal’s office a few times, I’d noticed the same door from the other side and speculated on its use. Not only did the homicide dick have exclusive access to the king’s privy, he also controlled a secret sally port for hasty retreats and secret consultations from Ralphy Souza. I pressed my ear to the wood and listened. The men had resumed talking. Nothing coherent penetrated.
A uniformed patrolman banged inside. Finding a smartly dressed woman snooping around the men’s room befuddled him. He was about to leave, but I didn’t have the heart to stand between him and nature’s call. “Iris Grenadine, Daily Standard,” I said, introducing myself. “Here to research an article on public restrooms.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Bet you didn’t know this is a particularly fine example of a nineteenth-century toilet.”
“No shit.”
“You don’t see porcelain like this anymore.” I indicated the commodes. “Ranks right up there with the facilities at the Drake Hotel.”
“Don’t say.”
“Being a connoisseur of innumerable cans yourself, I knew you’d appreciate the value of ergonomic amenities.”
“Goes without saying.”
I tucked myself around his donut girth. “And may I express my heartfelt gratitude for your dedicated service?”
“My pleasure entirely.”
Ralphy Souza was holding up a wall when I emerged from the john. “Got to hand it to you, Iris. Hoodwinking Big Bill Sims in the men’s room of Bloody Maxwell isn’t something every girl ca
n pull off.”
I twitched past him and made my way out of the station. His laughter followed the distance.
In the alley, a rat scurried for cover. Several garbage cans and a dumpster were ready for pickup. Assisted by the boost of a crate, I balanced myself over the mangled aluminum lid of one of the garbage cans and peered over a windowsill. From the top of my eyeballs, I could just make out Starr. He sat in a chair opposite Pennyroyal’s desk and rolled a pencil between nimble fingers.
Leaning into a high-backed leather chair, Pennyroyal had propped feet onto the desk and laced hands at the back of his head, elbows thrust out. “Remember this number, Starr. 1-2-7-1-9-9. Mayor Moore’s margin in the last election.”
“Each voter dead, moved away, or retired to Arkansas.”
“You’re missing the point.” Pennyroyal lowered his feet, the chair squealing and squeaking. “If it wasn’t for Dick Byrnes, we wouldn’t be calling the mayor Hizzoner.”
“Meaning?” Starr got up and sauntered around the office, inspecting knickknacks, reading off scratch pads, and rifling through confidential files.
“The mayor owed Byrnes everything.”
“Then you’re convinced Moore had nothing to do with the hit.”
“Sure, I heard the rumors. All lies.” He leaned forward. “That’s why we have to button this thing up before it gets out of control.”
Starr wandered up to the window and checked out the alley. Hanging on by my fingernails, I flattened myself against brick and mortar.
“I don’t know why I’m preaching to the choir since you―”
Starr interrupted Pennyroyal. “The stink from the alley is more than I can stomach. Do you mind?” Starr shut the casement window, released the blinds, and closed the slats.
Before I climbed down from my perch, I heard Starr’s faraway voice say, “By the way, Pennyroyal, what’s your first name?”
“Only my mother knows for sure.”
Chapter 18
I WAS LEANING against a lamppost when Starr hammered out of Bloody Maxwell and sliced a path across the street. “Pascal,” I said, pulling up beside him. “Pascal Pennyroyal. His mother eats frog legs and hasn’t shaved her underarms since 1920.”
The Green-Eyed Dick Page 13
