General Douglas MacArthur, astride a white horse, led four troops of cavalry, four companies of infantry, a mounted machine-gun squadron, half a dozen tanks, several hundred city cops, and a phalanx of Secret Service and Treasury agents against the Bonus Army. Ben saw one veteran shot to death, heard of another; saw veterans slashed and stabbed by bayonets and sabers—saw a man's ear cut off. The shanties were torched; smoke clouds hovered over the capital city. Countless men, women, and children were teargased, Ben among them.
Gassed at the Argonne; gassed at Anacostia.
It had soured Ben on just about everything. He didn't blame the soldiers—they were just kids, like he'd been a kid when he was in the army, taking orders and doing what they were told, like he had.
To him the radicals were little better than goddamn Hoover. Here it was, four years later, and the revolution that they promised wasn't here yet. Ben's revolution had been an internal one. He would no longer answer to any authority but that of his belly, presidents and radicals be damned.
He had gotten off a freight at Cleveland—home—and had been part of the landscape of Kingsbury Run ever since. He and his knife had carved out a place for themselves. He cut a few 'bos who got tough or tried to steal from him, carved a homo or two who got cute, and the word spread. Feared and respected, he was. Just how he wanted it.
Today was Wednesday, but Ben was unaware of that; the only time he became aware of what day it was, was Sunday, because of the church bells. He would then know it was time for his weekly bath, which he'd accomplish in the lake usually, or at the Sally in winter; he kept himself and his clothes clean. Then, his weekly hygienics accomplished, time would turn into the vague, meaningless thing that it was in his life.
Yesterday and today, the newspapers had been filled with the story of the Torso Clinic, with much being made of Safety Director Ness taking on the Mad Butcher case personally. Ben was unaware of this, too: newspapers were of no interest to him in the summer. In the winter, newspapers had value: they kept you warm.
What was on Ben's mind this early evening was getting drunk and getting laid, in no particular order. He had spent the long, hot day at the Central Market, unloading boxes, and now had two dollars to help him fulfill both those needs. He knew just the place to get the job done, too. A nameless, seedy little saloon near Central and Twentieth; it had been a speakeasy during Prohibition and had never gotten around to making itself look legal.
If getting drunk had been all he had in mind, Ben could have just bought a bottle and retreated to his cave. But this saloon—in a neighborhood of rooming houses, secondhand-store fencing operations, and bookie joints, on the edge of an industrial area—was a hangout for professional beggars, one of whom, Blister Betsy, was a sort of sweetie of Bens.
Ben entered the room and inhaled, with satisfaction, the aroma of stale smoke mixed with beer-soaked sawdust. An exhaust fan churned noisily, fighting with the sound of Amos and Andy on the radio. Half a dozen men dressed in sweaty work clothes stood at the bar, a foot on the rail, putting away beers; some were talking, several were listening to what the Kingfish was up to.
The pasty-faced fat bartender nodded at Ben noncommittally, drawing a beer from the tap.
Ben put fifteen cents on the counter and said, "Boilermaker, Pete. Betsy been in?"
"Nope."
"Well, it's early yet."
"Yeah."
Ben took his glass of beer and his shot of whiskey and sat in a booth and drank them slowly, savoringly. More patrons began wandering in, and they were a shabby-looking lot, but they had money to spend. They were professional beggars who gathered every evening at this nameless saloon after a day of shamming downtown, leaving their phony afflictions behind.
A few of the beggars had genuine handicaps—the wingies, who had one or no arms, and the peggies, who had one or no legs. There were also the blinkies (the fake blind ones), deafies, dummies, D and D's (a combination of the latter two categories), and fitzies (epileptics). Blister Betsy put acid on her arms to make it look like she had ugly sores that needed a doctor's care.
Ben didn't as a rule have much respect for beggars or panhandlers, but he thought people like Blister Betsy gave value for the dollar. It was a job; it was show business. The person paying got to feel good about himself, for helping out a poor needy soul.
Betsy herself was a skinny thing, with mousy brown hair and a face as plain as a plank; but she laughed real pretty when she drank, and Ben liked the way her hips moved when he was in her.
A skinny character called Sightless Red spotted Ben and, after getting himself a beer, came over and joined him.
"It's been a while, pard," Red said, smiling, showing very decayed teeth, where teeth remained. Ben had all his teeth; he took care of himself.
"Yes it has," Ben said.
"Betsy was asking for you, while back."
Ben felt warm inside, and it wasn't just the boiler-maker. "That's good. Betsy and me get along fine."
Every month or so, Ben would show up at the nameless saloon, spend a buck or so of odd-job money on Betsy, getting her well-oiled, then go to her room at the boarding house nearby and do the time-honored lying-down dance.
"Hope she'll be along pretty soon," Ben said.
"I don't know," Red said, shrugging. "Ain't seen her in a week at least."
Ben tried not to let his sinking feeling show. "Oh?"
"She was talking about visiting her sister in Akron."
"Oh."
"Anyways, she hasn't been around for a couple weeks."
"Oh."
"But hell, you never know. She might show. I don't stop in here every night, you know—and Betsy and me don't work the same district. Maybe she'll be in."
Ben shrugged like it was no matter.
"You still hiding out in that hole on the Run, pard?"
"Sure."
"Beats paying the landlords," Red said. "Thought you might be flopping at the Sally."
"Why? It's summer."
"Yeah, but at the Sally you can sleep and eat and be safe and sound."
Ben frowned. "Hunting's good on the Run, this time of year."
"Yeah, but it ain't just jackrabbits bein' hunted."
"What else is?"
"People! Heads! I'd think shantytown woulda emptied out by now, with this here Mad Butcher on the loose."
Ben snorted a laugh. "I killed more people than that piker."
"What, with your jackknife?" Red grinned greenly. "Don't tell me you're the Butcher, Ben!"
"In the war," he said quietly.
"What?"
"I killed more than that bastard did."
"Maybe so, but you can still get killed out there."
"I can take of myself."
"I know. But I'd be sleeping inside, if I was you."
Ben shrugged, and so did Red, who grinned his green-and-yellow grin and went back to the bar for another beer. Pretty soon Ben shambled up after another boilermaker and went back to his booth and sat and got morosely drunk, wondering whether he should wait for Betsy to show or try to make Peggy Peg. She was kind of fat, but that didn't bother Ben. Fucking a one-legged woman didn't, either. He just had his heart, and hard, set on little Betsy.
"How you doing tonight, Ben?"
Ben looked up from the whiskey half of his fourth boilermaker and saw Andy, a husky, pleasant worker who frequented the saloon from time to time. They'd spoken before.
"Doing okay, Andy. Have a seat."
Andy sat; he was a good-looking man about thirty with sandy blond hair and a ready smile.
"Where's your honeybun?" Andy asked.
"I ain't got a honeybun."
"You know who I mean. That little girl with the blisters on her arm that you're always walking out of here with."
Ben smiled, but he felt sad. "I think she's seeing her sister. I don't think she's gonna be in tonight."
Andy sighed. "Yeah. I bet you been looking forward to seein' her, too."
"Yeah."
&nbs
p; "I got stood up, too."
Ben bristled. "I wasn't stood up—"
"Hey, same thing. Neither one of us is getting laid tonight."
Ben nodded. Gulped some whiskey. His belly felt warm. That much, at least, was going right.
They had another round, Ben his fifth Boilermaker, Andy a beer.
"That's what I get for trying to date a girl in the front office," Andy said, bitter but accepting it.
"Snobby?"
"Yeah. Sometimes I think a guy's better off paying for it."
Ben nodded agreement, but said, "I like it better when they like you. Buy 'em some drinks and they like you. That's how I see it."
"Not a bad philosophy."
Ben stared into his whiskey. "I used to have a girl. Back in Chicago. At the slaughterhouse."
"You worked at a slaughterhouse?"
"Sure."
"God." Andy shivered. "Didn't that give you the willies?"
"No."
By eleven it was clear that Betsy wasn't going to show. Ben was feeling drunk, but not enjoying the feeling. Hell of a thing, working all day and getting screwed out of screwing.
He was digging in his pocket for his second buck when Andy shook his head and said, "Hey, save your dough. I got a bottle back at my place."
"Yeah?"
"Hell, I got two bottles. One for you and one for me."
Ben looked through bleary eyes at Andy. Andy seemed like a nice enough guy, but Ben didn't trust guys who looked as good as Andy. Andy's mouth was soft, like a girl's.
'That's white of you, but—"
"Hey. If you'd prefer to wait around for Betsy . . . maybe she'll show."
"She ain't gonna fuckin' show. But look, I got to say something and I don't want you to take it wrong."
Andy shrugged, smiled. "Okay."
"I don't cotton up to queers."
"Neither do I," Andy said matter-of-factly.
"Okay. I don't know you all that good, so I just wanted to make it plain. Sharing a bottle is white of you. But I gotta warn you. I got a knife."
"Ben . . ."
"I ain't no wolf. And I killed punks before."
A "punk," in Ben's parlance, was a young homosexual. And a "wolf" was an older homosexual man who craved punks.
"Ben, I know there's a lot of that kind of thing down in shantytown," Andy said, "but I always knew you weren't a part of that. I hate that unnatural shit. Queers should all be killed."
Ben nodded. "Them that touches me is going to be."
"No argument from me. What do you say we blow this joint? If you'll excuse the expression."
Andy grinned at his own joke, but Ben was too drunk to get it.
In fact, Andy had to help Ben out of the saloon; as they walked down the dimly lit street, Andy supported Ben's arm, as if the man were a cripple like the beggars they were leaving behind pretended to be.
Andy lived a few blocks off the Run, on Central. Drunk as he was, Ben was impressed, even surprised by the place. Not that it was nice—it was a small, paint-peeling clapboard bungalow—but the single-story, single-dwelling frame structure, which even had something of a lawn about it, differed from the crowded-together, two-and three-story rooming houses that were its neighbors. The front windows were blotted out by dark drapes; a basement window in front was boarded up; at left, rickety stairs and a rusted iron rail rose to an entrance.
Unlocking the door, Andy led Ben into a small foyer. A connecting hall led to the whiteness of a kitchen, and straight ahead, to the right, was a living room. At left, on the wall, were a dozen screwed-on coat hooks. Andy motioned Ben into the living room, which was also small but seemed expensively furnished to Ben. The sofa and chairs were overstuffed and plush; oriental tapestries and pictures decorated the walls.
"How's a bottle of beer sound?" Andy said.
"Fine," Ben said, wobbling, not knowing if he should sit down on such an elegant sofa.
"Why don't you help yourself?"
"What?"
"Cold beer in the Frigidaire. Help yourself. I'll get us some whiskey and we'll put our own boilermakers together."
Ben nodded, smiled. "Sounds good."
He wandered on shaky legs down the hallway, past several closed doors, into the small, very clean, very white kitchen; the grayish-white linoleum floor glistened. This guy had money. Trusting soul, too, Ben thought, sliding a hand into this pocket, fingers on his jackknife. It would be easy to take this joe for everything he had. There was money in this place. There just about had to be.
But, drunk or sober, Ben just wasn't that kind, and he knew it.
He snorted a laugh and opened the refrigerator door, and Betsy looked right at him.
Betsy's head, that is.
Her eyes were open, and so was her mouth. Bottles of Hamm's beer sat on the shelf on either side of her.
He was frozen there, for a moment, mouth dropped open as wide as Betsy’s, and just as his drink-clouded mind was forming the thought that he must get the hell out of here, he felt fingers grip the hair atop his head and something thin and cold and sharp pressed against the back of his neck.
The last thing Ben saw was Betsy’s gray face.
Just as Andy's words were the last thing he heard: "Ben ... I have a knife, too."
CHAPTER 6
By midmorning Thursday, Ness had tied up the loose administrative ends, which would allow him to go out in the field, and was explaining to his executive assistant, Robert Chamberlin, what the setup would be over the coming weeks.
"I'll be in every Monday morning," Ness said, sitting with his back to his scarred rolltop desk that was against one wall of his roomy wood-and-pebbled-glass office at City Hall. "I'll sign whatever I have to sign from the week before, make a few phone calls to people we've had to put off, and then we'll go over whatever needs going over for the week ahead."
Chamberlin, who sat nearby with his back to one of the several conference tables that filled the central area of the room, nodded and said, "Other than that you'll be unavailable?"
"I may be in and out," Ness said, and shrugged, "but I'd say probably your best bet would be trying me at the boathouse, evenings. And even then it will be catch-as-catch-can."
"Understood," Chamberlin said with a confident twitch of a smile that made his small black mustache curl up at the ends. He was a tall, rangy man of thirty-seven with an oblong, sharp-featured face set off by a strong round jaw, his dark hair slicked back off a high forehead. Like Ness, he was impeccably dressed, wearing a three-piece suit and snappy tie.
Ness was saying, "If I haven't come up with anything in a month, well ..."
"We should both start looking for other work, I'd imagine," Chamberlin finished wryly.
"Not a bad idea," Ness said with a half-smile. "I guess if my job goes down in flames, I take you with me. Sorry."
"Don't give that a thought," Chamberlin said with another twitch of a smile. "I'll land on my feet. Lawyers always do."
Ness was grateful for his friends attitude—and Chamberlin was more than just his assistant, was indeed a friend, who'd been handpicked by the safety director when his previous executive assistant had played politics. Oddly, the former holder of that position—John Flynt—physically resembled Chamberlin; they both had the look and manner of British military officers out of Kipling.
Chamberlin checked his watch. "I'd better be getting back to my own office—you have a meeting in a few minutes."
"I'd like you to stick around for that. I don't want you cut off from this investigation."
"Well, thanks. I'll just keep my mouth shut and listen."
"You do, and you're fired."
Before long, Ness's secretary, redheaded, bespectacled Wanda, an efficient, attractive young woman he'd stolen away from the Clerk of Public Service office, ushered in Curry and Merlo. Merlo's brown suit was typically rumpled, his face haggard, haunted. Boyish, bashful Curry seemed intimidated by the older man, staying behind him, deferring to his every breath.
"Sit
down, gentlemen," Ness said, gesturing to one of the conference tables, and they did. Chamberlin joined them.
There was a discreet knock at the door, the one that opened on to the hall and said SAFETY DIRECTOR'S OFFICE backward on its pebbled-glass. This door was kept locked, and Ness used a key on his vest chain to open it.
Sam Wild, bow-tied and bright-eyed, shambled in, in his loose-limbed way. He grinned wolfishly at Ness, saying, "You usually don't wait on me hand and foot like this," as the safety director closed and locked the door behind him.
Ness turned to Merlo, Curry, and Chamberlin, their expressions reflecting displeasure at the intrusion, Merlo looking the most annoyed. "I asked Sam to stop by, and to slip in the side door, away from the office staff. I wanted him in on this.
Merlo thought for a moment, his professorly brow creasing, then said, "Director Ness, I don't think it's advisable to have the press present at what you've described as a 'key briefing.'"
Ness gestured for Wild to sit but remained standing himself. "As you all know, I've worked with Sam on several cases, and he's been very helpful. He practically cracked the cemetery-scam racket single-handedly. And he's covering the Safety Director's office full-time for the Plain Dealer—and now that this investigation is coming under the wing of this office, well, I think it's appropriate for him to be here."
"Don't worry, gents," Wild said as he propped a Lucky Strike between his lips, "I'm under strict orders from your chief here not to write anything up till you've got something solid."
"Eliot," Chamberlin said, eyes narrowing, "I really don't think we should be tipping our hand to the opposition."
"We won't be," Ness said. "But keep in mind that the 'opposition' is a homicidal maniac who has the city in a state of panic, under a reign of terror. Part of our function is public relations."
Merlo was wide-eyed. "Public relations?"
"Yes," Ness said calmly. "We need to assure our citizens that their police force is on top of the problem. Doing everything it can to remove this madman from their midst. Mr. Wild's function will be to be a part of the investigation—and his investigative skills are considerable—which will lend his eventual reporting an insider's depth and authority."
Chamberlin said, "You may alienate the other papers."
BUTCHER'S DOZEN (Eliot Ness) Page 6
