Pickles mumbled his assent and signed off. I then called Catherine and told her I'd be late for dinner. She wanted to know why, and I told her that I would explain when I got home.
It was precisely a quarter past five when I pushed through the wooden revolving door and into the smoke-filled Sonny's, which had occupied the space as long as I could remember. There were a half-dozen men and a couple of women at the bar and most of the booths were empty. One in the back was occupied, however. Pickles signaled me with a wave.
He and Arnie Kravitz sat on one side of the booth, knowing that I'd want to face both of them. Kravitz was even skinnier than Pickles, which was saying something. His long face wore a basset-hound expression, although probably he wouldn't have looked so sad if he were anyplace else at the moment. He wore a ratty brown sweater and a flat cap similar to the one Pickles had on.
"Sorry we couldn't have met under more pleasant circumstances," I told the glum Kravitz. "When did you get the word of Goldman's murder?"
"Just a little while before Pickles called me," he said sullenly. "A…a friend called me. I don't know what you want from me."
"Hear me out," I told him. "As you know, I met Goldman, or 'Lou,' as he called himself, when we had lunch. So I assume you're part of this Maccabees bunch too?"
Kravitz looked at Pickles, who nodded. "What of it?" he said in a defensive tone.
"Did Goldman tell you what he found out about any specific plans of this New Reich organization?" I asked as a waitress came by and took our beer orders.
He waited until she had left and contemplated dirty fingernails. "He…knew something big was in the works, but those guys played it pretty close to the vest. Of course now we know that they got onto him."
"But they must have said something that he picked up on in the meetings," I posed. "Presumably, they didn't know he was one of the Maccabees until he'd been with them for a while."
"He told me there was one word they used whenever they talked about the big thing they were planning."
"Which was?"
"Something like 'ogra' or 'okra.' He couldn't be sure of the spelling because it was never written down, only spoken," he said as three frosty pilsner glasses of beer were set down in front of us.
"Probably O-G-R-A or O-K-R-A, right?"
"I really couldn't say, but that's what it sounded like to me."
"And you have no idea what it means?"
"Not a clue," Kravitz snapped, the hostility still evident in his tone.
"Did Goldman have any idea what the 'big thing' was that they were planning?"
Kravitz took a sip of his beer and licked his lips. "He got the idea that…that it had something to do with President Truman."
I tried to sound surprised. "Is that so?" I said, throwing Pickles a knowing look. "Did he have any details about this?"
Kravitz shook his head. "Truman's name never came up in the meetings, not once. But whenever they talked about this plan of theirs, they referred to 'The Big Man' as the target."
"Truman's coming to town next week."
"No secret in that," Kravitz muttered.
"No. Do the Maccabees have a plan to avenge Goldman's killing?" I asked.
"I got no comment."
"Okay, fine, I don't really give a damn one way or the other about your group's plans, although I'd love to see these thugs all land in the pokey."
"I'd rather see them all dead, every last one of them," Kravitz said.
"Can't say that I blame you. Do you know if Goldman ever wrote anything down about what he learned in these New Reich meetings?"
"I'm sure he didn't. Everything he knew, he told us. We would meet with him right after every one of his sessions with…them."
"Did he say anything that would tell you the identities of any of these people?"
"Not really. The one who seemed to be the leader in these meetings was somebody named Earl, but his last name was never spoken. In fact, Ed told us that no last names got used."
"Do you have any idea how the Reich got onto him?"
Kravitz screwed up his face. "All I can figure is that maybe one of these fascist pigs followed him after one of their meetings. He usually came straight back to us to report."
"Us meaning the Maccabees?"
"Of course. We try to be careful ourselves–we have to. But maybe Ed slipped up once and didn't realize he had a tail."
"Anybody else from your bunch going to try infiltrating them?"
"Are you out of your mind? That would be like asking to be killed right now."
"So this Nazi slime will just go on with their miserable work?" I asked, goading Kravitz.
"Eventually they will be stopped, we promise you that," he said tensely, a vein standing out on his forehead. "Maybe not now, or not next week, or even next month. But they will pay."
His intensity left no doubt in my mind that the Maccabees were still to be reckoned with. I would not want to be on their bad side, and I said so.
Kravitz made no comment. He drained his beer, licked his lips, and started to slide out of the booth. "I can pay for this," he said.
"Nope," I told him, holding up a palm. "This meeting was my idea, and I know you weren't keen on coming. I appreciate that you did. If by chance you find out anything more about what these two-bit storm troopers are planning, I would appreciate it if you would get hold of Pickles or call me." I wrote my work and home phone numbers on a piece of my notebook paper and passed it over to him, although I knew damn well I wouldn't hear from him.
He nodded, put the sheet in his billfold, and turned on his heel, walking out through the bluish nicotine-driven haze of the now crowded and noisy saloon.
"Well, what do you think?" I asked Pickles, who was glumly contemplating his empty glass.
"I think I'd like another one of these," he said, "if it's in your budget, that is."
I called the waitress over and ordered two more beers. "Okay, your impressions," I said.
"Shit, I don't know, Snap. I think these Maccabees are spooked right now. Wouldn't you be? Christ, they slit a man's throat and then nail a Star of David sign to his chest. That would scare me off permanently. And I do mean forever."
"Yeah, I'm sure they're scared, all right, but they're also mad as hell. You know, Pickles, I had this weird feeling that something was going to happen just before Goldman got himself killed. Now I've got the same sort of feeling that The New Reich is going to get their comeuppance, and very soon."
"Would you call that a weird feeling, or just wishful thinking?" Pickles asked as our beers were delivered. "I've never known you to be psychic."
"Maybe it's a little of both," I conceded. "I just feel like things are about to come to a head."
"Well, I urge you to be careful, scribbler amigo," he said between sips from his glass. "You've already used up several of your nine lives, and after what happened to this poor Goldman, it's clearer than ever that this is one damned nasty bunch, regardless of what they may have planned for Truman."
"I hear you, Pickles. I promise to proceed with all due caution."
"You define caution the way most people define reckless," he snorted. "You're a decent sort, if somewhat stingy in your payments to informants, but I've grown rather fond of you nonetheless."
"Why, Pickles, I'm touched, I truly am," I told him as I worked on my beer.
"If you're so all-fired touched," he said, "you might consider how hard I toil to bring you information–and informants, too."
"Just drink your suds and consider it one form of payment."
"But Pabst Blue Ribbon doesn't put food on my table," he groused.
"No, although poker does, you slick operator. But you've touched my heart with your plea," I said, pulling out my billfold and handing him a double sawbuck that I would find a way to expense.
Chapter Eighteen
C3 O1 M3 P3 L1 E1 X8
(adj) so complicated or intricate as to be hard to understand or deal with
It was just past seven-thi
rty when I got home to Oak Park. When I walked into the house, Catherine was standing in the living room wearing an apron and a questioning look.
"I've held dinner and can reheat it, Steve," she said. "Unless you've already had something to eat."
I shook my head.
"Is everything all right?"
I said it was, more or less, and when we sat down to eat spareribs and sauerkraut, I began the rundown on the day's events.
"I heard about that horrible killing on the radio news earlier, but of course they don't go into much detail," she said after I'd told her about Goldman's murder.
I gave her greater detail without describing what the corpse looked like. Then I told her about the meeting in the saloon on
Van Buren Street. "Why do you persist in getting so involved with all of this?" she asked. "It's police business."
"I know it is. But a president's life could be at stake here. I feel like I've been thrown into the middle of it, whether I like it or not."
"Again, Steve, it is still police business. Not to mention the FBI and the Secret Service."
I conceded her point and shifted gears. "As the reigning Scrabble champion in this household, a title I grudgingly bestow upon you, do you have any thoughts about this apparent code word ogra, or maybe okra, or orca, or something like that?"
"You're sure it wasn't ogre, as in 'a fairy tale monster or hideous beast'? That's pretty much how the dictionary defines it."
"Well, maybe. The way this Kravitz pronounced it, though, the word sounded more like it ended in an 'a'. By chance, is there such a thing as a female ogre that's called an ogra?"
"I don't think so, Steve," she said, trying without success to stifle a laugh at my expense. "Then there's okra, which is a sort of vegetable pod that's used in soups and stews. I don't happen to like it myself. It's too gluey and sappy for my taste."
"I'll have to take your word for it, seeing as how I've never had the stuff. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, especially given the way you describe it."
Catherine wrinkled her normally smooth forehead, a sign that she was pondering. "Let's see…an orca is a killer whale. There may be something to that. We've got the word killer. Does whale suggest anything to you?"
I shook my head. "No…I don't know how a fish would figure into this."
"A whale isn't a fish, it's a mammal, not that it makes any difference here," she said.
"Okay, let's go back to ogra," I ventured. "For what it's worth."
"What if it's an acronym for something?"
"Okay, you've got me," I told her. "What, pray tell, is an acronym?"
"It's a fairly new definition, meaning a word formed using the first letters of words that spell an organization, like, say, WAC for Women's Army Corps."
"So what would ORCA spell?"
Catherine shook her head. "For the moment, let's go back to OGRA," she said. "Maybe it's something like, let's see…Organization of Genetically Racial Aryans. That's what the Nazis called themselves, Aryans."
"I think you're really reaching," I told her.
"I agree, Steve. This could be some sort of complex code; but for the moment, let's assume that it's something much simpler. What if we just tried to spell the words backwards?"
"That would be 'arko'," I said. "What the hell could that mean?"
"No, I was thinking of the other one. It would come out as 'argo', which has some honest-to-goodness meanings. That's the name of a star constellation, I think in the Southern Hemisphere. It's also the name of the boat Jason sailed in his search for the Golden Fleece in Greek mythology. He and his men were called the Argonauts."
"Where do you come up with all this stuff?" I asked in awe.
"As I'm sure I must have told you, several years ago I was assigned to the so-called answer desk at the library. It was my job to look up answers to all manner of questions from telephone callers, a lot of them students who were working on essays or term papers."
"Well, count me in as one who is impressed. Let's say for the moment that there's something to this 'argo' idea. Got any thoughts?"
"It's beyond me what significance a constellation would have in this particular context. Or a mythical Greek ship, for that matter. Isn't there a town by that name somewhere fairly close by?"
"Argo? Yeah, there is, as a matter of fact, down along
Harlem Avenue just a few miles south of here. It's where they make Argo corn starch, which you very well may have in your kitchen cabinet for all I know. I think they also refer to the town as Summit. But what would its significance be? It's just a little burg, for Pete's sake, probably a couple of thousand people at the most. I can't imagine Truman visiting the place for any reason. There aren't enough voters to make the trip worthwhile." Catherine wrinkled her forehead again. "Why don't we see if there are any businesses in Chicago that have that name?"
"I can't say I've got a better idea," I answered, going to the hall to get the fat Chicago phone directory, which I plopped down on the table and began flipping through. "Well…here's an Argo Cleaners on North Pulaski Road Avenue, almost up to Evanston. And then there's an Argo Women's Fashions near 63rd and Halsted, which would put it right in the middle of that big Englewood business district. And an Argo Auto Wreckers way down on
115th Street. I wonder why any of these folks picked that name?" "Probably because it's near the beginning of the alphabet," Catherine said with irrefutable logic. "That's especially valuable in the Yellow Pages, where people look up businesses by category, and owners want their enterprise to be the first one you run across. That's also why there are so many business names in the directory starting with AAA. I remember that at one time years ago, there was an AAA Bakery not far from here in Austin."
"You're just filled with good ideas and interesting facts tonight, aren't you? But I can't figure out how any of these Argo operations would fit into The New Reich's plotting. Can you?"
Catherine shook her head. "I'm totally baffled, husband of mine. We're probably just off on the wrong track, up a blind alley, as you like to say. It's possible that fellow you talked to tonight just got the word wrong. After all, this was third-hand information–from those Nazis to the dead man and then to Kravitz. Like that telephone game we used to play at birthday parties, every time a word gets passed along, the next person hears it a little differently."
"Meaning that we could end up driving ourselves crazy trying to come up with variations on what this Kravitz thought he heard?"
"I'm afraid that's the way it looks," she said, shaking her head in frustration. "I think you're obsessing over this business, and for that matter, so am I now. How about getting the dishes out of the way and indulging in a good clean game of Scrabble?"
"Said like a woman who knows she's got herself a patsy."
"How can you say that? Just the other night, you beat me."
"Well, that makes one win for me in the last three weeks or so. But hey, I'm always up for the challenge. Loser washes and dries the dishes tomorrow."
Let the record show that, thanks to my coming up with zinc on my last turn, I will have no after-dinner kitchen chores tomorrow night.
Chapter Nineteen
G2 U1 F4 F4 A1 W4
(n) a burst of loud laughter
Amid all the turmoil surrounding the presidential campaign and the nefarious activities of The New Reich, I managed to grind out my feature article on Preston Tucker and his automobile, which Mike Kennedy liked and which ran almost word for word in the Sunday paper as I had written it.
A Tribune staff photographer, Mike Mapes, got some good shots of a smiling and jaunty Tucker posing with one of the newly minted cars in the plant. But the printing baron, Warren Jones, refused to have his picture taken with his own new Tucker.
"Snap, I called him to set up a shoot, but he told me he'd already wasted enough of his time talking to you," Mike said after the story had run. "And he was pretty damned rude about it, I'll tell you."
"Interesting. Jones's office walls ar
e filled with pictures of him with famous and semi-famous people. Maybe he's become camera-shy all of a sudden."
"I dunno, but when I tried to persuade him, he just hung up on me–after calling me a name I won't dignify by repeating."
"Shame on him. I'm sorry now that I even quoted the bum," I told Mike.
At least one person in the story–its subject–was happy with my opus. Preston Tucker called me at work to thank me. "Very balanced article, Mr. Malek," he said. "I can't complain about it at all. I just hope it will translate into sales for us."
"I didn't write it for that reason," I said. "But I am curious as to how things are going right now."
"Off the record?"
"Yes, Mr. Tucker, off the record. I've done my story, and I'm taking off my reporter's hat. I was personally curious about your situation."
"I've had better times," he admitted. "Your article talked about the problems we've had getting steel and other materials, and that's still going on. Then there's our friend, the well-known senator from Michigan."
"That would be dear old Homer Ferguson, of course."
"Yes, the best friend that General Motors and Ford ever had," Tucker remarked dryly. "He's still doing his darnedest to put me out of business."
"Well, as a journalist, I'm supposed to be objective and impartial–and I try to be. But I really hope you're able to tough things out. And that's off the record, too."
"I appreciate the words," the automaker said, laughing. "Let it be known to all that we're still on the job, trying to get Tuckers into the hands of an eager American public."
I wished Tucker luck again and hung up, only to have my phone ring seconds later. It was Hal Murray on the Trib city desk.
"Snap, can you be in the Tower for a meeting tomorrow afternoon at three? It's a planning session for our coverage of the Truman and Dewey visits. We'll send somebody over to spell you till Garrity comes on at five."
"Just what I like–a committee meeting. I suppose attendance is compulsory?"
"Let's put it this way, Snap: Maloney called the session, and he assumes everyone who's invited will be there. I'm sure he'd take note of any absences."
A President In Peril (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 14
