Chapter Fifteen
"Oh, Steve, not another death at the fair," Catherine said as I walked into the house after work and we embraced in the living room. "I heard about it on the radio. What's going on? I thought of all places, you had a nice, safe assignment there."
"It certainly figured to be," I agreed. "But at least your husband is getting himself some scoops, which didn't happen very often at Police Headquarters, what with its share-and-share-alike policy."
"And your wife is getting more gray hairs," she said glumly, passing a palm across her temple.
"Might I remind you, my dearest, that you were reared in a newspaper household. Your daddy, whom I had the privilege of meeting on several occasions, was absolutely fearless, a real bulldog of a street-smart reporter. Not afraid of anybody."
"Yes, but Mother and I worried about him, just like I worry about you. A small-time hoodlum named Kelso once threatened to kill Daddy because of some of the things he wrote. He might have, too, if he hadn't got shot himself by some other mobster a few weeks after he had made the threat."
"Well, at least you had some idea of what you were getting into when you married me," I said lightly, pressing her to me and kissing her thick, wavy, and not-at-all-gray hair. "I assumed you got drawn to my exciting, swashbuckling style as an intrepid reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper."
"Not just a great newspaper, 'The World's Greatest Newspaper,'" she said, mocking the Tribune's self-proclamation, which ran each day on page one, just below the Gothic-style nameplate.
"Okay, so maybe that's just a little bit too presumptuous," I conceded. "But then, newspapers have never been known for their modesty. The New York Times has a box on Page One every day claiming it contains 'All the News That's Fit to Print.'"
"True, newspapers are not modest by nature. Nor newspapermen, for that matter," she said, at last allowing herself a smile. "Are you ready for dinner?"
"Ah, the very words I have been waiting for."
As we ate pork chops, baked potatoes, and green beans, I filled her in on the day's adventure, including my semi-contentious dining car meeting with Detective Corcoran.
"Steve, is it true most policemen dislike reporters? I can't remember if I ever asked Daddy that question."
"Not really. Sometimes they actually curry favor with us because they like to see their names in print. Part of the problem comes when the editorial writers blast what they view as police inaction or corruption. Sometimes these attacks are deserved, sometimes they're not.
"But when this happens, the cops, including the ones on the beat, transfer their anger to anybody who happens to work for the newspaper. Then, because reporters are the ones on the paper who interact the most with the police, they–we–are usually the ones who end up feeling the wrath."
"What about you and the detective you've told me about a few times?"
"You mean Jack Prentiss?"
"Yes, him."
I leaned back, dabbed my mouth with the napkin, and patted my satisfied stomach. "This may come as a surprise to you, but your loving husband is not perfect."
She put down her fork as if shocked. "Fascinating, tell me more."
"This Prentiss, he's surly by nature, but I have to take some of the blame here. It dates back to Pilsen, and my cousin Charlie's apartment. You remember the awful night when I drove over there and everything that happened."
"I'll never forget it."
"Well, what I probably didn't tell you, I can't remember for sure, is when I met Prentiss there in the apartment, I made sure he knew I was close to Fergus Fahey, his boss."
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "No, I don't think you ever mentioned it."
"That was a stupid, arrogant move on my part, rubbing his nose in the fact I could go over his head any time I felt like it. He has never forgotten about it and probably never will."
"Well, you certainly seem to get along well with Chief Fahey."
"That wasn't always the case. When I first got assigned to Police Headquarters way back when, I was a real smart-mouth, and it didn't sit well with him. Over the years, I like to think I've mellowed at least somewhat. It took a while for things to thaw between me and Fergus, but now, yeah, I think we get along fine, given our respective roles; we understand each other. For instance, if he tells me something is off-the-record, I honor it."
"Isn't that the, well…honorable thing to do, though?" Catherine said between sips of her coffee.
"Yeah, but it's the practical thing to do as well, honey. He knows I'll keep my word on stuff he's not ready to break; in return, though, I get the news first when he is ready."
"But then you have to share whatever you get with your so-called competitors in the pressroom."
"True, that's the unfortunate part of being one of the Headquarters press crew. It's always share and share alike. The damned system is as old as the hills."
"Well, as you know, I've never thought much of the practice. Now, as to these deaths at the fair, do you think they are connected?"
"I don't see how, unless this 'mystery man' who was one of the rifle-loaders also strangled that poor old bird last night in what passes for Chicago's version of New Orleans."
"The rifle-loader who then disappeared," Catherine said.
"Right. That would be the nonexistent Mr. Samuel White of a nonexistent address up north on Clarendon Avenue."
"How in the world are the police going to find him?"
"Beats me. That's Fahey's problem. I'm sure his men have questioned everybody on the fair crew who worked with or around the so-called Mr. White. From the description I got, it sounds like other than a slight accent, which isn't at all uncommon in Chicago, he could blend into a crowd of three. Although…although…"
"Although what, Mr. Steve Malek? When you get that look, I start to worry. This is a police matter, plain and simple. Just stay out of it!"
"Aha! Am I being given an order?"
"As if I could ever order you to do anything," she said with an exaggerated pout.
"Now you know that's not true. Just last night, you ordered me to take out the garbage, and I did."
"That was not an order," she said, leaning across the table and punching me lightly on the shoulder. "Just a strong suggestion. And now I have another one. I'll wash and you dry."
"Sounds like a good plan," I said, glad the conversation had drifted away from the man known as Sam White.
Chapter Sixteen
As had been the case when I'd toiled at Police Headquarters, I got Saturdays and Sundays off from covering the Railroad Fair. This weekend, Peter was coming over to the house with his fiancée, Amanda Rogers. He and I would make our annual pilgrimage to Wrigley Field for a Cubs game Saturday, then the four of us would have dinner in the stucco house on Scoville Avenue.
Catherine had met Amanda for the first time just a month earlier when we went down to Champaign for Peter's graduation from the University of Illinois Architecture School, and the two had quickly hit it off. The weekend had been an interesting one, to say the least. My ex-wife, Norma, came down to the ceremonies with her husband, Martin Baer, and Amanda's parents had driven over from St. Louis to see their daughter graduate with a degree in art history.
After the young couple had been awarded their diplomas, the eight of us had dinner together at a steakhouse near the campus in Urbana. I had not been looking forward to the gathering, given that whenever I had been around the successful and polished haberdasher Baer, it served as a reminder of my own past failures as a husband. But the evening turned out surprisingly well, largely because of Catherine.
She appeared totally at ease, even though this was the first time she had met either Norma or her husband. She also was animated and radiant, and any residual envy I felt toward Baer completely dissipated, never to return. So you might say it became a pivotal moment in my life.
It also helped that Catherine and Amanda, seated side-by-side at dinner, chattered on like two old friends who hadn't see
n each other for ages. When, two weeks later, Peter had called to tell us he and Amanda got engaged, Catherine clapped her hands and actually squealed–something out of character for my normally reserved wife.
"Steve, she is perfect for Peter, just perfect. I had hoped for this!" I wholeheartedly agreed with her judgment. She then suggested we have them over for dinner, and I concurred again.
They came to the house at ten Saturday morning, giving Peter and me plenty of time to get up to Wrigley Field. The women, meanwhile, planned to go into Downtown Oak Park to shop. "It's a nice town," Catherine told Amanda as they tripped out the door, "although I'm afraid you will find our Marshall Field's store is tiny compared to the one down on State Street in the Loop."
"Hey, I'm really happy for you," I told Peter as we rode a Lake Street Elevated train into downtown Chicago, where we would change to a northbound train. "In a span of just a few weeks, you get yourself a degree, a good job in downtown Chicago, and a wife. I call that a true triple play!"
"Thanks, Dad. I'm a little worried about the job, though."
"How so? It's supposed to be one of the biggest, best architectural firms in town, and maybe in the whole country, as far as that goes. Haven't your first few weeks there been good?"
He nodded, although with a frown. "Yes, things seem to have gone fine, and everybody's been nice to me. It's just that the place is loaded with talented people. These guys have designed skyscrapers, hotels, art museums, hospitals, stadiums, schools, even a cathedral up in Canada. I'm not sure I'll ever be in their league. I feel like going around the office asking for everybody's autograph. These are many of the same people who I've been reading about for years in magazines like Architectural Forum and Architectural Record. One of my professors in school even had us analyze a Boston office building designed by one of the partners."
"All of these big names had to start out somewhere, though," I put in.
"True, although somehow, Peter Malek doesn't sound very impressive. No offense meant about our name, Dad."
"None taken. But that's it–of course! Those grand architects with their multiple names: Frank Lloyd Wright, Edward Durell Stone, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, James Gamble Rogers. Well, you can be Peter Reed Malek." Reed is Norma's maiden name.
"It sounds a little ostentatious," Peter said with a laugh.
"Maybe, but that's how your birth certificate reads. Anyway, it's something to think about down the road, when you become famous."
"If and when I ever do become famous, I'll give you all the credit, Dad. After all, you got me the summer job with Mr. Wright himself."
"Yes, but you worked hard out there in the wilds of Wisconsin and made the great man sit up and take notice."
"Thanks. Now I need to have the folks at my new job sit up and take notice."
"They will, I am absolutely convinced of it. Now, if we can just convince the Cubs they're not a last-place team," I said as our northbound El train pulled into the Wrigley Field stop, Addison Street.
But alas, the Cubs showed once again why they were mired in eighth place as they lost to the Phillies, 4-3. Because the game the day before had been rained out, the teams played a double-header Saturday, but rather than be late for dinner at home, we skipped the second game. It turned out to be just as well, because Philadelphia flattened the bumbling Cubs in that one, 9-1.
Prime rib is not normally on the menu at our house, but Catherine made an exception that balmy July night. "After all," she had told me earlier in the week, "it isn't every day your son brings a fiancée home for dinner."
The talk at the dining room table ranged from how bad the Cubs had been–they would indeed finish in last place at season's end for the second straight year–to the quality of the stores in Oak Park–"excellent," Amanda proclaimed–to the Railroad Fair.
"So Dad, now tell us about these murders," Peter asked as we finished the apple pie a la mode and sipped coffee.
"I'm still not sure the shooting really qualifies as a murder," I said. "Although after the strangling, you have to wonder what's going on."
"Let's talk about something a little less…unpleasant at the table," Catherine suggested. "By the way, Steve, have you noticed Amanda's ring?"
"Yes, I have. It's a real beauty," I said as the girl held out her hand and smiled.
"We have you to thank," Peter told me, coloring slightly.
"Oh? And just why might that be?" Catherine wore a puzzled expression.
"Well…Dad advanced me some money," he said sheepishly. "But he'll get it back soon, with me drawing a paycheck now."
"Why, you sneaky old romantic," Catherine gibed at me. "I had no idea you had stepped up. Not that I would have objected." She turned to Amanda. "How are the wedding plans coming along?"
"Pretty well," she said. "As you know, the date is set–second Saturday in October. Our minister back home in Missouri is all lined up, and my parents plan to have the ceremony and reception at home. In the back yard, if the weather cooperates."
"They've got a really nice house," Peter added. "It's big enough they could have the shindig inside if they had to."
"The only thing to keep me away from said shindig is if the Cubs happen to be in the World Series that week," I announced. That drew a hearty laugh all around the table, as it should have.
"Are you having any luck as far as finding a place to live?" Catherine asked Amanda.
"We've been looking at apartments mostly up in the Lakeview and Rogers Park neighborhoods," she said. "We'd like to find a building close to one of the stations along the Howard Elevated line. That way, the train would drop Peter just a couple of blocks from his office in the Loop, and it would be just as handy for me, too, assuming of course I'm able to get the job I've applied for down at the Art Institute."
"Which is?" I asked.
"An assistant to the curator of Nineteenth-Century European Art. That had been my area of concentration in college. Please, all of you keep your fingers crossed for me."
"Amanda's a cinch for the position," Peter put in. "They would be foolish to miss out on all of her expertise."
"You are absolutely right, sir," I added. "If she doesn't get the job, I promise to use every ounce of my influence at the Tribune to urge its readers in an editorial to boycott the museum."
"You wouldn't really, would you?" Amanda said, eyes wide.
"Of course he wouldn't, even if he could," Catherine sniffed, brushing the idea aside with a hand. "You have to learn to believe somewhere between one-third and one-half of everything he says."
"Well, it's moot anyway," I stated, "because she will be hired, there's no question about it. You all heard it here first."
Let the record show that less than a week later, Amanda received a phone call from the Art Institute telling her to report for work on the following Monday.
Chapter Seventeen
I got to the pressroom at the fair Monday morning at the same time as Fred Metzger. "Any problems here over the weekend?" I asked the PR man.
"Just more police and more newspapermen tromping around all over the place," he groused, waving his arms in frustration. "One of the officers told me several men would be added to the detail here. I asked they be in plainclothes so as not to worry the visitors. Do you know what he told me?"
I shook my head.
"He said it's important that the police presence is obvious, so as to discourage troublemakers. I argued, but it didn't do any good."
"For what it's worth, I think the badge you talked to is absolutely right. Instead of worrying visitors, the sight of more uniformed figures would be comforting to them."
Metzger looked unconvinced, then shrugged, turned on his heel, and walked out onto the fairgrounds, presumably to glare at some cops. A couple of minutes later, the intern, Rob Taylor, walked by and gave me a wave on his way to the PR office.
"You just missed your boss," I told him. "He's in a funk over all the cops who are crawling around the grounds."
He laughed. "Yeah, he to
ld me he thinks it will scare people to see so many of them. To me, it seems like it's a good idea, though."
"On that we agree, Rob. By the way, how'd you happen to land this job?"
"You sound like you're interviewing me for a story," he said in a voice bordering on accusatory.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to. An old reporter's habit, I suppose. Hard to break."
"That's okay," he said, blushing slightly. "I didn't mean to be so defensive. As to how I got the job, I called the fair office from up at school back in the winter. I told them I was looking for work as a summer intern doing public relations–I've taken some courses in advertising, which is sort of related. Anyway, they told me Mr. Metzger would be doing the PR, and they gave me his number."
"That's pretty enterprising of you."
He hunched his shoulders self-consciously. "They tell us at school to take the initiative when we're looking for work. At first, Mr. Metzger didn't sound interested, but I told him I'd be willing to work for very little money. I wanted the experience."
"You live in Chicago? Whoops, there I go again, playing interviewer."
"South Side, with my mother," he said.
"Well, I'm sure you are plenty of help to your boss here. And we'll be seeing a lot of each other."
"If I can help in any way, I'll be glad to, sir," he said.
"Remember, it's Snap."
"Uh…Snap, right," he said with a sheepish smile, turning toward the PR office.
After Rob left, I sat at my desk and dialed a number.
The "hello" on the other end was fuzzy, as I had expected.
"Hello yourself, you old rascal. Are you keeping out of trouble?"
"Is this who I think it is?" muttered "Pickles" Podgorny.
"I dunno, I'll play the game. Who do you think it is?"
Terror at the Fair (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 6
