There wasn’t anything I’d be able to tell Peckham, but I wanted to make that clear. If I’d been single, I’d have told them all to go to hell. If it weren’t for Norah and Junior, the cops would be meeting the little man this evening in front of the Gargoyle station.
I still considered calling them into it, but decided against it. Peckham, I’d heard, was a reasonable man. Unless opposed.
When Norah came back, I told her, “Foley wants to see me at his house tonight. He just phoned. Maybe I’ll be going back to work for the Star.”
She looked relieved. “Be sensible, now, Johnny. Don’t let your temper get the best of you.”
“I won’t,” I promised, quickly.
Junior looked at me, and sadly shook his head.
“Nuts to you,” I said.
“Blaa-a,” he said, and made a face.
“Two of a kind,” Norah said. “He certainly gets his disposition from your side of the family.” She came over to kiss me.
There was a faint breeze, a chill breeze, coming in from the north. Most of the trees lining Diversey were bare; what few leaves were left were dry and gray. This was the pause between fall and winter, when you can expect anything in the way of weather.
I drove slowly along Diversey, planning my words for Roger Peckham, wondering if I hadn’t made a mistake. At the corner of Diversey and Burnham, the Caddy was waiting.
There was a man behind the wheel, and the small man sitting next to him. I walked over, as the smaller man got out. He stood on the curb, waiting for me. He said, “We can’t take you. We’ve got other business. But here’s the address.” He handed me a card. “He’s waiting there.”
I took the card, and went back to the coupe. The Caddy pulled away, making time through the gears, gunning.
The card read: Kensington Towers – Tower Apartment A.
Kensington Towers was a tall, showy place overlooking the bay. Tower Apartment A meant he had one of the roof apartments, complete with open porch and a view.
The clerk told me Mr Peckham was expecting me, and indicated one of the elevators.
I went up, and up and up, the floors going by too swiftly to count, the numbers seeming to merge, almost. At the top floor, we came gently to rest.
“To your right, sir,” the operator said. “Tower Apartment A.”
This looked more like an entrance hall than a corridor. I turned to the right, toward A.
The door was open when I got there, and a tall, broad man in dinner clothes stood framed in the doorway. He had gray eyes, and black hair sprinkled with gray. He must have been well past forty, but he had a vigorous, alert air about him.
“John Shea?” he asked. He was smiling.
“And you’re Roger Peckham.”
We shook hands, and he gestured me in. “My man is out tonight,” he said. “But I guess I can still mix a drink.”
I guessed he could, too. He’d started out as a bartender. This land of opportunity—
It was a beautifully designed apartment, and any person with taste could have done a lot with it. All he’d done was spend too much money for heavy, carved tables and chairs, dismal drapes, and some Oriental rugs that didn’t fit at all.
He mixed a pair of drinks, and handed me one. He indicated a huge leather chair, and I sat in that.
He sat down, and said nothing.
I said, “Your torpedo seems to think I can tell you something about June Drexel.”
“Torpedo?” he said, and then chuckled. “Oh, you mean Mike.” He shook his head. “He’s quite a boy, isn’t he? He sees too many movies.”
I said nothing.
“Mike’s my attorney,” he went on. “When I was a small operator, Mike was a small lawyer, very broke. Since I’ve made a few dollars, Mike’s tended to put on airs. But he’s a good boy. He’s no torpedo; he doesn’t know one end of a gun from another.” He chuckled again. “This whole affair has been over-dramatized, hasn’t it?”
I continued to say nothing; I’d been trained to listen.
“When I saw your picture in the Courier, this afternoon, I decided I had to see you. Since then, I’ve changed my mind.” He paused. “My wife and I have had a reconciliation.”
There didn’t seem to be anything for me to say, as yet.
He lifted his glass high. “Your health.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad everybody’s happy.”
He smiled. “And now, for other business. How would you like to work for the Courier?”
“I wouldn’t,” I said. “No offense, you understand. I just wouldn’t want to.”
He shrugged. “I’m changing it. It’s changing with me. It’s going to be a respectable, family newspaper.” He sipped his whisky. “I could make you a really attractive offer. You could tell the snobbish Mr Cavanaugh to go to hell.”
“I already have,” I said.
He didn’t seem to hear me. He was gazing at the floor. His voice was quiet. “That June,” he said. “What is it she’s got? Besides those damned hands of hers—”
I thought of the hands. I thought, fetishism? But they were as repelling as they were fascinating. “I don’t know what she’s got,” I said, “but enough men seem to be attracted to her.”
He looked at me gravely, and his voice was sad and quiet. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he told me. “It’s an attraction I’m afraid she’ll always have for me.”
I looked at my empty glass. He nodded toward the decanter on a low table. I filled the glass again, and siphoned in some water.
He said, “I love my wife. She loves me. I should leave this town, but I can’t. I’ll have to stay. And with June here—” He seemed to shudder. “Damn her!” he said.
I felt for him, but only a little. It didn’t prevent me from saying, “I’d hate to be in your shoes when you tell her she’ll have to work for a living.”
He stared at me in surprise. It was honest surprise, I felt sure. He said, “I never supported her. I never contributed a dime to her support.”
I was trying to figure that one out when the phone rang.
Peckham went to answer it. When he came back, he looked suspicious. “It’s for you. It sounds like her, like June—”
“It’s probably my wife,” I said quickly.
It was June. “Johnny dear,” she said, “would you like a story?”
Peckham was listening, I knew. I said, “I’ll be home soon.”
A silence. Then, “I see. Well, before you go home, drop in here, and I’ll give you a story that will blow this town apart. Would that get you your job back?”
“Drop in where?” I asked.
The line went dead.
Peckham was standing in the middle of his living room when I turned around. “My wife’s worried,” I said.
His face was cold and set. “That was June, wasn’t it?”
I said nothing.
“I told her I was seeing you, tonight. I told her, this afternoon, that I was through. Your wife doesn’t know you’re here.”
“It was June,” I admitted.
No emotion on his face, the eyes cold and bleak. “Well,” he said, “good night. And good luck.”
He didn’t go to the door with me.
Standing in the entrance hall, waiting for the elevator, I debated the wisdom of going to see June Drexel. I thought of Norah, and forced myself to stop thinking of her. One sentence ran through my mind, around and around. Would that get you your job back?
In the lobby drugstore, I looked up the address of June Drexel.
I was coming through the lobby again, when I saw this woman at the desk. The clerk was saying to her, “I’m not sure Mr Peckham is in, Mrs Peckham.”
The woman was a blonde, tall and poised. She said, “He’s in. Ring and you’ll see. From now on, he’ll always be in to me.”
I went out into the chill of the night. The coupé coughed a little, as I kicked it into life. I headed it down the drive, along the bay. Home? Or to the story? What did I want with a story? I wasn’t a reporter, not tonight.