“That’s too bad, but there are other days, other times, Mr. Malek. And when you do learn something, which of course you will, we don’t want to read it first in your newspaper.”
“All right, then how am I supposed to get in touch with you if I do have some information?”
“There is a club not far from here — on Diversey, one block west of Clark on the south side of the street. It’s the Centurion.” I had heard of it, of course; a notorious syndicate joint that was said to be a bar that fronted for one of the biggest brothels in town.
I nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been by the place, but never stopped in.”
“Sit at the end of the bar nearest the door after 8:00 on any night and tell the bartender that you want to see the Brother.”
“Who’s that?”
“Just ask for the Brother, that’s all. You will not have to wait long.”
“Anything else?”
Mr. Left — a.k.a. the Brother? — wheezed an exhale. “Only that it would be smart of you to keep us informed about what you learn. From what we know, you are good at getting what your business calls scoops.”
“Shit, you’re giving me way too much credit. I haven’t had one of those in a long time.”
He looked out of the window and nodded deliberately as Mel eased the car to the curb at the same spot where I’d been picked up. “Here we are, Mr. Malek. And take care of that cheek, or you might have a permanent bruise. And remember: Mr. Capone likes you.” His tone suggested that I would be wise to keep it that way.
As the long black car — it was indeed a Cadillac — joined the northbound traffic flow on Clark, I watched the taillights fade into the night and I started to stack up questions: Was I being shadowed constantly? The comment about my boarding trains at downtown stations suggested that was the case. I hadn’t sensed a tail at any time, but then, I hadn’t been looking for one. They must have followed me only as far as the stations, which posed another question: Why didn’t Mr. Left mention my trips to Steel Trap Bascomb in Oak Park or my visit tonight to Harding’s? Was it because I made those directly from work, while on the Beverly Hills and Flossmoor jaunts I left from home? That would indicate the tail was posted outside my apartment, but not at 11th and State. Was it possible that the outfit, as brazen as it was, didn’t want to lurk in the neighborhood of Police Headquarters?
Also, why hadn’t my tail followed me as I rode those trains, I asked myself. I figured it was because he really would be easy to spot when we got off, unlike in the crowds of the city.
More questions occurred to me: Did the mob, perceived so often by so many, often including the press, as omniscient, truly have no information or no clues as to who killed Martindale? I found that hard to digest. It seemed strange that they would have to rely on someone like me — a rank amateur investigator at best operating alone — as a major source of information. Did they really not know the location where their man, purportedly a favorite of Capone, was being questioned? And who was the Brother the brother of — if anyone?
Also, on the subject of Al Capone, were these people indeed still in close contact with him? And was he still really calling the shots, or at least some of them, when it came to the syndicate’s operations in Chicago? My own answers to the last two queries leaned strongly toward the negative — one, given the supposed tightness of security at Alcatraz, and two, the apparently secure position of Frank Nitti as kingpin of the Chicago organization. My semi-educated guess was that whatever positive reputation I had with the syndicate had been passed along by Capone, and now Nitti, in his efforts to rehabilitate the mob’s reputation, was prepared to turn to any source, me included, for help.
Yet another question — actually a series of them: Why did the mob want me to tell them who I suspected of Lloyd Martindale’s murder, assuming I was able to find out? The quick answer would be that they planned to kill that individual. But what would that accomplish? Wasn’t it their goal to make it known that they didn’t murder Martindale? And if they indeed commissioned the actual killer, how could they ever argue that they were clean on the Martindale death?
Then there was the ultimate question: Where to go next? Tonight’s blessedly brief ride with the Three Stooges convinced me more than ever that a mob hit man had not killed Martindale. Assuming — which I was not yet prepared to do — that Nicolette Stover had pulled the trigger on her former neighbor (and apparent molester), she had to rank near the top of the list. But assuming that Martindale had messed around with Nicolette (and her long-dead brother), likely there were other kids he’d done things with as well, and maybe one of them had extracted long-delayed revenge. I now found myself with a headache from all the surmising, among other reasons.
Once in the apartment, I went directly to the bathroom mirror where I grimaced at what was looking back at me. My cheek was swollen and red, and I had the beginnings of a shiner. More than ever, I hoped that beer-bellied palooka had tossed his cookies on the Wabash Avenue sidewalk.
After peeling off my clothes and assessing the damage to my knees, both of them scraped and sore but neither one bleeding, I was at least comforted to note that there were no rips in the legs of my suit trousers — probably the only positive aspect of an evening that had been too filled with adventure.
The Chicago phone book listed “Stover, Nicolette” at an address in the 1900 block of Grace Street, less than a mile north of my apartment. I momentarily toyed with the idea of calling her, but outvoted myself, figuring that I’d just get hung up on. There was time enough for the skittish Miss Stover.
I took the expected razzing about the condition of my face in the pressroom the next morning. “Hey, Snap, did some raging and irate husband finally catch up with you?” Packy Farmer chortled as I eased into my chair.
“I guess you’d know about irate husbands, now, wouldn’t you, Pack?” Dirk O’Farrell sniped. “How many have run you off their property, be it either real estate or spousal, over the years?”
“Yeah, Packy, how many, huh? How many?” Eddie Metz put in as the City Press kid looked on with his normal mixture of puzzlement and dismay.
“Now that’s enough raillery, lads,” Anson Masters intoned with mock solemnity. “Let us now hear how our Mr. Malek got his physiognomy rearranged. Snap, you have the floor.”
“Physiognomy, eh, Antsie? So that’s what it is,” I replied in an amiable tone, passing a hand over my tender cheek. “All right, fellow knights, sit back with your piping of cups o’java while your ol’ Uncle Snap relates an inspiring tale of bravado and honor.”
O’Farrell flashed his lopsided grin. “Be it bullshit or not, I think I like it already.”
I cleared my throat and paused for effect. “Last evening, I find myself seized with a great thirst as I traverse the byways of our throbbing and exciting Loop, see. At that very moment, as Dame Fortune would have it, I happen by a public house — saloon to you vulgarians — and decide to partake of a sampling of their nectar.”
“As in Schlitz?” Farmer jibed.
“The brand, Sir, is irrelevant,” I sniffed, dismissing Packy’s interjection with a raised eyebrow. “I settle myself upon a stool and enter into a spirited dialogue with the publican, a learned chap equally at ease conversing about Plato or the Pittsburgh Pirates. Well, we are in deep discussions on myriad topics when a comely lass enters the premises — alone.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Metz nodded.
“Said lass, tall, raven-haired, and with more curves than a mountain road, takes a seat at the far end of the bar, of course attracting the attention of every red-blooded man on said premises.”