“Ah, Snap, ’tis indeed fine to see your benign countenance this lovely day,” the Killer boomed heartily, saluting as I walked into the nearly deserted public house that Saturday. “Will you be partaking of the usual nectar?”
I started to ask for coffee, then checked myself when I noticed that the clock behind the bar registered five past noon. “The usual nectar sounds good. I see, by the way, that you’ve got Dean’s mug up in the window, as well as his written testimonial for your fine shoe leather.”
“Shoe leather my sainted Uncle Liam!” he howled in mock anger as he slid a foam-capped stein of Schlitz along the bar to me. “You’ve had more than your share of both T-bones and filets at my groaning board, if I may be so bold as to remind you. And speaking of our Mr. Dean, he may not be much for partaking the juice, which is fine given his line of employment, but he does indeed know a good piece of beef when he gets his gums into it. And he’s also pulled a few of the other Cubs in here with him, which doesn’t exactly hurt business any.”
The Killer grinned as he ran a rag over the bar. “He was in here with Billy Herman a few nights past, and he says he’s bringing that Irish stalwart Gabby Hartnett next. To top it off, all sorts of new folks have been dropping by, hoping to meet some players and jaw with ’em. And look here — Diz even signed a ball to me.” The Killer took a new Spaulding baseball from its place of honor on the back bar and proudly showed me Dean’s signature.
“Well, just make sure you don’t feed old Dizzy too much,” I grumbled. “The guy’s having enough trouble trying to throw as it is, so we sure don’t want him to get fat on top of it. If he doesn’t start playing soon, the Cubs will be as dead as last Sunday’s paper, and about as interesting. And if the Cubs are dead, you know all too well that your newfound patronage will plummet like a brick in a pond, not to mention what will happen to every other saloon, restaurant, and shop within three or four blocks of the Wrigley playpen. And just remember, my Gaelic friend, if our Mr. Dean does begin pitching again, there’s a guaranteed 40,000 in the old ball yard up the street every time he starts. And more than a few of them figure to stop in here — both before and after the game.”
The Killer looked smug as he leaned on the bar and crossed his beefy arms. “Now don’t go and get yourself all riled up, Snap. In point of fact, Diz is pitching next week, probably against the Boston gladiators. I bring you glad tidings that his wing’s healthy again.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been hearing that for so long that it puts me to sleep. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“’Tis really true this time,” the barkeep avowed. “He mentioned that his wife’s coming up from Dixie for a few days to see him pitch, and he says that always gives him a boost. Also, Charley Grimm told Diz he’s ready to start him.”
“Grimm better do something soon or Phil Wrigley’s going to get himself a new manager and send Charley to the bush leagues,” I remarked sourly.
“Diz’ll be back in fine form, and real soon,” Dean’s new pal proclaimed, forming a circle with his thumb and forefinger. “You can bank on that, my fourth-estate friend.”
I wasn’t willing to bank on much of anything these days, except that there would be a car with two hoods inside at the curb in front of the unimposing building I called home. And I was getting more than a little tired of having them around. As I walked south from the Killer’s along the west side of Clark, I saw them yet again. But this time, instead of sneaking around to the alley door of the building, I pulled in air, approached the sedan from behind — it was the Studebaker this time, with its windows rolled down — and put a foot on the passenger-side running board.
“Hello there, boys. Waiting for anyone in particular?” I said amiably, touching the brim of my hat.
“Damn!” the thug in the passenger seat muttered, jumping as if he’d been slapped.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you,” I told him, keeping my tone breezy and holding up a palm like the traffic cop at Clark and Madison. “It’s just that I’ve noticed you fellows before — you’re hard to miss — and I figured maybe you were looking for somebody in the neighborhood. I’ve lived around here for awhile now and thought maybe I could help you find who you’re after.”
“Goddamn you,” the passenger growled, opening the door and starting to get out. “I’m gonna—”
“Shut the fuck up and sit down, Marko,” the driver snapped. “I’ll take care of this.” He stepped out and circled around the front of the car toward me. He was at least six-four and 200 pounds, and the expression on his square, swarthy face raised scowling to an art form.
“You got yourself a problem, Mac?” he growled in a voice that suggested problems upset him.
“Not me,” I told him, trying to generate enough saliva to swallow. “I’m just trying to be helpful, that’s all.”
“You’re fulla crap, that’s what you are. You know goddamn well why we’re here. And don’t think you’re foolin’ anybody with that sneakin’ out the back way shit.”
“Huh?” I put on a puzzled expression.
He loomed over me, creating a solar eclipse. “I’ll spell it out, Mr. Newspaper Hotshot. If it was up to me and Marko here, you’d be sittin’ up on some cloud strummin’ a harp. And I could make that happen right now, right here, without a sound. Silencer, see?” He cackled and jabbed at the bulge under his 46 long blue pinstripe suit coat.
“Now I got better things to do than shadow some goddamn scribbler, but I also got my orders, and I follow orders. The Brother, he says to watch you, so I watch you, with Marko and his dumb-ass jokes to keep me from gettin’ too bored. But the Brother is going to be pissed, real pissed, if he don’t find out pretty damn soon who croaked Goody Two Shoes Martindale, and he says you’re the guy what can find out for him — the cops sure can’t. But so far, you ain’t come up with shit — or have you?” I never saw the back of his right hand until it whacked my cheek, spinning me around. “Have you?” he repeated the question as I picked my hat up off the sidewalk and shook my head.
“No... I haven’t.”
His asthmatic laugh held only menace. “Didn’t think so, pal. Just figured I’d see whether you was payin’ attention. Now listen, listen good: the Brother, I know him pretty well, and I can see he’s runnin’ out of patience. If I was you, I’d be workin’ real hard to find out who pulled the trigger.”
“So your friend the Brother can croak him?” I responded in a weak attempt at bravado.
The driver laughed some more and rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t worry about what happens then. It ain’t your affair, is it?”
I started to contradict him but quickly checked myself, rubbing a cheek that already was beginning to swell. Any satisfaction I might have derived from tossing off a clever remark would be more than offset by another reminder that I should be attentive.
The driver — although our paths would cross again, I never learned his name — gave an insolent salute, turned on his heel, and slid back behind the wheel but didn’t start the Studebaker, while Marko leered at me over sunglasses balanced halfway down his Roman nose. I entered the building by the front door this time — there was no point to slinking around to the alley — and went up to my apartment to contemplate an ongoing existence in a fishbowl and how I might wriggle out of it.