Thus dismissed, I nodded to no one and executed an about-face, descending the steps to Longwood Drive and wondering how long the wait would be for a train back to the Loop.
Chapter 19
After a wait of well over an hour, I rode back north on another slow and grimy Rock Island local, contemplating my ill fortune and feeling more than a little sorry for myself. I had hoped to talk to Martindale’s mother at least long enough to bring up the Stover name in general and Nicolette in particular to study her reaction. I thought about waiting a day or two and calling her, but I figured the stolid Preston probably answered the telephone as well as the door. Perhaps the old woman didn’t even talk on the phone any more, I mused, although I was soon to be disabused of that speculation.
The next morning, Monday, I was settling in at my desk at Police Headquarters when my phone rang.
“Malek, you got anything hot going on there now?” It was Bob Lee, the managing editor.
“Not at the moment,” I said taken aback and wondering if I’d blown a story. I didn’t normally get calls here from anyone in the Tower above the assistant city editor level.
“Good!” he growled. “Then get up here now! I want you in my office in fifteen minutes.”
I went outside and flagged a northbound cab on State Street, still puzzled by the summons. Why would Lee want to see me? Since he had succeeded Beck as managing editor last year, he and I hadn’t exchanged a word, nor was there any reason we should. Police reporters rarely had dealings with managing editors — especially when the M.E. was no booster of the reporter to begin with.
Lee was talking on the phone in his glass-partitioned office along the north side of the local room when I got there, so I shot the breeze with Kirkpatrick, the best young general assignment reporter on the staff. We agreed that FDR would probably shoot for the third term in ’40 and that Ed Kelly was almost a cinch to win next year’s mayoral election.
“Malek!” Lee bellowed as he slammed down his receiver, jerking his head to summon me.
“Reporting as requested,” I quipped, dropping into a chair in front of his mahogany desk. He stood and leaned forward, glowering at me for several seconds before speaking.
“What... the... hell... are... you... doing?” He came down on each word like a steam hammer.
“Huh? I don’t get it. What do you mean?” I said, genuinely puzzled.
“I’ll tell you what I mean,” he snapped, jangling his key chain. “Beatrice Martindale happens to be a close personal friend of Colonel McCormick. Dates back to when her late husband and the Colonel were cronies. First thing this morning, she telephones the Colonel’s office to complain that a Tribune reporter — guess who? — was banging on her door looking to get an interview for a feature he’s doing on her recently deceased son. She read me your name off the business card you had left.”
Lee paused for breath but kept rattling his damn keys. “Fortunately for you, the Colonel is out of the country, so Bessie had the call transferred down here. The lady was upset, Malek, very, very upset. She said she had always been willing to talk to our men before — even right after her son got killed. But she didn’t understand why some reporter would show up unannounced on her doorstep. And she also didn’t understand what more could be written about Lloyd Martindale that hadn’t previously been covered. And dammit, Malek, I don’t understand any of it either! I finally got her calmed down and said that I’d check the whole business out. After I got off the phone, I went to see Mike Kennedy in the Sunday Room, figuring he might have some sort of feature in the works on Martindale, and that you — for some reason — were the one writing it. But Mike didn’t know anything about it, said that he’d never even met you. So here we are. What gives?”
“I was playing a hunch,” I mumbled.
Lee pitched forward like an offensive lineman about to throw a block. “You were playing a hunch? Playing a hunch!” he roared as faces all over the cavernous local room turned toward us. “Since when do we give you a salary to play hunches?” I shrugged and made no reply.
The managing editor, as usual resplendent in a bright shirt — this one yellow — and a tweed, vested suit, sat down, crossed his arms, and leaned back, sending me a glare that told me he wished I’d disappear. “All right, Malek,” he sighed. “What’s this hunch?”
“I think Martindale was killed by somebody other than the mob,” I answered quietly, realizing the words sounded ingenuous.
“Oh you do now, do you?” Lee snarled. “And what has caused you to formulate this theory?”
“Like I said, it’s just a hunch,” I told him, realizing that the conversation was at a dead end.
“And just who do your pals on the force down at 11th and State think murdered Lloyd Martindale?”
“They think it was a mob hit,” I conceded.
Lee cocked his head, smirking. “The police believe it was a syndicate killing, the State’s Attorney believes it was a syndicate killing — in fact, as far as I know, everybody believes it was a syndicate killing. But not you — oh no, because you’ve gone and got yourself a hunch.” He hit the top of his desk with a fist, causing heads to turn again out in the big room. “Well, hunches are for swamis and fortune tellers. Around here, we happen to subscribe to the quaint old theory that facts are the basis of our reporting. Is that your understanding?”
I nodded.
“Good, good. Malek, I’m not going to pull any punches here — never do. As I think you’re aware, I’ve never been a big fan of yours, and I’d be lying if I said I was. You may have done a good job on that Capone interview down in the Atlanta pen back in ’34, but Christ, that was handed to you on a platter by his mouthpiece Ahern. Since then, I frankly haven’t been all that impressed with your work. Oh, I understand you’re pretty much off the booze now, which is all well and good. But among other things, you’re too cocksure and headstrong for my taste — this latest Martindale business proves it.”
“What are you telling me?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice even and wishing I had a glass of water.
“I’m telling you that as of right now — right this damn minute — you’re on probation,” Lee said. “I’m going to ask the city desk for weekly reports on your work. But more than that, I don’t want to hear that you’ve bothered that poor, mourning Martindale woman ever again. One more complaint from her about you, and you’re fired, gone, finished, through.” His hand knifed through the air several times like a guillotine blade. “Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, I’d say you’ve made everything quite clear,” I responded woodenly. “Anything else?”
“That’s all,” he snapped, turning to the telephone as if I were already nothing more than an unpleasant memory.
I steamed out of Lee’s office in a cold rage, vaguely conscious of the stares and questioning looks from reporters and editors and copy boys who had seen and heard at least part of the managing editor’s diatribe. Even at that moment, I reminded myself that Bob Lee was an able editor. And although I didn’t by any means agree that my overall performance over the last several years warranted this probation, I knew the only reason I got slapped with it was that phone call to the Colonel’s office from Beatrice Martindale. It seemed like when one of McCormick’s friends sneezed — even if the Colonel himself didn’t know it — the whole bloody Tribune ended up catching a cold.
Back at Police Headquarters, I spent the rest of the day mulling over my next move. I was still in a mulling mood that evening on the streetcar ride home, so much so that I totally forgot about my persistent shadows and got off the car at the stop in front of my building rather than a block north.