I dropped into the wing chair behind me and took my eyes off Nicolette for no more than two or three seconds, but that was enough to prove that I wasn’t anywhere near ready to hire on either with Fergus Fahey’s boys on the detective detail or with the Pinkerton boys.
By the time my backside had sunk into the cushion, I found myself looking into the working end of a what appeared to be a.32-caliber automatic in the none-too-steady hand of one none-too-steady Nicolette Stover, whose purse lay open on the end table beside her. Score one for the “terrified” woman.
“Now, Mr. O’Neill, or whatever your name is,” she blurted, running the words together as she waggled the gun, “I want you out of here, out of here. And if you don’t go, if you don’t... if you don’t, I’ll shoot!”
I held up a palm. “Wait, I—”
“I mean it, I’ll shoot, shoot, shoot!” She seemed to be in a state of near-hysteria, and although that could have been an act, I was not about to put it to a test. “I will shoot,” she repeated, her eyes open wider than I had seen previously and her hands, both of which gripped the pistol, were unnervingly steady. Now I was truly frightened.
“I’ll tell them you were attacking me,” she spat. “Yes, yes I will. I’ll tell them that you forced your way in here! I’ll tear my clothes!” Now she was screeching. She ripped her dress at one shoulder, exposing a peach-colored brassiere strap. “Now get out, you low-life bastard!” Her eyes were glazed, her body tensed as if she were about to explode. And worse, from my standpoint, the veins stood out on the back of the thin white hand that gripped the automatic.
My mouth was as dry as the Oklahoma Dust Bowl. “Take it easy,” I said gently, edging toward the front door. “I’m leaving.” I took a deliberate step backward, then another and another, until my groping and sweaty hand fastened on the doorknob. I wasn’t about to turn my back on her, figuring it would be harder for her to shoot me as long as I held eye contact. Neither of us blinked while I eased the door open and backed into the hallway.
Once out of the apartment, I slammed the door and flattened myself against the wall lest she start pumping bullets through the door, which wouldn’t have surprised me. As I caught my breath, I heard the click of her door lock, followed by sobbing.
I raced down the stairs to the street, feeling a rush of euphoria at simply being out of that apartment. The exhilaration quickly gave way to frustration, though, when I had settled down enough to tally the events of the last several days: One whack in the face; one dressing down from the managing editor, followed by probation that could lead to the loss of my job; one attempted kidnapping (of me) from my favorite saloon; and now one gun drawn on me by a half-crazed woman who may or may not be new to trigger-pulling.
I started trudging south through the warm night toward that favorite saloon of mine. More than anything else, I needed a drink, and tonight, it would have to be something stronger than beer.
Chapter 21
When I stumbled out of bed in the morning, my head pounded, and this time — unlike New Year’s Day — with good reason. After having been routed by Nicolette Stover, I had beat a retreat to Kilkenny’s, which was still less crowded than normal, and I knocked down four — maybe five — scotches.
“Better go easy on that Gaelic elixir, Snap,” the Killer had cautioned, genuine concern showing on his broad, ruddy face. “You aren’t used to it anymore, and it can bite you good.” In fact, he had tried to talk me into having a beer when I came in, but gave up when he saw my overall state. “Want to talk?” he asked, which is the closest he ever comes to putting his nose into the business of his regulars.
“No, but if and when that time comes, you will undoubtedly be the one I spill my guts to, and then I’ll run off at the mouth so much that you’ll beg me to shut up,” I responded as I dove into the first scotch. I probably didn’t utter more than a dozen words the rest of the night, and when I finally tottered back to my place, I was in no condition to know — or even care — if my moves were being watched.
I felt practically sober and hangover-free when I got to my desk in the Headquarters pressroom, although I apparently wore the ravages of the previous night.
“Christ, Snap, you look like the wrath of the gods,” Packy Farmer boomed, clearly amused. “I don’t know what it was you did last night, but you must have had a good time doin’ it.”
“Not very damn much,” I grumbled. “I hope nobody around here plans to do any loud talking today — I’m not up to it.”
“Hangover alert!” Dirk O’Farrell pronounced in his version (which wasn’t bad) of radio announcer tones. “This room is now officially designated as a quiet zone until further notice, or until Mr. Malek of the noble and revered Chicago Tribune passes out. Which, judging from his appearance, could be at almost any moment now.”
“Very funny,” I snorted. “See what kind of sympathy you get from me the next time you come dragging in here on a Monday morning looking like a cadaver, as you surely will.”
O’Farrell had started to respond when Eddie Metz, who had been hunched over his phone, cradled the receiver and announced that he’d just gotten word from somebody in the Times sports department that Phil Wrigley had fired Charlie Grimm as Cubs manager.
“I’m not surprised, the way they’ve been staggering along. Who’s taking over?” Farmer asked.
“Guess,” Metz smirked. It wasn’t often that Eddie got information of any kind first in the pressroom, so he was making the most of it.
“Let’s not play guessing games around here,” O’Farrell groused.
Eddie giggled. “Give you a hint. The new guy’s already a Cub and a player, too.”
Anson Masters cleared his throat, always a prelude to a proclamation. “That would be Billy Herman, of course,” he pronounced in an oracular tone. “He’s got the maturity for the job.”
“Wrong,” Metz cackled. “Anybody else?”
“If it’s not Herman, then it’s got to be Augie Galan,” the City News kid weighed in.
“Wrong again. How ’bout you, Snap?” Eddie asked.
“I can barely talk right now, let alone think,” I muttered. “Hell, what about Hartnett?”
“Bingo!” Eddie barked. “Ol’ Gabby’s going to be the skipper now.”
“Sounds like a decent choice at that,” Farmer said. “He already has to be able to handle the pitchers, right? So why not let him handle the whole team? Is he going to keep playing, too?”
“My guy at the office didn’t know,” Metz answered, his moment in the spotlight quickly slipping away.
“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” O’Farrell said between drags on his cigarette. “From back of the plate, you can see all of your men and the whole damn field — ideal spot for a manager.”
“Well, I just hope Gabby doesn’t head the team in the wrong direction, like that Corrigan guy who landed his plane in Ireland yesterday thinking it was California,” Farmer said. “His compass was frozen and the sky jockey thought he was flying west from New York, ’stead of east.”
“Cyril, if you believe him, I’ve got a big bridge in Brooklyn that I would like to sell you,” Anson Masters rumbled. “According to the wire service reports, the aviation authority banned him from flying across the Atlantic because his plane wasn’t safe. It’s clear that he thumbed his nose at them.”
“I dunno, maybe his compass really was froze,” Metz volunteered.
“Eduardo, Eduardo,” Masters scolded. “I don’t care how dark or cloudy Corrigan said the conditions were; in a 3,000-mile flight, you’re going to see the sun and the earth sooner or later. And you’re not going to tell me that an experienced aviator did not at some point along the way notice the position of the sun and also the interesting fact that there was water — lots and lots of water — under him instead of the Iowa cornfields and Kansas wheat and Rocky Mountains that should have been down below.”