Metz turned his palms up. “Say what you want, Anson — he’s a hero at the moment.”
“Heroes is something we can use more of on the Cubs right now,” Farmer observed dryly. “Like for instance maybe Mr. Big-Bucks Dizzy Dean.”
“Hey, go easy on Diz,” I said, opting to not share that I knew the pitcher. “He pitched a helluva game against Boston the other day.”
Dirk O’Farrell scowled. “And about time, too. What’s that make it, now, four wins for him? Which means that each one of them’s been worth — what? — about forty-five grand.”
“He’ll get more,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel. “He’s at his best under pressure.”
O’Farrell looked doubtful. “Well, he’d better win some more, or they’ll never catch the Pirates. Bill Lee can’t pitch every day.”
“They’ll never catch ’em anyway,” Metz declared, trying to sound like an authority.
The baseball discussion rambled on in a desultory fashion for several more minutes and was running out of steam when my phone squawked. It was Catherine Reed.
“Hi, how have you been?” I said brightly, hoping that I sounded like I was glad to hear from her. For weeks, I’d thought about phoning Catherine, but I always found some reason for not calling. Because of what she had told me about that depraved son of a bitch of an uncle, which was followed immediately by her plea that I walk away from the Martindale murder, I was reluctant to see her. She might not ask again about my progress on the so-called investigation, but one question would always hover over us, even if unspoken: Are you still hounding that poor woman?
“I’ve been fine, Steve,” Catherine said with what sounded to me like strained enthusiasm. “Just fine. I realize this is late notice, but I thought maybe you would like to come to dinner tonight. I know Daddy would enjoy it.”
“How is he?”
“About the same as last time you saw him. Some days are better than others, but he does seem to perk up around company, what little we get. And he particularly liked it when you were here, what with all your newspaper stories.”
“A few of which are actually true,” I said. “That is a capital invitation, and I accept.”
“Wonderful! Around 6:30 again?”
At 6:35 that evening, I climbed the steps of the stucco house in Oak Park. Catherine looked more bright-eyed and animated than I remembered as she swung the door open, accepting my box of chocolates with a curtsy.
“Daddy, Steve Malek’s here,” she called out as we walked into the sitting room where Steel Trap Bascomb obviously spent most of his waking hours. “How’ya?” he asked from his armchair, raising a hand in greeting.
“Keeping ahead of my creditors, Steel Trap, but just barely. You too?”
“Damn right, damn right. Bastards, all ’em.”
I took the chair opposite him that Catherine gestured me to. “What do you think about Hitler?” I asked, pointing to the copy of the Daily News resting on Bascomb’s lap — its headline: HITLER MAY MOVE AGAINST CZECHS.
“Bastard,” he muttered. “Ought to be shot. Or strung up.”
“Daddy!” Catherine gasped. “What a thing to say about anybody — even him.”
He turned and looked at his daughter defiantly. “S’true. He’s a prick, greedy. Wantsa whole world.”
“I agree,” I put in. “And the way the English and the French are pussyfooting around these days, it seems like they’re willing to hand it over to him.”
“Damn right,” he nodded, his lined face and rheumy eyes sending Catherine a “So there!” expression.
“Let’s go on into the dining room now,” she said.
“Damn right,” Steel Trap seconded.
I did the best I could as a raconteur while we devoured the ham and au gratin potatoes, remembering from my previous dinner with them that Steel Trap didn’t like to talk while he was eating. But he didn’t mind listening. His facial expressions indicated that he enjoyed my stories, particularly the one — and it was true — about the pickpocket who got nabbed in the act of lifting a wallet by a house dick at Marshall Field’s. “When they handed him over to the precinct for fingerprinting, it turned out that this dip had an extra finger on his right hand,” I said.
“Oh, now, really!” Catherine scoffed as Steel Trap made a chuckling noise deep in his throat. “You’re making that up, Steve,” she insisted.
“It’s God’s truth,” I swore, holding up a hand like I was taking an oath. “The precinct guys were so impressed they even took photographs of his hand. It was as if he had two ring fingers. Claimed he was born that way, which I suppose must have been true. How else would it have happened? His left hand was normal. He claimed his moniker was ‘Eleven Fingers.’”
“Knew one like ’at,” Steel Trap put in. “’Cept with two thumbs onna same hand.”
“Oh, go on, the both of you!” Catherine chided, her eyes moving from me to her father and back again as she tried to look reproving. But it seemed she was obviously entertained. “I don’t know whether to believe a single word that either one of you says.”
“Hey, it’s a weird and wacky world out there, Lady,” I cracked. “I don’t make the news, I just report it.”
“Well, that was a good enough story, true or not, to earn you some apple pie a la mode — that is, if you’re interested,” she said.
“I could get real interested real fast,” I responded, and I did. After he finished his wedge of pie with ice cream, Steel Trap got to his feet without a word to either of us and shuffled back into the sitting room.
“It’s Tuesday, and that means ‘Fibber McGee and Molly.’ Daddy never misses it,” Catherine explained.
“So he can still enjoy stuff like that, huh?” I asked as I heard static coming from the sitting room. Steel Trap was warming up the radio.
“Well, he seems to laugh in all the right places,” she said. “And he really loves it when Fibber opens that hall closet of his and everything comes crashing down around him.”
“For that matter, so do I,” I admitted. “Sure, the program’s corny and predictable, but it’s funny anyway. Besides, I’ve got a closet that’s sort of like Fibber’s myself.”
“Shame on you,” Catherine teased, drinking the last of her coffee and folding her linen napkin into a neat rectangle. “Steve, it’s a beautiful night, and I thought we might go for a walk around the neighborhood — unless of course you want to stay and listen to the radio with Daddy.”
“Well... seeing as how I’m not really in the mood for corny jokes, you’ve twisted my arm. Let’s go.”
The sky was clear and the air still dispensed that freshness from the rains earlier in the day. After having lived on Clark Street for two years, I’d forgotten what quiet was like. And Catherine’s neighborhood was quiet, so much so you could hear the crickets rubbing their legs together, or however they make that noise. Nobody was out driving, or even walking. Maybe they were all inside tonight listening to Molly groan at Fibber’s gags and puns.
“Seems really peaceful here,” I commented as we passed under elm trees that filtered the glow from street lamps, making dappled patterns on the sidewalks.
“It is,” Catherine agreed. “Have you ever lived in the suburbs, Steve?”
“Never. Closest was Logan Square, back when I was married. But there, people sat out on their front steps on nights like this. You could walk down the block and stop three or four times to chat. Sometimes you’d even get a bottle of beer handed to you if you were lucky.”