“Howdy there, Mr. Cahill, this’s Dizzy Dean on this end. My friend Mr. Snap here tells me you didn’t think ah’d win me even five games this year. Well, ah’m gonna win more than that, and when we get us into the World Series, ah’ll... Yes sir, yes, ah’m him all right. Ya don’t believe me? Well, now, it’s God’s own truth that ah’m Jay Hanna Dean — some folks call me Jerome Herman, but truth is I was born Jay Hanna on the 16th of January ’way back down there in little ol’ Lucas, Arkansas, sir. Well, ah’m sorry you feel that way, sir. Yes sir... yes.” Dean handed the phone to me and shook his head. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Yes, Leo?” I said coolly.
“Steve, where in blazes are you, and what’s going on? Stop playing games, will you? Just who was that you put on the line?”
“It was exactly who he said he was, Leo. We are currently in a convivial establishment not three blocks from Wrigley Field — Kilkenny’s by name; I think you’ve heard me speak fondly of it. And two fine gentlemen by name of Mr. Dean and Mr. Galan are having a well-earned steak dinner here — some of the best steaks in town, by the way. I hope you weren’t rude to Mr. Dean, who put in a very strenuous day at work against a bunch of boys from New York.” That brought guffaws and a chant of “DIZ-ee, DIZ-ee, DIZ-ee” from the customers lining the bar.
There was a pause before Cahill spoke. “Mother of God,” he murmured. “It really was him?”
“That’s what I said, Leo. Weren’t you listening to me? And if you don’t believe me, look up the phone number of Kilkenny’s — it’s on Clark — and call here to check up on us. I’m sure Mr. Dean would be happy to speak to you again and hear your apology.”
“Damn. Well, I got to get back to work,” he huffed. “On deadline.” He hung up.
“Sorry about his manners,” I told Dean. “He doesn’t like to be proven wrong.”
“Pore feller,” he said absently, shaking his head as he returned with gusto to his steak and potatoes.
When I walked into my apartment that night a few minutes past 9:00, the phone was ringing. It was Norma, from Michigan, and the connection was bad.
“What is it?” I asked tightly, figuring that the call must have something to do with Peter.
“I just wanted to tell you that Martin and I have decided to get married, in September.” Her words were punctuated by static on the line. “I felt you should know before anyone else, Steve. Steve... are you there?”
“Yeah, thanks for the alert,” I replied, unable to think of anything else to say.
“And Steve, I have a favor to ask. When you pick Peter up from camp at the depot next weekend, please don’t tell him about this, all right? I’d like to be the one to do that, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” I said woodenly.
“Are you... all right?” Norma asked.
“Sure. I figured this was coming,” I told her truthfully.
“Well, I want you to know that as far as I’m concerned, this will not in any way affect how often you and Peter see each other.”
“Fine,” I grunted, wishing there were some graceful way I could end the conversation. But now Norma couldn’t seem to stop talking.
“And Steve, I think it would be a good idea if you met Martin some time soon, since Peter will after all be living with us.”
“After all,” I repeated. “Yes, I suppose I’ll have to meet him.”
“Oh, Steve, please don’t be that way. You and I both have known for ages that we weren’t ever going to get back together again.”
“No, we didn’t both know it,” I wanted to shout into the mouthpiece. I also wanted to ask Norma how magnanimous she would be if I were calling to tell her that I was getting hitched again. But instead I conceded that “I’m sure I’ll be meeting your Martin soon enough, whether by choice or otherwise.”
That put the brakes on Norma’s attempt at being chatty, but I got no satisfaction from stifling her. She was, I grudgingly appreciated, trying hard to keep the understandable happiness out of her voice.
“Hey, I’m sorry, that was rude, to say nothing of childish,” I told her gently. “You’re right of course — we were through a long time ago. And I’m glad for you, I really am. Congratulations.”
“I appreciate that, Steve,” she said, and I thought I detected a sniffle, but given the connection we had, it was hard to tell. I thanked her for the call and hung up, staring at the receiver in my hand. I had not had any dinner, so I should have been hungry, but I wasn’t. I was thirsty, though, so I turned, went back out, and headed for Kilkenny’s.
Chapter 23
Back in the ’20s when I worked for the City News Bureau, another police reporter, Doherty of the Tribune, referred to me as having “street smarts.” I don’t remember the context in which he made the remark, but at the time I took it as a high compliment, especially given the source. And in the years since, I have flattered myself that those two words captured my defining characteristic as a newspaperman. I was glad Doherty wasn’t looking over my shoulder the last week of July to see just how far off the mark he had been in his appraisal of me.
I had been home from work that Thursday night for about an hour and was having scrambled eggs and tomato soup at the kitchen table when the phone rang.
“Mr. Malek?” a vaguely familiar voice asked. “You may not remember me... I’m Preston. I work for Mrs. Martindale. I’m the one who answered the door when you were here at the house awhile back.”
“I remember you,” I said coolly.
“Well, Mrs. Martindale got to feeling badly about declining to see you when you came to the house, and also about that call she made to your newspaper to complain.”
“Oh?”
He made the same throat-clearing noise I remembered from our meeting at the front door of the Martindale house. “Yes, well, she wants to make it up to you now. She wishes to talk to you about her son... for that feature of yours.”
“Really? And why the change of heart?”
“As I said, she feels badly about what happened, and she is interested in seeing an article that talks about what her son was really like, from her own perspective. She would like to see you tonight — if it is convenient, of course.”
“Why didn’t she telephone me herself?”
More throat clearing. “Well, sir,” he said in a lowered voice, suggesting that he might be overheard, “to be honest, sir, she is embarrassed about her behavior. She asked me to make the call.”
“But she won’t be embarrassed to talk to me?”
“No, sir, I do not believe so.”
“Uh-huh. And she can see me tonight, you say?”
“Yes, sir. I should not be speaking for her, of course, but I believe I can honestly say she feels that the newspapers have not written enough about her son’s life and his contributions. She has so many remembrances of him. Her moods, sir, have been, well, up and down, shall we say, which I am sure you can appreciate. And right now, she feels talkative.”
I thought about my probation at the Trib and hesitated. If I came up with a strong interview, how could Bob Lee possibly be angry, especially with that interview coming at Beatrice Martindale’s invitation? And maybe, just maybe, there was a way of getting at the subject of Lloyd Martindale and the children who once lived next door, although that was a real long shot. “All right, where should I meet her?” I asked.
“At the house, of course,” Preston said, his tone suggesting that any other location was unthinkable. “I can pick you up at your place and drive you here.”