Chapter 4
TOM AND I TALKED UNTIL NEARLY DAWN. He promised me his complete support and the support of the Dispatch. That's what I wanted and needed. The Potterfield family had helped found Clodville, so their influence was one of the most powerful in town. Tom promised, as a Potterfield, to get the town to back me, and to stifle any opposition from the Ladies' Aid or any of the bluenoses. Tom also thought that it was a great idea, although unorthodox, to have Mike Gilligan's funeral at the Melon Patch.
I was glad then that the back bar mirror had not been replaced. It was a fitting backdrop for Dad's funeral, as mute testimony to why Mike Gilligan now lay in a coffin. In fact, I was tempted to leave that bullet-shattered mirror permanently and not replace it, until this caper ended. It was a grim reminder to all of what had happened in the past and what could happen in the future.
At daybreak Tom left to round up his production staff. The paper was due to hit the streets by Friday noon. The Dispatch prided itself on the fact that it had done so every Friday noon for nearly a century. The type was all locked up, but Tom promised to break the cases and to do a complete new layout for that issue. He didn't say much more, and I didn't ask. I left the technical details to him. Before he left, he did ask for a photo of Dad. I finally came up with a photo of Dad and me, taken three years earlier at my insistence, when Dad had come in to see me for a few days. Tom said he could crop it. We both liked the pose and the expression.
After Tom left I couldn't sleep, so I put on the coffeepot and climbed into my clothes and headed downstairs.
When Mother had died ten years earlier, Dad had sold our home out on the north edge of town and we had moved to this apartment in a big old rambling brick building downtown, four blocks from the Melon Patch. This history of the building had been lost in the mists of time, but it was believed that it was put up before the dawn of the twentieth century. It was built like a fort, with walls about two feet thick. The floors were built as if they were designed for tanks to roll over them. We had a feeling of solidity and safety in that old building that you don't have in many of the modern ones. The rooms of the apartment were like Dad, too-big and cheerful and full of warmth and making one feel comfortable and happy. They were big enough, too, that Dad could move in most of the furniture that he and Mother had used for so many years. So the apartment seemed like home from the very first day for both Dad and me, and Dad had never moved away from it.
As I headed down Maple Street toward Grand I knew that I would stay on there in that apartment, too, be it one month, three months, or for whatever time I was on my own.
Things never changed much in Clodville over the years. Ever since I could remember, you could always get the Chicago Blade from the rack down in front of Walton's Drug Store, and shove your money under the door. So I headed for there.
I got two papers and shoved two dimes under the door before heading down Grand toward the Dispatch.
Clancy had done a good job. Dad's kill had hit the front page. It was a real tear-jerker. Uncle Matt had even consented to an interview and had allowed them to quote him that he would do all possible to see to it that I got Dad's license. The publisher of the Blade got in the act and was quoted as saying he was throwing the full might and power of the Blade into the fight to see to it that I got the license, not a front man for the mob.
Lights were blazing in the front office of the Dispatch. The door stood open. I heard Tom's booming voice from back. I headed toward the rear of the big front office and down a hall and I finally found Tom in the editorial room, working three phones at the sarpe time, with his coat off and sleeves rolled up and the knot of his tie at half-mast. He was routing everyone out of bed and telling them there was coffee there and to get their butts in gear and get down there on the double.
He looked at me as I walked up in front of his desk, as he held a phone to each ear and talked to two people at once, giving them both the same pitch, to get down there on the double.
I held up the copy of the Blade, and he read the headlines and motioned for me to bring it closer, and then he continued reading as he finished his pitch and hung up.
He grabbed the paper and scanned it. "Just what I need," he muttered. "I can take it right off this, if I give the Blade credit as the source."
I went over and grabbed a mug and the coffeepot and upended it. "That's what I thought," I said. "So I got an extra copy for you."
"Good girl. Now will you get the hell out of here so I can work? When you're around, there's only one thing I can think about. And that won't get this goddamn paper out."
I turned and grinned at him. "Can't I even have time for a cup of coffee? Or should I turn around?"
"Don't turn around, for God's sake. If all I can see is your ass, I'll really flip."
I slid one hip onto a corner of his desk and set the mug down. I got a cigarette going and lifted the mug and sipped the hot coffee.
"It's too bad about your dad and mine," I said. "But until the Old Guard moves on, and we come out of the wings to take over, Clodville will never change."
"Yeah," Tom agreed. "Sometimes I wish there was a crank on the calendar so I could speed it up and move time ahead faster. But, all in all, in spite of the Old Guard, Clodville is beginning to join the twentieth century. We got old Isaac Traynor and Zeke Norton off the school board, finally. If they'd had their way, we'd still be using kerosene lamps out there. So now we have a new bond issue coming up at the next election to build new schools from kindergarten through high school. They'll be on a campus just east of town. Wait'll you see the architect's drawings and the plans."
I nodded. "Good. So what else is new?"
"What do you want? It took us nearly five years to do all that. We didn't have much time to tackle anything else. Oh, yes, but there's another thing. Remember the Skunk River bridge?"
"Yeah. Has it fallen in the river yet?"
"Not quite. In fact, there isn't any bridge now. It was dynamited about six months ago and the traffic routed around over Possum Crick. They're building a new concrete bridge over Skunk River."
"Well, things are looking up."
Tom got up and went over and poured another mug of coffee. He dumped his cigarette and sat down again and tipped back, swinging his long legs up.
"You planning to stay on here permanently?" he asked.
"I dunno. I've always said that if I was going to be buried it would be in a graveyard, not in Clodville."
He nodded. "I know. But things are different now. Things are beginning to break. Young blood is needed here. You're needed, too."
"Yeah," I agreed. "A saloon is just what Clodville needs. So it's a helluva contribution I'll be making."
"You're looking at it wrong. Your dad always figured he was making as big a contribution to Clodville as anyone. It's not what you do for a living, such as putting out a newspaper or being a doctor, or a lawyer, or what have you. It's what you give of yourself that counts. Old Mike gave everything, you know that."
I nodded.
"That's the way it is with you. If you want to give of yourself and help Clodville crawl into the twentieth century, welcome aboard. We need you."
"Thanks," I muttered, gulping the last of my coffee, and standing up. "But the first thing I have to do is to nail down that bar and keep the mob out. After that, I'll consider your offer."
"Do that. And now I've got to get back to work."
He reached for two phones and dialed them at the same time.
"Where do I clean up this mug?" I asked.
"Dump it in the sink over there. Nancy or Jenny will take care of things when they get in."
I nodded and went over to the sink and got rid of the mug before heading out the door. In the opening I turned and he sat there with a phone at each ear, giving two of his staff the same pitch. He waved and I waved and then I went out and down the hall and out the front door.
It was now broad daylight, and cool and peaceful and quiet. It was the time of day I liked best when I was a kid. I now understood why. With no people on the street, Clodville wasn't a bad-looking place. It was the bluenoses and the jerks and the creeps and the whiners cluttering the street, I suddenly decided, who spoiled the landscape.
I heaved my cigarette into the gutter and lit another one and headed up Grand Avenue toward the bank. I walked slowly, breathing deeply, enjoying the cool invigorating air. I stopped at each store window to glance in and browse around. Each store brought back memories. Each store was just about the same as it had been when I was a kid. Of course, the merchandise was modern and the same as you would find in Chicago. But at Perkins' Hardware Store that wasn't so. It was just as it had been when I was a kid, a huge big barn of a place with everything under the sun, from power lawnmowers to pots and pans. In the front window were kerosene lamps and lanterns and old style push lawnmowers and old-fashioned bathtubs with claw feet. Nothing had changed in that window since I was a kid.
As I ambled slowly down Grand Avenue, I thought of what Tom had told me. Perhaps I was needed in Clodville, as part of the new and the young blood. But did I want to live in Clodville the rest of my life?
What did Chicago or any big city have to offer? Nothing but noise and dirt and confusion and traffic and a rat race. Was that what I wanted? Hell, you could live in an apartment for ten years and never know any of the other tenants you met in the hall, even if you saw them every day for ten years. You were really "an island unto yourself." As I looked back over the past five years, I suddenly realized that I had not been happy. Sure, I had thought I was. I was the country bumpkin who had conquered the big city. But, as I walked along that morning, I realized that I had not.
If you read the daily papers, from any city, you realized that in the cities there was just as much fighting, bickering, backstabbing and everything else as I had ever known in Clodville. The only difference was that in Clodville I had known everyone who was mixed up in a brawl. In Chicago, for example, I didn't know the mayor or any of the other local politicians. But they were carrying on just like the politicians in Clodville. Hell, Ebenezer Radcliff had been feuding ever since I could remember with Bert Randall. Ebenezer had been on the board of supervisors since I was a kid or before I was born. Since he was higher in the political pecking order, he thought that gave him the right to try to run the politics in Clodville. Bert Randall wasn't about to have that, as mayor of the town. But it was no different than the mayor of Chicago battling with the board of supervisors there.
I suddenly realized that I was rambling out Hickory Street, at the west end of "the Drag." I was leaving the business district. The homes were old and big and set far back from the street with vast expanses of close-clipped beautiful green lawns and shrubbery and huge spreading trees. The fragrance I had noticed yesterday now flooded in over me.
Art Trumbull's funeral home was about a block ahead. So I glanced at my watch and decided to go past it before turning left and heading back to the apartment.
About ten years earlier, Art had taken over the old Chase mansion. The Chase family, also, had been one of the founding pioneers. But old Cyrus had been the last of the line and the family had died out. That's when Art took it over It was a big rambling red brick place with a red tile roof and the usual huge windows and big concrete verandas, with flowering bridal wreath all around it and huge rustling oak and maple trees dotting the vast expanse of manicured lawn.
As I walked past, I saw Art out front in his BVDs, wearing a pair of old paint-splattered trousers and leather slippers, watering the flowers and the shrubs.
I hesitated as to whether to stop then. He might be embarrassed being caught that way. But he happened to look up and see me and wave.
Art had also been one of Dad's cronies and had hunted and fished and played poker with Dad. He was a tall lanky man who drooped over at the top like a sunflower. His white hair was receding and his face was lined and worn. Art had known much hardship and sorrow in his time.
I headed for a slot in the brick wall and climbed concrete steps and headed up the brick walk toward Art.
"When did you get in, Molly?" Art called.
"Yesterday afternoon. But I was busy."
Art grinned. "Yeah, I heard. If I could have gotten away, I'd have come down and bumped you for some free booze."
"Why didn't you? Or called me. You could have come down later."
He shook his head. "I've got to watch myself. What would the good ladies of the Ladies' Aid say if they'd seen me down there?"
"You should have seen Father McGee, drunker'n a skunk.
Art laughed. "Yeah, but the Father can get away with that. I couldn't."
He turned toward the building. "Want to come on in?"
I looked him up and down. "Is this your usual business attire?"
He laughed. "No. But I'm decent. And we'll be properly chaperoned. You remember Rebecca, don't you?"
I nodded, thinking back to cross-eyed Rebecca with thick glasses and her hair tied in a bun on the back of her head and wearing black dresses and a high white choker collar. She was Art's eldest. He never said so, but I don't think he was proud to claim her.
Art went over and turned off the water and threw the hose to one side. He headed toward the door and began wiping his feet on a coconut mat. "Come on in. Rebecca's getting breakfast. Won't you join us?"
"I seldom eat breakfast," I told him. "But I could go for a cup of coffee."
Art led me into a gloomy walnut paneled foyer with high ceiling. It was as cheerful as the inside of a coffin.
Art twisted a knob and shoved back a door and I followed him into a huge living room that was also walnut paneled with eggshell ceiling. The carpet was deep and luxurious. The furniture was straight out of the twenties-big, heavy overstuffed couches and chairs and ornate lamps and all the rococo junk dear to the era of bathtub gin.
He then went through another doorway and turned. "Your dad's in the slumber room. Do you want to see him?"
I shook my head. That's one thing I never went for. Art nodded and came back into the living room, closing the door. "This way, then."
He went back into the foyer and out the other side and up a stairs. Art had done a complete overhaul on the second floor. It had joined the Space Age. The paneling had been torn out. The ceiling had been dropped. And it looked as modern as my apartment in Chicago.
He led me down the hall and I began to smell frying bacon and perking coffee. And suddenly my tummy decided that it could go for some of that.
Rebecca looked just the same as years before, except that her hair was iron gray. She was just as cross-eyed and just as pigeon-toed and her glasses were just as thick. But she did have one redeeming feature-a heartwarming cheerful smile. She gave me her best one that morning and Art invited me to join them for breakfast.
And then I got the jolt of my life. Bible-toting Rebecca hauled out her cigarettes and offered me one. I glanced at Art. He grinned and nodded. I accepted and Art lit both of them for us before getting a cigar going for himself.
We sat around and talked about old times for a while. Then Art and I went downstairs and in his office and took care of the financial affairs. He wanted me to choose a coffin. But I balked. I told him I'd leave that up to him.
By then, I'd had it up to here with the atmosphere of the place, so I got the hell out, but not before graciously thanking Art for everything and promising to check with Sy Clarkson about Dad's insurance. I didn't know where, the policy was. Probably in his safety deposit box at the bank.
Art trailed me out to the door and to the veranda, still chattering away. I could hardly break free. But I finally managed it and went on down the walk.
As I headed back to the apartment, I thought of the goddamn coffeepot on the range. I half-ran the rest of the way down Maple and dashed through the lobby of the apartment house and up the stairs.
I jabbed a key in the lock and threw the door back and ran for the kitchen, and there it was-a big blob of molten metal run down all over the grate of the range.
I turned off the fire, shaking my head disgustedly.
I got out a pot and filled it with water and put it on the fire. Before long I had some coffee and carried it into the living room and sat there sipping it and working on a cigarette.
What was I to do next that day? I had to see Joe Tabor, the lawyer. I had to go see Abner Devlon, the banker. If Dad had a safety deposit box there, I'd have to see if there was a will and go over his papers.
Then a sudden thought hit me. What if Dad had willed everything to someone else in town, including the bar? After all, I'd taken off. I'd said that I wanted no part of Clodville. Perhaps Dad had decided to will me some money and give the rest to someone else who wanted to live in Clodville.
It was the bank first and that safety deposit box.
I looked at my watch again. It was a little after eight. The bank didn't open until ten. What was I to do until then? Perhaps Joe Tabor would be over at Center City in court that morning. If I was going to revamp the Melon Patch I'd better go on down and talk to Jesse Billings, the contractor. He'd be the logical one to tell me about doing that job.
Just then the buzzer sounded. I got up and went over to the hall door and opened it.
Lem Carlyle stood there. He had been the sheriff since before I was born. He and Dad bad fought together in World War II, along with Uncle Matt. He was built along the same general lines as Dad-big and bluff and hearty and with a paunch and broad shoulders. Although he lived in corn country, he always wore a big, white ten-gallon hat, black shirts with high-waisted gray trousers, with striped galluses.
"Good morning, Molly," Lem greeted. "Busy."
"Yeah. I'm having tea for the ambassador from Siam."
He grinned and headed through the opening as I backed aside. He took off his big hat and ran his fingers through his tousled white curls as he looked around.
"It hasn't changed any," I said, closing the door.
He nodded and set his hat on a table and I waved him into Dad's big chair.
He sat down and swung one long leg up over the other and looked at the big ash tray at his elbow. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Why not? I do."
I pulled out my cigarettes and he dragged a big fat cigar from his shirt pocket and began shucking it. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and rolled it around to wet it. Then he picked up a book of matches from the side table and lit his cigar with long slow puffs as he continued to roll the cigar around.
He waved out the match and looked at me. "I hear you had company last night."
I nodded.
He shook his head grimly. "Too bad you weren't there the other night when Mike got it."
"Yeah. They'd have gotten a helluva lot worse than they did last night."
He nodded. "I can believe that. But how did you ever go up against two hopheads and live to tell about it?"
I shrugged. "Call it the luck o' the Irish."
"I can believe that. Did you blast that guy's face off with a shotgun?"
I nodded. "Old Gus Kleinschmidt gave me a pair of twelve-gauge doubles before I left Chicago. He had brought them over from Germany. They're beauties."
"Well, we don't need to go into the gory details. We checked both of them out by fingerprints. They're both hopheads and are hired guns."
"Who hired them?" I asked.
"Who knows? They were for hire for a grand on up, depending on the job."
"Do you suppose one of them shot Dad?" I asked.
"I'm checking that out. I think so. The guy who lost his face. Sig Marshall says he was sitting on the second stool from Pete Harkness, who was talking to Mike. When he heard the shots and saw Mike crumple he whirled around, and saw this tall lanky guy shoving a revolver in his jacket pocket and starting to walk toward the front door. He says this guy had a livid red scar at the angle of his jaw. So it had to be on the right side. And the guy who lost his face last night had such a scar."
I nodded. "Good," I muttered. "That's one score settled. But what I want to know is who hired them."
"I'm working on it. Have you been through your dad's papers yet?"
"No."
"I doubt it, but mebbe you might find a letter or a scrawled note or something in there."
"Yeah, I'll look. But we haven't heard the last of them."
"I know. That's what's worrying me. I think you ought to shut up the bar and go on back to Chicago."
"What good would that do me? There'll be a contract out on me now. You know that."
He nodded. "I suppose so. I talked to Clem and John, who were in there last night when it happened. They told me how you were dragged over the bar and slapped around. So I don't blame you for doing what you did."
"Gee, that's damn nice of you," I said. "Any time anybody holds a gun on me through his pocket, I'm not about to play patty-cake or drop the handkerchief with him. I was a Chicago cop, remember?"
He nodded again. "And it's a damn good thing. Did you ever get in on any of the action?"
"Every night there were razor fights and Lezzies trying to carve each other up and barroom brawls and you name it. I was right in the middle of things."
"Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
"Training. Five hours a week of my own time required in the shooting gallery. I've also had training in hand-to-hand combat and judo and you name it. It was rough, but I'm glad I had it. I can always use it."
"You sure did last night." He stood up. "Have you made the funeral arrangements yet?"
I nodded. "Three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
"At Art's chapel or at the church?"
"Neither. The funeral will be right there at The Melon Patch."
You should have seen Lem's face. If I had told him I was going to be layed at high noon in front of the bank he wouldn't have been any more shocked.