| |
THE FROSTED GLASS window inside his door clattered. Just about every man in the newsroom was pecking out a story one key at a time, but divided attentions said they were more interested in guessing what Innes had said to me than in meeting deadline. Monica Seagraves was the exception. Touch-typing at the speed of sound, she locked her beady brown eyes onto me before glancing back at her notes and pounding the keyboard.
I went down to the newspaper morgue. Back issues were stored on dust-laden racks and research notes stacked in metal bins. Obits had a special section, ready to be pulled and published when the unfortunate demise of a well-known figure took place. Research had gone into each bio: meticulous, pre-approved, and filed alphabetically. I rifled through the K drawer.
In ’38 alone, the cops picked up Johnny Kirk more times than there were legal holidays in the year. Criminal offenses ranged from contributing to the delinquency of a minor to burglary, larceny, break and entry, and assault and battery. Other charges piled up. Fugitive status. Damage by baseball bat. Assault with a tire iron. Conspiracy to operate a book. Possession of a concealed weapon. Suspicion of bombing. Gambling. Possession of a fictitious driver’s license. And last but not least, conspiracy to commit murder. Miracle of miracles, he was never indicted. Not in 1938 and not in any other year beginning with ‘19’. He had more luck than an Irishman carrying a four-leaf clover. Or else he had a friend, or several friends, in the upper echelons of law enforcement.
The freight elevator was always the fastest exit. I knew where to find the key and how to work the contraption. Once on the loading dock, I took a roundabout route between rolls of blank newsprint and made my way to riverside parking. The pavement was always wetted down from water traffic and the air damp with spray. Since parking the car an hour ago, the Bel Air’s left front tire had developed a flat. I called the auto club from the lobby. By the time I made it back downstairs, the right front tire had also deflated.
On our way to the garage, the tow truck driver brought me up to speed. An epidemic of vandalism had struck downtown, everything from tire punctures to broken headlights and jammed exhaust pipes. “Kids,” he intoned. “Whooping it up over summer vacation.” Though he shook his head in dismay, he was one happy camper. He’d probably pocketed more tips in the last few days than during the entire month of June.
I talked myself into feeling better about the situation. Convinced myself I hadn’t been targeted by someone who wanted to make a point. Vanquished my worst fears that an unknown foe intended to scare me off the story. Eventually I laughed at the absurdity of life in the big city and even kicked myself at the thought that anyone would be afraid enough of my pen to give a damn.
But the garage mechanic pointed out two slashes that only an eight-inch shiv could have produced. Kids, I reasoned, don’t generally carry lethal weapons in their short pants. The mechanic was eyeing me, worry etched into his grease-monkey face. I laughed him off and said, “Kids.”
“Kids,” he repeated, but he wasn’t any more persuaded than I was.
A half hour later, I rolled out of the garage with two new tires, determined to uncover the identity of Dick Byrnes’s murderer if it killed me. Metaphorically speaking.
