| |
AT THE BUS stop on Maxwell Street, a blind one-legged beggar worked the passengers. “Spare a dime? A thin dime? For a veteran? Down on his luck?”
Just to get rid of him, old ladies threw coins into his tin cup, which he emptied regularly into a booster bag tucked under a winter overcoat. The season didn’t matter. Hot or cold, his state of dress never altered. Expert at picking pockets, Digby Tate was collecting more than dimes and nickels. He sold off the driver’s licenses to a class-A forger on Jackson Boulevard and the leather to a vendor on Maxwell Street.
“Spare a dime?” he said, thrusting out his cup and pretending not to recognize me.
Digby slept nights in an SRO and trekked to different street corners every morning, rotating each location like a wheel of fortune. His standard disguise required sunglasses and a red-tipped cane, though sometimes he brought along crutches or a violin. He accumulated enough change to live in a lakeshore manor but spent every nickel on booze, broads, and gambling. Since anyone who chose to beg for a living must be crazy, he’d been hauled to the nuthouse several times but always managed to talk his way back to civilized society. He wasn’t insane, just a shell-shocked G.I. who came home from Iwo Jima a different man.
I dropped a Liberty dollar into his cup and walked on.
Because nobody ever noticed a beggar down on his luck, Digby Tate gathered more intelligence than a telephone operator listening in on the party line. He’d sell information to the highest bidders, sometimes for a good meal or a suit of clothing, but more often for a crisp C-Note. A few times a year, I treated him to a home-cooked meal and a bottle of wine. He used my tub and bubble bath, and sometimes I gave him a change of clothes. Roughly my father’s size, he’d been dressing like a jailhouse lawyer for the past six months.
After Mommy ran away with her polo player and before I started school at an exclusive prep academy on Chicago’s north side, Daddy took me down to Maxwell Street every Sunday morning and introduced me to the lingo. From dawn until dusk, the open-air market throbbed with the yammering cries of vendors hawking their wares and the wrangling complaints of customers jewing down prices. They dubbed me Princess back then, the grizzled men and wrinkled women who earned their livings one long day and one thin dime at a time, even if it meant babysitting John Grenadine’s coddled daughter. While Daddy made the rounds, they’d prop me like a bauble on their handcarts or sit me on orange crates stacked three high. Fishmongers, peddlers, and storekeepers gathered round, making over my pretty pink dress, pinching my chubby cheeks, and calling me shayna maidela.
Even then, I was a smart cookie. Right off, I saw how those wiry gents and portly ladies—some smelling of whiskey and tobacco, and others of body odor and cheap perfume—acted around my father. Even at four or five, it didn’t take long to figure out what was what and which side of the bread the butter was spread on. Daddy had a way about him: a swagger, a cocky tilt of the head, a glint in his eye, and a smart mouth that spewed out cavalier remarks, casual comments, honeyed flattery, and well-told lies with equal ease. The women admired him, desired him, and wanted to take him into their beds, even if it amounted to a single night and a sloppy goodbye kiss. The men knew better. They feared him. Even while sweet-talking his pampered daughter, they kept a sharp lookout for John Grenadine’s return. Sometimes they tossed around sly jokes and easy praise of the very man they feared, laughing nervously from the backs of their sandpapery throats and warning me never to tell. I never did.
Over the years, Maxwell Street became my playground, better than a swing set or a trip to the beach. Before memorizing the multiplication tables, I learned how to balance a day’s receipts and charm the last dollar out of unsuspecting marks. Even now, I can dicker with the best. If anyone at the office wants to make it up with the wife, I can take him down to Maxwell Street and send him home with a priceless handwoven carpet, out just a sawbuck or two.
My unconventional tutelage came with a heavy price. By the time I turned six, I figured out two inescapable facts. Santa Claus was made up. And Daddy was a crook.
I entered a diner on Taylor Street. The short-order cook prepared a juicy sirloin burger with all the trimmings for less than three bucks. Because it was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, only a few booths were occupied and the lunch counter was largely empty. The owner’s wife showed me to a booth near the kitchen, away from the soda fountain and against the back wall. I had a clear view of the front entrance. The upholstery was worn, the table rocked, the walls were grease-stained, and the light fixture was dusty, but somehow the grimy ambiance made the food taste better.
The waitress set the table for two. I ordered fries and Budweiser to go along with the burgers. When the beers came, I skated both mugs to the other side of the booth and nursed a tall glass of ice water. Digby wandered in, sunglasses tucked away and coat hooked over an arm. Underneath he wore a clean white shirt. The shirt was new. The trousers were Daddy’s. He was walking on two healthy legs. I asked him once how he managed to hop around on one foot without anybody catching on. He said it was a trade secret.
Alerted by his shabby getup and unshaven face, the proprietress was ready to call for reinforcements, but Digby gestured in my direction and palmed a fin into the woman’s grubby hand. Still skeptical, she drew a wide circle around him as if he smelled like a garbage dump. He didn’t. I knew him to be a fastidious bather and persnickety when it came to personal hygiene. Once a week, a Chinese laundress cleaned a suitcase of Digby’s street clothes free of charge. He had a way with women.
“Mind switching places?” From his preferred vantage point, Digby bored his eyes into every corner while his fingers tapped out a rhythm on the tabletop.
During the war, he witnessed his unit tortured by the Japs as one by one they were taken into a cave whole and taken out in bits and pieces. Eventually, a patrol routed out the enemy and found Digby in the cave, hanging from his arms. He didn’t remember how he got there, or if he did, didn’t want to talk about it. Ever since, he harbored an aversion to dark, small spaces and never looked anybody straight in the eye.
“You heard Dick Byrnes was found in a compromising position?”
He nodded, his eyes still roving. “Chatter’s about nothing else.”
Our meals arrived. He drowned his in ketchup and banqueted on the burger two-fisted, grease dripping down the sides of his hands. After he finished half the fries and half the burger, he took a breather and wiped his fingers on a series of paper napkins. Hoisting one of the mugs, he poised it near his lips and drank in the hops with his eyes before the liquid reached his palate. He drained the beer, smacked the mug onto the table, and wagged a finger toward my plate. I wasn’t hungry but just to be polite, I cut my sandwich in two, removed the onions, arranged the lettuce and tomato slices, and chewed a dainty bite. He let out a single honk of approval and sat back.
He nudged his head. I twisted around and picked out two men sitting at opposite ends of the lunch counter, one feasting on steak and eggs and the other nibbling a turkey club. Two women came in and occupied a booth. Digby wasn’t interested in them; he was concentrating on the men. “Feel like a Cherry Coke?” I didn’t but nodded. He signaled the waitress and ordered two.
Ten, fifteen minutes went by. Hungrier than I thought, I polished off half the burger. Digby cleaned his plate. I slid my leftovers to his side of the table. Without hesitation, he dug in. The men at the lunch counter paid for their meals in dimes and quarters, and left two minutes apart. They were bums just like my bum, probably snitches just like my snitch, eager to pick up choice morsels of information alongside a satisfying meal. But since Digby Tate was the master of bums, there was no point in sticking around for an earful of dead air.
“Bum a cigarette?” Digby asked. I told him to keep the pack. He flicked the tip of a match with his thumbnail and lit up.
“You up to snuff on O’Hare?”
“Long story,” he said.
“Got nothing but time,” I said, and settled back.
“Back in ’42, the Feds bought a thousand acres surrounding Orchard Place Airfield and put up a factory. The largest U.S. troop and cargo airplane—the Douglas C-54—was built there.”
“I was in play clothes at the time.”
His eyes teased. “And way ahead of your playmates.”
“I didn’t throw tea parties.”
The waitress cleared away the dishes. Digby waited until she was out of earshot before going on. “After V-J Day, the government had a white elephant on their hands. Meanwhile, City Council saw a bright future for commercial aviation and decided a second major airport would be just the ticket.”
“Midway is still the world’s busiest airport.”
“But can’t be expanded without displacing thousands of voters. O’Hare can.” He slumped against the seatback and expelled smoke through his nostrils. Digby had been decorated with a Silver Star for bravery. His only visible scar was a permanent disfigurement to the middle finger of his left hand. Guys ribbed him about it nonstop until he stuck the middle finger of his right hand up the rear end of one of the clowns. Nobody poked fun at his war wound ever again. He tamped tobacco from his tongue. “The city took Orchard Field off Uncle Sam’s hands together with another 7,000 acres next door. A couple years later, City Council approved a second acquisition. You’re supposed to ask, ‘Who’d they buy it from?’.”
“Who’d they buy it from?”
“Arezzo. But only after he forced out several farmers between ’46 and ’49.”
I tried not to show my excitement. “Go on.”
He dragged on his cigarette; the tip flamed bright orange. “Kirk brokered the deal, officially on behalf of the city, but unofficially ....” He didn’t finish the sentence.
I finished it for him. “He was working for Arezzo.”
“Made a killing.”
“Interesting choice of words. Was Byrnes nicked because he was onto something?”
“Looks that way.” He doused the cigarette butt into the empty beer mug, lifted the untouched mug, and drained that, too.
I dropped a ten-dollar bill and some change on the check.
As we made our way out, Digby said, “I don’t know if you know, but City Council was planning to hold hearings on organized crime. The day he took office, Moore promised Arezzo he’d put up roadblocks. In exchange, Arezzo guaranteed cooperation with the labor unions. Hizzoner has big plans for civic improvement.”
“Any opinions about Monica Seagraves?”
“She’s been blackballed by every reputable snitch on the street.”
“I hear she’s looking for her kitty cat.”
“The only furry thing she owns is between her legs.”
