“You know Dickie Keegan, the kid was expelled from St. Thespis for beatin’ up the school janitor?”
“Yeah, last time I saw him was in Bucktown throwin’ iceballs at passin’ cars on Diversey. Said he wouldn’t quit until he broke a windshield and a car went off the road.”
“He killed a cop.”
“You’re jokin’. For what?”
“He was shakin’ down younger kids for change, like he always done, a cop spotted him and tried to arrest him. Keegan grabbed the cop’s gun and shot him. He’s on the run now.”
“Jesus, Buzzy, Keegan’s seventeen. He could get the chair.”
“His old man’s doin’ a stretch for armed robbery in Indiana. Ruby Brown told me. Her mother used to go out with his brother.”
Roy and Buzzy were sitting on the back porch steps of Buzzy’s house on a cold, drizzly November day. They were used to the weather. Buzzy had told Roy that his older sister, Estelle, once complained about it at dinner and asked their father why they didn’t move to California, and he said, “Are you kiddin’? California’s full of weirdos and phonies who got pushed out of New York and other cities back east. The broads’re all tramps lookin’ for suckers.”
“How do you know?” Estelle said. “You’ve never been there. I could go to the beach every day, maybe even get into the movies.”
“Right, you’d be a tramp in no time.”
“Where do you think Keegan’ll go?” Roy asked Buzzy. “I doubt that he’s ever been out of Chicago.”
“If I was him, I’d try to leave the country. Mexico, get lost down there.”
“I’ll bet he’ll get caught right here, Buzz. He’s a cop killer. They won’t quit until they find him.”
Two days later, Dickie Keegan was captured at the Greyhound Bus terminal. In his pockets were the gun he’d taken from the cop he’d murdered, twenty-five bucks, and a ticket to San Diego, California. The day after police nabbed him, Roy’s mother told him that she’d read about it in the Tribune.
“Ed Keegan’s son,” she said. “His father was a bad penny in the old days.”
“Did you know him?”
“Your father did. We used to run into him in the clubs. He always had a heat on.”
“Buzzy Hermanski says Dickie’s dad is in prison in Indiana.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. Your dad finally had to eighty-six him from the liquor store. Keegan was a mean drunk, scared the customers. Your father would give him a fifth of rye off the shelf and send him on his way.”
“Dad knew how to handle people.”
“He was usually gentle, and generous. He’d slip a couple of bucks to the neighborhood rummies and old people who lived around the store. If someone got out of hand, he or Uncle Lou or one for the beat cops who came in took care of business. Too bad about the Keegan kid, though. I’m sure he had a hard home life. I heard his mother was a cripple, I think from polio. I never met her.”
“What if I did something crazy like kill a cop or somebody? Would you help me? I mean, give me money and ask one of Dad’s connections to smuggle me out of town?”
“I won’t even answer that question, Roy. You’d never do anything so stupid. You’re fifteen, you know how to stay out of trouble.”
“What if Dad were alive? What would he do?”
Roy’s mother looked at him crosseyed, then said, “He’d say to me, ‘Kitty, I’ll do what I can to fix it, but however it goes, kiss Roy goodbye.’ ”
“I got it, Ma, I won’t ask you any more questions.”
