Mike walked into the City Room. Parlow was back in their corner, feet up on the desk, reading a proof. Mike stood over the desk, still in his hat and coat.
“Says here, ‘Sir William Frederick, assistant British consul, to visit fair city,’” Parlow said.
“How can you read that shit?” Mike said.
“It cheers me.”
“Where did you get those fucking boots?” Mike said.
“I bought them,” Parlow said. “From a bootery in London, much as anyone would.”
“I need a drink,” Mike said.
Parlow removed a half-pint bottle from his overcoat pocket.
“. . . Where also, I purchased this overcoat, Harris Tweed, hand-woven by the poor but honest ‘hand weavers,’ of Ireland, or wherever ‘Harris’ had elected to light.”
Mike shook a cigarette out of the pack, lit it, inhaled, and shook his head.
“What is it?” Parlow said.
The Woman’s Department of the Tribune sat in the northwest corner of the City Room. It housed the desk of the sob sister, generically called “Ask Miss Fisk,” who also doubled as the gossip editor, and the layout tables for “Styles and Fashions.”
Mike came through the door of the Woman’s Department. The young man who, that year, was Ask Miss Fisk, looked up from his typewriter.
“What’s a raglan sleeve?” Mike said.
“It’s a sleeve cut on the bias,” the young man said. He demonstrated by slashing the edge of his hand diagonally across his shoulder.
“It was named for Lord Raglan, who, in the Crimean War, lost his arm. It, generally . . .” But Mike was involved with the bound copies of Fashion Annual shelved on the wall. He opened them, one after the other, to Men’s Outerwear, and placed them, open, on the layout table.
“Why do you ask?” Miss Fisk said.
“They wear them here?” Mike said.
“Yes,” the young man said. “They’re coming back.” Mike, shaking his head, paged through the volume for 1926.
“What?” Mike said.
“They were adopted, as a novelty, some years after the War.”
“. . . By the veterans?” Mike said.
“No, not at all,” the young man said. “No. Generally by the rich. After the War, who would have seen them in their travels.”
“Would see them where?” Mike said.
“In England, in Scotland.”
Mike showed a line drawing to Miss Fisk. It showed a fashionable man, in an ankle-length overcoat. Mike pointed to the shoulders.
“Raglan sleeves,” Miss Fisk agreed.
“Cashmere, camel, vicuna . . . ?”
“Vicuña,” Miss Fisk said. “It’s an expensive—”
“No no no,” Mike said, “this was cheaper. It was rougher.”
“What? Where?” the young man said. “Yes, they were adopted for the drape, the fabric, coming from the collar, fell—”
“He came through the door, yeah, no,” Mike said. “These, these these, fit like a box. The fabric . . . It looked like? The fella on the Front? You sleep in the coat, a year, nothing else has that look. It was rough. The fabric. But, but, it was worn out in the weather, fella, sweated into it, slept in it. Heavy material.”
Mike stared at the line cuts of the fashionable coats, and shook his head.
“Who did?” Miss Fisk said.
“And the collars are wrong.” Mike pointed to the book. “It was like, a farmer—not a farmer, a . . . He wore it like a work coat.” He stopped.
“What?” young man said.
“It was his only coat. It could have been his father’s coat,” Mike said. “It was made, it wasn’t ‘fashionable,’ it was made. For a man who’d only have the one coat. To last him. And the collar was rounder.”
“What do you mean?” the young man said.
Mike took a sheet of paper and drew the coat and the collar. “You know,” Mike said, “how the fella looks? When he comes in? His clothes look like that, and you know how they smell, from the rain. He’s been out in the wind.
“And you know,” Mike said, “their hands. And the look, when he’s been out there?”
Miss Fisk looked at the line drawing. “Like a worker,” he said. “Some Englishman, a casual worker, or . . .”
“That’s what it was, that’s what it was,” Mike said, “that they’d been soldiers . . .”
“Or an Irishman,” Miss Fisk said.
“What?” Mike said.
In the Newspaper Morgue Mike sat over a book, with Parlow, at the desk. The girl from the Morgue, who insisted on calling her department “Research,” had brought the new book, and left with the old. The new book, which was Jane’s Small Arms of the World, edition of 1919, had been opened at random, and Mike was slowly paging through it.
Parlow looked over Mike’s shoulder. “‘European handguns of the Great War,’” he read. “What did you carry?”
The pages held schematic drawings of handguns, and their specifications. Mike leafed quickly through the section on automatics.
“What did you carry . . . ?” Parlow said.
“Please be quiet,” Mike said.
“I never learned the trick,” Parlow said, “I—”
Mike turned back several pages and pointed. “This,” he said. “Seven point six five, Fabrique Nationale, semiautomatic . . .” Mike turned quickly through the chapter.
“I’m still reading,” Parlow said.
“There’s nothing to know,” Mike said. “It was a thirty-two-caliber short—my gun.”
“What was it good for?” Parlow said.
“You crashed, you used it, to put the plane out of its misery.”
“What a romantic life,” Parlow said. Mike turned through the pages showing the Colt and Smith & Wesson revolvers. “Smith & Wesson, and Colt,” Parlow said, “are not European, as every schoolgirl knows.”
“Shut up,” Mike said.
“Crouch is looking for you,” Parlow said. “What’s that?”
Mike had stopped and was looking down at a line drawing of ungainly revolvers.
“The Webleys,” Mike said, “were used, if you must, by the British, to whom we gave or sold them; and by the French, who, having forsworn the sword, required some arm of honor, to surrender to the accommodating German.”
“Ah,” Parlow said.
Mike continued through the subsection “Revolvers, British.” He stopped.
Parlow read, “‘Webley revolver, point four five five.’” He looked at Mike.
“It was something like this,” Mike said.
“British,” Parlow said. “But you said the caliber was forty-five. Forty-five. Which even I realize is different from four five five.”
“That’s right.”
“So why are we looking at this gun?” Parlow said.
Mike took the lead slug from his pocket.
“This’s the bullet that they shot the black girl with,” he said. “Measures out at four five five.”
“And what did they kill your girl with?” Parlow said. He pointed at the book.
“No,” Mike said. “No. It was like this . . . Something like this.” He shook his head. “It was, it had a shorter barrel, almost no barrel at all. The . . . the, it was a vicious . . .”
“Would the Americans bring one back, as a souvenir of war?”
“Very good,” Mike said. “I . . . Of course it’s possible, but it’s unlikely.”
“Why?” Parlow said.
“Because of the ammunition. Four five five. I’ve never heard of it being sold here.”
“. . . But—”
“Yes, someone might have brought one back as a souvenir of war, or as a paperweight”—he nodded toward Parlow, in compliment to Parlow’s noncombatant status—“but any, saving your presence, who would prize a war trophy would, likely, prefer something of the forces with whom we were at war.
“But it was like this gun,” Mike said. “It was like this.”
“. . . But the caliber of the bullet was wrong . . . ,” Parlow said.
“What the hell do you know about it?” Mike said.
“‘Fucking noncombatant’?” Parlow suggested.
“No, no, I’m asking you,” Mike said.
“Well, you could amend your tone,” Parlow said, “after all.”
Parlow took his pipe from one jacket pocket, and his tobacco pouch from the other. “Many fine people have never shot someone,” he said. “. . . Or been shot. Jesus Christ, I’m just a fellow, alright? And your friend. You want to put that in the balance, for the love of . . .”
Mike took his pipe and snapped it apart at the stem.
“Why don’t you straighten up,” Parlow said, “and kick that shit.”
“And why don’t you buy a new pipe?” he said.
“. . . Alright,” Parlow said softly.
“. . . You understand?”
“Sure,” Parlow said.
“What can I do to make amends?” Mike said.
“Buy me a new pipe,” Parlow said.
There were the places one reserved for special meditation. In grief, in love, in the life crises or change, Chicagoans always went to the Lake. The bar, and not the cemetery, was the place for grief, the club or bordello for comfort or its counterfeit. And most men had a special place, held in reserve, for the practice of actual deep cogitation. Mike’s was the Mallers Café.
The cafeteria was on the second floor of the Mallers Building, twenty feet from the platform of the El trains. The platform had been built as part of the boondoggle of the Elevated project. The dodge was the encirclement of the downtown business district by an elevated rapid transit system.
It was sold to the voters as an aid to their retail shopping, and was financed by huge bribes, given by the merchants to the City Council. The City Council took the money and donated the right-of-way, in perpetuity, to their choice of street traction companies. The fortunate companies were chosen according to the decimal system, and the City Council got rich by robbing both Peter and Paul.
The stop across from the café had its own second-floor connection to the great emporium of Marshall Field. His son had been killed in a shootout at the Everleigh Club. Mike, as a good Chicagoan, cherished the chicanery of the street traction business, the City Council, and the whorehouse shooting and the subsequent attempts at cover-up.
The trains came by every minute or so, and no one noticed them. The clientele was generally on a time clock, wolfing down the “coffee and,” midmorning, or the quickest lunch, before heading back to work.
The building was Chicago’s Jewelry Exchange. Every floor held several jewelers, appraisers, vendors of fixings, gold or silver dealers, rare coin operations, and engravers. Most in the cafeteria were these small-business owners or the employees. Time spent in the café was time in which they would not be making money. So they ate quickly and silently, the American-born—the minority—nosed into the sports section, the immigrants reading the editorials.
Mike sat over a third cup of coffee. “Yeah,” he thought, “look at it: that one’s got a heavy date tonight, this guy’s screwing his secretary, what’s he worried about, did she miss a month? That fellow’s a carthorse, working himself to death, most of the day, the underlying thought: ‘For what?’ Here’s a fellow with ambition, well, he’s young enough. There’s a guy, what is he doing? Plotting. He’s plotting. I’d bet on him, not even knowing the deal: he’s a thug.”
The coffee had gotten cold. Mike, reluctantly, rose to leave. He paid at the counter, walked out. On the stairs, he reached for his cigarettes, and found the pack empty.
The El clattered overhead, up Wabash Avenue. Mike stood on the east side of the street, thought, “Wabash is always in shadow, but you never notice it. Why don’t we notice it? Because in summer it’s a bit of a break from the heat; in winter, the El tracks protect it, just a touch, from the snow; and finally, because it’s alive, and interesting.” There were clerks and shopgirls, most of them hurrying, as the stores were, in the main, beyond their pocketbooks. There were professional men, doctors and lawyers, businessmen going to lunch, or the club; there were the shoppers, most of them men, leaving the women to the great emporia one block west, on State Street.
The loudspeaker outside Lyon & Healy music blared “The Sheik of Araby.” Two young boys listening sang the antiphonal responses.
I’m the Sheik of Araby . . .
“. . . without no clothes on.”
Your love belongs to meee . . .
“. . . without no clothes on.”
At night when you’re asleep . . .
The boys straightened up and began to walk slowly away; some yards behind them walked the uniformed cop whose notice they’d seen they’d attracted.
“Yes,” Mike thought, “some bogus excuse from school. But you know it won’t stretch that far. Good for you.”
The cop stopped, content that the boys had moved on.
“Yeah, it’s a great show,” Mike thought.
Mike strolled south, and found himself outside the window of Ivan Reisz, Tobacconists, 1885.
The store smelled delightfully of pipe tobacco and Havana cigars. The owner was a white-haired German. Before the War he had sported a Kaiser Wilhelm mustache. Mike had been in France during the transformation, and the old man was now clean-shaven and, to Mike’s eye, looked naked. He stood at the pipe counter, polishing a beautiful meerschaum. He put on his customers face, and half-nodded at Mike.
“A pack of Camels,” Mike said. “And I need to buy a pipe.”
The owner reached behind him for the cigarettes. “One moment,” he said, and walked to the back of the store. Mike looked down at the various pipes under the counter glass. The owner returned with the cigarettes.
“Let me see that one, please,” Mike said, and pointed.
“Is it for you?” the owner said.
“No,” Mike said. “It’s for a friend.”
“He likes this style?”
“Yeah, that’s the one he smokes.”
The owner lifted out the pipe and handed it to Mike. “A bulldog,” he said. He waved his hand over the pipes display. “We have the bulldog bent, the straight, which is this one . . .”
“No,” Mike said. “This’ll do it.”
The man nodded. He took the pipe, and hunted in the counter below for the box.
The salesman put the pipe into its box. The box was marked Alfred Dunhill: Bulldog. Mike declined the offer of gift wrapping, of pipe cleaners, of tobacco. He paid for the pipe and his cigarettes and left the store.
“Yeah, I made a fool of myself with that idiot from New York,” he thought. “And Parlow. I’m losing my mind.”
He knew that Parlow understood his outburst, and would accept the gift less as an apology, and more, correctly, as thanks for his understanding.
“Yes, but it can’t be the old pipe,” he thought, “. . . the bulldog.”
As he walked he reviewed the New Yorker’s story. It was not that it was bad, he thought, and who cared if it was improbable; but it was offensive for a stranger to apostrophize the gun violence yarn in the place of its birth.
“If it were one of the lads,” Mike thought, “I could appreciate it, but a fellow in spats had no right to tell a story involving guns. And he had his fucking facts wrong.”
He stopped to light his cigarette. The El ran overhead, and Mike turned toward the window to shield the match. The window held a selection of sporting arms: the handguns displayed flat, and the long arms mounted in a star radiating around the company’s trademark, Von Lengerke and Antoine. V, L, and A. Sporting goods. Mike went inside.
He told the floorwalker, “Gun department.” The floorwalker directed him to the back of the store. The salesman was displaying a rifle to a customer. Mike took the pipe box from his pocket and opened it. He took the leaflet covering the pipe from the box and read, Congratulations. You have just purchased the finest briar pipe made. Alfred Dunhill, of London, warranties this pipe against not only defects, but wear, and dissatisfaction. If at any time you find yourself less than pleased, return the pipe for a full refund. We thank you for your purchase, and your . . .
The salesman said, “May I help you?” Mike looked up. He closed the box and put it down upon the counter.
“I wanted,” Mike said, “to ask a question.”
“Yes?”
“About a shotgun.”
“What sort of game do you wish to hunt, sir?” the salesman said.
“No,” Mike said, “I’m actually, I’m just curious.” He saw the salesman conceal his disappointment. “Well done,” thought Mike, “you work on commission, selling to the high end, here comes a bloke with a crushed hat, and what if a hot prospect walks in?”
Mike took a card from his pocket and handed it to the man. “The Tribune is thinking of doing a service feature on the”—his mind raced for a quarter second—“guns of the cognoscenti.”
“Ah,” the salesman said. He looked at the card. “I know you, sir,” he said, “and I know who you are, and I appreciate your work.”
“Thank you,” Mike said.
“And I”—he leaned closer to Mike—“although I don’t know this would interest you, have been mulling over an article about language and firearms.”
“Really,” Mike said.
“Yes, although you might say, as it would deal with antique arms, the current interest might seem lacking. But . . .” The man espoused to Mike the history of expressions, part of the language, whose origin, seemingly lost, was rooted in the Age of Black Powder.
“‘Hang fire,’” the man said, “‘flash in the pan,’ ‘chewing the rag,’ ‘shot his wad,’ which was ‘shot his rod,’ being the ramrod, the loss of which, having been shot, rendered the arm unable to fire . . . ‘Lock, stock, and barrel.’” The man ran down and Mike agreed that his observations might indeed make good copy, and that he might forward his article to his editor, Mr. Crouch, City Desk, Tribune.
The man thanked Mike.
“But, on no account,” Mike said, “mention that we spoke, for my endorsement would, with my editor, do your chances harm.” The salesman nodded. “Envy,” Mike said.
“Thank you, I understand,” the man said. “And take this,” he said, “as a coincidence.” He pointed to the pipe box on his countertop.
“What of it?” Mike said.
“It’s a bulldog,” the man said. “The bulldog shape, pugnacious—”
“Is there such a thing—” Mike said.
“Pugnacious, aggressive, squat—”
“Fine,” Mike said, “but is there such a thing as a presentation-grade Purdey—”
“Also, the name of a revolver. I beg your pardon?”
“I beg your pardon,” Mike said, “I fear I interrupted you. You said the name of a pistol. What is it, please?”
“The Bulldog,” the salesman said. “More accurately, a revolver.”
He took a stack of sales catalogs from the counter, and opened one. “Webley Arms,” he said. He turned to the line drawing of an ugly squat heavy revolver.
“Webley Bulldog,” he said, “or, more accurately, Webley R.U.C.”
He turned the drawing to Mike, who recognized it as the handgun the man had used to murder Annie Walsh.
The salesman was still speaking when Mike looked up. “. . . never see them over here,” he said, “as the caliber, four fifty-five, is unobtainable. In Europe, however—”
“R.U.C.,” Mike said. “What does that mean?”
“R.U.C. Royal Ulster Constabulary,” the salesman said. “Black and Tans. Keeping down the IRA. And here’s another instance for your article . . .”
The salesman turned and took down from the gun rack a submachine gun.
“Thompson, forty-five caliber, commercial grade and the best protection you can buy.” He opened the bolt; showed the gun, empty, to Mike; and laid it on the counter.
“John Taliaferro Thompson invented the gun, in 1914. Known, currently, as the tommy gun, most assume, incorrectly, in compliment to Mr. Thompson. No. The first recorded use is Irish. For they, in the Time of the Troubles, adopted the gun to assassinate the Tommys, which is to say, the British soldiers.”
“The Irish,” Mike said, “where did they buy the guns?”
“Oh, no, they couldn’t buy them,” the salesman said. “There was, and is, a strict embargo. No. They stole them.”