I had been thinking, a bad habit my teachers hadn’t quite knocked out of me. “Wait a minute! There’s another way someone could’ve fixed the numbers. Suppose it was somebody that little girl—What was her name? Nancy Noonan? Suppose it was somebody Nancy trusted, and somehow he got hold of Munroe’s ticket. I took tickets for a while, and I was just dropping them into a box. He could have pretended he had to tie his shoe or scratch his ankle, or if it was a woman maybe pull up a heel strap, just after Munroe went in. Later, he’d give the ticket to Nancy and tell her they were going play a joke or something, and she was only supposed to pretend to reach into the drum.”
Blue said, “He could never rely on a child that age to keep his secret.”
“Maybe he figured she’d be killed too when the bomb went off—only Sandoz says it wasn’t a bomb. Well, whatever it was. He probably thought Munroe’d be right there in the crowd watching the drawing instead of inside at the book sale with us. If he’d been outside, there wouldn’t have been time for her to get down off the platform. Anyway, the murderer would think that even if he missed her, he could—”
I broke off because all of a sudden the chocolate in my stomach had turned to vinegar ice. Besides, there wasn’t any use in going on with it. Blue’s face doesn’t give away much, but it’s nowhere near as expressionless as Sandoz’s, and I was learning to read it; it was blank now, just no expression at all, and that meant he had pulled into himself and was thinking so hard that he didn’t have any attention to spare for it. “She should be under guard,” he said. “And of course the police must speak with her as soon as possible. When it becomes known that they have, she’ll be out of danger.” He checked out my bedside table. “I must find a telephone.”
That was when a nurse I hadn’t seen before came bustling in. “There are public telephones in an alcove off the lobby, sir. The receptionist can show you, but you’ll have to go now. Visiting hours are over.”
Then to me: “Have you heard about the murder?” Her eyes were shining. What a treat!
“It wasn’t a little girl … .”
“Oh, no. An old man. They found him by the parking lot, right here at our hospital!”
She bustled out again, this time with Blue after her like a lame hound that can still run when a bunny jumps under its nose. I head the thump of his cane out in the corridor, and then the murmur of their voices; the only words I could make out, though, were what he said last: “I’d better go down and talk to them. I think I may be able to identify him.”
How I Heard Some News
After dinner when the news came on, I was right there waiting. One good thing about living close to a big city like Chicago is that you get a full hour of local stories from a station that can spring for mobile units and good reporters. My favorite’s Ben Jacobs, a good-looking Jew about thirtyfive or forty who doesn’t care what the hell he says or who the hell he says it to, and gets fighting mad about at least half the stories they cover. Naturally I was hoping tonight was my big night with Ben—if I couldn’t be in his arms, at least I’d be on his lips. But when they finally got around to “the Barton Bombing,” it was Gerri Corkeran. Gerri’s a pretty lady with big eyes and hair like a gold helmet, but she isn’t Ben Jacobs.
Besides, as soon as she started I realized I was really a day too late. All the big, exciting coverage had been the night before, when I was out of it. What Gerri had was follow-up. She interviewed Mrs. Munroe, who turned out to have one of those pushed-together faces and a couple little kids, besides a dumb-looking daughter about my age. And then, so help me, there were Molly and Megan and old Mr. Lief from the shoe store, all sitting side-by-each on the living-room sofa.
Gerri: “I might as well ask the inevitable question and get it over. How does it feel to have your son survive two tours in Vietnam, and then have him die like this?”
(Mr. Lief doesn’t answer—just shakes his head. He has one of those bent-down pipes in his mouth, but it doesn’t seem to be lit.)
Molly: “It was them! I know it was.”
(Megan nudges her, but she won’t shut up.)
Gerri: “It was who, Mrs. Lief?”
Molly: “The ones that used to phone. They haven’t called no more. Not since Larry passed on, not one call. They got him, but I’m goin’ to get them.”
Megan: “It didn’t have to be them. Everybody knows Larry’s dead now.”
Gerri: “Your husband was receiving threatening calls,
Mrs. Lief?”
Molly: “Yes!” (Cries.)
Megan: “No!”
Gerri: “Do you know anything about this, Mr. Lief?
Have you informed the police?”
Lief: “I personally only answered one crank call, and that was at least six months back. I’d practically forgotten about them. They weren’t actually threatening—at least the one I answered wasn’t.”
Megan: “The police know already. They’ve talked to us.” (Back to the studio, where Gerri’s sitting at one of those long lunch-counter desks TV newspersons use and nobody else does.)
Ben: “Gerri, what were those calls about?”
Gerri: “It took a lot of digging—Mrs. Lief was very upset, and Lawrence Lief’s father and sister didn’t want to talk, but whoever called told war stories, if I can put it that way.”
Ben: “War stories?”
Gerri: “Yes, from Vietnam. All this may’ve had nothing to do with the bombing.”
Ben: “But it might. Did it really end months ago, as the victim’s father implied?”
Gerri: (Shaking her head.)“Ben, the victim’s wife received one two days ago—the day before he was killed.”
Then off they went to look at a million white chickens that had gotten loose on the Dan Ryan Expressway. If I’d had Les or somebody there to talk to, I’d have bitched because Megan never mentioned my name or said I’d been hurt; but what I was really thinking about mostly were Munroe’s kids, kids that weren’t nice-looking or anything, and now no daddy.
Then I started wondering whether Megan knew it was me who told the cops about the calls, and if she did, whether she was mad. If she didn’t, sooner or later I was going to have to tell her. It wasn’t Larry that I felt sorry for, or Munroe either. Munroe had just been a guy in a loud shirt, like a million other guys; Larry’s troubles were over. I felt sorry for Munroe’s dim little wife and her three kids, whose troubles had just begun. And for Megan and Molly and Larry’s dad. Especially for old Mr. Lief, because although he wasn’t showing it, I had the feeling he was the one who’d never get over it.
Baseball then. You can’t get away from baseball scores on the news. The Cubs lost. The Sox lost. Watching the TV news, you’d think there isn’t one pitcher in baseball who can throw a strike. Every time they show somebody at the plate, you can bet he’s going to get wood on the ball, even if he’s thrown out at first, maybe. If I were managing the Cubs, I’d have a hundred curvy cheerleaders, like the Honeybears or the Dallas Cowgirls; and when a guy from the other team was at bat and they revved up the TV cameras for him to sock one, I’d signal my Cutecubs to shake their goodies to get his eye off the ball. All the other teams would have to sign gay players, and it would change the entire complexion of the game.