This was not a workingman's joint, at least not the men who worked in the area's factories and foundries. The men at the bar were in suits and ties and hats, as were the ones at tables with women in low-cut and/or tight-fitting dresses who might have been working girls, but didn't, I thought, work here; this seemed to be a place you brought a moll. It was modern-looking: black and white and chrome with subdued lighting, a nightclub atmosphere. A five-piece band was doing some Dixieland jazz on a small platform over in the far left corner; they sounded like the reason Bix left the area.
The bartender was heavyset and pockmarked, but his apron was clean, which was a first for the evening. I asked him if he knew Jimmy Beame, and he said no. I asked him if he knew Vince Loga and he said no. I gave him a fin and asked again. He still didn't know Jimmy Beame, but Vince was in back playing cards.
He pointed to a door at the rear and I headed there, Reagan next to me. the eyes behind the dark-rimmed glasses blinking as he tried not to look down the pretty necklines at the tables we passed, and considering the size of some of the guys sitting at the same tables as those necklines, that was a wise decision. As I reached to open the door, a bouncer the size of a Buick drove over and advised me the game was closed. I gave him a buck, opened my coat to show him I wasn't armed, and he opened the door for me. and I went in.
■
He stopped Reagan. Said to me, "You gave me one buck. If he goes in. I want another."
I didn't feel like giving him another, so I told Reagan to stay out there.
The room was smoky and the low-hanging shaded lamp cast its pyramid of light across the green-felt, money-strewn table. Six people were playing; the game was poker. Five of the men had their coats off. ties loosened, hats on. except a hatless. dark-haired dude who had his back to me. and had kept his fancy pinstripe on. I waited till the end of the current hand and said, "Who's Vince Loga?"
A guy about twenty-two with the sort of bland, baby-faced looks that could, in company like this, mean somebody with something to prove, was right across from me.
"I'm Loga," he said, not looking at me, looking instead at the cards being shuffled to his left. "I'm also busy. I also don't know you. Beat it."
The dude with his back to me turned and it was George Raft.
He stood and smiled at me. extended a hand, which I took. "Heller." he said. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"You're asking me?" I said. "I'm on business. What are you doing? Making a movie? Sequel to State Fair, maybe?"
"I been in the Tri-Cities for three days." he said. "Makin' stage appearances at the Capitol with Pick Up. That's the new movie. You know, I came here from Chicago Saturday; stopped in with Max Baer and saw Barney while I was in town- didn't he mention it?"
"No, but I was kind of busy last week."
"Yeah, I know. I saw the papers."
"Can I have a word with you, George? In the other room?"
"Sure."
We stepped out into the other room, where Reagan was waiting at the bar. I introduced Raft to him and the kid was grinning ear to ear; he'd apparently never met a big Hollywood star before.
"Look, George. I could use a favor."
"Name it."
"Tell that guy Loga I'm okay. Tell him he can level with me."
"Okay. You mind telling me what it's about, first? I don't want the whole story, mind you. Just an idea of what kind of limb I'm out on."
"It's just a missing persons case. It doesn't connect with anything big that I know of."
"Fair enough." He turned to Reagan. "You like that announcing racket?"
"Sure," Reagan said. "But I'd like to be an actor, like you, Mr. Raft."
Raft's smile, as usual, was barely there. "Well, be an actor if you like; but don't be one like me. Listen, if you do go out to Hollywood…"
"Yes?"
"Lose the glasses."
Reagan nodded, thinking about it, and Raft took me back in and said to Loga, "This guy's a friend of Al Brown's."
Loga swallowed hard; he was in the middle of a hand, but he put his cards down and went out with me. Raft nodded at me and smiled and sat back down and played cards.
"You're a friend of the Big Fellow?" Loga said, like I was a movie star.
"Never mind that. The question is, are you a friend of Jimmy Beame's?"
Loga shrugged, but not insolently, which was an effort for him. "Yeah. So what?"
"Heard from him lately?"
"Not since he left here, year and a half ago or so. Why?"
"You know where he is?"
"Chicago, I guess. That's where he said he was going."
"To do what?"
"Just look for work."
"What kind?"
Loga smirked. "Whatever pays the right money, what else?"
"Did he have a contact or anything in Chicago? Anyplace lined up to stay?"
"Not that he said."
"I hear he hopped a freight to get there."
"Where'd you hear that? That's the bunk. He had a ride."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, Dipper Cooney. He's a"
"Pickpocket. Yeah. I know him."
Loga shrugged again. "He worked the Tri-Cities for a few weeks; he's been all over Wisconsin and Illinois and around. The pickpocket dicks in Chicago put the collar on him once too often, he said, so he started floating city to city."
"But he was heading back?"
"Yeah, he was going back. And Jimmy hitched a ride with him."
I chewed on that awhile.
"That's all I know, pal," Loga said. His being impressed with my knowing Capone was wearing off, possibly because I was making noises that sounded like a cop. "It was a while ago, and you're damn lucky I got a good memory. Y'mind I go back and play some cards?"
"Sure. Tell Georgie I said thanks."
"Will do."
He went back in the smoky room, and, just as the Dixieland combo was starting up again, Reagan said, "Did you get something?"
"Maybe," I said. "We better cash it in for the night. You look like you're about one beer over your limit. And I got to get some sleep- I got a long drive back to Chicago tomorrow."
Saturday. May 27. a beautiful sunny day. A Goodyear blimp glides overhead. The oblong bowl of Soldier Field, where Mary Ann and I sit well back in the bleachers, is packed with people- now and then sections of the crowd begin singing "Happy Days Are Here Again." apparently believing it. Outside, crowds swarm either side of Michigan Avenue to watch the parade, as if expecting the president of the United States to be grand marshal.
But the president hasn't been able to get away from Washington to open Chicago's big fair; he's sent instead his postmaster general. Jim Farley. The only president on hand is Rufus C. Dawes, the General's brother, the president of the Century of Progress Exposition.
The crowd is noisy, festive, as the parade pours into the amphitheater, the motorcycle police, sirens blaring, leading the way for band after band, horse troop upon horse troop, the stadium awash in waving flags, flashing sabers, gleaming helmets. Then touring cars bearing dignitaries: big, bald, genial Jim Farley; Rufus Dawes, whose pince-nez seems designed as a means for the rest of us to tell him apart from his brother; the recently appointed mayor, Edward J. Kelly, a big man with a full head of hair and glasses that lend a needed dignity; Governor Horner, smaller, slightly rotund, bespectacled, bald; moving past the reviewing stand where high-hatted officials sit, beaming, movie cameras grinding nearby, as the procession moves around the arena. And the cheering crowd gobbles it all up; or most of the crowd, anyway. A few, like Mary Ann, don't like being part of a crowd: starring roles only, no mob scenes, please- though the show business aspect of the event clearly excites her. Others, like me, have seen parades before.
At the platform in front of the reviewing stand, the speeches begin; Dawes. Kelly, and Horner make the expected grandiose claims for the fair and Chicago. Farley is the keynote speaker, and not a bad one.