The house itself was blanketed with thick curtains. It felt like a place empty of inhabitants. After a long few minutes, in which I debated going around to the back or just sitting in the Impala until someone showed up, I caught a movement in the thick shroud next to the door. Someone was inspecting me. I tried to look earnest and sincere and hoped that Mr. Contreras, now standing behind me, didn’t look too woebegone for conversation.
A woman of about fifty opened the door. Her faded blond hair was matted in uneven clumps, as though glued to her head by an inexpert wigmaker. She stared at us through protuberant, lackluster eyes.
“We’ve come to see Eddie Mohr,” I said. “Are you Mrs. Mohr?”
“I’m his daughter, Mrs. Johnson. He won’t be ready for viewing until next week, but you can talk to Mother if you’re old friends of his.”
“Ready for viewing?” My jaw dropped slackly. “Is he—he isn’t dead, is he?”
“Isn’t that why you came? I wondered how you knew so fast. I thought maybe that was your father with you.”
Mr. Contreras clutched my arm, his legs suddenly unsteady. “I just talked to him this morning, doll. He—he was expecting us. I… He sounded fine to me then.”
I turned to look at him, but none of the things I wanted to say were appropriate at such a moment. No wonder he’d been so subdued: he knew I wanted to try to catch Eddie unawares. He may have felt he was betraying the local, but he probably thought he was betraying me too.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Mrs. Johnson. “Sorry to intrude at such a time. This must have come as a terrible shock. I didn’t know he was ill.”
“It wasn’t his heart, if that’s what you’re thinking.
Someone shot him. Just as he was walking up Albany. Shot him in cold blood and drove on up the street. Damned niggers. Not satisfied with tearing up Englewood and shooting each other up. They have to come up and kill people in McKinley Park. Why can’t they just stay where they are and mind their own business?“ Her face turned red with anger, but tears were swimming in the protuberant eyes.
“When did this happen?” I kept my voice gentle, but only by digging my nails into my palms.
“About one this afternoon. Mother called me, and of course I came right over, even though it meant turning the register over to Maggie, which is always a mistake. It’s not that she’s dishonest—she just can’t add or subtract. Chicago schools just don’t do the job they did when I was growing up.”
It’s the little things that worry us at moments of great loss. Maggie at the cash register… you can get your mind around it. Father shot dead on the street——-No, leave that one alone.
Mr. Contreras was stirring restively behind me, not wanting me to probe like a ghoul. I ignored him and asked Mrs. Johnson if anyone had seen the niggers in question.
“There were only two people on the street—Mrs. Yuall and Mrs. Joyce were coming back from the store. They didn’t pay any attention to the car. You don’t expect to see someone shot down in broad daylight in your own community, do you? Then they heard the shots and saw Daddy fall over. At first they thought he’d had a heart attack. It was only later they realized they’d been hearing shots.”
She stopped talking and turned her head, listening to someone behind her. “I’ll be right there, Mother. It’s one of Daddy’s old friends. He called this morning. Do you want to see him?… Excuse me a minute,” she added to us, going back into the house.
“This is terrible, doll, terrible,” Mr. Contreras whispered urgently. “We can’t intrude on these people.”
I gave him a tight smile. “I think it would be a good idea if we found out what he was doing out on the street. After all, he had two cars. Why was he walking instead of driving? And why were you calling him to let him know we were coming?”
Mr. Contreras turned red. “It was only fair. I couldn’t have you barging in, trying to pin Mitch’s death on the union, without giving him some notice—”
Mrs. Johnson came back to the door and he cut himself off in mid-sentence. “Mother’s lying down. She’s with a friend, but she’d like to know if Daddy said anything special this morning when he talked to you. Can you come on in?”
Mr. Contreras, beet-colored at the idea of talking to Mrs. Mohr while she was lying down, tried excusing himself. I grabbed his arm and propelled him forward.
The bedroom scene was actually as chaste as could be. Instead of the normal pint-sized bungalow room, Mrs. Mohr occupied a master suite. A ruffled duvet hid the bed. Mrs. Mohr was slumped in a large chintz armchair, her feet on a matching footstool. She was dressed for day, in stockings and heels, her face fully made-up, so that the furrows cut by tears and terror emphasized her age. The neighbor sat next to her in a straight-backed chair. A pitcher of iced tea and a glass were at Mrs. Mohr’s elbow.
The curtains, done in the same bright floral pattern, were pulled back so that only white gauze covered the windows. A set of French doors led to a patio. Beyond it I could see a swimming pool. A remarkable addition for a South Side home.