“What’s up, Luke?”
Luke jerked his head toward me. “Lady’s got a question.” He went back to his glasses, stacking them in careful pyramids on either side of the cash register. Herman came down toward me. His heavyset face looked tough but not mean. “What do you want, ma’am?”
I pulled my photos out again. “I’m trying to find out if these two men have ever been in here together,” I said in a neutral voice.
“You got a legal reason for asking?”
I pulled my P.I. license from my handbag. “I’m a private investigator. There’s a grand jury investigation and there’s some question of collusion between a witness and a juror.” I showed him the ID.
He looked at the ID briefly, grunted, and tossed it back to me. “Yeah, I see you’re a private investigator, all right. But I don’t know about this grand jury story. I know this guy.” He tapped Masters’s picture. “He works up at Ajax. Doesn’t come in here often, maybe three times a year, but he’s been doing it as long as I’ve owned the place.”
I didn’t say anything, but took a swallow of beer. Anything tastes good when your throat is dry from embarrassment.
“Tell you for free, though, this other fellow’s never been in here. At least not when I’ve been here.” He gave a shout of laughter and reached across the bar to pat my cheek. “That’s okay, cookie, I won’t spoil your story for you.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly. “What do I owe you for the beer?”
“On the house.” He gave another snort of laughter and rolled back down the aisle to his unfinished lunch. I took another swallow of the thin beer. Then I put a dollar on the counter for Luke and walked slowly out of the bar.
I walked on down Van Buren past Sears’s main Chicago store. A lot of short-order food places were on the other side, but I had to go another block to find another bar. The bartender looked blankly at the photos and called the waitress over. She looked at both of them doubtfully, and then picked up McGraw’s. “He looks kind of familiar,” she said. “Is he on TV or something?” I said no, but had she ever seen him in the bar. She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t swear to it. What about Masters? She didn’t think so, but a lot of businessmen came in there, and all men with gray hair and business suits ran together in her mind after a while. I put two singles on the counter, one for her and one for the bartender, and went on down the street.
Her TV question gave me an idea for a better cover story. The next place I went to I said I was a market researcher looking for viewer recognition. Did anyone remember ever seeing these two people together? This approach got more interest, but drew another blank.
The game was on TV in this bar, bottom of the fourth with Cincinnati leading 4-0.I watched Biittner hit a single and then die on second after a hair-raising steal before I moved on. In all, I went to thirty-two bars that afternoon, catching most of the game in between. The Cubs lost, 6-2. I’d covered my territory pretty thoroughly. A couple of places recognized McGraw vaguely, but I put that down to the number of times his picture had been in the paper over the years. Most people probably had a vague recognition of Jimmy Hoffa, too. One other bar knew Masters by sight as one of the men from Ajax, and Billy’s knew him by name and title as well. But neither place remembered seeing McGraw with him. Some places were hostile and took a combination of bribes and threats to get an answer. Some were indifferent. Others, like the Spot, had to have the manager make the decision. But none of them had seen my pair together.
It was after six by the time I got to Washington and State, two blocks west of Michigan. After my fifth bar I’d stopped drinking any of the beer I ordered, but I was feeling slightly bloated, as well as sweaty and depressed. I’d agreed to meet Ralph at Ahab’s at eight. I decided to call it an afternoon and go home to wash up first.
Marshall Field occupies the whole north side of the street between State and Wabash. It seemed to me there might be one other bar on Washington, close to Michigan, if my memory of the layout was correct. That could wait until another day. I went down the stairs to the State Street subway and boarded a B train to Addison.
Evening rush hour was still in full force. I couldn’t get a seat and had to stand all the way to Fullerton.
At Lotty’s I headed straight for the bathroom and a cold shower. When I came out, I looked into the guest room; Jill was up, so I dumped my clothes in a drawer and put on a caftan. Jill was sitting on the living-room floor playing with two rosy-cheeked, dark-haired children who looked to be three or four.