Within the next ten minutes evey prowl and radio car cop in Chicago would be looking for a big red-haired tech sergeant with a chestful of assorted fruit salad.
I walked in the open door. It smelled like all hock shops, of moth balls and old leather. A good-looking lad, swart-faced, laid down the Racing Form he was reading and asked what he could do for me.
I said, “I’d like to buy a suit of civvies, that is, if you handle clothes.”
“Sure thing, Sergeant,” he grinned. He led me to a rack of suits in a built-in glass showcase, then looked at the width of my shoulders. “Let’s see. I’d say a forty, long.”
“Right on the nose,” I told him.
He slid open the rack and took out a fashionable double-breasted silk gabardine I couldn’t tell from new. “How does this one hit you, Sergeant?” He looked at the code mark on the tag. “A one hundred and fifty buck hand-tailored suit I took in from a lad on the street who thought a gray horse could win the Derby. If it fits, you can have it for fifty.”
I tried on the coat and held the pants to my waist. The coat fit fine. The pants were about the right length. “Okay,” I told him. “I’ll take it. Now how about some shirts and a hat?”
He showed me his teeth. “Those I got new.”
I picked out three size sixteen white broadcloth shirts, a plain blue tie and a natural colored Leghorn straw hat with a loud band.
The lad was pleased by the late sale. “You just get that paper, Sergeant?”
“No, I’m still in,” I told him. I added a little white lie. “It’s just that I’ve got a date with a girl who wants to see me in civvies.”
“Dames,” he admitted, “are funny.”
The only shoes he handled were various colored sneakers with thick crepe rubber soles. I picked a blue pair to go with the tie I’d bought. They made me feel like I was walking on a mattress but they were better than the tight shoes that were blistering my heels.
I bought a small suitcase to carry my uniform and changed my clothes in a little curtained-off room. It was surprising the difference the duds made. The suit made me look like a small hot-shot, like I belonged on North Clark Street.
I transferred my papers and the gun, folded my uniform into the suit case and walked out to the counter where the dark lad was totalling my bill. With everything, it came to eighty-nine dollars minus ten percent. “Why the ten percent off?” I asked him.
“That’s for your Medal of Honor bar,” he said, soberly. “No dog-face ever found one in a box of rations. I know. I was one of the poor bastards at Bastogne.”
I hadn’t even noticed he’d seen it. It was a little thing that gave me a big glow. It was the first nice thing that had happened to me since I’d hit Chicago.
I smoothed the lapel of the gray suit. “Thanks. Thanks a lot, fellow.”
He said, “Wear it in health.” Then he added, grinning, as I went out the door, “Ten years ago, if anyone had told me I’d ever give a sergeant a break —” he left it there.
I gave him a wave of the hand and walked on down the street. There was a cigar store on the next corner. I used the books in the booth to look up Mona’s lawyer. There was a Quentin E. Emerson listed under lawyers in the classified directory, but I couldn’t find any home address for him. The chances were he lived in one of the dozens of small towns within commuting distance of the Loop.
Mona’s lawyer would have to wait until morning —if I lasted that long.
Back on Clark Street again, I stood undecided, wondering just what to do, what I could do. According to what Olson had read to me from her case file, Mona had picked up Stein at a clip-joint called The Furnace. I could see its flashing red neon sign across and down the street a block away. It was as good a starting point as any. I doubted if even Joe LaFanti would give me credit for guts enough to show in one of the places he owned.
I crossed the street, my palms sweating a little, and
I walked in the open door. It smelled like all hock shops, of moth balls and old leather. A good-looking lad, swart-faced, laid down the Racing Form he was reading and asked what he could do for me.
I said, “I’d like to buy a suit of civvies, that is, if you handle clothes.”
“Sure thing, Sergeant,” he grinned. He led me to a rack of suits in a built-in glass showcase, then looked at the width of my shoulders. “Let’s see. I’d say a forty, long.”
“Right on the nose,” I told him.
He slid open the rack and took out a fashionable double-breasted silk gabardine I couldn’t tell from new. “How does this one hit you, Sergeant?” He looked at the code mark on the tag. “A one hundred and fifty buck hand-tailored suit I took in from a lad on the street who thought a gray horse could win the Derby. If it fits, you can have it for fifty.”
I tried on the coat and held the pants to my waist. The coat fit fine. The pants were about the right length. “Okay,” I told him. “I’ll take it. Now how about some shirts and a hat?”
He showed me his teeth. “Those I got new.”
I picked out three size sixteen white broadcloth shirts, a plain blue tie and a natural colored Leghorn straw hat with a loud band.
The lad was pleased by the late sale. “You just get that paper, Sergeant?”
“No, I’m still in,” I told him. I added a little white lie. “It’s just that I’ve got a date with a girl who wants to see me in civvies.”
“Dames,” he admitted, “are funny.”
The only shoes he handled were various colored sneakers with thick crepe rubber soles. I picked a blue pair to go with the tie I’d bought. They made me feel like I was walking on a mattress but they were better than the tight shoes that were blistering my heels.
I bought a small suitcase to carry my uniform and changed my clothes in a little curtained-off room. It was surprising the difference the duds made. The suit made me look like a small hot-shot, like I belonged on North Clark Street.
I transferred my papers and the gun, folded my uniform into the suit case and walked out to the counter where the dark lad was totalling my bill. With everything, it came to eighty-nine dollars minus ten percent. “Why the ten percent off?” I asked him.
“That’s for your Medal of Honor bar,” he said, soberly. “No dog-face ever found one in a box of rations. I know. I was one of the poor bastards at Bastogne.”
I hadn’t even noticed he’d seen it. It was a little thing that gave me a big glow. It was the first nice thing that had happened to me since I’d hit Chicago.
I smoothed the lapel of the gray suit. “Thanks. Thanks a lot, fellow.”
He said, “Wear it in health.” Then he added, grinning, as I went out the door, “Ten years ago, if anyone had told me I’d ever give a sergeant a break —” he left it there.
I gave him a wave of the hand and walked on down the street. There was a cigar store on the next corner. I used the books in the booth to look up Mona’s lawyer. There was a Quentin E. Emerson listed under lawyers in the classified directory, but I couldn’t find any home address for him. The chances were he lived in one of the dozens of small towns within commuting distance of the Loop.
Mona’s lawyer would have to wait until morning —if I lasted that long.
Back on Clark Street again, I stood undecided, wondering just what to do, what I could do. According to what Olson had read to me from her case file, Mona had picked up Stein at a clip-joint called The Furnace. I could see its flashing red neon sign across and down the street a block away. It was as good a starting point as any. I doubted if even Joe LaFanti would give me credit for guts enough to show in one of the places he owned.
I crossed the street, my palms sweating a little, and
Similar Books
