Night Extra

“I’ve got what you wanted,” Duggan said. “And I’ve got a load of trouble for myself. I picked up two of those dummy owners, and put them through the wringer. Ticknor heard about it and blew his stack. When Council meets tomorrow I’ll be suspended. A nice pay-off, isn’t it?”

“Well, you’re a cop, not an ostrich,” Terrell said. “You wanted to know, didn’t you?”

“So I know. I’m a cop — a busted ex-cop. That’s great, isn’t it?”

“Who owns those companies?”

“It jolted me. I’ve been on the inside for years and I wouldn’t have guessed it. Ike Cellars is a half-owner and that figures. But the other half-owner is old Dan Bridewell. Can you figure that?”

“Are you sure? Dead sure?”

“Christ, give me credit for being able to handle a routine investigation,” Duggan said wearily.

“Sorry. For what it’s worth, you’ve got friends in our shop. You may look pretty good in our story.”

“Thirty-five years in the business and our Huckleberry Capone of a mayor can break me for doing ten minutes of honest work. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Very. But don’t quit. Make them fire you.”

“I’ve already done that.”

Terrell hung up and began to dress. Bridewell — that was a sleeper. The posturing puritan, the do-gooder, the angry denouncer of mobs and grafters — in thick with Ike Cellars. It was enough to make an honest man sick, Terrell thought. No wonder Karsh was cynical.

As he was about to leave the phone rang, and he scooped it up irritably and said, “Hello? Terrell.”

“You told me to remember the name,” she said.

He recognized Connie Blacker’s voice. “I’m glad you did. What can I do for you?”

“I want to see you. I’ve... well, changed my mind.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the club, The Mansions. Could you come over and have a drink with me?”

She didn’t sound right, he thought. Scared maybe. Or worried. “I’ve got a date to keep first,” he said, looking at his watch. “How about nine or nine-thirty?”

“That’s perfect. It’s between my numbers. Please don’t let me down.”

Terrell looked at the phone and raised an eyebrow. She sounded very odd indeed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

14

Dan Bridewell lived on the South Side, in a large plain house that seemed as sturdy and uncompromising as the reputation of an honest man. It was smart camouflage, Terrell thought, as he went up the wooden steps and rang the bell. No frills or ostentation for Dan Bridewell. No martinis and gracious living in the suburbs. Just the essentials, stripped bare: money and power. Terrell was beginning to feel angry; until now his attitude had been detached and professional, like a surgeon laying open a cancerous tissue. It had been a job to Terrell, an exacting job requiring all of his skill and experience. Now he felt it was something more than that.

An elderly woman in a black uniform opened the door. Terrell told her he wanted to see Bridewell, but she frowned slightly and said, “Well, I don’t know. He’s going to St. Louis tonight and he leaves for the airport pretty soon.”

“I won’t take more than a minute or two. My name is Terrell. I’m with the Call-Bulletin.”

“I’ll tell him: Would you wait in the parlor?”

“Sure.” Terrell removed his hat and stepped into the hallway. There was a hatrack, an umbrella stand, and the curve of stairs leading to the second floor, all of it looking solid and old-fashioned and comfortable. “Was this trip a rather sudden idea?” he said.

“Mr. Bridewell has a lot of demands on him,” the woman said. “He comes and goes where he’s needed.” She spoke as if she were discussing the parish priest.

“Yes, of course,” Terrell said gravely.

The parlor was long and gloomy, with thick, red rugs and dark, massive furniture. Terrell lit a cigarette and sat on the wide wooden arm of a chair. The room was depressing; it smelled clean and unused, but the lavender wallpaper and mauve drapes were dispiriting backdrops for the ornately framed family photographs and the heavy sofas and chairs. Brass andirons gleamed in the dim light, and a dark, curved mirror hung above the fireplace.

A footstep sounded and Terrell stood as the door opened and Dan Bridewell came into the room. “Well, young man, you’ll have to make this fast,” Bridewell said. “I’m catching a plane to St. Louis in just about an hour.”

“I’ll try my best,” Terrell said.

“What was it you wanted?” Bridewell was studying him with alert, careful eyes. He was short and stocky, with thinning gray hair, and a small paunch that tightened the gold watch chain across the front of his vest. There was strength in his square, hard face, a mixture of boldness and cunning; he looked like a man who could fight in a dozen different styles if necessary, but who wouldn’t fight at all unless he was fairly certain of the outcome.

“I’m running down a rumor,” Terrell said. “It concerns you, Mr. Bridewell, and that’s why I’m here.”

“Well, let’s hear it. I’m used to rumors. I’ve been accused of everything but the sacking of Rome in the past forty years. So shoot.”

“The story is that you and Ike Cellars are in partnership,” Terrell said.