Max Collins - Butcher's dozen

When Steve brought the beer to McFarlin, the stranger spun a silver dollar on the bar. Everybody standing at the bar looked at it hungrily. When it stopped spinning and clattered to a standstill, the guy said, "Just a beer. Keep the change."

Steve took the silver dollar, eyes narrowing even more. "Keep the change" was not something heard much in a joint like this.

"My name is Sam Wild," the guy said when Steve brought the beer, and McFarlin recognized the name, or anyway, the byline. This guy was a reporter, with the Plain Dealer.

"I'm a reporter," he said. "With the Plain Dealer."

Steve looked at him blankly; his mouth was slack-it seemed a trick that the cigar didn't tumble out.

"I wonder if you'd mind a few questions."

Steve shrugged. He leaned back against the counter behind him. Found a dirty rag with which to polish a glass.

"I understand Florence Polillo used to come in here."

"That's right," Steve said. His voice was husky, but a little high-pitched.

"What can you tell me about her?"

"She don't come in here no more."

The reporter grinned, drew on his cigarette. "I guess not. Getting hacked to pieces cuts down on a girl's social life."

Steve polished the glass, getting it dirtier.

"Was she hooking?"

Steve said, "This is a reputable place mister."

The reporter glanced around, smirking, taking in the sawdust and smoke. "What could I have been thinking of?" He dug for something in a pocket of the jacket folded over his arm.

It was a mug shot, side and front photographs of a pleasant if vacant-looking, jug-eared young man.

"Ever see this guy before?"

Steve, without moving closer to have a good look, glanced at the photo the reporter was thrusting forward. He said, "No."

"You sure?"

"No."

"No? You mean you aren't sure?"

"I mean no I ain't ever seen him. You spent your dollar, mister."

"I'll spend more, if you got the right answers." He spoke up, working his voice above the sound of the exhaust fan in the ceiling. "That's a standing offer, if any of you gents would care to take a look at the photo."

"Fuck you," the stubbly-faced guy next to the reporter said.

But the guy on the other side of him reached for the photo and it was passed down the bar. The half dozen men present all had a look, but passed it back, without a word.

"His name," the reporter said, slipping the mug shot back in the jacket pocket, "is Eddie Andrassy. If that names familiar to you, it might be because you saw it in the papers."

McFarlin, who was pretending to be paying no attention, damn near laughed out loud at that. Most of these guys couldn't read, and those that could wouldn't be wasting a nickel on a newspaper.

"He was one of the Butchers victims," the reporter said, his smirk gone. "He was one of the first ones found. He had his dick cut off, gents. Balls, too. Cheers." He lifted his beer to them and slurped at it.

Nobody said a word. Steve seemed to be getting irritated, his face settling into a nasty mask.

"It would behoove you gents," said the smart-ass reporter, "to help me out if you can. Not only is there a standing reward of some five grand in it for you, it's folks on these very streets of yours that are getting hunted by this monster."

Nobody said a word. The ceiling fan churned.

"Florence Polillo used to hang around this joint," the reporter continued, "and I think Eddie Andrassy did, too, whether this apron here remembers him or not." He smiled without sincerity at the bartender and said, "Maybe you weren't working here back then. It's been over a year."

Steve said nothing; he had stopped polishing the glass, which was shining and filthy.

"Flo used to hang out with a guy named 'One-Armed Willie,'" the reporter said, mostly to Steve. "Does Willie ever come in here anymore?"

"No," Steve said.

"Is he around?"

"I hear he hopped a freight," somebody down the bar offered.

The reporter looked at Steve for confirmation, and Steve, with some reluctance, nodded.

"I'm interested," the reporter said loudly, above the fan, stepping away from the bar, "in hearing about anybody who used to do business with Flo, or was friendly with Flo-man or woman."

A guy down the bar a ways laughed. "You think the Butcher is a woman?"

"Could be. Over in London, they figured Jack the Ripper was a midwife, you know. Why, take old Flo herself. She looked sort of like a fullback I know, only the fullback is cuter. Any of you gents want to earn a few bucks, I'm paying for info-and unlike that standing reward, I pay up whether the info leads to an arrest or conviction or not."

The reporter smiled pleasantly at the bartender and his patrons, downed the remainder of his beer, and swaggered out, swinging his coat over his shoulder.

"Cocky son of a bitch," the stubbly-faced guy said, still nursing that same goddamn beer.

"The fucker," Steve said, looking at the door where Wild had disappeared.

"He should mind his own goddamn business," the stubbly-faced guy said.

McFarlin gave the man a more careful look. Something was stirring in the recesses of his brain.

"Did she really used to come in here," the stubbly-faced guy was saying, "that butchered broad?"

"Yeah," Steve said. "She sure did. She was a sweet ol' hag."

"Pity she got hacked up."

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "But she caused me trouble, getting it like that."

"How so?"

McFarlin, without being obvious, just out of the corner of his eye, studied the stubbly-faced guy. I know him, he thought. Where do I know him from?

"Well," Steve was saying, "her buying it like that brought the cops in here like goddamn flies. We had to shut the game down in the backroom, for weeks."

"Fuck that shit," the stubbly-faced guy said sympathetically.

"And they messed with our patronage," Steve said with an oddly dignified formality. "Rousting 'em, hauling 'em downtown for questioning. Some of the people who come in here, they got reason to wanna steer clear of the cops."

"Whores like Flo, you mean?"

"Yeah," Steve said.

Somebody down the bar laughed and said, "This place is fairy heaven, after seven."

Steve scowled at the voice's owner, said, "Go to hell, Pete." He looked at the stubbly-faced guy and said, "We ain't a fag hangout, bud. We just don't figure what hole you wanna stick it in is any of our business, catch my drift?"

The stubbly-faced guy grinned. "Their money is as good as mine, huh?"

Steve tried to smile back; it was hard for him. "That's it. It ain't any of our business, in general, is the idea."

Ness!

McFarlin damn near spit out his beer. He hoped his face hadn't shown his surprise.

But he'd be damned if this scummy-looking near-derelict next to him wasn't goddamn fucking Ness himself.

"Well, that guy Andrassy," Ness was saying, "I hear he was a fag."

"He was a two-way ghee," Steve said matter-of-factly, nodding, drawing a beer for a customer and taking it to him down the bar. Then he came back and said to the director of public safety, "But Eddie was a good kid."

And Ness, cool as a cuke (McFarlin had to hand it to the son of a bitch), said, "So he did hang out here, huh?"

"Yeah. He knew Flo. They weren't thick or anything, but they knew each other. Had, you know… mutual friends."

"That guy 'One-Armed Willie' the reporter was mentioning, you mean."

"Yeah," Steve said. "Him and others. Like, you know-Abe Seleyman, the strong-arm guy. And Frankie Dolezal-he's a plasterer who's plastered most of the time."

Ness laughed, sipped his beer.

McFarlin was impressed. He hated Ness's guts on general principles, but this was a fine, sneaky piece of police work. Ness was wearing well-worn work clothes, his hair was a brown, dry mop, his face stubbly, his teeth looked scummy. To almost anybody down here, he would be unrecognizable.