Maks Kollinz - Dying in the Post-War World [novella]

Life was pretty much perfect.

I had a brand-new brown-brick G.I. Bill bungalow in quietly suburban Lincolnwood; Peggy, my wife since December of last year, was ripely pregnant; Id bribed a North Side car dealer into getting one of the first new Plymouths; and Id just moved the A-1 Detective Agency into the prestigious old Rookery Building in the Loop.

True, business was a little slow a good share of A-1s trade, over the years, has been divorce work, and nobody was getting divorced right now. It was July of 1947, and former soldiers and their blushing brides were still fucking, not fighting, but that would come. I was patient. In the meantime, there were plenty of credit checks to run. People were spending dough, chasing after their post-war dreams.

Sunlight was filtering in through the sheer curtains of our little bedroom, teasing my beautiful wife into wakefulness. I was already up it was a quarter to eight, and I tried to be in to work by nine (when youre the boss, punctuality is optional). I was standing near the bed, snugging my tie, when Peg looked up at me through slits.

I put the coffee on, I said. I can scramble you some eggs, if you like. Fancier than that, youre on your own.

What time is it? She sat up; the covers slid down the slope of her tummy. Her swollen breasts poked at the gathered top of her nightgown.

I told her the time, even though a clock was on the nightstand nearby.

She swallowed thickly. Blinked. Pegs skin was pale, translucent; a faint trail of freckles decorated a pert nose. Her eyebrows were thick, her eyes big and violet. Without makeup, her dark brown curly locks a mess, seven months pregnant, first thing in the morning, she was gorgeous.

She, of course, didnt think so. She had told me repeatedly, for the last two months when her pregnancy had begun to make itself blatantly obvious that she looked hideous and bloated. Less than ten years ago, shed been an artists model; just a year ago, shed been a smartly dressed young businesswoman. Now, she was a pregnant housewife, and not a happy one.

That was why Id been making breakfast for the last several weeks.

Out in the hall, the phone rang.

Ill get it, I said.

She nodded; she was sitting on the bed, easing her swollen feet into pink slippers, a task she was approaching with the care and precision of a bomb-squad guy removing a detonator.

I got it on the third ring. This is Heller, I said.

Nate... this is Bob.

I didnt recognize the voice, but I recognized the tone: desperation, with some despair mixed in.

Bob...?

Bob Keenan, the tremulous voice said.

Oh! Bob. And I immediately wondered why Bob Keenan, who just a passing acquaintance, would be calling me at home, first thing in the morning. Keenan was a friend and client of an attorney I did work for, and Id had lunch with both of them, at Binyons, around the corner from my old office on Van Buren, perhaps four times over the past six months. That was the extent of it.

I hate to bother you at home... but something... something awfuls happened. Youre the only person I could think of who can help me. Can you come, straightaway?

Bob, do you want to talk about this?

Not on the phone! Come right away. Please?

That last word was a tortured cry for help.

I couldnt turn him down. Whatever was up, this guy was hurting. Besides which, Keenan was well off he was one of the top administrators at the Office of Price Administration. So there might be some dough in it.

Sure, I said. Ill be right there.

He gave me the address (of his home), and I wrote it down and hung up; went out in the kitchen, where Peg sat in her white terry cloth bathrobe, staring over her black coffee.

Can you fix yourself something, honey? I asked. Im going to have to skip breakfast.

Peg looked at me hollow-eyed.

I want a divorce, she said.

I swallowed. Well, maybe I do have time to fix you a little breakfast.

She looked at me hard. Im not kidding, Nate. I want a divorce.

I nodded. Sighed, and said, Well talk about it later.

She looked away. Sipped her coffee. Lets do that, she said.

I slipped on my suit coat and went out into the bright, sunny day. Birds were chirping. From down the street came the gentle whir of a lawn mower. It would be hot later, but right now it was pleasant, even a little cool.

The dark blue Plymouth was at the curb and I went to it. Well, maybe this wasnt all bad: maybe this meant A-1s business would be picking up, now that divorce had finally come home from the war.

The house mansion, really had been once belonged to a guy named Murphy who invented the bed of the same name, one of which I had slept in many a night, back when my office and my apartment were one and the same. But the rectangular cream-color brick building, wearing its jaunty green hat of a roof, had long ago been turned into a two-family dwelling.

Nonetheless, it was an impressive residence, with a sloping lawn and a twin-pillared entrance, just a block from the lake on the far North Side. And the Keenan family had a whole floor to themselves, the first, with seven spacious rooms. Bob Keenan was doing all right, with his OPA position.

Only right now he wasnt doing so good.

He met me at the front door; in shirtsleeves, no tie, his fleshy face long and pale, eyes wide with worry. He was around forty, but something, this morning, had added an immediate extra ten years.

Thank you, Nate, he said, grasping my hand eagerly, thank you for coming.

Sure, Bob, I said.

He ushered me through the nicely but not lavishly furnished apartment like a guy with the flu showing a plumber where the busted toilet was.

Look in here, he said, and he held his palm out. I entered what was clearly a childs room, a little girls room. Pink floral wallpaper, a graceful tiny wooden bed, slippers on the rug nearby, sheer feminine curtains, a toy chest on which various dolls sat like sweetly obedient children.

I shrugged. What...?

This is JoAnns room, he said, as if that explained it.

Your little girl?

He nodded. The younger of my two girls. Janes with her mother in the kitchen.

The bed was unmade; the window was open. Lake wind whispered in.

Wheres JoAnn, Bob? I asked.

Gone, he said. He swallowed thickly. Look at this.

He walked to the window; pointed to a scrap of paper on the floor. I walked there, knelt. I did not pick up the greasy scrap of foolscap. I didnt have to, to read the crudely printed words there:

Get $20,000 Ready & Waite for Word. Do Not Notify FBI or Police. Bills in 5s and 10s. Burn this for her safty!

I stood and sucked in some air; hands on hips, I looked into Bob Keenans wide, red, desperate eyes and said, You havent called the cops?

No. Or the FBI. I called you.

Sounding more irritable than I meant to, I said, For Christs sake, why?

The note said no police. I needed help. I may need an intermediary. I sure as hell need somebody who knows his way around this kind of thing.

I gestured with open, raised palms, like a mime making a wall. Dont touch anything. Have you touched anything?

No. Not even the note.

Good. Good. I put my hand on his shoulder. Now, just take it easy, Bob. Lets go sit in the living room.

I walked him in there, hand never leaving his shoulder.

Okay, I said gently, why exactly did you call me?

He was next to me on the couch, sitting slumped, staring downward, legs apart, hands clasped. He was a big man not fat: big.

He shrugged. I knew you worked on the Lindbergh case.

Yeah, and hadnt that worked out swell.

I was a cop, then, I said. I was the liaison between the Chicago PD and the New Jersey authorities. And that was a long time ago.