DIARY OF A SERIAL KILLER
Descent Into Hell
I know, I missed yesterday. And what a black day it was. But I haven't missed a day since St. Patty's Day last year. Of course, I don't have to apologize to me, but I feel so much better when I write everyday. I may be the only voice of reason left in my life.
I spent last night here in the office on the couch. I just couldn't stomach going home and listening to her infernal bleating. At least here I can have a couple of drinks and sort things out in peace.
I've spent a lot of time today trying to understand Louise. Women are such flawed creatures. They're so irrational. She keeps whining that I should spend more time at home, but then she goes out of her way to make me miserable the moment I walk in the door. Always on me about how much I drink, making me so tense that I just want to crawl inside that bottle of Jamesons and go to sleep. Now, Louise is fairly intelligent, as women go, and we've talked about this crazy behavior of hers on numerous occasions, but nothing changes. In fact, it's becoming more acute. I can't see living this way much longer.
The night before last was an exquisite example of what she does to me. As usual, I went out with the lads for a few drinks after work. With kind of pressure I'm under at the hospital every day, I need to let off some steam for an hour or so before I go home.
I made a special point of getting home before seven-thirty so I could spend some time with the boys before they went to bed. So what does that crazy fat-assed beast do? She sends them to bed early, around seven o'clock. Why? Because she asked that damned Polish priest of hers over to talk to me about my drinking. I was really pissed. Jawalski or whatever the hell is name is was sitting in the living room with a cup of coffee. Sonofabitch doesn't drink at all. Any decent Irish priest would have asked for some whiskey. If she was going to ruin my evening, she could have at least asked an Irish priest over. Lord knows there are enough of them in this city.
My son, he says. Bastard can't be more than a year older than me and he calls me son. You are making your family suffer. He has this agonized expression on his face as though I just backed the car out over his foot.
Suffer? I asked him. Look around at this house. Look at the new furniture. Look at Louise. Does she look underfed? If you want to see suffering, come with me to the hospital. I'll show you some real suffering. And what about all the people in this city who can't find any work. Go downtown sometime and watch the bums eating out of garbage cans. That's suffering. My wife and sons aren't suffering.
If anyone is miserable in this family, I told him, it's me. Every day I work with the sick and dying and then come home to a wife who does nothing but bitch at me. Try it sometime.
Well, he wasn't about to listen to my side of the story. Louise had already pumped him full of her lies. While he went on with his pious bullshit, I stepped into the kitchen and poured myself a drop of refreshment. With my glass of whiskey in hand, I listened quietly for fifteen minutes and then I asked him very politely if he was through. I had some important work to do and I thought it was time for him to leave.
The bastard had the nerve to tell me he wasn't going to leave my house until I agreed to get some treatment for my "problem" as he called it. I told him that from where I was standing, I had two problems, the solution for which was divorce and excommunication.
I suppose I could have just picked him up and thrown him out on the porch, but Louise would never have let me hear the end of it. So I put on my hat and coat and started to leave. You don't have to go, I told him. You can stay all night. Sleep on the couch or even in my bed. Take it from me, I assured him, there's no danger of losing your celibacy sleeping next to my wife.
I went back to Dugan's and felt better the moment I walked in. Now Dugan's leaves a lot to be desired in a tavern. It's drafty. The seats are exceptionally uncomfortable and the whiskey is somewhat watered, but it's more like a home to me than the house I just left. Nobody to count how many drinks I have. Nobody to fuss if I drop an ash on the floor. Nobody to frown when my language gets rowdy.
Bertie and Driscoll were still there and of course Patty was behind the bar. They were happy to see me back and listened sympathetically as I told them how I was driven from my house by a priest and an inconsiderate wife. Just think how many times the hallowed walls of Dugan's have heard that story from generations of miserable husbands.
Well, we sang and we joked. I even danced with Patty when her father went out for a few minutes. I guess we closed the place up. I really don't remember.
But, I got to the hospital yesterday morning in time for my eight o'clock. Although, today I wished to bloody hell I had slept right through it. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't in my best form.
It was just a simple hysterectomy. Everything was going fine when all of a sudden the scalpel slipped and cut the uterine artery. Jesus Christ! What a goddamn mess! Blood spurting out everywhere. And what does that moron Helen do? She panics. She freezes. I'm shouting orders to her and she's moving around in slow motion with her big, ugly frog eyes bulging. Why is it that I get stuck with the least competent nurse in the whole hospital? No thanks to Helen, I stopped the hemorrhaging and went on with the procedure.
Helen, that redheaded whore, must have run right into Mullen's office as soon as the operation was over. He barged in while I was washing up. I've never seen the old windbag so red in the face.
You're drunk, he said. I won't stand for that in this hospital. I protested, but he didn't believe me. I wasn't really drunk. Not seriously drunk. Not too drunk to do a simple hysterectomy. It was an accident. Could have happened to anyone. He told me to get out. I was suspended until further notice.
I tried to talk quietly and rationally to him. Explained I'd been up all night and that's why I looked like hell. Hung over a bit, but not really drunk. I love it how he takes the word of some idiot nurse over a surgeon. For five years I've worked in that hospital with never a blemish on my name. But then he's never liked me. I'm so much smarter than he is. And so much taller. I'd like to cut his goddamn throat and just watch him bleed to death.
What really pisses me off is that I'm going to have to crawl back to him. I can't afford to stay on suspension for long. Not with the way Louise spends my money.
Fortunately, I didn't have any other operations scheduled for yesterday. I came back to my office and saw several patients. I can't imagine what they thought, considering how mad I was.
The minute the last patient left, I pulled out my emergency bottle and poured myself a stiff one. All I could think about was revenge. What can I do to Mullens to fix that bastard permanently? A dozen crazy ideas came into my head, but I don't think any of them would really work.
I slept for a couple of hours and went to Dugan's. Bertie and Driscoll were waiting for me to find out what the hell really happened. The whole hospital buzzed all day about it. As usual, Helen had exaggerated everything way out of proportion. Driscoll heard I had gone after her with a scalpel. In retrospect, I probably should have.
I stayed there until Driscoll left around nine. Then I went over to the diner and got myself a roast beef sandwich. I seriously thought about going home, but why subject myself to any more abuse. I'd had enough for one day. Another night on the couch in the serenity of my office.
Time hangs very heavy on my hands. That's not good for me. When I have nothing to do, I drink and smoke too much. I should be working. Every day of my goddamn life, I've worked. Tomorrow I must force myself to talk to that sonofabitch Mullens and get myself back to work. It's just so very hard for me to humble myself to that senseless scrap of dog shit, but if I don't do something soon, I'll be the one to suffer.
What really galls me is he knows he has me completely under his control because I need to send my patients to a hospital nearby. I can't very well ask people to go way across town for operations. I just can't believe after all these years struggling for financial independence that I've gotten myself under the thumb of a tyrant like Mullens.
I had to get my mind on something else, so I decided to go see Kathleen. I tried to call her, but the phone had been cut off. Things must be harder for her than I realized. Billy's not even working half-time these days at the shop. Only ten to fifteen hours a week now from what she said and he feels lucky he even has that.
Things are getting worse rather than better. So many men out of work. Every day I read about another company going out of business. At least that's one thing I never have to worry about. As long as people get sick, I'll always have an income. Doctors and undertakers have good job security. Even so, bad times have hit me too. Lots of people pay slow, sometimes not at all. And they are putting off operations until they have enough money.
When I got to Kathleen's house, Billy was at the tavern. I get the feeling that he spends a lot of time there lately. But Kathleen, unlike my wife, doesn't complain about it. Kathleen knows how hard it is on a man not to be able to work full time and support his family the way he wants. Billy, with all his faults, has a lot of pride.
I was really upset by how Kathleen looked. So washed out and fragile. And she used to be so pretty. I told her I wanted her to come into the office as soon as she could so I can find out what's wrong. She said she had just gotten over a bad cold, but I still want to take a look at her.
I warned her if she didn't come by in the next few days, I'd bring my black bag out and give her the full treatment right there. What's the sense of having a brother who's a doctor if you don't use him when you're sick.
She looks a lot like Mama now. I'd never really noticed the strong resemblance before. My memory of Mama is so dim and all I have left of her are a few photographs. Maybe it's her likeness to Mama that worries me so much. She died when she was just about Kathleen's age. Jesus, I hope nothing happens to Kathleen. I think she's the only person in the world who cares whether I'm alive or dead.
I feel really good when I'm with Kathleen. It's just we two little lost kids again. That's what Maureen used to call us when we were growing up. We were always together. Totally dependent on each other.
I'll never forget when Kathleen climbed up on the top of McNichols' garage to rescue the cat. Once she was up there, she was afraid to come down. We were so worried that old Mr. McNichols would be mad at us for climbing on his garage that I didn't go for help.
Jump down into my arms, I begged her. Quickly, before the old man looks out his window and sees us. She started to cry. Jump down, I insisted. I'll catch you. Then she jumped. I can still remember the sound of my collar bone cracking when she landed on me.
I howled so loud the old man heard me and came running out of his house. He wasn't mad like we thought he'd be, just worried about the two of us. Maureen was mad though. She was the one who had to go to Uncle Dominic to get the money for the doctor bill.
How different Kathleen and I are from Maureen. Of course, there is a big difference in age. And taking over when Mama died was an awfully big responsibility for Maureen. It must have made her mature faster.
I don't think I ever saw anyone work as hard as Maureen did when we were growing up. She was always up and dressed an hour earlier than everyone else, making sure that Kathleen and I were ready for school and that we had some porridge before we left. And right after school, she'd race home and do the housework and the cooking all by herself, until Kathleen and I were old enough to help.
It was only when we were in bed that she started on her school work. It was amazing that she did as well in school as she did, considering how exhausted she must have been most of the time.
After spending most of her youth raising Kathleen and me, as well as looking after Father, I expected that Maureen wouldn't have any kids or maybe one at the most. Instead, she goes and has seven. And still her house is spotless. What a difference from Louise, who can't even keep the house clean with two kids. I can't remember when I've come home to find the sink empty of dishes. And Louise says I should hire someone to help her once a week like other doctors' wives have.
I guess I never realized how much Maureen gave up to keep our family going. I should really make a point of seeing her more often. I don't give a damn what Louise thinks of her and Kathleen. I'm going to have all of them and their kids over next Sunday for dinner, even if I have to cook it myself. Kathleen will help me. If Louise's too good to grace us with her presence, piss on her. Nobody in my family will miss her.
I certainly don't miss her. That's for sure. In fact, it's great to be away from her for a few days. Still, I wonder why Louise hasn't called the office. She must know that I'm here. Where else would I be? It's been three days now since she and that goddamned priest chased me out of my house. Maybe she's left me. No, she'd never leave me. She's probably just mad about the hospital thing. God only knows how embellished the story was when she heard it.
Thank god, the word hasn't filtered back to Kathleen. She would be so upset that I got suspended, and for drinking yet. Chances are pretty good that she won't find out. Louise never talks to her and Kathleen doesn't know any of the people at the hospital. And I'm sure as hell not going to breathe a word.
Kathleen asked me to stay for supper, but I said no. I'm not going to mooch any meals there when they don't have enough money for a phone. I offered to lend her some money, but she's too proud to take it. She's like me that way. Still, there's no need for pride where I'm concerned. We're too close for such nonsense.
When I left Kathleen's house, I didn't really have anywhere to go, so I went over to Dugan's early. The place was almost empty. I ate a couple small bags of pretzels for dinner. In my current frame of mind, I'd rather drink than eat anyway.
By the time Driscoll and Bertie came in, I was really loaded. But at least I was in better spirits than I had been. Talking to Patty always does me some good. She's always on my side. It's too bad that she's as plain as she is. She'd make some lucky man a great wife. I think men are stupid for putting so much emphasis on the way a woman looks. I know that was my downfall. Louise was so pretty before we got married that I didn't pay any attention to her rotten personality. Now, look at her. All I'm left with is her miserable disposition. If I'd been smarter, I would have found someone like Patty or Maureen or Kathleen instead.
Driscoll took over the gallbladder operation for me today. I appreciated that and bought him a couple of drinks to show him I meant it. Nothing interesting going on at the hospital. At least, they have tired of gossiping about me.
I had several patients this morning. Nothing worth writing about. Kathleen's health has been preying on my mind. I decided to go over there with my black bag and give her a complete physical. I took a bottle of my favorite cough syrup for her. It's really strong stuff, but it will get all the phlegm out of her lungs and keep that hacking cough of hers down.
On the way over to Kathleen's, I picked up some groceries at Fishers. A nice big lean ham and a good hefty leg of lamb. The three of them ought to be able to get five or six meals out of that. I bought some oranges too. Kathleen just loves oranges. My god, they're so expensive! She probably hasn't been able to buy any for quite some time. Kathleen was so grateful. It really makes me feel good to be able to help her.
I noticed she had a bruise on her cheek. It took awhile, but she finally admitted that Billy hit her when he came home really drunk last night. I was so angry I was ready to drag him out of the bar and knock the shit out of him for hitting my sister. She begged me not to. Said it wouldn't do any good.
Ann came home from school while I was there. She really has turned into a pretty little thing, with Kathleen's big brown eyes. But she's so timid and quiet. She hardly said a word. I'll bet Billy has made her that way. He's such a bully.
What a shame to have a child's natural exuberance stifled by fear. It reminds me of how Kathleen and I used to hide when Father came home drunk. The slightest little thing would set him off. We'd get the daylights beaten out of us if we caused any commotion. How quickly we learned not to make a sound when he was home.
I hope Ann doesn't have to go through that. And Kathleen too for Christ's sake. How ironic it is that she married Billy to get away from Father and now she's got him back again in Billy. She deserves so much better.
A cloud of sadness hangs over that house. Such a dingy, shabby place, it poisons the spirit of anyone who lives there. It's not Kathleen's fault. She keeps it clean enough. It's just so badly in need of repair. I don't think Billy does anything to keep the place up. He just blames everything on the landlord. The paint's peeling off the walls. The faucets leak. The window to the side door is broken. It's so damn depressing. I got discouraged sitting there for just an hour.
I felt I had to get them out of there for a little while at least. The weather was so beautiful today it would have been a crime to waste it staying indoors. We got in my car and drove down to Rockefeller Park where the big beds of daffodils are in bloom. For an hour, we just walked around the park, drinking in the sweet spring air. It did all of us some good. Helped us put our troubles behind us.
I spent last evening at Dugan's again. Driscoll said the rumor was Mullens had suspended me for three weeks. I'm furious. I've got to do something. Three weeks is ridiculous. I have patients who are counting on me. I've already had a devil of a time getting Driscoll and Bertie to bend their schedules to take on some of my more critical cases. What the hell are my patients going to think if they hear I've been suspended? And for drinking yet. That kind of crap leaks out.
I suppose I'll have to do something soon, before Mullens ruins my practice. I'd like to take that little bastard and strangle him with his own intestines.
Still no word from my lovely wife today. She must be devising some wonderful torture for me. As much as I would love to call her bluff and force her to be the one to phone me, I need to get some clean clothes. I've already bought some underwear and shirts, but I can't keep wearing the same suit. I may have to break down and go over there tomorrow. I wish I knew of a time when she wouldn't be there so I could sneak in and get my clothes without having to talk to her.
I bought myself some franks and beans and a little pot to heat them on the hot plate that I use for coffee. Now I wish I'd stopped somewhere and had a real dinner. I haven't had any decent food in days.
I don't know what I'm going to do with myself this evening. I'm getting damn sick and tired of sitting around Dugan's. I guess I'll go out and find another bar and somebody new to talk with, rather than go crazy staying here in this office.
Maybe I shouldn't write when I'm so far into the bottle. People say I'm an entirely different person when I drink. That's a bald-faced lie! I'm an entirely different person when I'm sober.
When I'm sober, I'm what other people want me to be, not what I am. The real me stays all covered up. That's why I don't drink with people I don't like. They don't deserve to know the real me. At Dugan's it's just the opposite. I'm never anybody but me no matter how much I drink. I'm not Louise's husband or Johnny's father or Michael's cousin. I'm just Frank. Good old handsome, wonderful, generous Frank.
Patty says I'm funny when I drink, but I like to think my wit doesn't come out of a bottle. It's just that most people don't understand my kind of humor. It makes them uncomfortable. So most of the time, I put a lid on my kidding so people around me don't get pissed. Except at Dugan's, of course, where it doesn't make any difference.
I don't know why I'm going on like this. I should be worrying about where I go from here. I've really done myself in this time.
This afternoon, after I had fortified myself sufficiently, I went over to the hospital to talk with Mullens. To reason with Mullens. He didn't want to see me. He made that clear enough. I insisted ever so gently that he give me a few minutes. How goddamn humiliating for me to have to beg him for five minutes of his time.
I affected my most humble manner. I practiced it all the way over there. Sir, I called him. I can't believe I actually called that sheep's prick Sir. I truly beg your pardon if anything I have done has offended your most elevated standards for this institution. I am most apologetic and seek your forgiveness. What a sorry taste that speech left in my mouth, but I said it with a straight face. I'm not without theatrical ability.
Frank, he said, puffing himself up like a turkey in heat, it is my duty to maintain an elite cadre of highly disciplined physicians at this hospital. You have breached that discipline publicly and must be severely punished for it. You're suspended from surgical privileges for two months, starting today. I don't want to see you even near this hospital until you're reinstated.
I was floored. What am I going to tell my patients? Two months is outrageous and I told him so, still trying very hard to maintain my composure. He waved me away like some lowly orderly and said he didn't have time to argue with the likes of me.
I couldn't stop myself. I grabbed the little sonofabitch, yanked him off the floor, and shook the daylights out of him. I don't even remember what I said. All that sticks in my mind is the terrified look on his face. I just wanted to kill him and I'm sure he knew that.
I'm finished there.
I went home last night and told Louise everything. I wanted her help in figuring out what I should do next. What a mistake that was. She had already talked to someone at the hospital, probably that carrot-topped cunt Helen.
She cried and yelled at me from the minute I walked through the door. She couldn't find it inside her to forgive me or even understand my side of the story. She just took it for granted I was wrong and Mullens was right.
I think she's finally shown her true colors. She didn't marry me. She married a doctor. She bought a ticket to money and social standing and now she feels cheated. She doesn't give a damn about how I feel and the crisis I'm going through. All she cares about, all she ever cared about, is herself.
She said she's leaving me. After she calls her father, she and the boys were going to take the train back to St. Louis. Good riddance. I don't need a wife like her.
What an ugly sneer she had on her fat face. I was no good, she yelled, a crazy drunk, just like my father. Her friends had warned her, her lousy fat girlfriends, not to marry an Irishman. They're all drunks, they told her. God how I hate her. I just wanted to strangle the life out of her.
If I was such a bastard then how come I spent every cent I made on things that made her happy? In a city where half the people don't have the money to buy a decent meal, she goes out and buys a set of new china dishes.
I went over to the cupboard and threw every one of those expensive dishes on the floor. From the look on her face, you would have thought I was bashing in the skulls of infants. If you're going back to St. Louis, I told her, you won't be needing these. And me, I never ever needed them.
I went upstairs and packed some clothes. The door to the boys' room was closed. I can't imagine they could have slept through all that racket, but at least they weren't crying. I wish now I had gone in and talked to them. I may not see them for some time, if she makes good on her threat to leave.
I went to Dugan's last night. Maybe for the last time. The heads really turned when I walked in. Bertie wasn't there. I wonder if he stayed away purposely so he wouldn't have to see me. Driscoll was there, but then Driscoll's always there after work. He was friendly to me, but it wasn't the same. I have crossed over the line. He kept looking around at the other people from the hospital who were watching us. He's nervous about being seen with me. Even with all the money his family has, he still has to deal with Mullens.
Too bad it was Patty's night off. She would have given me a sympathetic ear. No reason for her to change colors on me. I had just one drink and left. I was really feeling rotten. Having all those sanctimonious hypocrites from the hospital around me did nothing to lift my spirits.
I needed some excitement and loud music to take my mind off things, so I decided to go slumming and check out a few of the dives on Prospect that everybody talks about. Those people there surely don't give a damn if you roughed up somebody.
It's really the dregs of humanity in those bars. Very absorbed with the basics. Like finding their next drink. Getting layed. Stealing a warm coat or a new pair of shoes. But they were having fun, and so was I, watching them. Poor as they were, they were laughing and dancing and shouting. It made Dugan's seem like a church social.
Just a few patients today. I slept off the ghastly hangover I had from my outing last night. That's what I get for drinking that cheap whiskey they serve in those bars. There was nothing much to do all day except read the paper, listen to the radio and drink.
Only one person called, my cousin Michael. He wants to meet me downtown for lunch tomorrow. I hope it doesn't mean Mullens is going to press charges. No, he couldn't do that. The hospital wouldn't expose itself to the publicity.
I wonder what would cause Michael to call me. He never calls me. The only time I ever see him these days is at weddings and funerals. I guess we've drifted apart over the past few years. He's busy with his work and I with mine. The whole family used to get together at least twice a year, once in the summer for a picnic in his backyard and then again at Christmas time. I'm not sure why that all stopped.
I've got to get out of here tonight. I can't stand to be cooped up in the office any longer. I guess I'll go back to Prospect Avenue again. At least nobody knows me there. I won't get any shit about what I did to Mullens.
Another beautiful day in Cleveland. It's been pouring ever since this morning. I sent off two letters to local hospitals today to see if I could develop an affiliation with one of them. Beatrice, the lady in the office across the hall, was kind enough to type them for me. It's not going to be easy finding another hospital, particularly when they check on my reputation with that sonofabitch Mullens.
In the meantime, I need to get some nonsurgical patients. I had Louie change the sign on my office door to say Physician instead of Surgeon. I can always change it back later. Things have been abnormally slow. Only had one patient today. I examined him and referred him to Driscoll for surgery.
I called up the hospital and told them to send my things to my office. Margaret was real nice to me. Said she was sorry I wasn't there any more. That makes two of us. Goddamn Mullens. I hope he rots in hell.
I met Michael for lunch downtown at the City Grill. I must say he is doing well for himself. He looked real dapper in his camel hair coat and new gray suit, very much the image of a successful Congressman. I tried to keep the conversation on politics, the subject he loved, but it didn't work. He got right to the point. He heard about Mullens and was concerned about me and the family.
He started in about Father. How his drinking had broken up the family. He said before Father started drinking so heavily, the two sides of the family had been very close. Every time there was a birthday, we'd go over to celebrate at Uncle Dominic's. I remember that so vividly. Michael's mother would always make her fabulous yellow cake with white coconut frosting. I don't think I've ever had one since that has been so good.
Michael said the reason all that stopped was that Father started getting drunk every night. Uncle Dominic didn't want him in his house when he was drinking so heavily. So the birthday parties ended, but we still all got together at Christmas until Dominic and Father had a big argument over his drinking. After that, we didn't get together much at all.
Then Michael started in about Mama and what his drinking had done to her. I hadn't really thought about it before, but Michael had known Mama much longer than I had. Michael was about eighteen when she died. He went on and on about how much Mama suffered and how the family blamed her death on Father. That's where I stopped him. I wasn't going to listen to anyone, not even Michael, say that Father had killed her. It just can't be true. Michael's just exaggerating, as usual.
It's strange what you can recall from your childhood and what things slip away forever. I remember, as though it were yesterday, Maureen's fit over the mitten that I lost when I was nine or ten years old, but I can hardly remember my mother's funeral. It must have been the saddest day of my life, but I absolutely cannot remember anything but the sketchiest details.
Michael said after Mama's death, Father just got worse. Uncle Dominic used to have Michael bring food over to Maureen when Father was at the tavern. Dominic would come over himself a couple of times every week just to make sure we were all right.
I told Michael I didn't appreciate him talking the way he did about Father. Yes, he drank too much and sometimes he got violent, but then he was in a lot of pain because of his back. As much as I hated Father and despised what he did to us, I'm very sensitive about anyone, even my cousin, talking about him. Maybe it's because I'm so ashamed of what he was. I'd just as soon forget he ever existed.
Michael is so concerned I'll end up like Father, but I told him not to worry. I can stop drinking anytime I want to. Besides, compared to Father, I really don't drink that much at all. And I'm a doctor for Christ's sake. I'd know if things started to get out of hand.
Just then, a big red-faced man in a nice looking suit came over to the table to see Michael. Michael introduced him as one of the municipal court judges. He sat down and joined us for coffee.
I was particularly relieved to have the subject of conversation shift from me to city politics. I just sat and listened. Most of their conversation was about what a nincompoop Mayor Davis is, but there was one piece of news that got my attention. Michael's friend just heard a rumor from someone fairly high up in the government that Eliot Ness, the man who got Al Capone in Chicago, was coming to take a job in Cleveland.
While Michael and his friend were talking, I excused myself and told Michael I had some patients to see. It wasn't true, but it was a plausible way of getting out of any further conversation with Michael.
After lunch I went over to Kathleen's where Billy was home for a change. Kathleen was very somber, but Billy was real happy to see me. He grabbed my hand and shook it. Said he'd heard about how I punched out Mullens. How the story changes as it gets passed around. He congratulated me, wished he could do the same thing to his boss at the mill.
Kathleen started to cry. Very softly. Billy didn't even notice. It looks like I'm everybody's big disappointment in life. I only stayed a few minutes.
I went slumming again last night and stopped in The Squire. I hadn't been there in years. It looks like it's becoming a queer bar, of all things. Walter's still tending bar himself. Old bastard must be in his late sixties by now.
I asked Walter why he let all these queers in his bar. He said he didn't care as long as they left him alone. He told me that his business was actually picking up now that the queers were coming in all the time to meet other queers.
I don't see how he can stand to be around them. I just drives me crazy to listen to that way they talk. I think old Walter is making a big mistake letting his place get known as a queer bar. He'll never get his regular customers back and eventually those damn queers will flit off to some other bar and leave him with an empty place. I told him so, but he didn't listen. Germans are like that. They're so stubborn, like polacks.
There was a nice clean-cut blond kid sitting by himself next to me at the bar. He couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen. He didn't look like one of the queers, so I struck up a conversation about how the Indians might do this season. He was from New York City and a big Yankees fan, but he said as long as he was here in Cleveland, he'd go to the Indians games. I bought him a beer and he shared some of his pretzels with me. It wasn't a half bad conversation.
If my powers hadn't been under such a cloud last night, I would have seen the problem coming and avoided the whole mess. I was anxious to get out of there, so I downed my drink and headed to the back to relieve myself. A few minutes later, the blond kid came in the john and started combing his hair. I didn't pay much attention to him. But after I took a leak, he came over to me while I was washing my hands. Goddamn, if he didn't turn out to be one of Walter's queers trying to get friendly with me. I grabbed that cocksucker by the throat and pinned him to the wall. The next thing I knew Walter was in there pulling me off the guy. Walter, I said, I don't care if you like these bastards, but if one of them ever puts a hand on me, I'll cut it off .
I'm not sure why I'm so touchy about queers. It probably goes back to the war when I was a medic. There was another medic I was real close friends with named Eli. I can't think of his last name any more.
The friendships that built up during the war were particularly intense. Sharing the fear and horror with someone on a daily basis creates a real bond between men. And living day and night with the same person over so many months spawns a kind of natural intimacy.
Eli was an extraordinarily handsome man with black hair and huge dark eyes. The nurses were crazy about him, but he didn't pay much attention to them. He was an intellectual, an English teacher by profession and a poet of sorts. We'd often spend our few hours of free time talking about the couple of books that we were able to get our hands on. He was to me a small oasis of sanity in a world gone mad.
Then one day, it all fell apart. We were in the showers together, just the two of us. I looked over at his fine, slim, muscular body and wished I had a face and body like his. The next thing I knew, I had an erection. I was just overwhelmed with embarrassment.
I prayed he hadn't noticed, but he had. His eyes locked in contact with mine. His big, dark searching eyes signaled to me his approval. He didn't say a word.
I was very shaken by that experience. The bond had been broken. I avoided him after that and worried a lot about myself. I remember the sadness in his eyes the few times we glanced at each other.
I was the one who found him a little over a week later, lying in the trenches with the side of his head blown off. Even today, so many years later, I am so upset when I think back on it. I'm not sure if it's the attraction I felt for him or my breaking off of our friendship just before he died that makes me feel worse.
I decided after last night, I'd stay away from The Squire for a few more years. I wasn't anxious for any more incidents with queers. I went back to the bars on Prospect where I had such a good time a few nights ago. Those places are much more educational. There is a phenomenon in these downtown bars that I didn't see much in the places I normally went. These creatures have developed a code of behavior and a kind of pecking order one would expect to see in a society of chimpanzees or orangutans.
The minute a man dressed in a decent suit walks into one of those bars, up go all the antennae of the little beasts inside. I suspect their first instinct is self-preservation. They need to figure out whether the man who has come in is prey or a potential predator, like a plain clothes cop.
Then the pecking order comes into play. First are always the prostitutes. There are usually at least three or four of them in those bars. Naturally, these whores will range in age and attractiveness. Particularly interesting is that without any conference or signals amongst them, the whore most likely to succeed with a particular client is the one who makes the approach.
I've watched this process now about ten or twelve times and the pattern emerges. If a relatively attractive or prosperous looking stranger comes into the bar, the youngest or best looking of the whores goes after him. Whereas, if the man is ugly or poorly dressed, it's the less attractive or older whores who approach him. If he isn't interested in the whore that approaches him, then none of the other whores will go after him that night.
Thank god, they don't know I'm a doctor or all I'd hear about are their gynecological problems, which must be considerable. There is an irony here. I'm a doctor looking to expand my medical practice and these bars probably represent more medical problems per square foot than any other place in the city. But I can't imagine having these creatures as my patients even if they had enough money to pay.
The two-bit con men come after the whores in the pecking order. They are generally more interesting than the whores, although I must confess I'm disappointed by their lack of creativity. No wonder they're such losers, they set their sights so low. Most of them are just looking to talk me into buying them a few drinks or giving them my spare change for a meal.
At least they offer some amusing conversation while they drink whatever I feel like buying them. Once or twice, they've tried to sell me a watch or a fake diamond ring. One jerk tried to get me to follow him out to the parking lot to see some stolen suits he said he had in his car. As though I would be stupid enough to do something like that.
Maybe I should have gone out with him. I could have beaten the slop out of him and any friend he had waiting out there. Still, I don't need any broken knuckles. It's hard to operate on a patient with your hand in a cast.
Michael's comment the other day about Mama's death has really troubled me. I can't seem to get it out of my mind. I even dreamed about her last night. In the dream, I was a doctor instead of a child, sitting at her bedside, doing everything I could to make her well again. I was frantic, trying to save her, but she just quietly slipped from me.
I didn't have anything to do today, so I went over to the old neighborhood to see if Mildred Reilly still lived next door to our old house. I haven't been back there since we had to put Father in the hospital. Some hillbillies answered the door at Mildred's house. They never heard of her. I tried the house on the other side where Porters lived, but they're gone too. And the same with the Langs. Everyone's gone.
As a last resort, I went over to Holy Name and looked up some of the nuns who had been there since the dawn of time. One of them said Mildred lived with Micki now, her oldest daughter, over in Garfield Heights. Svec's her married name. I remember when Micki and Joe were married. They had the reception at the veteran's hall. Nice guy.
I looked her up in the telephone book and called. Micki answered. I talked with her for a few minutes and then I asked her if it would be okay to stop over. She was delighted and so was Mildred, whose loud, hoarse voice boomed in the background.
When I got to Micki's house, it was clear that she had done well for herself in marrying Joe Svec. They live in a nice house right near Garfield Park. Joe's now a manager for the telephone company. Good steady job. Micki has three daughters and is taking care of Mildred and her mother-in-law, who seems to be getting a little senile.
Mildred is looking well, though. She hasn't seemed to age much. The only thing is that her arthritis is getting quite bad and it's very hard for her to get around. But, she's still the same old Mildred. Barroom voice. Swearing like a sailor. Shanty Irish and proud of it. I've always liked her.
When I got to the house, Micki had lunch ready. Jesus, has she ever put on weight. She must be awful close to two hundred pounds. I remember when she used to have a terrific figure. She must be eating all those wonderful Bohemian pastries that she fixes up for Joe. She put out a plate of them and I ate every last one. I can't remember what she called them, but they have apricot and prune fillings. I could just live on them.
After lunch, Micki went to the store and left me alone to talk with Mildred. I couldn't very well start questioning her about Mama's death, so I eased her into conversation by telling her I wanted to know more about Mama. And since Mildred was her closest friend, I thought she might be able to help me.
Mildred nodded approvingly. Now Mildred just loves the sound of her own voice and would talk to me until next March if I would listen. To Mildred, there are no simple straight forward events. Everything must be understood in its rich complexity of circumstances. I knew I was in for at least an hour, maybe even longer, but what else did I have to do with my time? Micki had left a bottle of whiskey on the table for us. I poured a shot for Mildred and myself and let her start wherever she wanted to in her memories.
She asked me first what I knew about Mama's family. I told her it wasn't much. All I remember was that her maiden name was O'Hara and that she was born in Boston. When I told her I didn't ever recall meeting my grandparents or any of the O'Haras for that matter, she nodded sadly.
She told me my grandfather, Patrick Henry O'Hara, had been born the west of Ireland. When he was a young man, his uncle invited him to come over from Ireland to join his construction company in Boston. The uncle didn't have any sons of his own and took my grandfather into his company as a kind of junior partner. Over the years, the two of them made quite a success of the business and my grandfather eventually bought out the entire business when his uncle retired.
Mama and her older sister were raised in a great big house in a fancy part of the city. Mildred said Mama showed her a picture and it was every bit as grand as those big houses in Shaker Heights. They had servants too, a housekeeper, kitchen maid and a part-time gardener.
I was really surprised when I heard that. How could Mama have been born in those circumstances and end up the way she did in such poverty? I interrupted Mildred to ask, but she told me she'd get to that in due time.
She said Mama and her sister were sent to be educated at the Convent of the Sacred Heart in the mountains of western Massachusetts. The O'Haras had become very socially conscious and wanted their daughters to be educated properly so they could marry into important families.
And that's what Mama's sister Clare did. She married a lawyer from a very wealthy family. Mama had shown Mildred a picture of Clare. Mildred said that Clare was a striking beauty with long hair and huge dark eyes, but Mildred disliked Clare instantly. There was something smug and selfish about Clare that showed right through in the picture. Mildred said Mama never said anything bad about her sister, but she knew Mama and her sister weren't close.
Clare didn't look anything like Mama. Mildred said from the picture, you wouldn't even guess they were related. Clare had a vibrant, self-confidence to her that so often goes with exceptional looks. Mama was pretty, but in an entirely different way. She had a very quiet and fragile beauty like a delicate porcelain figurine.
Just as I was wondering how Father had gotten into her life, Mildred said when Mama was seventeen, she was home from the convent school during the summer. Father was a laborer in O'Hara's construction company. O'Hara used him to do some work on his house, along with some other bricklayers. That's how they met.
Mildred was always very blunt about Father, even to his face. She absolutely hated him and still does with a passion down to this very day. Your father used to be a very handsome man, she said begrudgingly, before he got so fat and bloated from the drinking. Black curly hair and dark penetrating eyes. But he was a no good, cheating, lying seducer, she added quickly. The no good part I already appreciated, the lying seducer part was new.
According to Mildred, the trouble with these young rich girls who were sent to a convent was that they were never prepared for real life. They were too sheltered. Nobody ever warned them about men like Father. Consequently, they fell prey to a fair face and a scheming tongue. Mildred went on to talk about her own hard life as the second oldest of eleven children in a poor family. But, she said, at least she grew up knowing a lot about the world, especially men.
Mama told Mildred that she loved Father the minute she set eyes on him. Mildred said Mama would have to have given him some encouragement for him to be so bold as to go after O'Hara's daughter under his own roof. She said that Mama was so naive at the time that she didn't even fully grasp what he was doing when he seduced her. That's the goddamned nuns for you, although I didn't say that to Mildred. Mama told Mildred that Father used to wait until everyone was asleep and then he sneaked up the back stairs into her bedroom.
That is, until my grandfather got wind of it. From what Mildred said, Father, rotten sonofabitch that he was, went bragging to some of the other men who worked for O'Hara that he was screwing O'Hara's daughter. My grandfather hit the ceiling when he heard about it. He fired Father on the spot and told him he was a dead man if he ever showed his face around Mama again. That night, he had Father beaten up by some of his men. Serves him right. I would have done at least that, probably more.
A few weeks later, he left Boston because O'Hara fixed it so he couldn't get any more work in Boston as a bricklayer. He went to Cleveland to stay with Uncle Dominic until he could get a job here. Mildred said he never even sent word to Mama to say goodbye.
My grandfather was so angry with Mama that he sent her back to the convent right away, but the damage had been done. She was already pregnant, but it was months before she understood the condition she was in. Mama told Mildred she was terrified of what O'Hara would do to Father when he found out, so she sold the little bit of jewelry she had and ran away from the convent. Somehow she found out Father had gone to Cleveland and came here in the dead of winter to find him.
Mildred was on the verge of tears as she told me what happened next. Poor Mama, alone and broke in a strange city. And when she found him, the miserable bastard didn't want to marry her. In fact, he had a new girlfriend. God, I wish he was still alive today. I swear I'd go knock his block off. How I hate him. At that point, I'd heard enough. I wished I'd just left well enough alone, but once I got Mildred wound up, I wasn't able to leave in the middle of her story. So I stayed, feeling more depressed by the minute.
Mildred said it was then Uncle Dominic got involved. Dominic told Father to marry her or he'd break his neck. I can just imagine that scene. Dominic was such a big man. He had a reputation for having quite a temper, but I never, in all the years I knew him, saw him lose it. It's a damn shame Dominic didn't break his neck anyway. Of course, then I would have never been born.
After a very quick wedding, Mildred said they rented the house next to her. Mildred said her heart just ached for Mama. It wasn't more than a month after they were married when Father started running around with other women and drinking up most of the money he made.
I asked Mildred why Mama suffered all those years without asking her family in Boston for help. Mildred said she wasn't really sure, but she thought it was a combination of Mama's pride and shame over what she had done with her life.
As I thought about it, I realized there was something more too that kept Mama with him. Something Mildred probably never saw. It wasn't always as bad as it seemed to people on the outside. Yes, there were many times, virtually every day for stretches of time, when he was a complete bastard. Drinking, swearing, beating us up over nothing. But there were times he was very tender and loving to her and us kids too. I remember him every once and awhile pulling her down on his lap and kissing her passionately right in front of us. Then, he'd pick her up and carry her into the bedroom and shut the door. It was hardly enough to offset his meanness, but it was something. Probably just enough to keep that spark of love alive in her.
I wasn't ready to sit through a couple of hours while she ran down every crime my father ever committed, so I pushed the story ahead the best I could and asked Mildred if she remembered the time a few weeks before Mama died when we all lived at Uncle Dominic's for awhile. Mildred rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling and said she'd never forget if she lived to be a hundred.
Mildred said Mama never completely lost touch with the O'Haras. She wrote several times a year to a cousin on her mother's side. That was how she found out that her mother had died suddenly from pneumonia the winter just after I was born. Mildred said one day, Mama got a telegram from the cousin saying my grandfather was desperately ill, dying from cancer. My grandfather wanted to be reconciled with his daughter and to see his grandchildren before he died.
Mildred said Mama came over to her house in tears. She wanted so much to go to Boston to see her father and show him the children, but Father forbid it. He still hated O'Hara and was glad he was dying.
Mildred convinced Mama it would be a sin to deny her father his last wish, so Mildred and Dominic scraped up enough money for us all to take the train to Boston. There was the expectation Mama's family would give us the money to get back, if indeed we ever did come back. None of us kids knew anything about it. Mildred had lent Mama a suitcase and helped her pack it secretly.
Then that night, Father, when he stumbled home stewed to the gills, found the suitcase and figured out what was going on. He flew into such a rage Mildred said she could hear him next door even though all the doors and windows were closed. My god, I remember that night too. I don't think I've ever been so frightened, not even during the war.
I was sure he was going to kill her. He just kept punching and beating her. He stripped off her clothes and made her stand naked in front of us. Then he hit her with the leg of the kitchen chair he had just broken. When she fell to the floor, he turned on Maureen. Maureen was hysterical, crying and yelling. He hit her so hard she fell back against the armchair and tipped it over. I ran with Kathleen and tried to hide in the closet, but he came after us and beat us with the chair leg.
Mildred said her husband ran over to get Uncle Dominic and Michael. It took all three of them to restrain Father. They actually had to tie him to the chair to keep him down. Mildred said she threw a blanket around Mama and Uncle Dominic carried her over his shoulder all the way to his house. Mildred took us and the suitcase over there too.
Mildred said Mama was unconscious for hours. There was a big debate on whether or not to take her to the hospital. Uncle Dominic didn't want to unless it was absolutely necessary, because he was afraid the police would come after Father and put him in jail. Then he'd have a hell of a time finding work. Mama finally came around, but she couldn't get out of bed for almost a week.
Mildred said she'd offered to send a telegram to O'Hara and explain what happened, but Mama wouldn't let her. She was too ashamed. She still hoped that she would be able to go to Boston as soon as she could get up and around. But it was too late, Mildred told me sadly. While Mama was bedridden, my grandfather had died.
Mildred told me Mama was never the same. She hardly ate anything and was too tired to get out of bed. Mildred said she tried to cheer her up, but nothing seemed to work. She just kept getting weaker until she succumbed to the infection which finally killed her.
I have some dim memory of that time, probably just a bit before she died. Kathleen and I had crawled into bed with her and held onto her. I think we sensed she was dying and tried to be as close as we could to her. Kids know things like that even when the adults don't tell them.
At the end, Mildred's story had quite an effect on both of us. I was sorry in a way to have dredged up such painful memories for the old lady. But, on the other hand, she was the only person still alive that knew the whole story. As sad as it was, it was a story that I needed to hear.
I thanked Mildred for telling me about Mama. To get her mind channeled back onto other things, I started her talking about her granddaughters, which cheered her up quite a bit.
Not so for me. The awful feeling of powerlessness I used to have when Father hurt her hit me full force. It's crazy to hate someone who's dead, but I do. I wonder just what I would have done if Mildred had told me that story when he was still alive. Gone over to Cleveland State Hospital, pulled him out of the ward and started punching him? He was so nuts in those last years, he wouldn't have even understood who I was or why I was hitting him. It wouldn't have been worth the trouble.
I've been doing a lot of thinking since I got back to the office. People can pretty much be broken down into persecutors and victims. I don't know if they start out that way at birth or whether different circumstances turn them into one or the other.
When I think about Mama and what I heard today, it seems to me that she was a born victim. She didn't have to have the life she did. She chose it. And even when it was so goddamned clear that marrying Father was the worst thing she could do, she stayed with him. I won't believe for a minute her parents wouldn't have taken her back. She just didn't try.
Mildred thought it was pride and shame that kept her from going back to Boston. I don't think so. I believe she accepted in her mind that she was a victim. As bizarre as it seems, she and Father needed each other. He needed to mistreat someone to make up for being such a loser and she, for some crazy reason, needed to be his scapegoat.
Maybe in some abstract way, it doesn't make any difference. Martyrs need someone to martyr them. But what an effect it had on us children. We were the unwilling victims of her weakness.
I suppose to some extent, we all recovered from it once we got out of that house, but not entirely. Kathleen, particularly, troubles me. I see her on the same path that Mama followed. After what we lived through, she goes and marries a stupid brute who treats her like shit and forces her to live in poverty. She's a victim. And now poor little Ann is a victim too. Where the hell does it stop?
I guess it's had its effects on me too. I'm sure all those beatings I took as a child had something to do with my shyness. For years, I was afraid of people. To this day, I'm uncomfortable around strangers unless I've had a few drinks.
Lately, I've fallen back into the victim pattern myself. It's just a variation of Mama's and Kathleen's. At home, I had Louise persecuting me, and at work, I had Mullens. No wonder I'm so unhappy.
I'm getting day and night turned around. I don't really remember what I did after the bars closed. I think I went to an after hours place with some colored guy. I woke up this morning in a colored neighborhood lying in the back seat of my car. I'm lucky I still have my wallet. Not that there's much money in it these days.
I can't remember when I've ever had a worse goddamn hangover. I just lay there in the back seat for what seemed like hours listening to the sound of the children going to school. I was too sick to lift my head off the seat. I didn't feel well enough to drive back to the office until late this morning and even then it was a real struggle. I threw myself down on the couch and slept until mid afternoon.
I went over to the house today to see the boys. This separation is very hard on them, as it is on me. They just don't understand why I'm not there with them anymore. They asked if they were going to have to live in St. Louis. I don't know what the fat beast told them so all I said was that I hoped not.
It's painful for me to see them so unhappy. They shouldn't have to be in the middle of this. I took Louise aside and told her if she'd stay here in Cleveland I'd do my very best to support her and the boys. Maybe she could help out some by working part-time until I can get on my feet again.
She sneered at that suggestion. There was nothing to keep her in this city, she said. If she had to go back to work, it was going to be in St. Louis where she had a real family. Her mind was made up and I damn well wasn't going to get down on my knees to change it. I went back in the living room and spent the next couple of hours playing with the boys. I wish there was some way for me to keep them here.
I should just stay here in the office this evening. If I had any common sense, I wouldn't go out when I feel so rotten. I've still got almost half a bottle of whiskey which should hold me for the night.
No, I've got to get out of here. This office is driving me absolutely crazy. It keeps reminding me of me of what a goddamn failure I am. What could be lonelier than an office building at night? I am a prisoner of my own making.
My imagination has run wild. What had started as a small fantasy is growing into an obsession. I can't seem to put it out of my mind. It's almost like the one that I used to have during the war when I had all that anger bottled up inside me.
There was no emotional deliverance for me as a medic. No relief from the stench of decayed and burnt flesh. No refuge from the cries of the wounded and dying. No way for me to get retribution for the numbing horror that built up inside me until my mind almost snapped.
My only release was fantasy. I used to think of what I was going to do with a goddamn kraut when I got my hands on one. Shooting wasn't nearly good enough. In my mind, I devised a slow and exacting punishment for everything I had seen and felt. I don't know how many times that fantasy went through my head. It seemed to keep me going during those awful war years. I never did it though. The opportunity was never right.
I tried out a new bar last night on Prospect called the Silver Bird. What a fancy name for a dump. The dirty walls are painted the most revolting shade of flamingo pink. In back of the bar is a huge, hideous painting of what looks like a silver chicken on a black velvet background. And the smell in the place! It just reeks of onions and garlic.
The owner is a fat, stupid Cuban named Jorge. For some reason, he has taken a fancy to me. He wants me to bring in all my friends to his place. He thinks his bar is much too classy for the scum that comes in there now. That's a laugh.
There's an air of violence in that place I felt as soon as I walked in. It made my skin tingle. With that mixture of spics, booze and whores, I kept expecting at any minute for someone to pull out a switchblade. Maybe I'm completely nuts, but it's the danger that attracts me to the place. It's so intense, right at the core of my most primitive passions.
The place was crawling with whores. There was one wildly voluptuous dark haired girl with miraculous breasts. I just wish I could be satisfied by something as simple as a quick lay with a whore. It just wouldn't be enough though.
Sometimes I think I'm losing my grip on reality. I can be sitting at the bar drinking and then gradually all the people around me fade into the background, like I'm in some kind of dream. It's like I'm standing back and watching myself enact the fantasy. When it reaches its conclusion, and its always the same conclusion, a tremendous feeling of pleasure sweeps over me with an intensity I have never felt before, like a long, extended orgasm.
I better not go back to the Silver Bird anymore. That little spic bastard will probably have his friends waiting for me. Except for my sore knuckles, I feel pretty good today. Beating the crap out of that punk released a lot of the tension that's been building up. What a stupid shit he was to pick a fight with someone my size, even if he did have a knife. But I'm glad he did. I haven't been in a real fight for so many years. I'd forgotten how damn good it felt to just pound my fist into someone's face.
I'm so restless. It's hard for me to sit still long enough to write. I can't get this damned fantasy out of my head. Even during the day, I relive it over and over. My mind keeps refining it, filling in more details. I find myself always on the alert for the chance to act it out. It will hound me until I do.
There was a whore who came into the Verdun last night. I noticed her as she worked the bar. She glanced at me, but didn't come over to the booth since I was talking with two guys.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye until she left. She seemed to know a few of the people at the bar, but the two guys I had been sitting with had never seen her before. She must not come in there often.
I should have followed her. Goddamn me! It might be weeks before she comes back there again. I didn't realize how right she was. She's more than right, she's absolutely
Yesterday was damn frustrating. The bartender at the Verdun said she only comes in every couple of weeks and he didn't know anything about her. I sat for hours until one of the guys that spoke to her last night came in. He thought her name was Betty and she usually worked the bars on Woodland and Kinsman around 55th. I left immediately and drove over to that area.
I didn't realize just how many bars are around there. I spent the whole bloody evening trying to track her down. It's almost impossible to get any goddamn decent information out of those people if they don't know you.
So there I sat drinking and dreaming. Bar after bar, but still no Betty or whatever the fuck her name really is.
I finally found her! I was sitting in Blake's on Woodland tonight when she walked in. This time she wasn't going to get away from me. I moved my drink over to a table where I could watch her as she sat at the bar. I was so excited I almost spilled my drink all over myself.
I caught her eye and smiled at her. She noticed me, but kept on talking with some old guy at the bar. Every once and awhile she'd sneak a look at me. I'd always smile back when she did. I played the game. As excited as I was, I wasn't going to spoil everything by rushing her.
It was pleasant enough just to watch her for awhile. She's quite slender with a very young face and almost childish features. Very small boned with that fragile quality that I find so appealing.
Eventually she came over to my table and sat with me. I hope she finds me attractive. Then I did something I know I damn well shouldn't have. I told her my first name and that I was a doctor. I wanted to impress on her I wasn't just some run-of-the-mill guy in a suit. It seemed to work.
It was very difficult to sit there and chat with her when the desire inside me was becoming so strong. I almost couldn't control it.
After about fifteen minutes, she told me she had to leave. I almost pissed in my pants. I hoped she didn't see the panic on my face. I asked her if I could met her later. She suggested that maybe we could get together tomorrow instead.
At last I got my wits about me and told her to meet me at the Holder Tavern, which is close to my office. I said I'd wait for her there at eleven o'clock. She smiled as she left with the older guy at the bar.
As disappointed as I was that she left me tonight, I have some time now to plan everything for tomorrow. I'll buy her a couple of drinks at Holder's and then bring her back here to the office.
It's two-thirty in the morning. I'm too exhilarated to sleep. I'm at the pinnacle of my experience. Once again I am in control of myself. I know now the truth that has been hidden inside me for so long, the revelation I couldn't see before. Wouldn't see. I have emerged from the gray twilight of my repression. All of the torment is behind me now. I have once and for all established my strength and my identity.
I must capture this entire experience in minute detail before my memory erases it. I may never be able to recreate the wild excitement I have felt tonight. It has taken me so many years of anguish to reach this peak, I want to savor it for the rest of my life.
I was so nervous when I went to Holder's, afraid she might stand me up and all of my anticipation would have been for nothing. I went early just in case she came before eleven. I didn't want to miss her. She was, after all, a prostitute, and I couldn't chance her picking up some other man before I got there.
I just sat there and worried. Maybe I should have suggested a place easier for her to get to. How would she get there anyway? She'd have to take a bus or have someone with a car drop her off. I cursed myself for my stupidity.
When eleven o'clock came and went, I knew she wouldn't come. It was my own fault. Why should she come all that way to meet me when she could find men so much closer. Had I really impressed her enough that she might look at me as something more than a client? Maybe someone who would keep her so she wouldn't have to work. God only knows how whores think or even if they do.
I kept pouring whiskey into myself as the minutes went by. I had an eye on the door every minute in case she walked in. Fifteen past the hour and still no sign of her. At the rate I was drinking, I'd have been too drunk to do anything about it if she ever did come. I switched to beer.
At twenty-five past, all of my fears were put to rest. I saw her long dark hair as she passed by the window. I was beside myself with joy. I waited until she came in and started to look around for me, then I stood up and waved to her from the back of the room.
She came toward me slowly. She knew she had a very sexy way of walking and did everything she could to accentuate it. Her coat was loosely thrown over her shoulders so as not to conceal the provocative sway of her sleek hips.
This sensuous advance was not lost on me. She must have seen that on my face as she drew closer. The long straight brown hair hung down in her face, partially covering her left eye. I hid my nervousness with a broad smile. She winked back at me.
I took her coat from her shoulders and put it on one of the empty seats. Then I pulled out her chair and seated her opposite me. She was pleased at the courtesy I was showing her, something she was clearly unused to from other men.
I went up to the bar and brought us back a couple of drinks. She was very quiet, almost demure. I did most of the talking, about trivial things like the weather. Slowly, she started to open up. Not that she had anything of real value to say, just the kind of drivel one would expect from a prostitute. I could tell she was starting to feel comfortable with me, attracted to me. I could see it in her eyes as she spoke.
She crossed her legs and brushed my leg momentarily in passing. That sudden unexpected touch of her flesh sent a thrill through me. I had to repeat it. After a few minutes, I moved my leg against hers, very tentatively at first. She didn't move away. I pressed my leg more firmly against hers and she smiled.
She seemed to sense my shyness with women, a defect I've tried for years to hide behind courtly manners, and let me work up to things at my own pace.
I asked her if she had to be home at a particular time, not wanting a repeat of what had happened last night. She said the buses stopped running at twelve-thirty and she would need a ride home. I assured her I would drive her wherever she wished.
When we finished our drinks, I offered to show her my office. I told her it was almost next door. She liked that idea and so we left through the back door. It's closer to get there through the alley, I explained. All of the offices were dark except for the hall lights.
I led her into my inner sanctum where I have my desk, my books, and the couch that I've been sleeping on. I turned on the small lamp on the bookcase which gave the whole room a kind of dusky glow.
I showed her all the unique things I had collected and displayed in my office. Trophies I had brought back from Europe after the war and the souvenirs from my trip to the Canadian Northwest.
I told her to make herself comfortable on the couch while I got some ice for our drinks. When I came back, she had slipped off her shoes and sat with her feet tucked under her.
I took off my jacket and she watched me silently as I folded it neatly and placed it on the chair. Then she motioned me over to the couch and stood up in front of me. Without her high heels, I towered over her. She reached up and loosened my tie. Why don't you take this off, she said, office hours are over. Then she undid my cufflinks and put them on the lamp table, while I rolled up my shirt sleeves.
I sat down next to her on the couch and put my arm around her. She drew even closer. I was in no rush, so I lighted cigarettes for both of us and picked up my drink.
I had it all rehearsed in my mind earlier that night. The exact words I was going to use to explain the unusual request I was going to make. I had to say it in such a way that she didn't get frightened and leave. I also had to make it clear to her if she went along with what I asked she'd get much more money than she usually did.
I was very nervous. Under the best of circumstances, I'm awfully awkward with women, even women patients sometimes. The prospect of asking her to do something so out of the ordinary was paralyzing me. I felt I had to ease into it.
I polished off half my drink and then I started. I have this recurring fantasy, I told her. She smiled coyly and pressed her knee firmly against mine. Tell me about your fantasy, she purred, putting my hand on her leg, just above her knee. Whatever I was going to say next was lost in the intense distraction of my hand on her body.
Very slowly and gently, I moved my hand up her thigh. Her hips started to awaken to my touch, drawing my hand further and further up her leg until I had reached the fabric of her panties. As though unconsciously stopped by the cloth barrier, my hand moved back on her thigh.
Shall I take these off? She asked softly. My mouth went dry. I nodded and watched hypnotically as she stood before me. With a few flicks of her wrist, her skirt came sliding down to the floor. Next came her black silk panties.
So slender and childlike in the lamplight, she could easily have passed for a girl of sixteen. Do you want me to take off my blouse too? She asked, confident of what my answer would be.
I sat frozen in place. Yes, I answered hoarsely. Yes, take it off. She started to unbutton her blouse while my fingers played nervously with the button on the cushion. My mind was racing ahead of me. Things were going faster than I had planned. It had taken me so long to come that far, I couldn't lose control of it that quickly.
I had gone to so much trouble to plan this evening in the greatest detail. I didn't want it spoiled because this whore had some notion of doing things her own way. It had to unfold the way it did in my fantasy. Things had to happen in a very specific order or it was no good at all.
Maybe she was tired or bored with me and wanted to get it over quickly so she could go home. Or worse yet, go out again while the bars are still open and find another client. Yes, I thought to myself. That's what she wants to do. Get this over with and go back to work. I had kidded myself into thinking she was genuinely attracted to me. Her smiles, her coy glances, that initial demureness. All of that was a whore's trick. How many hundreds of men before me had seen that performance.
She stood in front of me completely naked, assured that she had taken matters into her own hands. None of my slow courtship for her anymore. Let's get down to business is what she was really saying to me. Time is money.
I sat where I was and did nothing. Anger was rising quickly inside me. She waited for a few moments and then she sat next to me, one arm draped around my shoulder. Here was the seasoned whore, experienced in encouraging the shy. Don't be afraid, she said to me in a patronizing tone as though she were speaking to a nine year old boy. Her hand reached for the front of my pants.
Not yet, I said, pulling her hand away roughly. She retreated, startled by the abrupt change in my tone. I pushed her down on the couch and regained control. She was surprised, but satisfied that I was at least taking the situation in hand. I sat on the couch beside her and put my hand on her breast. I squeezed hard. She cried out in pain and tried to sit up, but I pinned her back with my other hand.
You want this to be over soon, don't you? I said to her, still squeezing her breast. I thrust my fingers up into her forcefully. She cried out again. This time I put my other hand over her mouth and pushed my fingers in deeper and deeper.
This must be the moment whores have nightmares about. Those quiet, lonely men who appear so easy to manipulate but turn suddenly into violent, angry animals. I'm sure she fancied herself an expert on men. She had me pegged as the shy, polite type she could use over and over again, and discard at her whim. Now she knew she had made a terrible mistake in judgement.
The more she struggled, the more excited I became. I rammed my fingers in harder. Her whole body rocked with the power of my thrusts. Her eyes bulged with fright and I heard her moan pathetically. Her terror just intensified my frenzy. I bit her breast hard and watched the blood appear on her chest, then I bit her all over her body. The blood was everywhere on her now. I put my face down in it and lapped it up like a hungry dog. I wanted to completely consume her.
I yanked her to her feet while she tried to fight me with the little strength she had left. Putting my hands around her neck, I choked her into unconsciousness. Then I carried her into the small surgery and laid her out on the table.
She was mine now. Completely and totally mine. No tricks. No deceit. I carefully pulled back her long brown hair and stretched it down over the end of the table. She lay there so still. I tore off the rest of my clothes and got onto the table with her. In that one brilliant flashing moment I will never forget, I took her. My power has never been greater. It surged limitlessly. Her body throbbed and convulsed, yielding completely and unconsciously to me.
It's six o'clock and I've slept away the whole goddammed day. I barely had the energy to get dressed. I've got to find some way of dealing with her. I can't put it off any longer. She's got to be out of here tonight.
I'm so depressed, I can hardly think straight. She is oppressing me, mocking me. I can't even stand to look at her. It's hard for me to believe this pale, stiff wretched piece of cold meat gave me so much pleasure last night. She is more trouble now than she is worth.
What a fool I was to tell her as much as I did about myself. With my luck, she told all of her whore friends she was going out with a doctor named Frank. The police will look particularly hard at me because my office is so close to Holder's Tavern. Worse, either of us could be remembered by the people in the tavern last night. And more people could recall me asking about her in those bars on Woodland. Goddammit, I sure have been stupid about this.
My only hope is that the police aren't going to spend any time looking for a missing whore. Whores must disappear all the time. I'm sure I'm not the only man in this city to vent his feelings on a prostitute.
[Editor's note: At times, several months of the journal are missing. Some parts are illegible or have been deliberately excluded because they do not add to the narrative of the Kingsbury Run story.]
This is such a goddamned ugly city. I just hate it. When I look outside my window, all I see are squat old buildings blackened by the soot of the mills. Trash and garbage blowing all around the street. Broken beer bottles and overflowing garbage cans everywhere. Bums huddling in doorways begging for the price of a drink. Skinny, half-starved dogs barking at every passerby.
Cleveland is a city of losers. Polacks and niggers and hillbillies. To them, success is a full-time job in some sweatshop. They work their stupid asses off just for enough money to pay the rent on some falling down shack. Failures, all of them. Fools and victims.
Early this afternoon, I went out for a walk. Bought myself a sandwich and walked a few blocks up 55th Street. Right off 55th is Kingsbury Run, the ugliest place in this ugliest of cities. On the floor of this filthy ravine are the tracks of the railroads going and out of the city .
Kingsbury Run is now home to the thousands of hobos live who have flooded into the city in the past few years, living in their little corrugated metal shacks, trying to stay warm with their little fires. They huddle together in their torn coats, drinking the sterno that will eventually destroy their kidneys and kill them. Human garbage is what they are.
Yet depressing as it is, this Kingsbury Run holds a scary fascination for me. I stood for almost an hour watching those pathetic, ragged creatures. This ugly ravine, on whose rim I stood so shakily this afternoon, is the ultimate degradation. The final graveyard of impossible dreams and unfulfilled expectations. They watched me, too, the hobos did. They looked up from their fires and saw me standing there watching them. Do they realize what a short fast fall it would be for me to tumble down there with them?
How I hate this city. It is a cancer. A disease grown monstrously out of control. Choking and killing off any hope of recovery and rejuvenation.
I've done it again. I swore to myself that I wouldn't, but I just couldn't help it. I didn't even plan it until I saw him last night in a bar on Central.
He was a short, stocky fellow in his forties from out of town. He was really down on his luck and drinking a lot. I got to talking with him and bought him a couple of drinks. Then after the bar closed, I brought him back to the office and gave him something to eat. While he sat there in my surgery, eating the sandwich that I made for him, I thought about how I was going to do it.
This time it was very different than with the whore. Now, I was sure of myself and knew precisely what I had to do, but I was impatient. He must have picked up on that because he kept watching me out of the corner of his eye.
From the moment I spoke to him, the need began building in me. It's like a ravenous hunger that won't be satisfied. All my wits and senses are subordinate to it.
I couldn't contain myself any longer. I went over to the sink behind him and started to putter around with some of the dirty glasses. Still carrying on my part of the conversation, I pulled a knife from the drawer and put it under a towel near the sink. I glanced over at him to be sure he hadn't seen it.
Then I grabbed him from behind and choked him with my arm. He gasped and struggled, but I tightened my hold on his neck even more. When he became unconscious, I pulled him over to the sink and readied my knife.
How sweet is that moment of ultimate power. His soft white throat stretched out before my knife. The single deep, determined cut and his life becomes mine.
It's like the thrill of the operating table. I am a primitive god surrounded by priests and priestesses, preparing for a sacred ceremony. The ritual proceeds as they lay out the naked creature before me like a sacrificial animal. I open its skin and hold in my hands its most precious possessions. As exciting as that power is, the expression of it is so often incomplete and unsatisfying. Some get well, others improve, just as often, they worsen and die, regardless of my skill. I have so little control over that.
But the power to take the life is totally mine. The result so clean and complete. I feel whole again. Rejuvenated.
I have denied myself too long. When the need arose, I suppressed it, but it didn't go away, it just grew. Now that I have given in, one isn't enough. I must have another.
I'll have to wait until tomorrow. Everything is closed now. Next time I want someone special. A challenge. Not another godforsaken, drunken loser. Someone young and smart, like that cocky young punk that tried to get me to write him a prescription for barbiturates. Yes, he's just what I'm looking for. He would be worth the risk. It's too bad it's so late. I'd love to get him over here tonight.
I'm sorry now that I wasted the three cents to buy the newspaper. The whole thing is completely devoted to all the religious bullshit going on around Cardinal Hayes. The city has gone completely crazy. You would think that Jesus Christ himself had just dropped in for a drink. I can't for the life of me understand why everyone is so thrilled about old Cardinal Hayes coming to town.
It's all over the papers, the radio stations are broadcasting events minute by minute. Ten thousand poor slobs lined Euclid Avenue today just to get a glimpse of him. Although I find this hard to believe, they expect a hundred and fifty thousand people to show up for his midnight mass at the Stadium tonight. All this for some gaudily dressed Irish priest.
Well, I've had my own little celebration here tonight with that young punk I met last night. He came into the Shamrock a little after nine. I purposely sat at a table alone, motioned for him to come over and asked him if he still wanted the barbiturates. His eyes lit up.
I told him he could have the hundred or so pills I had in my office and a prescription for a lot more, but he had to do some special favors for me. He understood exactly what I meant and winked. I told him that I was on my way out to the parking lot in back and he was to meet me there in five minutes.
When we got to my office, I told him to undress, which he did, leaving only his socks on. He stood there naked while I stripped down to the waist. He's a remarkably handsome boy. Nice long, lean body. Good set of muscles. A more highly developed chest that I expected to see on someone that slender. Perhaps he lifts weights.
I went over to him and put my arms around his shoulders. I asked him if he would mind doing something a little bit different that would greatly add to my enjoyment. He didn't seem to find my request the least bit unusual, especially since I put three ten dollar bills in his hand.
I took the piece of rope that I bought this afternoon and tied his wrists together behind him. I told him we would go into the other room where we could be more comfortable and pointed him toward the closed door to the surgery just across the hall. I followed behind him.
I pushed the door of the surgery open and he walked in. I came in right behind, shut the door quickly and turned the lock. The dim glow from the lamp in my study across the hall was shut off now that the door to the surgery was closed. The room was completely dark.
He heard the click of the lock and spun around to face me. What are you doing? Turn on the lights, he yelled. I could smell the fear in him, hear it in his voice. My nerves tingled in anticipation. The animal realized it was trapped.
My hands moved rapidly to his throat. He struggled and rammed his knee up sharply into my groin. Damn, the shock and pain of it loosened my grip on him. He was free.
I turned on the light. He was already several feet away from me when he saw the body of the other one, lying naked on the operating table. His eyes bulged with fright.
I lunged at him and brought him to the floor, knocking over the wooden stand next to him. Bottles and jars crashed, scattering broken glass in every direction.
I pinned him down with my weight, his hands still tied under his body. He struggled to throw me off of him, kicking and wrenching his body against me.
I had my hands around his throat again. His head twisted and gyrated violently as he used the strong muscles in his neck to loosen my grip on him. I pressed my whole weight down into my hands and squeezed tighter around his throat. His thrashing became weaker and weaker. His eyes closed. He was unconscious.
I dragged him over to the sink and carefully positioned his neck over it. It's becoming a kind of ritual now. I am very ceremonious and precise, like Cardinal Hayes preparing communion at the altar. One long deep incision and an ocean of ecstasy sweeps over me. I am transfigured.
I've had one of my more brilliant ideas today. I'm very excited about it. It came to me as I was thinking about what to do with their bodies.
It just hit me like a flash of lightning. Instead of cutting them up and dumping them in the lake like I did with the whore, I'll put them somewhere they are sure to be found. Why hide the bodies when nobody can tie those two back to me?
The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. It would be the most outrageous thing I've ever done.
Two nude headless bodies. This city can't handle that. The newspapers will go wild and the police will go absolutely nuts trying to figure out who did it. Everyone in the city will be scared to death to go out at night.
All because of me.
Now all I have to do is make sure that I don't get caught with the bodies. I think I have the details pretty clear in my head now. It's a fairly simple plan.
This is a Sunday night. Everything around here is closed up tight. I'll wait until around three in the morning when the streets are completely empty and carry them down to my car in blankets.
Then I'll drive over to Kingsbury Run and park the car at the top of that big hill. That's about as close as I can get the car to the ravine. It's really the ideal spot, because all the hobos are camped on the other side of the gully, across the railroad tracks.
The real trick will be carrying them down that steep hill in the dark without breaking my neck. I wish I knew of some way to get my car in closer to the ravine. No, I'm sure that's the only way it can be done.
When I get them down, I'll just lay them out there, stiff and clean, next to each other on the floor of the ravine, like an undertaker would.
I'm so excited that I've got goose bumps. I can't wait to see what happens when they find them.
All day, I've been like a child waiting for Christmas. Several times I drove by Kingsbury Run, expecting to see police cars, but nothing happened until five-thirty this evening.
When they came, they came in droves. I counted seven police cars, not including the unmarked cars the detectives drove. I milled around in the huge crowd that was gathering, listening to their rumors and speculations.
There must have been thirty patrolmen and detectives combing through the trash and weeds. The police kept us spectators more than a hundred feet away, so it was hard to see what was really going on. Finally, the word spread through the crowd. They found the heads.
I just wish I could be there when Coroner Pearse figures out that I stuffed the penis of the younger one in the older one's mouth and vice versa. I really hope he gets a chuckle out of that.
I think he'll be very impressed this time. Even though the surgery is no where near as extensive as on the whore, it is really quality work. Pearse has never tried to decapitate a human body with one single unbroken cut. If he had, he would understand just how well you have to know your anatomy to do that properly.
Well, tonight is definitely celebration time. I'm going downtown and buying myself one hell of a fine dinner. I feel like a king.
I cannot believe this! That goddamned cardinal took the whole front page and most of the first section of the paper. They put me on page thirteen. This city has its priorities all screwed up.
It was a pretty good sized article though, even though it wasn't on the first page. There was a picture of the younger one, Edward Andrassy. They identified him from his fingerprints.
The city should thank me for getting rid of that Andrassy trash. A cheap little hustler was what he was. Smoked marijuana. Broke up bars with his drunken fights. Sold dirty pictures. Pimped for the colored whores on Central. Prostituted himself. I'm glad I washed my hands after I handled him.
The article said a few things that are beginning to trouble me. Some old bastard told the police he was walking his dog by the top of the ravine around three-thirty in the morning and saw a black Chevy sedan parked there. The papers didn't say anything more. Jesus, I hope that sonofabitch didn't look at my license plate. I wonder if he could tell it was a 1933 model. It could be a real problem if they start talking to everyone with a black '33 Chevy.
The other thing is that the article said one of Andrassy's friends was at the Shamrock Saturday night. Before Andrassy came out to the parking lot to meet me, he must have told his friend that he was going out with someone.
I just hope that the police aren't lucky enough to tie those two things together. Like the car and the guy in the Shamrock. Either of those things alone isn't enough to nail me, but both of them together would be a disaster.
Not a goddamned thing in the newspapers today except my old friend the cardinal. He's having another one of his swell midnight masses again tonight. Doesn't the city ever get its fill of this shit? Maybe I'll go, just for a laugh. Wonder what he would do if he heard my confession?
Well at least someone in the family made the paper today. There was a picture of my dear cousin Michael with the cardinal at some dinner last night. I guess when you're an important politician you have to be wherever the cameras are. Still, it irritates me that he's in the news when I should be.
I wish to hell I knew what was going on with that police investigation. I'd sure like to know if they're tracking down men with cars like mine. If I were a detective, I'd start with the owners of black Chevy cars who lived on the East Side. Then I would narrow that list to men who were strong enough to carry those bodies down into the ravine.
After that, I'd start to look at the alibis of the men on that list. Whoever didn't have a good alibi for that early Monday morning I'd put in front of some of the people who were at the Shamrock Saturday night, like Andrassy's friend and the two bartenders. See if anyone recognized the men on the list. That would be the logical way to go about it, unless they end up with a list of three hundred strong men without alibis.
This is really worrying me. I feel like the noose is tightening around my neck. Of course, it wouldn't be hanging if they catch me. It would be the electric chair.
Not a thing about the Kingsbury Run bodies in either paper today. The goddammed cardinal is still the main event. It's very hard for me to tell just what the police are doing when all I read about in the papers are those goddamned midnight masses. I need some more reliable sources of information.
I went to a place called Porfello's Bar last night, right across from the Third Precinct Police Station. It's a plain, friendly bar with good food and decent whiskey. Tony, the owner, tends bar and his wife serves up sandwiches and spaghetti. I sat for hours buying drinks for cops when they came off duty. It was most revealing.
Everybody knows everybody else there at Porfello's, so it's not easy to break in on the conversations. I sat up the bar and ordered a drink. Then I started talking with the cop sitting next to me, making sure that I told him early on that I was Michael's cousin. It made a difference.
A few minutes later, another cop, an older guy, came into the bar and started talking to the cop next to me. The cop introduced me as Michael's cousin. I made sure that I bought a round of drinks for the three of us and we talked until the cop next to me went home.
That left me with the old timer, whose name is Dennis O'Donnell. Dennis is a short, little bit of a man in his early sixties with a head full of white hair. If he didn't slouch so much, he'd look a hell of a lot taller. Maybe that's what happens when you're in a desk job for a number of years.
I bought us another round of drinks and asked him if he was working on the murders of the two guys in Kingsbury Run. He said no, that was for the detectives to worry about. There are four of them assigned to the case right now, but that wouldn't last unless there was a big break pretty soon.
I asked him if the two men in Kingsbury Run were connected to any other murders in Cleveland. He didn't think so. Fortunately, he told me, weird murders like that weren't very common.
Dennis told me the current theory was that one of the Bohemians or Slavs, of which there are so many in this neighborhood, caught these two guys fooling with his girlfriend and fixed them for good. These Eastern Europeans, he explained, learn how to butcher in the old country. It's second nature to them.
We drank for another hour or so, but I didn't learn anything more about the investigation. I had to be a bit careful about what I asked him or I might draw too much attention to myself. What I need to do is meet more of the cops in Porfello's, especially the detectives.
There's still nothing in the newspapers about the police investigation. I'm not quite sure whether that's good or bad news for me. It seems like every reporter in town has been assigned to cover the Cardinal's every move. I am more than a little annoyed that this faggot priest is taking up the whole damned newspaper when everyone in the city is wondering about the two bodies in Kingsbury Run.
The people in this neighborhood sure are concerned about it. I went to buy some cigarettes in the drugstore yesterday. The woman in front of me told the clerk she won't let her kids anywhere near Kingsbury Run until the police catch the killer. I get such a kick out of walking around listening to people talk about my work without realizing who I am.
I went back to Porfello's last night and waited to see if Dennis would come in. He did, a little after six. I bought him a couple of drinks first and made some small talk, then I asked him how the Kingsbury Run case was going. He said the detectives were getting nowhere on it and were ready to file it away.
I asked him if all murders were handled that way. They are now, he said, especially if the people killed are nobodies. It didn't used to be like that, according to Dennis, but the police don't care any more. They're out to feather their own nests.
Dennis said he was glad he was going to retire in a couple of years. He used to be proud to be a cop. A good respectable job. People looked up to you and trusted you. Now, it's completely different. The cops protect the crooks and make a lot of money doing it. It wasn't just the guys on the beat either. It went way up to the top of the department. In fact, he'd seen good cops turned down for promotion because the bad cops didn't trust them. He was disgusted. Didn't feel good about his job anymore. Just putting in his time until he got his pension.
I asked Dennis what he thought about this guy Burton who is running against Davis for mayor. From what I read, Burton's whole platform is cleaning up the corruption in the police department. Dennis said it doesn't matter. The mayor would have to fire half the police force to make any difference. It just wasn't going to happen.
It looks like I don't really have anything to worry about. The police don't seem to be taking this case very seriously. I wonder how many people you can kill before anyone takes any real action?
I stayed and bought drinks for Dennis until almost eight-thirty. Then I went downtown to look for some excitement, but it was pouring rain and the whole damn town was closed up like a clam. So I came back here, dried myself off, poured myself a glass of the good stuff and picked up the newspaper.
I hadn't been to Porfello's in weeks. I stopped there tonight to have a few drinks with Dennis and his friend, a Plain Dealer reporter named Bill Hanley. Hanley is a tall, thin hollow-cheeked creature with thick horn rimmed glasses perched atop his hawk-like nose. He's as homely as a monkey's hind end, but he drinks like an Irishman and holds his liquor almost as well. He has a good mind and a strange sense of humor. I liked the guy the minute I met him.
Hanley was Porfello's conduit for what was going on at City Hall. His aunt was a secretary there and got all the dope way before anybody else. Burton, the new mayor, was making sweeping changes in the whole administration and Hanley had the inside track.
There were about ten of us hovering around the table with Hanley in the middle. He has a certain knack for dramatics and wanted to play his audience the best he could. He started out with the smaller stuff first, like who was going to be in charge of the port authority.
He saved the biggest scoop for last. The appointment that would affect nearly everyone in the bar. After an agonizingly long build up, Hanley said that Burton had called a press conference for tomorrow afternoon to announce the new safety director. He made them try to guess who it was, but nobody could.
Finally he told us it was Eliot Ness.
It looks like Michael's friend was right last year when he said that Ness was going to capitalize on his fame in Chicago to get an important political position. With Prohibition over, it was silly to waste his talents hunting down two-bit moonshiners.
Hanley was really excited about Ness taking over the police force. If anyone could shake things up, Ness was the one. Dennis was skeptical. From where Dennis stood, the force was beyond repair. It took fifteen years of neglect to make it this bad and it would take another fifteen years to make it better.
Dennis conceded that Ness might be able to get the recovery process going, but nobody, not even the guy who got Al Capone, was going to fix it overnight. Dennis didn't see Ness as the kind of man who would stay in the job long enough. He'd do a lot of flashy things like he did in Chicago and then dance off to his next promotion.
I had to side with Dennis. From what I had read about him, Ness looked like a guy on the move. For such a young man, he'd really made quite a reputation for himself. He wasn't going to stand still in the safety director's position any longer than necessary.
Hanley agreed that Ness wasn't going to retire from the safety director's office in a place like Cleveland, but even if Ness were only in the position a couple of years, he'd throw off enough sparks to light up the whole city during that time.
After all, as Hanley said, Ness had only been in Cleveland since August and he had shut down the largest bootleg liquor operation in northern Ohio. His agents were supposedly closing down a still every day. One of his raids caught two deputy sheriffs.
Dennis was starting to perk up as we talked about Eliot Ness. I think Dennis is really excited about the new safety director, but he doesn't want to get his hopes up too much. I understand how he feels. For over a year and a half now, I've gotten up my hopes over and over again that some hospital would let me practice surgery there, only to have those hopes dashed by one thing or another.
I am fascinated by this Eliot Ness. I wonder what he's really like. Michael should be able to get me into the press conference Ness is having tomorrow.
Today, I saw the new safety director. I sneaked into the press conference with my cousin. Michael disliked him instantly because Ness is such a Republican and Michael is such a Democrat, but I don't give a shit about things like that. I was very impressed with him.
It's not that Ness is dynamic looking. They say he's thirty-three, but he could easily pass for twenty-three. A real baby face, except for those eyes of his. They're so serious and determined.
He's very much at home with the newspaper people. Not even a little bit nervous. I didn't expect to see that kind of self-confidence in someone his age. He's a good dresser too. Expensive suit. Conservative tie. He looks more like a young stockbroker than a cop.
He's a lot taller than I had imagined. Somehow I had pictured him as this short, wiry little tough guy. Actually, he's almost my height. Slender. Very polished and urbane, much more so than the new mayor.
He told the reporters that he was going to be as cautious as possible until he did his homework on what was going on in the police department. Although he didn't know what exactly he'd do yet, when he did, he'd take action first and talk about it later.
Michael says the politicians are getting real nervous about Eliot Ness. He doesn't care whose toes he steps on to build his reputation. The politicians are scared that the new brooms are going to find a whole lot of shit that's collected in the corners of City Hall.
I can see why Michael doesn't like him. It's much more than Ness being a Republican. Even though Ness came out of the same poor immigrant background that we all did, he's a real climber. He's using his brains to get himself ahead, whereas Michael has never tried to rise above his class.
I was surprised when Michael told me that Ness has a reputation for drinking and partying. How could someone have put their life on the line everyday to close up the liquor operations in Chicago and still be fond of the bottle himself? He has to be motivated by ego, not thirst.
I don't know why I'm as excited as I am over this new celebrity. Maybe it's because I'm so bored. I wonder what would have happened if Eliot Ness had been in charge back in September. I'll bet those detectives would still be burning the midnight oil on the Kingsbury Run case instead of dropping the whole thing in two weeks' time.
The Plain Dealer had several pages on him this morning. I didn't realize that he had a master's degree in criminology. He's considered to be one of the best of the new scientific policemen, personally trained by the country's leading experts in police procedures.
I wonder if any of that learning will rub off on the morons who looked at my work as the work of a butcher. A butcher of all things. If those cops weren't so stupid, I'd be insulted.
I stopped off at Porfello's around nine this evening. Dennis was sitting with Hanley and another cop named Jack, who just got transferred into the Third Precinct from the West Side. Jack is a pleasant guy in his twenties. I'll bet my life that he was a football star in school. Big husky shoulders and a barrel chest. Dennis keeps razzing him because he went to college for a couple of years. That probably means a lot more to a cop's career now that Eliot Ness is in charge.
Jack told us about Ness's midnight tour of the Third Precinct. It started out with Ness hearing some sirens while he was having dinner with his wife at some fancy restaurant downtown. He sent his wife home in a taxi and ran out in the middle of the meal, following the sirens down a few blocks. The police were going after a burglar. Ness, dressed in his suit and tie joined in the chase and was jumping over rooftops with the cops as they pursued the guy.
The burglar got away, but, from what Jack said, Ness was all invigorated by the chase. He had the patrolmen take him back to the Third Precinct station where he decided to go out on calls with Jack and his partner.
Jack said that Ness was hell-bent to make a bust that night. It was a Thursday night and things were pretty slow, so Jack and his partner, wanting to make a good impression on the big boss, took him over to one of the biggest whorehouses in the city. They called for some help and raided the place. Ness was real happy and went home after that.
Jack never heard of a safety director that went out on a bust with his men. Even the chief of police didn't do that. Chiefs and directors sat in their offices and were dusted off for important dinners or funerals.
Dennis, as usual, was still playing the skeptic. He didn't see a raid on a whorehouse as much of an accomplishment. More like a publicity stunt.
I had been pretty quiet up till then. I said that it didn't matter whether or not raiding a whorehouse was small potatoes. Ness showed his men that he means business. He'll roll up his sleeves with the guys in the trenches. The word will spread throughout the whole force very quickly.
From all our previous conversations, we all knew that Ness had three big problems with the police. Corruption, incompetence, and very low morale. Last night, Ness was working on the morale problem.
Hanley reminded us that Ness had worked with the most corrupt police force in the country when he was in Chicago. If anyone could smell a bad cop, Ness could. The difference this time was that the cops worked for him now, whereas in Chicago, they didn't.
These are the times that I wish I had gotten into a more exciting line of work. Maybe even a detective or an army officer. The trouble is that even with a college degree, those exciting jobs don't pay very well. Nothing like what you can make as a doctor if you're willing to put in the time. It's definitely a trade off between excitement and money.
General practice is boring the shit out of me. There's absolutely no challenge to it. Colds, measles, bronchitis. Crotch rot. Athlete's foot. I feel like an actor with a string of bit parts in bad movies.
Not so with surgery. Surgery is a starring role in a major production. All the lights and equipment and technicians. The thrill of the incision. The awesome drama of working inside a pulsating, living body. The constant danger that something may go wrong and precipitate a life-and-death crisis.
How I miss it all.
I can really keep my finger on the pulse of things at Porfello's. The whole place was buzzing with Ness's surprise shakeup of the department that he announced late this afternoon.
Hanley gave me the details. It was just the two of us drinking tonight. Dennis had been dragged off Christmas shopping by his wife and Jack had taken his girlfriend to dinner to celebrate his promotion to detective. Hanley called it the biggest police department reorganization in more than a decade.
A hundred and twenty some cops were transferred, promoted and demoted. Over twenty percent of those were lieutenants and one was even a captain. Some guy named Hogan was put in charge of homicide. Hanley hadn't seen the whole list yet of the people affected, but the few names he did hear made it clear to him that Ness had done a lot of homework in a very short period of time.
Hanley guessed that a good twenty to twenty five percent of the force was involved in some kind of illegal stuff. Mostly bribery, but a few of them even did some of the mob's dirty work. No wonder the mob is so strong here.
After working as a police reporter for almost ten years, he saw the real problem as incompetence and low morale. The cops just didn't care anymore. The few that did, usually the rookies, were so badly trained and equipped that they were ineffective, which only made the morale problem worse.
Hanley and I stayed and drank ourselves into oblivion. I asked him if he had a family waiting for him at home. He said no, he was a bachelor. I teased him about it and then I wished I'd kept my big mouth shut.
He told me he was engaged once when he was a lot younger, but she died of some heart problem. He said that after she died, he never had an interest in going out with anyone else. The way he said it almost brought tears to my eyes. Is it better to lose your love from an early death or watch it die by inches in a progressively miserable marriage? I think it's the former.
