The sandwich was okay, the bread was fresh at least, but another beer from the bar downstairs to wash it down was better. Afternoon came, and the heat let up a bit; down to the mid-nineties. Customers, many of them male, and unaccompanied, went into the cafe; but none stayed long enough to rate even a suspicious glimmer.
By 7:00 P.M., I’d had five beers and as many trips to the hall john. The beers had taken no inebriating toll on me, spread out over the eleven or so hours I’d been here. But they—and the clicking bladed fan—had kept me awake, and alive. Evening was on its way—though it was still sunny out; who the hell’s idea was this daylight savings time crap, anyway?—and a reprieve from the communal hot seat would soon be in Chicago’s grasp.
Shortly after seven, Polly Howard (or Hamilton, as she was calling herself here) stepped out of the cafe, wearing a pink-and-white print dress with a bow in front. She must’ve changed out of her waitress uniform in the back. Despite having worked a twelve-hour shift in unbearable heat, she looked rather fresh, her reddish-brown hair bouncing above her shoulders as she looked side to side, a small purse in her hands held like a fig leaf in front of her.
Since she seemed to be waiting for someone, someone who might be about to pick her up, I hurried out of the room and down the stairs and then slowed to a saunter to find an inconspicuous spot on the street, to continue watch. I wandered up to the corner and picked up a
Maybe Polly
A cab pulled up and a man got out.
He was a handsome, dapper-looking dark-haired man with a pencil mustache and gold-rim glasses and a tailored gray suit, suitcoat slung over his arm. He was hatless. Not tall. Not short.
The cab stayed in place, motor purring as the man held the door open for Polly and she flashed him a smile that said her husband was in a lot of trouble.
He got in after her, and the cab pulled away, east on Wilson.
A second later I flagged the next eastbound cab and climbed in back and leaned forward and pointed.
“Follow that car,” I said.
4
The red taillights of the Yellow cab up ahead of my Checker were soon headed south, down Broadway; when we cut over on Diversey, toward the lake, it was obvious we were headed for the Loop. The guy in the gold-rim glasses and mustache must’ve wanted to impress pretty Polly, because they could’ve almost fallen onto the El, as close to the Wilson Avenue Station as her cafe was. And here he was cabbing it downtown. Throwing his—and my—money around.
That fifty-buck retainer was looking smaller and smaller.
When they got out in front of the Morrison Hotel on Madison, just a few blocks from my office—which I’d vacated to be closer to Polly, remember—I really began to resent the way the guy was spending my money. The Morrison had a traveler’s lounge where I freshened up each day, thanks to an arrangement the landlord of my building had made for me. Being led here was like following your wife and her boyfriend to your own house. Somehow I was beginning to feel as much a sucker as my poor traveling-salesman client.
Well, Polly and her pal probably weren’t here for the mattress—there were a few thousand less conspicuous places in the city for a one-nighter than a hotel in the heart of the Loop—so they had to be here for the nightlife.
Which irked me, because the Uptown area—which they’d fled by cab—was, at night, the North Side’s Great White Way. A hodgepodge of nightclubs and restaurants, to be sure, with its share of sleazy joints, but also ritzy ones and everything between. Why come to the Loop? Except to impress a dame and blow your money. And mine.
My cab went on by as the mustached man, his arm gently around the beaming Polly’s shoulder, went in the main entrance. I paid the cabbie around the corner—a buck for the ride and a dime tip—got out, made a note of the expense in my little notebook, and went around to the Clark Street entrance.
The Morrison lobby was plush, lots of gray marble and dark wood and stuffed furniture and bronze lamps and a ceiling that went up to heaven, which by Chicago standards is a couple of stories. At the fancy marble-and-bronze check-in there was no sign of Polly and her boyfriend. I had a good idea where they were.
A marble staircase led down to the Terrace Garden, a big shiny art-deco dine-and-dance spot the before-and- after theater crowd had made popular. We were in the “during” mode at the moment, where theater was concerned; but the place was still doing nice business. Great to see so many people had money to spread around in times like these—too bad I wasn’t one of them.
Polly and friend were seated at one of the round tables in the circular, terraced dining area that surrounded the sunken dance floor, where even now Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians played their bouncy, mellow brand of hokum while couples in evening attire—white coats for the men, low-cut formals for the ladies—mingled with real people, a certain number of world’s fair tourists among them, who met the dress code (ties for men, no slacks for women) but would never make the society page. Part of the reason business here was so brisk was the pleasant, even icy feel of the air conditioning. A man could get used to not drowning in his own sweat, given half a chance.
The food here was first-rate, but not cheap; I talked it over with my stomach and decided to take a table, despite being uncomfortable about calling attention to myself by dining alone—this was a couples crowd, almost exclusively, and I should probably just go stand at the bar. But what the hell. I ordered the boiled brisket of beef with horseradish sauce, made a mental notation of the expense (not wanting to take out my little notebook), and sipped some rum while I waited for my meal, watching Polly and her friend holding hands across their table, on the other side of the room from me, seated on the terrace level just above the dance floor, just as I was.
Polly was animated and constantly smiling; it was a nice smile, but it tried a little too hard. He seemed taken with her, but was more reserved: she seemed to be doing most of the talking. They had cocktails—gin fizzes, it looked like—and took in a dance before their main course arrived. They danced right by me, at one point, and that’s when I recognized Polly.
She, however, didn’t recognize me; or didn’t seem to, when I just barely glanced at them, between bites of brisket, over the little white fence that separated us, as they floated by.
Still, there was no mistaking her.
