A Bad Case of Heartburn

The dented steel door was situated at the base of a stairwell in an alley between two old tenements. The steady hum of passing cars was heard from 59th Street, and three stories above, pigeons foraged among the eaves and gutters. People came in measured spurts, careful not to travel more than one or two at a time, lest they spoil one of Chicago’s best-kept secrets, a “secret” known to a few hundred neighbors as well as half the local precinct.

A man stood in front of the door, his hands buried in the pockets of his gray overcoat, a black bowler with a matching bow resting on his closely-shaven head. His collar was turned up, obscuring his ear lobes and lower jaw. He was forty, 5’ 10”, gaunt, with a sharp nose, hazy blue eyes and dark stubble that peeked out from his muffled visage. Without once averting his inscrutable gaze from the battered portal before him, he lit a cigarette, smoked it, and tossing the butt aside, knocked sharply three times, his gloved hand softening the noise to a dull thud. A small sliding window opened and a pair of suspicious eyes surveyed him. 

“What’s your favorite color?” a woman asked.
        
        “Mahogany.”

       “You ever been here before?” came the next question, the voice ringing with mistrust.

       “Sure, Jane,” he lied. “Lots of times.”

       “Hold on.”

The window shut, and enough time passed to smoke another cigarette, but the man did not. If he was impatient at waiting in the cold alley he made no sign of it. At last came the sound of a large iron bolt being drawn aside, and with a creak, the door opened. Argus Buckley stepped inside to catch a tall, sultry blonde with a tray of cigarettes sauntering away from him, her hips swinging arrogantly. A small grin cracked his ashen face, like a lightning flash across a gray September sky. 

“Nice talkin’ to you, too,” he muttered. 
       
       The joint was dark, fetid and reeked of stale cigar smoke and whiskey. Three cheap chandeliers lined the fifty-foot ceiling. A few people played cards and drank at the dozen small tables scattered across the room. Others milled about with drinks in their hands, some engaging in conversation, some staring into space, lost in saturated reverie. Buckley climbed onto an empty stool at one end of the bar. He glanced at the people seated to the left of him. Two men in dark blue three-piece suits, each poring over a glass of whiskey, one of them stirring his drink lackadaisically with a toothpick. An older couple, probably man and wife, the former inhaling shots. Two flappers, talking animatedly. Not very lively tonight, which suited him fine. Buckley turned forwards and noticed the bartender staring at him.

“Gimme a ginger ale,” he said.

The bartender raised his eyebrows. “That’s all?”

“Okay,” Buckley said. “Half ginger ale, half Seagram’s.”

“How about Bob’s instead?” he suggested.

Buckley looked puzzled. “What’s that?”

“Tastes just like Seagram’s, only the label’s different.”

Buckley gave an obligatory laugh. “Sure.”

The bartender nodded, his expressionless face matching his dry wit. Within ten seconds he set the drink in front of Buckley.

“Two bits.”

Buckley tossed two quarters onto the counter, waving the bartender away when he tried to return the extra one. 

“Thanks.”

Buckley grunted in reply and downed half of his drink with one gulp. He drummed his fingers on the counter. Glancing across the room, he noticed an unkempt young man sitting alone at one of the card tables. The fellow glared at him defiantly. Buckley shook his head slowly and deliberately, a menacing gesture of quiet confidence. The man looked away. 

Buckley pulled a watch out of his left trouser pocket. 10:31. The place was emptying. Digging into his right pocket, he fumbled among keys and coins and felt for a small, rectangular bottle. He paused while trying to remember something, then without looking he fished the amber-colored vial out, unscrewed the cap and shook out two pills. Staring at his reflection in the bar mirror, he tossed the pills into his mouth, and washed them down with the rest of his drink. He flagged down the bartender.

“Salty Face here?” Buckley asked after two more drinks.

The bartender stroked his bushy mustache with a thumb three or four times, a prelude to a dramatic pause. “Mr. Peterson is here tonight. Who’s askin?”

“I’m a friend of Gino Riccardelli’s,” Buckley answered, partially telling the truth.

“Gino?” the bartender asked. “Hold on.” With that he stepped out the side entrance of the bar and walked to one of the two doors in the back of the room. With the small crowd nearly dispersed by now, Buckley heard the knocking and the brusque response.

“Who is it?” a gruff voice shouted.

“Frank.”

Buckley watched “Frank” open the door and step inside, closing it softly behind him. A minute later he came out, giving Buckley the thumbs up sign. Buckley nodded and sliding his stool out with a loud squeak, stood up and headed towards Salty Face’s office. The door was ajar, so he dispensed with knocking.

Salty Face was a pale, balding, obese man of 45, with thick pink lips and abnormally large eyes. He sat behind an oaken desk on which were stacked three or four piles of papers- each secured with its own paperweight. Also scattered across the surface were a stapler, a stack of quarters, and a two-day old copy of the Chicago Tribune. In the center of the organized mess, placed askew on top of the desk blotter, was a plate with the remains of a cold anchovy pizza. Salty Face was stuffing another soggy piece into his mouth when Buckley caught him. Salty Face froze, his feeding hand, adorned with a gaudy gold pinky ring, dangling in mid-air.

Chewing his last bite quickly, he wolfed it down and motioned for Buckley to sit in the chair in front of his desk. “Hey, there.” 

“Hey, there, yourself, ” Buckley replied. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

“That’s okay. You want a piece?”

Buckley wasn’t sure whether to be more disgusted by watching someone eat the gooey, congealed mess or by the fact that Salty Face had offered it to him. He kept his well-worn poker face, though. 

“No, thanks.” 

Salty Face shrugged. “What can I do for you?”

Buckley leaned back in his chair and stretched his long arms behind his head. “I’d like to make a little wager.” 

Salty Face waved his hand in a cavalier gesture of dismissal. 
“Talk to Frank.”

“This one’s too big for Frank,” Buckley said.

“Oh, yeah?” Salty Face asked. “What number you like? I don’t take more than fifty bucks on a single number.”

“How about five hundred?” Buckley asked, tossing a neatly wrapped stack of twenties on the table. “On the 1-2-4 exacta in a box, third race tomorrow at Hawthorne.”

Salty Face glanced at the pile of bills in front of him with mild curiosity. Looking back up at Buckley he said, “I don’t give odds on horses, Mr. . .?”

Buckley ignored the question. “Do you know a colored fellow by the name of Malthus Duncan? Retired machinist.”

“No,” Salty Face answered.

“Well, he knows you,” Buckley said. “Says he’s bet the horses with you a few times and you always paid him when he won.” Buckley tilted his hat. “Course, he doesn’t win much.”

“Well, he’s a liar,” Salty Face said, taking another bite of pizza. 

Buckley leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Is that so? How about Jack Green? And Joan Cohen? And Ricky DiSalvo? Are they liars?”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Salty Face demanded.

“I’m talkin’ about ten percent of everything,” Buckley finished, gritting his teeth. “Ten percent of the money from the booze, ten percent of the numbers, ten percent of those horse bets.” Buckley leaned back and folded his arms. “Gino sent those people, with money he gave them, to see if you’d take their horse bets. An investigative expense.”

Both men were silent, waiting for the other to speak. Buckley did. “We caught you red-handed,” he said. “You got one choice: get lost. That’s right from Gino’s mouth,” he explained, almost apologetically. “I’m just a messenger. But you better be gone by tomorrow night. Gino's gonna send somebody to take over."

Salty Face’s jaw dropped, and an anchovy fell onto the desk. 

     “You gotta be kiddin.' So I took a little action on the ponies. Gino wants ten percent? I’ll give it to him.”

Buckley shook his head. “You don’t get it. Gino says get out. By tomorrow, Salty Face.”

Salty Face grew livid. “Nobody gets rid of me that easily,” he hissed, and reached to open a drawer.

Buckley knew the move too well. Instantly his hand disappeared inside his coat and there was a glint of black metal, followed by two pops of a silencer on the end of a .45. Salty Face jerked back violently, his arms waving wildly. “You son of a bitch,” he gasped. He slumped forwards and caught the edge of the desk with both hands, then collapsed.

Buckley returned his Colt to its shoulder holster. A sharp, searing pain ignited in his stomach and raced up his chest. Shouldn’t have mixed those pills with booze. Now he had a bad case of heartburn. He took one unemotional farewell glance at Salty Face, half-lying in his unfinished meal, the bundle of cash sitting by his head. “Buy yourself some flowers.” Standing beside the door, he opened it a crack and before exiting, remarked for the benefit of any would-be listeners, “I’ll check back with you next week.” Pushing in the button that locked the office door, he slid through the narrow opening and closed it behind him. As he passed Frank, who was wiping the counter, he waved goodbye and was let out by the tall blonde, who was as unsociable as ever.

The night was cold and dark as Buckley pulled up to his house at 2224 Lakeside Place on the North Side. The car door made a loud sound as he shut it, though he had not intended to slam it. Inside the foyer, his boots echoed hollowly on the hardwood floor. He hung his coat and hat on the rack, and was hit by a wave of vertigo as he walked into the parlor. He stumbled, grabbing hold of his recliner. He felt his way around to the front of the chair, his vision blurry, and sat. His stomach rumbled, and he had an image of dying coals in a fire. Pensively he rocked back and forth a few times. Hands shaking, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his pack of Camels, lighting another. The first drag eased his symptoms a little, the second a little more. A faint humming started in his ears, and began to sound like the distant whisperings of a hundred malicious voices. “Stop,” he ordered, and they did.

       Buckley stared at the window on the opposite side of the room. The shade was pulled, and the foreboding, bland, white barrier taunted him silently, daring him to look beyond. He dismissed the thought at first, but the urge obsessed him, so with effort he hauled himself to a stand, crossed the room and lifting the edge of the shade, peeked outside.

Underneath the lamp post on the opposite corner was a person cloaked in a raincoat and hat, leaning against the solitary street beacon as if waiting for a bus. A light rain was falling. Buckley jumped as the figure turned towards him. A casual hand lifted the hat from the obscured face. As the wicked glint of a smile appeared, Buckley recognized the ghastly face that stared back at him from across the chasm of eternity.

       A jolt coursed through Buckley. Then he saw only a few stray raindrops shimmering lightly in the glow cast from the street lamp. No one there. He let the shade fall back into place.

Buckley headed into the kitchen and mixed a teaspoon of baking soda with a glass of tap water, grimacing as he drank the unsavory concoction. Maybe this was ruining his nerves. Maybe he should go legitimate and move to Miami. He thought of Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, and laughed.

Shuffling back into the parlor, he turned on the radio and sat down. Buckley liked listening to the radio. He preferred it to the company of people. Whenever you got tired of it, you could just turn it off. He wished that he could have done that with his ex-wife. Leaning back, he closed his eyes, and listened to a stream of Baroque. 

Buckley fidgeted in his chair, trying to relax as a chiaroscuro of images rushed through his mind, swirling forms and faces, some assuming enough clarity to be disturbing. He saw the face of his late father, a remote lighthouse in a maelstrom of dark images. He heard the familiar admonishment: You gotta come clean, Argie. Then his senses shifted back to the announcer’s voice.

“. . . listening to Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor, performed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Thank you for tuning into WDDJ, Chicago’s choice for fine music. In the news today, Mayor Deever told reporters that . . .”

     As Buckley listened, the voice began to change, and the monotonous drone grew deeper, harsher, and more guttural, assuming a terrifying familiarity. 

“. . . as some of us think that we’re safe and secure from the wave of crime that has gripped the city. You think you’re safe, but you’re not,” he seemed to be addressing Buckley. “Nobody gets rid of me that easily!” 

Buckley’s whole frame spasmed, like a condemned man in the electric chair receiving the first surge. He shot out of the recliner, and grabbing the radio, lifted it off the bookshelf to hurl it across the room. He stopped his tantrum-in-progress and listened to the voice of Joan Crawford extolling the virtues of Pepsi-cola. Joan Crawford. He set the radio back on the shelf and turned the knob until he heard the click.

Buckley laughed nervously. He could feel the sweat on his brow. “Go back to hell where you belong,” he announced defiantly. 

He decided to go to bed, not because he was tired, but because it was one in the morning and he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He chided himself for letting his imagination run amok. He draped his gun and shoulder holster across the wooden night stand. Taking off his boots, he lay down on the bed fully dressed and folded his hands across his chest. Thinking that made him look too much like a stiff in a coffin, he shifted them behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. Ten minutes later he realized that he had forgotten to turn off the light. With a groan he climbed out of bed and flicked the switch, then lay back down. Becoming bored and no longer tired, he began singing.

“I’ll be loving you, always . . .With a love that’s true, 
always . . .When the things you’ve planned need a helping hand-”

“I will understand, always, always . . .”

Buckley listened to the silence, straining to hear what he hoped he would not. Reluctantly he continued.

“Days may not be fair, always. That’s when I’ll be there, 
always . . . Not just for an hour, not just for a day-’’

     “. . . Not just for a year, but always . . .”
     
Buckley sat up, trying to determine if he had heard the refrain from inside his own head or from somewhere nearby. Swinging his legs onto the floor, he climbed out of bed and withdrew his .45 from where it hung on the nightstand. He dashed into the parlor, and looked around. He stood in the middle of the floor, in between the window and the recliner. He turned towards the window and catching hold of the shade with his thumb and forefingers, peeled it back only enough to see outside. The empty, rain-slicked street stared back at him. As he withdrew his hand he heard a shuffling behind him, and turned around to a sight that struck him like a pail of ice water.

The hulking figure of Salty Face was plopped in the chair like a sack of manure, two oozing wounds dotting his chest. The blood running down his grotesque mouth was exactly as Buckley remembered, but this time, the putrid lips were twisted into a smirk. One hand perched lazily on the arm of the recliner, while the other, in horrid mockery, was holding out a slice of anchovy pizza.

“Want a piece?”

A scream came from every fiber of Buckley’s being, from the depths of his sordid soul, lashing out in terror at every nightmare, which sat embodied before him. Buckley’s hands went into firing position, his trigger finger pumping the .45 a dozen times after the remaining three bullets were fired. The apparition had been there but a second or two, like a fleeting shadow glimpsed out of the corner of one’s eye, but this shadow had been full in his field of vision. He threw the spent pistol at the perforated chair, then gripping the recliner on both sides, toppled it. Buckley seized the telephone on the folding table and feverishly dialed. His entire body was shaking, his fingers barely steady enough to make the call.

A distant ringing on the other end. A click. A human voice, groggy and confused.

“Doctor Blackwell, what was that stuff you gave me for me nerves? My God, what the hell was it?”

The voice assumed feminine coherence. “This is his wife. Hold on.” Muffled conversation in the background. 

     The doctor’s voice came on the line, straining to sound professional. 

       “This is Jim Blackwell.”

“Doc,” Buckley said, hyperventilating. “It’s Argie Buckley.” He spoke short, choppy sentences, gasping at interims. “You gave me some stuff. To calm me down. Some anxiety pills. They ain’t workin’ too good.”

“Mr. Buckley?” replied Blackwell, more alert. “I remember. Phenobarbital was what I gave you. Are you having unpleasant side effects?”

“Unpleasant?” Buckley repeated. “Unpleasant doesn’t begin to describe it. I took a couple pills. Washed them down with . . . with a few drinks,” he confessed. “I’m goin’ buggy,” he explained. “Seeing things that ain’t there.”

“You’re hallucinating?” Blackwell asked.

“Yeah, that’s it. Hallucinating. Does that sound possible?”

“I would say so, if you took twice the dosage and washed it down with alcohol,” Blackwell explained, a slightly rebuking tone to his voice. “Mr. Buckley, do you have the medicine with you?”

“Right here in my pocket,” Buckley told him, reaching into his trousers and feeling for the shape of the rectangular bottle. It says on the label-’’ 

Three simple words screamed obscenely at him like a bloodstain on a new white shirt. Saint Mary’s Aspirin.

“Mr. Buckley, are you still there? Hello?”

There was no response. From the other end the receiver, dropped suddenly, swung silently back and forth, dangling like a body at the end of a hangman’s rope.