Part 1 (1/2)
Direct Wire.
by Clee Garson.
Mort and Mike got strange calls on this phone; they didn't come through Central!
[Ill.u.s.tration: He had a strange husky voice that made queer chills go up and down your spine]
There is an empty cigar store on the first floor of the loop building in which I keep my office. Formerly it was managed by two of the slickest small time gambling operators who ever booked a bang-tail or banked a game of Hooligan.
There is a small, neatly lettered sign on the door of that unoccupied store now, however, which has caused no end of comment from the former customers of the ”cigar store” who had always been all too cheerfully happy to lose their daily dollars there.
The sign reads:
”CLOSED FOR THE DURATION Due to our having Entered The Armed Forces of the U. S.
G.o.d BLESS AMERICA Mort & Mike”
If you haven't guessed as much by now, the signatures at the bottom of that sign are those of the two former proprietors of the establishment, Mort Robbins and Mike Harrigan.
Now since both Mort and Mike were of military age, and since this nation is at war, it should hardly seem unusual that their former customers and all who knew them would consider their summons to the colors something worthy of great comment. It should hardly seem unusual, that is, unless you happened to know the two, and realized further that they were not drafted, but _voluntarily_ enlisted.
Neither was what you could call deeply patriotic, you see. Nor were they the sort to be influenced by such emotional appeals as the beating of drums, the waving of flags, or the playing of bra.s.s bands marching along Jackson Boulevard.
”We gotta lick them lice!” Mike constantly proclaimed in regard to Adolf and the Axis, when war discussions came up around the ”cigar store.” But aside from those loud and perhaps sincere p.r.o.nouncements, Mike's only contribution to the cause of Victory was the purchase of war bonds which he looked on merely with the cold eye of one seeking a smart investment. And as for his att.i.tude toward the army, Mike best expressed himself with a small embryo ulcer which he kept always on the verge of eruption within twenty-four hours notice to report for a draft board examination. It was rumored that, through a swift, sufficient amount of whisky, Mike could make his embryo ulcer dance angrily for the draft medicos at any time. This none too admirable accomplishment with an ailment not actually serious had kept Mike Harrigan in Cla.s.s 4 F ever since the last draft registration.
As for Mike's partner, Mort Robbins, the patriotic picture was pretty much the same. Mort was loudly belligerent toward our enemies in all the ”cigar store” discussions, wisely put much of his funds into war bonds, but kept one of the most extensive libraries of medical statements from doctors in existence. All these statements concerned the tragic asthma and hay-fever of one Mort Robbins and went on to declare that he might possibly stop breathing completely should he be placed in the army. The fact that Mort had connived to get these statements and was not really seriously troubled by those two maladies didn't alter the fact that they had resulted so far in keeping him out of khaki.
Consequently, since more than one of their customers knew or suspected their lack of practical patriotism, the appearance of that sign on the door of what had once been their establishment caused quite a considerable flurry of comment for a time.
Naturally, no one could understand what had caused it all. For that, they can't be blamed. I'd never have understood it, if I hadn't accidentally been the one person in the world, outside of Mort and Mike, who knew the true story....
On the morning that it all began, I was down in the ”cigar store,”
killing time and having a c.o.ke and some conversation before going upstairs to the grimly reproachful surroundings of my too neglected office.
Mike Harrigan was the only one behind the counter, and I was the only one on the customer side.
Mike was red headed and freckle necked, a ma.s.sive chap with a blarney smile and a baby face. He's been in the ”cigar store” bookie racket ever since repeal had closed a speakeasy he'd had on Grand Avenue.
This morning, however, he was glaring glumly down at a newspaper spread before him atop the gla.s.s cigar counter, and scarcely nodded to half my conversational sallies.
”What's eating you, Mike?” I finally demanded. ”That ulcer getting well in spite of you?”
Mike ignored the crack. But he looked up from his reading and jabbed a big red freckled thumb down on a column of print in the paper before him.
”That State's Attorney!” Mike snorted indignantly. ”He's gonna go too far pretty d.a.m.n soon!”