LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER 3

      We walked the reporter up a long aisle toward the lobby of the building. He went along for a third of the distance, then protested.

      “Look,” he said, “I’ve been up here. The shooting happened back there, backstage—”

      “We want you to get the complete picture,” Weaver said easily.

      I moved against the reporter lightly, not actually jostling him, and he mumbled and came along.

      “This,” Weaver said gravely, “is the lobby of the building. This is quite a venerable old building in Chicago, as I remember. Isn’t that right, Mac?”

      “Yes,” I said. “Erected, I believe, in nineteen twenty-three—”

      “Sure of that?” Weaver said. “Wasn’t it twenty-four?”

      “Not sure at all,” I said. “I believe the date is on the cornerstone. Care to check it out?”

      “By all means,” Weaver said. “Let’s go have a look.”

      A couple of Weaver’s men were hanging around the lobby, waiting to be dismissed, and they gazed at us blankly as we passed.

      “Now wait, goddam it,” the reporter said.

      Weaver took his arm firmly.

      “Insist on accuracy,” he said. “Let’s check out that date.”

      We took him outside to a corner of the building. It turned out to be the wrong corner and we got him across the front of the building to the other one. There was a cornerstone bearing the date: 1934.

      “Well, I was wrong,” I said.

      “Should have remembered,” Weaver said. “It was a Federal Theater Project under President Hoover.”

      “Roosevelt?” I said.

      “Of course,” Weaver said. “Have you written that down?” he asked the reporter. “Nineteen thirty-four.”

      The reporter emitted some dirty words.

      “Well,” Weaver said patiently, “so you get the whole picture—this, then, was the scene of Congressman Farnum’s address earlier this evening. About fifteen hundred people turned out, as I remember. Does that check with your memory, Mac?”

      “In that neighborhood,” I said. “A few more or less.”

      “Shall we re-enact the scene as the audience entered?” Weaver said happily. “Beginning about eight o’clock—”

      “Some came earlier,” I said.

      The reporter started to walk away. Weaver grabbed his arm, not too gently, and brought him back. The reporter swore at him in a loud voice.

      “Now, now!” I said.

      “He doesn’t care about the story,” Weaver said. “He’s only interested in names—big names. Tell him about Congressman Farnum, Mac. Give him some of the highlights of that memorable speech.”

      “Certainly,” I said. “The Congressman began with an appeal for unity. ‘Now is the time,’ he said, as I recall, ‘for all good men—’”

      The reporter started yelling at us, his voice high and thin. He backed away from us, shaking his finger. Weaver looked at me and shrugged.

      “We just got started,” Weaver said.

      The reporter kept backing away toward the corner. Suddenly he broke into a run, turning. We watched him zigzag across the street, dodging the late, desultory traffic, and disappear. Weaver dusted his hands together and we started back into the building. He explained to his two men there that he would send them home as soon as he could get a release from Donovan. While he was talking, from a distance, thinly, came the sound of a woman screaming in anger.

      We ran down the aisle, up to the stage level, and got to the green room. Miss Farnum was throwing a tantrum. She was also throwing objects: cushions, ash trays, books and magazines. She was shouting words, but the few that were intelligible weren’t quite believable. Donovan sat motionless, with a wary eye out for falling debris, on the straight chair that Weaver had vacated. Miss Farnum picked up a small table lamp and raised it over her head. Weaver moved in behind her and I caught her wrist firmly, and after a few seconds she let go of the lamp. She was shaking all over like a frightened, undernourished puppy. Her yelling stopped as soon as she let go of the lamp. When I released her wrist, it fell limply to her side.

      Donovan rubbed his face with both hands and did something with his hat.

      “Will you see that Miss Farnum reaches her hotel safely?” he said.

      He got up ponderously, walked past us without looking at her and left the room.

      Her fur coat and a small beaded evening bag were lying in a heap on the couch. I picked up the coat and held it for her. She turned on me, snatched the coat and started out, dragging it over the dusty floor. I picked up the bag and a pair of white gloves and went after her. Weaver hesitated, then followed.

      “You want help?” he asked reluctantly.

      “Damn right,” I said. “I’m on my own time now.”

      Unfortunately, Miss Farnum heard me. She wheeled abruptly, so that the coat swirled about her feet.

      “I’ll see you get paid,” she snapped.

      I handed her the beaded bag.

      “The rate is ten dollars an hour,” I said.

      Her mouth worked. She dropped the coat, ripped the bag open and dug into it. A few bills fell out.

      “I’m sure there’s enough,” she said.

      “No, ma’am,”

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