He thinks about it for a while. "Could be. I could tell you about things you wouldn't believe. So, it could be these alligators live down there in the sewers. But I doubt it. I doubt it very strongly."

  "Then you never saw any?"

  "Well, it's been a long time since I walked the tunnels on a regular basis. More than thirty-five years. I doubt there was such things as pet alligators when I was in the sewers. On the other hand. . ."

  "On the other hand, what? . . . if I ain't rushing you," I say.

  "On the other hand, I see a couple of things. More recently, that is. Five, ten years ago, when I still go down from time to time just to see everything is moving right along." He leans over and slaps me on the knee. "Hey, I'm only pulling your leg. What it is, I think, is just you lost your stomach for the peacefulness down there in the tunnels."

  "That could be it," I say, "but Hackman, the ME, knows a lot about a number of very unusual things, and he's putting his money on the alligator's nose. He's got a tooth."

  "So, what's a tooth? He's been known to have his little joke. I remember the time he was asked to do the autopsy on Little Jerry Doone. Dropped dead at a Fourth of July picnic from what looked like a stomachache."

  "Which was no stomachache?"

  "Are you gonna tell my story?" Delvin says.

  I could have told his story. In fact, I could probably tell every story he's got in his routine, because I probably heard every one of them a hundred times. "I wouldn't dream."

  "So Hackman does the cutting. There's half a dozen interested parties gathered around the table while he's doing it down there at the morgue. Some to make sure he don't put nothing in, and some to make sure he don't take nothing out. Like a bullet. The trouble is Little Jerry Doone has made some enemies over some union trouble in which he is engaged. The man has no political sense. None at all. Otherwise how could he man age to get the bosses, the teamsters' union, the Mafia, the police, the Republicans, and the Democrats mad at him all at the same time?

  "So we got a Harp, a Polack, a black, a guinea, a bohunk, a Hebe, and a member of the First Lutheran Church board of directors, all having a gander at Little Jerry Doone's kishkas waiting to see what's going to show up. The idea being, each one wants to make damn sure he's not the one to be tagged for the killing in case Hackman has been bribed by the one who really did it."

  "I always thought Hackman was an honest man."

  "Well, you know it, and I know it, but these criminal types didn't know it, since they would sell their mother for a dime and give you a nickel change.

  "Anyways, all of a sudden there's a hell of a bang on the other side of the room, and they all turn around. Some go for their hip pockets, some for their belt buckles, and the guy from the First Lutheran Church goes for his sock, where it's well known he carries a little gun.

  "It seems that Hackman, the joker, had his assistant set off a cherry bomb so he could do a little magic trick. When they turn around again, there's a whole watermelon in the middle of Little Jerry Doone's open belly. 'Good Lord', says Hackman, 'it looks to me like Little Jerry Doone died of eating too much watermelon. Can we let it go at that?'"

  "Did they let it go at that ?"

  "Well, after they stopped laughing—they say it was a very funny sight—they figured Hackman had given them the message. They could do what they wanted, but he wasn't going to have them making a shooting gallery out of his morgue. He was going to take whatever he found however he found it. He was going to give it to the DA, everything on the up and up, fair and square."

  So now comes the lesson.

  "Do you get my meaning, Jimbo?"

  "I think I missed the train," I say.

  "The idea of an alligator biting a man in half is as foolish as the idea of a man swallowing a whole watermelon. I urge you to forget about it. Because, even if it proves to be so, there are people who are supposed to make such things their business and it's up to you and me to leave them to it. Don't you like your lemonade?"

  "I ain't really thirsty."

  "Then give it here, no sense letting it go to waste." He hands me his empty glass. "Here, hold my glass. In case Mrs. Banjo comes back you don't want her to see you refused the hospitality of the house."

  He drinks half my lemonade and whiskey in one go, smacks his lips, and settles back again. He tilts his head and give me the fatherly eye. "See here, I think you've had enough down in the tunnels. I want you to know it was never my wish that you do a tour down there. I was taking orders from Dunleavy, who has a schoolmaster's idea of punishment, as you know. Now, is there anything else?"

  I stand up, knowing that I've been dismissed. "Just one thing more. I wonder would you ask Dunleavy could he make a call to the Health Department and ask them to take it easy on a Mrs. Ruth Kuba over to the Eleventh?"

  "Why are you messing around outside your precinct again, Jimbo?"

  "People come and ask me things. I can't say no."

  "You've got too soft a heart. So, tell me, what is this Ruth Kuba in trouble with the Health Department for?"

  "Keeping birds in her bathroom."

  "What's wrong with keeping a little birdie in the bathroom?"

  "Well, there's more than one."

  "How many more?"

  "Considerable."

  "Canaries?"

  "Pigeons."

  "Pigeons! I got to ask you, now, how many pigeons is considerable?"

  "Maybe a hundred. Maybe more. I didn't count."

  "I tell you what, Jimbo, you got my permission to go down to Streets and Sanitation and thank Dunleavy personally for restoring you to grace, at which time you can ask him about this bird lady."

  I thank him and start leaving the room.

  "And, Jimmy?" he says. I turn around so he can have his last word. "I hope you've learned your lesson."

  "Well, I think I have," I say. "By the way, did Hackman ever find the bullet what killed Little Jerry Doone underneath that watermelon?"

  "Now ain't that a funny thing? I don't recall that he did."

  ELEVEN

  So, I'm left with an invitation to go down to Streets and Sanitation and bend the knee to Dunleavy. I'm also left with the notion that if Hackman makes his little joke years ago to cover up the killing of Little Jerry Doone, maybe he's blowing smoke around again, telling stories of alligators in the sewers while whoever killed the Latino with maybe a chain saw goes about their business.

  Streets and Sanitation is in City Hall. Dunleavy's office is right in the heart of it somewhere. It's like walking through a maze getting to him. He knows you're coming, so at least people sitting at this desk and in that chair give you the nod and the pointing finger. Also his people are looking through the files so that when you walk in on him, he can call you by name and tell you what grammar school you was graduated from.

  He's working on a street map, rearranging the city closer to his heart's desire with a ruler and red ink like he's always doing every time I got to see him. He looks up at me.

  "You're Mike Flannery's kid."

  "I am."

  "You look just like him. I got an eye."

  I also hear this every time, just like over to Delvin's, but I act like it's all new to me with him, just like I do with Delvin.

  "So, your Chinaman calls me on the telephone," he says, like this is big news that should really surprise me.

  "I'm glad Mr. Delvin sees fit."

  "He thinks it's about time to end your refresher course down in the sewers. You understand these refresher courses is mandated by Civil Service?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "Also it was never my idea you needed such a refresher course. The notion comes from Ray Carrigan, the Chairman of the Party."

  He watches me like an eagle, waiting to see if I'll call him a liar. They don't mind you see them passing the buck, they just don't want you slapping their hands so they drop it.

  "So, go back to your regular duties with my blessings and leave walking through the shit to the people our good mayor has hired lately for the purpose."

  "I'm glad to have the word right from the horse's mouth," I say. "Also, I wonder could you do me a little favor to celebrate the fact that Jimmy Flannery has been welcomed back into the fold?"

  "First you ask the favor, then I tell you what I think I can do."

  I tell him all about Ruth Kuba and her pigeons. He listens like a judge taking a case under advisement. When I'm through he says, "How do you expect me to stick my nose into Health Department business?"

  "I figure this could be one of them situations where a person of importance, what has no direct jurisdiction, makes a plea to one of his peers on the grounds of compassion."

  "Clear it up for me. For whom or what am I supposed to have this compassion? For Ruth Kuba, a woman what is breaking laws I probably don't even know about?"

  "Compassion for the pigeons."

  "You're going to have to bring that train back into the station, I just missed it."

  "The pigeons were suffering severe losses from vandals, thieves, and other villains. I think we can make the case that Ruth Kuba has done a service to the city by taking them beautiful birds into her care and keeping."

  "Under her wing, by way of speaking?" he says, sputtering like a teakettle.

  "I think you summed it up better than me."

  "I'll make a couple calls and see what I can do."

  "Maybe it would be better you make it a little more personal?"

  "Who's the head of the Health Department right this minute?"

  "Dr. Henry Perkanola's the medical chief. Mrs. Wilomette Washington's the administrator."

  "Are these people from the old school?"

  "No, they got their appointments from the mayor."

  "I wish every goddamn mayor what buys his way into office wouldn't keep changing the players on me."

  What old pols like Dunleavy and Delvin would like would be if Hizzoner, Mayor Daley, was still sitting up there on the fifth floor in City Hall, times never changing, nobody ever growing old or dying, and them running Chicago forever and ever.

  "So, I'll send this Perkanola and this Wilmington a letter each."

  "Maybe it would work better if you gave it the personal touch." I know he hates to leave his office, which is like his security blanket, so what I'm asking is a big thing. "I think you could be more eloquent about these beautiful birds in person."

  "My God, Flannery, you've got a tongue on you. You should be a priest. While I'm doing all this, do you think you can charm this Mrs. Kuba into getting them goddamn pigeons outta her crapper?"

  "I can try."

  "All right, you got the favor."

  "And you got my marker."

  "That goes without saying. How come you didn't run for alderman, Flannery?"

  "It's a long story, which I thought you knew."

  "You're gettin' older and you're just comin' up outta the pipes."

  "We're all getting older, Mr. Dunleavy, and some people never get the chance to get out of the pipes at all."

  TWELVE

  On the way home I decide to stop at the zoo over to the North Side. On the occasion of my association with Baby the Gorilla, I get to know the people in the monkey house. Also the director, Dr. Boggart. He's a skinny man with white hair and a tooth brush mustache. He's not in his office, which I understand is not unusual, since everybody who works for him says he would rather be outside talking with his creatures than sitting at a desk signing papers.

  I find him over by the tigers hunkered down and making funny noises. He looks up at me over his shoulder and says, "You're Jim Flannery."

  "Yes, I am. Are you talking to that big cat?"

  "No, I'm just trying to work out a cramp. Who talks to tigers?"

  "I wondered. People say you can do it."

  "People are not altogether wrong, but it's more like I say hello and good-bye. I don't hold conversations. What can I do for you?"

  "You can tell me something about alligators."

  "You don't want me. You want Professor Luger, who knows everything there is to know about crocodilians."

  He walks me over to the Reptile House, where he introduces me to Professor Luger, who is this young woman weighs maybe a hundred and five pounds, all of it placed on her bones in the right spots. She's got honey-colored hair and big eyes behind eyeglasses as big around as saucers. She's been leaning on a rail looking across a shelf of concrete tilted toward the habitat so the creatures on the other side can't climb out.

  "Is everything all right?" Boggart asks.

  "I'm thinking of having the vet take a look at Shelby," she says, pointing to this creature basking in the sun, which has got this long narrow snout with a bulb on the end. It looks like a little dragon, if you think eight feet is little for a dragon. It's looking at me with a very leery eye.

  "He's off his feed," she says.

  I back off a foot, not being entirely sure that creature can't do a somersault over the barrier and grab my leg.

  "I'll leave you to talk about reptiles," Boggart says. "I've got a date with Baby. This is the Mr. Flannery, Professor Luger, the fellow who found Baby a place to stay while they were putting in a new heating system in her dwelling last winter."

  "I read about that," she says. "It must have been a terrible affair. I hope you've recovered from the strain you must have suffered?"

  "Well, Professor Luger. . ."

  "Call me Angela," she said, taking off her glasses.

  ". . .I've been getting a lot of exercise, and I'm told that does wonders for stress."

  "Indeed it does. What project brings you to me, Mr. Flannery?"

  "Jim. I don't exactly know. Something's come up makes me want to know a little more about alligators, crocodiles . . ."

  "And caimans?"

  "What's a caiman?"

  "Shelby is a caiman. A black caiman from the Amazon."

  "Is that all the big he gets?"

  "Oh, no. Shelby's only half-grown."

  "He looks to be eight feet."

  "They can get to be fifteen."

  "Well, see, I don't know hardly anything about these reptiles except my Uncle Louis used to have a valise, what once was his wife's father's, made of alligator hide. It used to scare me when I was a kid. I always thought it would grow legs and come out of the closet after me and take a bite."

  "Members of crocodilian have been known to do that, but not when they've been made into suitcases," she says, making a little joke. Which was all right with me, because she has a very sweet smile. She put her glasses back on. I've noticed how women do that. Glasses off and they are in what is called the feminine mode, glasses on and they are in what is called the professional mode.

  "Crocodilian is the nearest thing to a dinosaur you can find alive today. In the middle of the Triassic Period—"

  "You got to understand that I never graduated high school, I'm not too proud to say, so. . ."

  "I'm the one should apologize. Somebody happens to know the price of eggs in China, they assume that everybody wants to know the price of eggs in China."

  "If we're talking about poultry, I'd be glad to have that information," I say, making my own little joke and thanking her for being so careful of my feelings.

  "Why should you know, or want to know, that the Triassic was one hundred eighty million years ago? Why should anybody except a dry, old her petologist like me?"

  "You don't look dry or old to me," I say. "In fact. . ."

  Off come the glasses. She is about thirty-one and young-looking at that.

  ". . .you look about as old as my fiancee, which is twenty-six."

  She puts on her glasses, so I figure that's out of the way once and for all.

  "The first true crocodilians appeared in South America. During the next seventy million years or so they became quite diversified."

  "You'll have to please excuse me, but could we whip through a couple of million decades?"

  "'Everybody's in a rush,' as Phobosuchus and Stomatosuchus used to say," she says. "Maybe we'd get to the point faster if you asked questions."

  "Well, like how many different kinds of these crocodilians are around nowadays?"

  She holds up a very pretty little hand. "There's the gauial, the Tomistoma, the crocodile—several types, the saltwater, American, Nile, and the Indian croc or mugger." She holds up her other hand. "Now we come to the alligators and the caimans."

  "Where would these creatures be found in their natural habitat?"

  "China, South and Central America, Egypt, the islands of the West Indies, Ceylon. . ." She stops herself short. I guess she could see by my expression that not a lot was doing me any good. "Florida, Texas, the Carolinas," she says. "There are none native to Chicago."

  "Not even in the sewers?"

  "Are those stories popping up again?"

  "There's reason to believe."

  "Well, don't. Any pets flushed down Chicago toidies would be so small they'd be a rat's dinner inside an hour. Some caimans have been found in several southern states and may be establishing themselves in south Florida, but they were pets that either escaped or were abandoned to the wilds, but not flushed."

  "They still bring baby alligators into the country and sell them as pets?"

  "That's been banned in Florida since forty-five. Other states followed suit. But baby alligators are one thing, the illegal import and sale of hides another. Nixon signed an endangered-species bill into federal law, prohibiting interstate commerce in alligators and alligator skins. Some cities and states have their own. There are also a number of laws forbidding import of the skins, but no matter what the law and the conservationists try to do, crocodilian is still under the machete and the gun."

  "Well, I know my Uncle Louis had that valise. . ."

  "They were novelties made out of the top hide. But it's the side and belly skin, used for shoes, belts, wallets and purses, that the poachers hunt and the exotic leather tanners buy."

  "I don't suppose they get very much of it," I say.

  "Oh, yes they do. Not all they want, but enough. Too much, from the crocodilians point of view. The rarer they get, the more valuable their hides become and the more ruthlessly they're hunted. The last price I heard paid for top-quality hides was twelve dollars and sixty cents a belly-width inch."

 

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