The Lion's Share, page 3
part #10 of Jimmy Flannery Series
He left a special book to this one and a pair of gold cuff links to that one.
A tortoiseshell spectacle case patched with a sliver of celluloid to my old man.
A gold belt buckle to Ollie Tchinooski, who adjusts the furnace valves, under the supervision of Kippy Kerner, down at the county building, which Ollie don't need because he always wears suspenders to hold up his baggy pants. I never see him wear a belt.
A silver money clip to Polly Lubelski, the warlord of the Twelfth.
In fact there's a little something for all the committeemen and aldermen that've been around for more than ten years. He's had dealings with them all.
There's an old tie-pin called a Lover's Knot with a tiny diamond in the center which he wants me to give to Mayor Daley, the sitting mayor, the son of Hizzoner, the mayor of legend. Who wears stickpins any more? But it's a connection to the sweet days of youth and something I know the mayor's going to cherish.
All these things passed out to old friends and acquaintances. All of them described with great care and in great detail in Delvin's last will and testament.
And here I am, the one who's going to get a special benefit from all these gifts, because Delvin was a politician and I'm a politician, and when I deliver these two or three hundred items I'm going to be touching Delvin's entire power base as well as everyone he ever had a kind and tender thought about.
He knows and I understand that it'll mean these people'll have a good feeling about me the next time I bump into them or go to them for some help about this or that. I'll be the beneficiary of Delvin's thoughtful manipulation of favor for favor.
Mrs. Thimble's still in her room when Diversey hisself and his father-in-law, Delvin's old friend, Detective 3, Lou Cleary, Homicide, retired, finally arrive and I let them in.
"Ah, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it's good to see you again, Jimmy," Cleary says, giving me a big bear hug like a father and son reunited after many years. "You never do get to see enough of the friends you love best, ain't it so?" he went on.
"And it's good to see you, too, Lou."
"I wish it was under better circumstances. You know my son-in-law, Jack Diversey?"
"I've had the pleasure many times," I say, taking the white, pudgy hand which Diversey sticks out at me. "How are you keeping, Jack?"
"Very well, Jimmy," he says, finally letting go of my hand and putting on a pair of surgical gloves, proving to one and all just how fastidious he is when handling the dear departed and also taking no chances what with the infectious diseases that're making a comeback. Not to mention AIDS.
"If you would be so kind as to point the way," he says.
I lead the way down the hall toward Delvin's bedroom, Cleary making small noises with his mouth all the way, comments on the photographs of Delvin's youth and salad days displayed in frames along the walls. "Here's me at the grand picnic the Sons of Hibernia had in 1956. There's old Chips on Deke Sullivan's wedding day," he says.
I stop at the door to the bedroom to let them past, Diversey first, then Cleary, who's put on gloves as well. He stands there with his hands clasped in front of his vest, shaking his head gently from side to side.
"Well, he had a good journey," he says.
"Maybe a little lonely the last few years," I say, thinking of Delvin's gradual loss of vigor and political power as the city changed.
"Not too lonely," he says.
I'm wondering what that means when Diversey says, "Lou, would you go out and bring in the basket?"
"Could you do the favor for me, sonny?" Cleary says, putting his hand on his back just above the kidney, indicating that he's having a bit of a pain there.
Diversey hesitates half a tick, like he's about to argue the point, because after all he's the owner of the funeral home and Cleary's boss so to speak, but then he nods and grins and accepts the ruling, as it were. It may be that Cleary's working part-time in his son-in-law's business but he's the kind of man would be the boss most places he happened to find hisself. Diversey hustles out to bring back the empty basket, which they should've brought it with them in the first place.
"So, Jimmy," Cleary croons at me, Irish honey cake spilling from his mouth, "I never had a chance to congratulate you on taking over the ward when Delvin named you warlord. That old devil, there, held on to the job as long as he could, didn't he?"
"Nobody likes to admit they're growing old," I say.
"And why is that, I wonder?" Cleary says. "I find growing old like sailing into a safe harbor, all the trials and tribulations of youth behind me, all the good times living in my heart as rosy memories. Even a lot of the bad things softened by the gentle hand of time."
Oh, oh, I'm thinking, what's he going on about?
"As long as a man's not lonely, you may be right," I say, giving him a chance at another bite of the apple.
"Not that a man ain't better off if he's found some occupation after retirement and if he's lucky enough to be living in the bosom of a loving family. Which, I understand, old Delvin did not. Except for you, Jimmy. He thought about you like you were the son he never had. He had friends, though. Many friends."
"He did," I say, remarking to myself that Cleary's hitting a very long ball here, which means he's trying to figure the right way to bring up whatever it is he wants to talk to me about and wants me looking at the floater while he makes up his mind.
"Loneliness ain't something cannot be avoided altogether, depending on a person's nature," he says, "but I can assure you, Jimmy, old Chips was not lonely when he didn't want to be lonely."
"Well, he did have Mrs. Thimble to talk to," I say.
"I was thinking of female companionship a bit younger and livelier than Mrs. Thimble," he says.
He's staring at me with his head cocked just a little bit, asking the question. Do I understand what is being said here or am I one of them that needs everything spelled out? An old politician's attitude, cop's attitude, cutting deals without saying anything that can later be used as testimony in a court of law or anywhere else.
"Well, I meant lonely those last hours," I say.
"Put your heart to rest. He died happy," Cleary says.
There is a light tapping on the window on the other side of the room. Cleary goes to the drapes and draws them aside, revealing French doors, which I never even knew was there, leading out into the backyard.
Diversey's standing there holding a long, old-fashioned undertaker's wicker basket by one handle.
Cleary opens the doors and gives his son-in-law a hand with the basket. They take the lid off and lean it against the dresser. They lay the open basket on the floor next to the bed. They pull back the covers. Delvin's wearing white socks and a nightshirt, which pokes up above the bottom of his belly like a tent pole.
"Well, God bless the old boy," Cleary says, and looks at me as though he's asking me do I understand better what he meant about Delvin dying happy.
Then he goes to Delvin's head, the heaviest end, and Diversey goes to the feet. They slide the body to the edge of the bed. Cleary puts his hands under Delvin's shoulders and Diversey grabs the ankles and they lift him off the bed and put him down in the basket without a grunt or word of complaint about a sore back from Cleary.
They put the lid back on, pick up the basket, with Delvin in it, and walk it out the French doors, with me following them across the backyard, down the alley and out to their station wagon.
Cleary steps up on the sidewalk to stand beside me as Diversey closes the doors and then goes around front to get behind the wheel.
"You go back in there and check the bedclothes, Jimmy. If you find a smudge of lipstick on the pillow or a hairpin in the bed, you'll know for sure that old Chips was not alone."
"I've never been much for pussyfooting," I say. "Are you by way of telling me that Delvin was entertaining a lady in his bedroom last night?"
"That's a strong possibility," he says.
"But Dr. Squertsky says he had a heart attack."
"I'm sure that's medically correct," Cleary says.
He's peeling off his gloves and putting them in his pocket. He reaches out his hand and I shake it. It's slightly damp.
"He'll be ready for viewing tomorrow afternoon," Cleary says. "Did he have any relatives I don't know about? I seem to remember a cousin."
"An impostor," I say.
"So there's no one to sit the night?"
"I'll sit the night," I say.
"I'll sit tonight and you can sit tomorrow night and the one after that," Cleary says, "and we'll have the burial on Friday morning, not too early. Is that all right?"
I said it seemed fine to me.
"Do you think Mrs. Thimble is up to serving the funeral feast? If not, we can arrange to cater it here at home or at a facility of your choice. The room above Schaller's Pump might be appropriate."
"I think we'll have the feast here at home. My Mary will help Mrs. Thimble and I'm sure neighbors and friends will provide all the food that'll be needed."
"The old way."
"We'll do it right, Lou. Don't you worry."
"Will you need help picking out a suit and shirt and tie?"
"I can do it. What about shoes?"
"Socks but no shoes. I believe in sending a man off in comfort."
Diversey taps the horn, telling me and his father-in-law that he's a busy man and we shouldn't be abusing his generosity seeing as how he come to pick up Delvin hisself out of respect for all concerned.
Cleary nods and says, "And by the way, Jimmy, don't sell yourself short. You're one of the best pussyfooters in town."
FOUR
I go back in the house and sit in the parlor again with the mahogany box on the floor at my feet, going through the rest of the instructions page by page and item by item.
Mrs. Thimble comes out of her bedroom. I can hear her quietly rattling around in the kitchen and after a little while she comes in with a tray in which there's a pot of tea, two cups and saucers, milk and sugar and some wedges of lemon. She sets it down on the coffee table and asks me should she pour.
I ain't really in the mood but I know that this is an important ritual to her. A way of getting a handle on reality.
"Mrs. Thimble," I say, taking the cup from her hand, "would you like to know what arrangement Mr. Delvin made for you?"
"I never expected any arrangement," she says, "except maybe a small token of his regard."
"Well, his regard for you was very great. Very great, indeed. He's formed a trust fund of eighty thousand dollars and made a tentative contract with the Larkspur Retirement Home, which used to be the Larkspur Nursing Home—"
"He told me all about that place," she says, interrupting me.
"Then I guess he also told you that after that trouble we had with them back when he was put in there and after they reorganized and changed their name, they're now considered one of the best facilities in the state."
"He was proud of his part in that."
"The interest on the trust fund and whatever part of the principal it takes to adjust for inflation is to go to your care over there."
She tears up and out comes a little lace-edged hankie, which she presses to her nose.
"And what if I don't choose to go to a convalescent home?"
"Retirement home."
"Whatever they want to call it."
"Then you're to receive forty thousand dollars in cash."
"What about the other forty thousand?"
"That's to be added proportionately to the bequests he made to certain charities."
"Which might they be?" she asks.
"Our Lady of the Sorrows Roman Catholic Church, the Sons of Hibernia Roger Toole Lodge, the Quaker Hospice and the Chicago General Geriatric Ward," I say, she nodding after each one I name as though she approves, though I got to admit she hesitates a little over the Hibernia Lodge, which I have often heard her condemn as a place where old men drink too much.
"I'd rather have the forty," she says. "I can start collecting my Social Security and no matter where I worked, I've always been able to put away practically my whole paycheck. Father Mulrooney—God rest his soul—remembered me in his will, little as he had, taking the vow of poverty and all. So I have a little invested in IRAs and Keoghs and so forth. I expect I can get a six and a half percent return on the forty thousand in a nice conservative preferred stock, which should amount to twenty-six hundred dollars—give or take—and that should be enough to pay for a trip to Houston once a year."
I'm sitting there listening to this old lady talking like a stockbroker or a financial planner. She's doing these calculations in her head and I got no doubt that she was so good watching the household money Father Mulrooney and Delvin give her that she saved a little of that, too, figuring a penny saved was her penny earned.
"My cousin Janet lives down there on a cow ranch with her husband, Bob Wilson, and their dog, Rupert," she says. "It's a shar-pei. You know? One of them dogs that looks like a bath towel somebody's thrown on the floor. Apricot color, it is."
She rattles on, and I can tell she's talking about money and these trips to Texas she'll be taking because she don't want to think about the old man they just carried away in a wicker basket.
Also I'm remembering that when I first met her, when she was Father Mulrooney's housekeeper, I learned all about how she came from Nappanee, Indiana, when she was a young woman, and how she killed her husband in self-defense, and how she had no friends or relatives until Father Mulrooney and two other priests took her into the priest's house as housekeeper. So this cousin in Texas is just another example of how people, when they want or need something, alter the truth to make a case. Though they might not have been so friendly back then or the cousin not in any position to offer much help.
"That's what we'll do, then," I say.
"One thing, though," she goes on.
"What's that?"
"I would like to be there when you turn over the checks to them other residual legatees. And if you could just let it drop that I refused the legacy in their favor, I'd be much obliged."
A lot of politicians I know could take lessons from Mrs. Thimble. She refuses a deal which would've forced her to live where she don't want to live and do what she don't want to do, but she's smart enough to work it so the forty thousand she won't be getting by refusing the arrangement ain't a total loss. If she can work it so her name appears somewhere attached to these gifts she'll have added to her bank account in heaven, and assured herself better than average treatment should she ever have to go to any of these facilities for care. Like if she needs anything the hospice can provide when her own end of the day rolls around, for instance. Then, she figures, her generosity may be remembered and she'll be jumped to the head of the line, whatever that line might be.
You live your life in Chicago, you learn how to take care of yourself.
FIVE
When I get home, Kathleen's down for her nap. Alfie, who used to be my dog, then became Mary's dog, and is now, definitely, Kathleen's dog, is sleeping at her feet. He don't even open an eye when I go in to see that everything's all right.
Mary's napping on the couch in the living room, but she wakes up the minute I kiss her on the cheek. It makes me glad to know she feels secure enough to sleep through me opening the door, putting my key in the lock. Part of that's because we live up on the third floor and not a lot of thieves and house invaders climb up six flights to rob a house in a modest neighborhood like ours. Also Alfie would be up and at 'em, he hears anything out of the ordinary.
Still and all a house, even a house in Bridgeport, is going to be a new way of life, with its own upsides and downsides but mostly up.
I put Delvin's old briefcase, filled with all the papers I scanned, but which I got to read again more carefully, by the side of my chair and I guess Mary hears that because she says, "You all right, James?"
I turn around and look at her, looking up at me like I was another kid what might have a fever. I kneel down on the rug and put my face closer to hers.
"You look all wrung out," she says, laying her hand alongside my face.
"Ah, no, I'm okay," I say.
"And how about Mrs. Thimble?"
"She's been expecting it. At his age."
"Even so."
"She's got herself set up pretty good for her old age," I say. "People surprise me. You think some people, being sheltered from the real world and all, are helpless when it comes to facing it alone, but she's anything but helpless. She turned down a free ride in a retirement home for forty thousand dollars in cash which she already knows how she's going to invest."
"I'm sure she knows what she's doing. You eat anything today? I can make you something," she says, starting to get up.
"No, no, you stay right where you are. What I could use is a hug right now. So if you'll make me some room on that couch?"
She squinches over with her back against the couch back and I take off my shoes and stretch out next to her.
"Delvin left us his house," I say. "He left us the house and the furniture and enough money to handle the paperwork and the fees and everything."
She's quiet for a long time, taking it in. "Wow," she finally says.
"Would you mind leaving the neighborhood and moving over to Bridgeport?" I ask.
"Not likely," she says. Then she modifies her enthusiasm, which I think she thinks could hurt my feelings since I'm the one that's always resisted moving out of our building and neighborhood, by saying, "It might be time, James. This isn't the neighborhood it was when you were its precinct captain. I'll bet you don't know half the people in it anymore."
She's being generous. I probably don't even know twenty percent to talk to and maybe not even ten percent on a day-to-day basis.
Sometimes when they come to see me and ask for favors in the ward office, which Janet Canarias, the alderman for the Twenty-seventh, lets me, as the committeeman for the Democratic Party, use on Monday nights and Saturday afternoons, I got to be reminded who they are and where I've met them.
