The Undertaker

The phone was missing in the first booth I tried. I looked in four others before I found one where the phone worked and most of the thick Chicago phone book was there. Opening it to the Ks, I found almost a column of KaZmareks, but only a couple of inches of KaSmareks. The clerks at Ellis Island had to have been the original Beta Test group for “Spelling by Phonics.” Edward J. Kasmarek's name was ninth on the list. I dropped in two quarters and dialed his number. I heard a couple of clicks and, “We're sorry, but the number you have dialed is no longer in service in Area Code 312.” That told me Edward J. had probably lived alone, or at least he had no wife or immediate family still living there, which confirmed the obituary. Not bad for my first call, and I even got my quarters back.

I looked at the address: 3182 North California. I turned to the city map at the front of the phone book and saw it was on the near north side. Apples usually don't drop too far from the tree and people usually don't move far from their old, familiar haunts. I went back to the Kasmareks, dropped the quarters back in the phone, and tried Alice and Rupert, the first names on the list. Midwesterners were supposed to be the hard-working “salt of the earth.” At 7:00 AM, I figured they'd give me a straight answer just to get me the hell off their telephone.

The phone rang and rang, but I never did get an answer. As I worked my way down, I got another “We're sorry…”, some no answers, an irritated, half-awake, “Who?”, and one, “You mean that boy of Karl and Lurleen? Haven't seen them in years, him either... No, no I ain't got no idea.”

This was not going as well as I had hoped. With my next quarters however, I got a woman on the other end of the line who was willing to talk.

“Who? Oh, you mean Little Eddie. Let's see, last time I seen him he was working at the service department of Fishinger's Chrysler up in Lincolnwood, not that it matters much now, 'cause he's dead.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, I'm with Acme Mutual Life and there's an old insurance policy he took out. I really need to find his family or next of kin.”

“Next of kin? Well, his folks is both dead, died a few years back. He was an only child, you know, so ...”

“Isn't there anybody?

“Well, you could try that little Wop girl he married, Sandy what's her name.”

“Little Eddie was married?”

“Some might call it that, but the way I heard it, she tossed him out on his butt long before they got divorced. Of course she never did get along with the Kasmareks.”

“And her name's Sandy?”

“Yeah, she's I-talian, and as hot-tempered as a scalded cat, but what do I know. I'm an in-law myself. All them Kasmareks came from Budowicze back in the old country, and everybody knows what shits them people are.”

“Little Eddie too?” I asked.

“Oh, especially that Little Eddie. For all I know, she was the one who shot him.”

“Shot him?”

“Yep, a real mess. He got himself shot in the parking lot of a bar in Old Town a while back, but I didn't see nuthin' in the papers about her getting arrested for it.”

I hung up and looked down at the phone book again. Yep, “salt of the earth.” I didn't see any Sandra Kasmarek on the list, but toward the bottom there was a listing for S. A. Kasmarek, Photographer, at 1412 N. Clark. I looked at the map again. Clark was a couple of streets over and the 1400 block was maybe mile and a half north of where I was standing. There was no hawk-eyed librarian watching this time, so I tore the map out, stuffed it in my pocket, and nodded farewell to the two hookers. They didn't even blink.

Up on the street, the early summer air was crisp and the sky a clear, high blue. I walked north on Michigan Avenue crossing over the Chicago River to where the trendy stores were: Saks, Tiffany's, Gucci, FAO Schwarz, Bloomies, even Nieman Marcus. So much for the “city of big shoulders” and the “hog butcher of the world.” If it wasn't for the lake and the Tribune Building, this could be Rodeo Drive or 5th Avenue. I turned west on Division, walked over to Clark, and swung north again. There was a wall of tall, trendy apartment buildings along the lakefront, but 1412 Clark wasn't one of them. Older and shorter, it had six floors of brick and glass, and being several blocks back from the lake made all the difference.

As nonchalantly as I could, I walked to the entrance. The outside door wasn't locked. I stepped into the tiny vestibule and quickly scanned the names on the mailboxes. There were twenty-four apartments, four per floor. S. A. Kasmarek's name was on 3-B. I tried the doorknob but the inner door wouldn't open. I peered into the first-floor hallway and saw apartment 1A was on the left and 1B next to it on the front. Satisfied, I went back out and walked back up the street. There was a small deli at the corner with a pay phone. I ordered a cup of coffee and a thick, gooey Danish and dialed Doug's direct line in the office in Boston. It was 7:45 AM here, which meant it was 8:45 there. Sharon answered.