The Unknown Beloved(51)

On the second night, he and Sully shared a fire with a ragtag assortment of residents and travelers before they dispersed to their own primitive lodgings. Malone introduced himself as Micky from Chicago and let the vagrants think they were dealing with a low-level gangster looking for a hideout. But they didn’t press, and he didn’t oversell.

Malone was adept at judging bullshit and who was full of it. Some people talked because they were lonely and some because they were liars, but neither was a good source of information. He’d gotten some of both, sitting around the fire with Sully and his cohorts, but he’d also heard a story that had made the hair stand up on his arms.

“I knew a guy, used to ride the trains like us. He’s doing okay now. Got a job in Chicago on the docks. Emil Fronek. You ever know him?” Sully’s friend, Chester, asked him. Chester was the proud owner of the tin shed and the hole in the ground they sat beside. His Boston accent and scraggly red beard made him seem more like a lost sailor than a jungle dweller.

“Nah. Can’t say I did,” Malone said. “Chicago’s a big town.”

“Yeah. This was back in the fall of ’34. Long time ago, now.”

Malone feigned a yawn, though he was too uncomfortable for sleep.

“Emil jumped off in Cleveland. Had an old friend in one of the camps he thought might still be around. But he wasn’t. And a nor’easter was blowing in too. Fronek hadn’t eaten in days, and he needed a new pair of shoes.”

Malone thought of the dead in Dani’s morgue, their toes hanging out of their boots.

“He said he thought maybe he could go to St. Wenceslas church since he’d been there before. Big one on Broadway. You know it? I got a damn good bowl of soup there once. Big loaf of bread too, all to myself.”

“Sure.” Malone knew it. It was northwest of the Kos house in the direction of downtown, the first Catholic church to serve the Bohemian community in Cleveland, according to Zuzana. Our Lady of Lourdes on East Fifty-Fifth was closer, and Dani and her aunts attended Mass there, but he’d seen Wenceslas. It was a massive brick edifice with two belfries, one shorter than the other, like a crowned king and his queen separated by the pope in his pointed hat.

“Yeah . . . well, Wenceslas was all locked up. So Fronek kept going. Didn’t know what else to do. Ended up in front of a café, but it was closed up too. He walked around back to see if there was something in the trash. He doesn’t remember exactly what happened. He’s foggy on some of the details. But he says he could smell food. Went up some stairs and through an open door and realized he’d walked right into someone’s place.

“A man walks out of the kitchen and sees him. But he doesn’t get mad or even scared that Fronek’s in his house. Fella tells him to sit and he’ll get him something to eat. Get him some shoes. So Fronek does. He’s frozen and hungry. Fella brings him a glass of wine and a plate of food—good stuff, like he’d been making dinner and just gave Fronek his own plate. Tells him to eat up.”

“Damn fool,” Sully said, as if he’d heard the story already. He was shoveling Malone’s beans into his mouth with two fingers, the irony lost on him.

“I don’t know any man that’s hungry woulda turned down food and shelter in the same situation,” Chester said. “It doesn’t make him a fool.”

“So what happened?” Malone pressed.

“Fronek starts feeling kind of sick, light-headed. Maybe eating too fast. Maybe his stomach can’t handle so much so quick when he hasn’t eaten for so long. But despite what Sully here says, Fronek isn’t a fool. He’s pretty sure the man put something in the grub or the drink.”

“Why would someone do that? Fronek didn’t have anything to steal,” Sully said, licking his fingers. Chester ignored him.

“Fronek bolts, runs down the stairs and back out onto the street, and he keeps going. Guy calls after him, but Fronek keeps going, somehow. He climbed into an old boxcar by some tracks and passed right out.”

“I think he drank too much and dreamed it all.” Sully burped and lay back, folding his arms over his chest.

“He slept for three days.” Chester held up three dirty fingers in front of Malone’s face. “Whatever was in the food or booze the guy gave him knocked him out cold. When he finally came to, he tried to retrace his steps. Fronek is tough. He wanted a piece of the guy. But he couldn’t figure out where he’d been.”

“He thinks that guy was the Butcher?” Malone asked.

“Yeah. That’s exactly what he thinks.”

“Did him a favor, if you wanna know the truth,” Sully said, still listening though his eyes were now closed.

“How’s that?” Chester scowled.

“Fronek stopped hitching the freights, didn’t he?” Sully said.

“Emil Fronek, huh?” Malone asked, making a mental note. “Name does kinda sound familiar. Maybe I did meet him some time or another,” Malone fibbed. “He should tell the police. I hear there’s a reward. A big one.”

“Ha! Nobody will believe him. I sure don’t,” Sully said.

“The details were foggy,” Chester admitted. “Probably the drugs. All he remembered is Broadway and a café. Couldn’t even describe what the guy looked like except he was ordinary. Maybe a little bigger than average. Brown hair. Glasses.”