Murder on Skid Row (Paperback)

Chapter One

My father was helping me carry the last of my dental equipment up two flights of dark, broken, dirty stairs to a dilapidated fifty-year-old terra cotta and red brick building located only a few miles from Chicago''s loop and my alma mater, the University of Illinois Dental School. It was a hot, humid day in August 1966. Twenty-three, young, and excited about opening my first dental office, I may have been pushing my dad too hard, because he was huffing and puffing as we twisted around the narrow stairway leading up to the second floor and my office.

Anxious for him to see the improvements I''d completed in the office, I quickly opened the door and flicked on the light switch, only to be disappointed by his reaction.

"You''re crazy putting good money into this dump," he said as he looked down at my new dark blue patterned carpet and the freshly painted walls. "I''ll never understand why you''re opening your first dental office on Chicago''s Skid Row."

"Dad, it''s not like we come from a neighborhood of castles. You taught me to take care of people from all walks of life, and these people need care too." It was August 1966. I was fresh out of dental school, very idealistic, and very poor.

"Anyway, the owners of the drugstore on the first floor of the building are giving me a year''s free rent."

"Didn''t I teach you there''s no such thing as free rent? What do they want in exchange?"

"My only obligation is to send all my prescription patients to the pharmacy."

"I still don''t like it. Your patients around here are drunks and addicts. That''s different than working poor people. I''m worried about your safety."

"You''re worried, Dad? You were the one who introduced me to this West Side area. As a boy I went with you to Maxwell Street for our Sunday bargain hunts. We noshed on hotdogs from the stands. Though what really enchanted me were the stories you told about growing up there among the peddlers, shop owners, and the Jewish and Italian gangs."

"I had no choice, Mel, we were poor, and it was a different time. As an immigrant I had to be tough to survive."

"Believe me, I''ve had to be tough growing up on the South Side of Chicago, too," I said as I touched the scar near my eye. Even though I had a muscular build on my five-foot-nine frame, I had been no match for Dink McNairy that day back in high school when he called me "dirty Jew."

Changing the subject, Dad asked, "Mel, what are you going to do with this broken-down piece of furniture?" He slapped the side of it, inspecting the wood.

I had scavenged the area for old dental equipment, as the price of new equipment was out of my range. In the process, I had found an old wooden mahogany dental cabinet. It stood on legs and was almost six feet tall. Inside were medicaments and ivory-handled instruments. I couldn''t wait to refinish it and use it to hold my dental instruments. My father thought I was crazy.

"Dad, look at the workmanship on this cabinet. You''re always telling me that nothing is made like it used to be. It even has a secret locking drawer to hide money."

"You''ll need it-if you make any money in this neighborhood," he answered as we pushed the cabinet out of the hallway and into my new office.

My dad had spent his whole life trying to find a way out of the old and into the new. My parents came here from Romania when they were children. My father was the oldest of eight. He worked his whole life peddling fruit and vegetables from a truck. He had to get up at two in the morning to get to the market. I was the first person in the extended family to go to college, and they were proud of the fact that I had become a dentist. I had fulfilled the American dream.

Finished, we sat down and rested before locking up.

I smiled as I looked around my office. It was small, about 250 square feet. The one window looked out over the drugstore facing Madison. I must remember to buy an interesting shade for it, as that is the window my patients will be looking through, I told myself. The lab for developing X-rays and working on models for dentures, crowns, and partials was too small. Maybe at a later date I would take some space from the waiting room and enlarge it.

"Mel, stop daydreaming. Let''s go. I hate to leave the truck unguarded in this neighborhood."

I turned off the lights and locked the door. Dad and I headed down the steps and out to his ten-year-old red pickup truck. Skid Row looked pretty quiet as the sun was setting. The flophouses dished out beds on a first-come basis.

"Dad, let me take you out for dinner. I couldn''t have moved everything without your help."

"Nah, Ma will have dinner at home. We can''t do that to her."

My mom and dad were the perfect couple, married over fifty years, and still totally devoted to each other. They came from similar backgrounds and liked doing the same things-shopping, working and staying home. I worried about my fianc?e, Cindy, and me. We loved each other, but we were at odds about so many things.

Dad gave a sigh of relief as we entered the truck and started for home. I guessed he was really worried about the truck being broken into. Inside his truck were all his tools and his memories of days in the South Water Market.

"Mel, I didn''t mean to be rough on yeh. The office is starting to shape up. You did a good job on the painting."

"Those years of growing up, helping you paint, plumb, and fix everything in the house and on the cars were a real learning experience."

His face slowly broke out in a smile. "I remember when you first helped me paint the house. I made you go over that ceiling three times, and you were about to pound one on me."

"I was only about eleven or twelve. That demand for perfection did help me get through dental school."

He gave me a big smile, showing his new bridge. "You''re a good son, and a great doctor. My teeth feel real good."

He was my patient throughout school, sitting in the chair for hours while my professors graded me. True, he had the time now that he was retired.

I spent the next week installing equipment, cleaning windows, scrubbing floors, etc. My expenses were minimal, because my one-chair office, though vacant for years, was originally occupied by a dentist and was still plumbed for dental equipment. Through the grapevine I found an independent equipment man who helped with the installation of my chair, dental unit, and X-ray. Until I made some money, the waiting room would have to do with five card chairs, my mom''s old end table, and a few paint-by-number pictures I had made years ago.

The large radiators in each room were no longer used, as the pharmacist had converted the medical offices along with the pharmacy to central heat. Air conditioning would have been nice, but at least there was cross ventilation with windows in each room. Most of the other occupied buildings on the street were still being warmed by radiators. This treat on Skid Row should help my business.

The undersized bathroom down the hall needed work. The pull-chain toilet had been converted to modern plumbing, but the concrete walls were cracked, the mosaic tile that at one time must have been beautiful was dirty, and discolored, and there was no running water in the marble sink. I would have to ask my landlord to do something about that. In its day the office building, with mahogany woodwork inside and terra cotta figurines outside, was probably one of the outstanding properties in the area. The hallway even had the remnants of a crystal light fixture. Built fifty years ago and neglected for the last thirty, time had taken its toll on the facility.

I spent several days going up and back to the drugstore to use their phone while waiting for the phone company to come out and install a telephone by my desk. Finally Abe, the pharmacist, asked what was wrong. When I told him, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and smiled from ear to ear. "They won''t come out here unless you know someone. A phone is a good idea for protection, but believe me, you won''t need it for appointments. I''ll call for you, my boytshik."

As I was walking out of his pharmacy, he called to me, "They come in colors now. Should I get you a pink one?"

I looked back in his direction. "Standard black will be fine!" He had a different sense of humor. I recognized it as what my mother would call, "West Side Humor." The immigrant Jews, who grew up on Maxwell Street and Chicago''s West Side, had their own way of dealing with life.

Three hours later I came back down to the drugstore to thank Abe. I had learned one of Chicago''s political rules-clout gets the job down. With my phone installed, I was now ready to open my first dental office.

My dental office''s opening celebration was very small, just my mom, dad, Cindy, my fianc?e, and a few friends. It was hard to get many people to Madison Street in 1966. It was considered a neighborhood of bums, drunks, addicts, and lost souls. The streets were full of broken liquor and beer bottles and cigarette butts, plus needles and garbage. The buildings were broken down, with cracked windows and chipped paint. The only commercial businesses were pawnshops, a few restaurants, and the drugstore. Most residents lived in shelters, flophouses, tenement apartments, or on the street. The flophouses were sleazy, dirty places with rows of beds, closed windows, and usually one bathroom per floor. Inhabitants were consistently robbed of their meager belongings. Many welcomed a day in jail just to get a clean bed and a hot meal. Drug dealers, winos, and prostitutes were everywhere.

Men who had once held down jobs and had families were now unshaven, dirty, thin, and unrecognizable. They could be found fighting over nickels, dimes, and cigarette butts. These men and a few women came from all walks of life-rich, poor, white, black. Many were injured Vietnam War veterans unable to adjust to life back in the States. They lived off of disability insurance, while most of the others lived off of welfare. Their only motivation in life was to gain enough money to buy drugs or liquor.

"Spare any change?" was the language of Skid Row.

There was a tremendous shortage of medical personnel in the ghetto areas. To correct this, the state of Illinois, in the 1960s, voted to increase welfare payments to doctors, dentists, and pharmacists willing to work in these areas. Older medical personnel already in the areas were finally making some money. Younger medical graduates planned to work in the areas for a short time to earn enough money to pay off student loans, and to be able to afford the opening of nice offices in the suburbs with posh clientele. With this in mind, I opened my first office on Skid Row.

Chapter Two

"Hey man, are you one of those tooth pullers?" he asked.

Laughing, I answered, "I''m a dentist. My job is to help you keep your teeth. In fact, if you get in the chair, I can make you some." Taking out a patient card, I asked for his name.

"They call me Ace."

"Ace can''t be your real name."

He grinned. "You right. That''s been my name since I been a young man, pulling those aces out of my sleeves." He stopped a minute, probably reflecting on those far away days.

I started to lead him to my chair, but he jumped out of my grip.

"Put your stuff away, I''m not getting in no chair. Nobody''s gonna pull my teeth no more!"

"Today, I''ll give you free dental care," I countered. "Wouldn''t you like to have some teeth to eat with?"

He answered, "No need to chew, I just drink."

"Okay," I said as I turned away from him and went back to my office.

He followed me and grabbed hold of my coat. "I have a good deal for yous. If you give me a pint of Italian Swiss for every patient I brings you, we can become partners."

Ace and I became partners. An hour later he came back with another toothless guy and a shopping cart loaded with stuff.

"Ace, you can''t bring that shopping cart into my office. It takes up too much space. How did you get it up the stairs with all that stuff in it?" I queried.

"My belongings goes where I goes, lest they get stolen."

"Where do you get the shopping carts? The closest grocery store is about three miles away, and the drugstore doesn''t have any carts."

His toothless mouth opened into a big smile. "You right. They hard to get, that''s why I protect this one."

I looked at him in his long black overcoat. "Ace, why do you wear that thing in the middle of the summer?"

"It''s gots pockets."

I had almost forgotten the patient Ace had brought into my office. He gave him a push toward me as he walked out. While carefully maneuvering his cart through the door, he yelled, "Give Berger some dentures. He young enough to need them. He don''t talk much, shell shock from the war. I be back for him, and my wine money."

After he left, I understood why he wore the coat. My desk was missing my radio and packages of sugarless gum, but he left the Parker fountain pen set my dad had given me at graduation. I would soon learn that Ace could flick a billfold from a pocket faster than a squirrel could pluck a nut from a tree.

I turned to my patient, and I now realized not only could this auburn- haired, freckle-faced young man not speak, but he was also missing his left arm. Afraid that he couldn''t understand me, I asked him for his identification using a mix of sign and verbal language. He clearly understood me and handed me his disability card. I was surprised to see that he was another patient who had the address of the drugstore as his home address. Later, I would learn that the drugstore worked as a post-office and currency exchange for the homeless bums to receive their welfare, Medicaid, and disability checks. After helping him into the chair, I took his glasses from him. They were nice frames, but one of the lenses was missing.

"Why don''t you go down to the VA and get your glasses fixed?" I asked. His eyes followed me, but he didn''t make any response to that, though when I said open wide, he did. Instead of pulling all his teeth, I was able to repair some with new fillings and fit him for a bridge. Whether he would come back for it was anyone''s guess.

When Ace came back, I asked him to take Berger to the VA hospital for new glasses.

"No carfare," he answered

"Here''s a dollar for carfare."

Phil, the physician who had an office next to mine, looked in and shook his head. "Bet you ten that money will never be used for carfare."

To my surprise, a few days later Ace brought Berger back for his bridge. This time Berger had glasses with two lenses.

I put my arm around Ace and thanked him. Then I called Phil into the office. Reluctantly, Phil parted with a ten. Ace straightened up and held out his hand for his part of the ten. "We partners, right?"

The next day, about an hour after I opened my office, three dirty, raggedly dressed guys rushed through the waiting room and into my operatory. I was overjoyed-finally some patients!

"There''s a guy out there with a knife, help us," they cried. It turned out they were hiding from a robber who was trying to take their meager belongings. I quickly closed the door and went for the phone to call the police.

As I picked up the phone, one of the men yelled, "Police won''t come here. Get out your knife or nightstick."

"I don''t have any."

"Use your drill."

"Help me push the chair against the door. That should do it," I answered.

I became alarmed when I heard loud hollering.

"No way am I giving up my bottle! Get out of here! I gots a knife too!"

Next, I heard the steps creaking as someone quickly ran down the steps.

One of the guys in the room with me said, "It''s okay, open the door, Ape-Gravy''s gone.

"You know the robber?" I questioned.

They looked at me funny as they all piled out. Opening the door, we found two guys sitting on the floor. One was holding up his bottle of Wild Irish Rose and the other one was holding up his shoeless feet.

"I outwitted him this time. He took my coat and shoes. My money''s in my socks." My shoeless friend smiled, showing a toothless grin.

"I still have my baby," his friend said as he hugged a half-empty pint of Wild Irish Rose.

"While you''re here, how about getting your teeth fixed?" I asked, thinking here was a golden opportunity to get patients.

Looking up at me, in unison they each asked, "How much you gonna give me if I lets you fix my teeth?"

Realizing this group was hopeless, I went back to cleaning up the office. As I was busy spraying freshener around the room Phil, the physician from down the hall, looked in.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from MURDER on Skid Rowby Charlene Wexler Copyright © 2010 by Charlene Wexler. Excerpted by permission.
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