You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  I knew he was going to hang up so I shouted, “Wait. My name’s Peters. I’m a private detective. Your brother Chico knows me. If he could talk—”

  “If he could talk?” chuckled Groucho. “Diamond Jim Marx won’t stop talking.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece and I could hear him saying something. Then another voice came through. It was Chico Marx. I had spoken to him before, but each time I was thrown off by the accent he didn’t have. It was so much a part of what I thought Chico Marx was, that I had trouble believing this man with a slight lower East Side accent was the same comic Italian.

  “Yeah Peters. What’s up?”

  “What did they do to you?”

  “They? Who?”

  “You’re in the hospital.”

  “Nobody did anything to me. I had a heart attack.”

  “You don’t sound like it.”

  “It wasn’t a real heart attack. I’m losing more than I make working in Las Vegas. I checked in here to resist temptation and avoid a few people. Grouch and Harp heard on the radio I was sick and flew here. Harp and me are playing pinochle. I’m losing, but slower than at the tables. Where are you? What did you find out?”

  “I’m in Chicago.”

  “We used to live there. You hear that?” he said to his brothers. “He’s in Chicago.”

  “You stay in that hospital, Chico,” I said, dropping another six nickels in the slot to keep from getting cut off by the operator. “The gentlemen here still say you owe them the money, and someone is playing rough. A cheap hood named Leonardo got machine gunned in my hotel room.”

  Groucho must have had his head to the phone listening because he shouted to me.

  “Listen to me, Peters. Don’t let them add it onto your bill. You didn’t order a dead hoodlum and you shouldn’t have to pay for one. You should insist that they throw extras like that in free.”

  Chico took the phone.

  “Don’t mind him,” he said. “He thinks you’re one of my friends pulling a gag.”

  “Well tell him it’s no gag. I’ve got to find Gino. You just stay where you are. I may have to ask you to come to Chicago when I find him. Maybe if he’s in the same room with you he’ll realize he’s got the wrong man.”

  “And what if he lies and says I’m the right man?” asked Chico.

  “Then we break him down, talk a mean streak, or run like hell.” I coughed. “I’ve got no other ideas right now.”

  “Take care of that cold,” said Chico. “Where you staying?”

  “The LaSalle,” I coughed.

  “Harpo says you should gargle with Listerine.”

  “Tell him thanks, and please stay there till you hear from me.” I hung up. Through the window of the phone booth I could see that Narducy had wandered into the drug store. His scarf was off his face. It was a very young face. He waved at me, and I waved back as I got the operator and gave her the number of MGM in Culver City. I told the MGM operator who I was and asked for Louis B. Mayer. She checked and said he was busy, but that Mr. Hoff was to take any calls from me. They put me through.

  “Hello, Toby,” came the voice I recognized. He was a minor vice president at MGM who I had recently helped keep his job—a job he hated.

  “Warren,” I said, “why is God ducking me?”

  “Chico Marx is in the hospital,” he said. “Mr. Mayer thinks it may be because you didn’t do what you were paid to do.”

  “Chico Marx is in a Las Vegas hospital with a fake heart attack,” I said truthfully. Then I added not so truthfully, “I told him to go there until I straightened this out. I’m protecting MGM’s investment.” Post nasal drip got me and I began to cough about ten cents’ worth of time.

  “Where are you, Toby?”

  “Chicago. What’s the weather like in L.A.? Wait—don’t tell me. Just send me three hundred bucks at the LaSalle Hotel in Chicago and do it fast. I’ll itemize it.”

  “I know,” said Warren. “I’ll call our district manager in Chicago and have him send the money over in cash. And Toby, the Marxes are talking about quitting the movie business. If they do before you wrap this up, I can give you odds that Mr. Mayer is going to fire you with a penny postcard. He’s not going to pay to protect an actor who doesn’t work for him.”

  “I guess it makes sense,” I coughed.

  “Why don’t you take some Bromo cold tablets for that cold?” Warren volunteered.

  I thanked him for the advice, the money, and the support, and hung up. I marked the cost of the calls in my little book and joined Narducy at the lunch counter.

  “I’ll buy you lunch, kid,” I said with a sneeze. “I’m on top of the world.”

  “Man on pinnacle has nowhere to step but off,” replied Narducy in the most embarrassingly loud Charlie Chan imitation I had ever heard. It was even more embarrassing since we were sitting in a drug store in Chicago’s Chinatown and everyone in the place was Chinese but us.

  4

  Narducy kept telling the plump Chinese waitress in a yellow uniform that his three burgers were terrific. He asked if they were made with soy sauce. She thought he was funny. I was sick. I drank a bowl of the special soup of the day, tomato, right out of the Heinz can. I also had a large glass of orange juice.

  While Narducy considered a fourth burger, I went to the Chinese pharmacist and told him part of my tale—the part about having a bad cold. I hoped he’d come up with an ancient recipe that would cure me. He suggested Bromo Quinine cold tablets. I bought a box of Kleenex instead and gathered up Narducy who, so help me, was amusing the waitress with his Charlie Chan imitation.

  “Where to?” he said happily, back in the cab.

  “What time’s your friend start working at that place you mentioned?”

  “Four to midnight. We’ve got a couple of hours to kill. You want me to spend part of it getting rid of the two guys following us?”

  I was proud of myself. I resisted the impulse to turn and look around. I kept my eyes on the back of Narducy’s neck, and he kept looking up at the rear view mirror without lifting his head.

  “What do they look like?”

  “The Phantom of the Opera and Lou Costello. You know ’em?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We met at the New Michigan.”

  “They’ve got a nice car,” said Narducy with sincere admiration. “Big black Caddy.”

  “That figures,” I said. “Lose them, but try not to let them know you’re doing it.”

  He pulled away and made a gentle right down a residential street past a grade school. Then he made another right and headed back toward what I thought was downtown. His scarf was back over his face and glasses were pushed back on the bridge of his nose indicating, I gathered, that Narducy meant business and business was driving. He went back to Michigan Avenue and headed north, moving just fast enough to pass a few cars in about eight blocks and put four cars between us and them by the time we hit what looked like downtown traffic.

  “That’s the Art Institute,” he said. There were two big green metal lions guarding the stairway of the place. Narducy told me that a few months ago the temperature had dropped below zero, and a kid with a wet hand had stuck to one of the lions. The kid got away with a peeled palm. While he was telling the tale, he increased the distance between us and the comedy team by two more car lengths. After a glance in the mirror, he did a sudden right turn into the open door of a hotel parking garage.

  As soon as we were far enough in to be covered by shadow, we both turned to see if we had been spotted. The black car with The Phantom and Costello went by. Narducy did a quick turn and waved away the approaching attendant. With swinging arms and determined inching, Narducy got us back in the direction we had come.

  “We’re safe,” he said proudly.

  “Not for long,” I said. “All they have to do is call six or seven other guys out on the street to look for your cab. Your big 191 is easy to spot.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I can catch the details—it’s the obvious things that elude
me. Well, I guess we say goodbye.”

  He pulled over and gave me Kitty Kelly’s address. It was, he said, about six blocks from where I was standing.

  “With a few exceptions, all the streets are straight,” he explained. “Each block is a hundred numbers. The streets go by hundreds north and south of Madison Street and west of State. They go east, too, but until you get to the South Side there’s not much east. The lake cuts it off. So if the address is 5500 North Western, that means fifty-five blocks north of Madison on Western.”

  It seemed easy enough. I gave him the meter price and a two buck tip and entered it in my book.

  “See you around,” he said. “Say hello to Merle for me.”

  I walked four blocks, bought a Tribune, and went to a coffee shop. I sipped coffee, nursed my cold, and read slowly, checking the clock. The news hadn’t changed much. A Chrysler ad asked me “Why shift gears?” and suggested I get Fluid Drive. Tony Zale the middleweight champ from Gary was going to fight Steve Mamakos in a few hours. Seats were a buck. I wondered if I could risk two or three hours of Chico Marx’s and my time and decided I couldn’t.

  At 3:30 I was getting pushy looks from the waiter. A coffee break crowd was coming in, and I was taking up a table. I paid and went back outside.

  A big billboard thermometer said it was twelve degrees above zero. I hurried past a white piece of cake called the Wrigley Building and across a bridge. I wandered in the general direction of where Kitty Kelly’s must be. I looked in windows and at theater marquees. It was slightly warmer under the marquees, and there were lots of theaters. A place called the Apollo had Fantasia. The Chicago had Western Union and Jane Froman on stage. The Roosevelt had High Sierra. I had seen some of the shooting of that and would have liked to see it, but it was a little after four. I went straight to Kitty Kelly’s.

  It was a tavern—a little bigger, warmer and darker than most. There were a couple of guys at the bar, and a sign over it saying, “We Only Hire College Girls.” A few feet from the bar, a college girl sat on a stool with a little table in front of her. The table was covered in felt, and she was rolling a pile of dice out of a cylinder box.

  I walked over to her. She looked up without smiling. I was a dashing figure with my heavy coat turned up at the collar, my hat, ear muffs, red nose, and hand full of toilet paper. She was instantly charmed.

  “Twenty-One,” she said. “You go under, the drink’s free. You go over, you pay double. Care to roll?”

  “What college you go to?” I said, leaning forward.

  “Stanford,” she said without blinking. She was a cute little thing with a serious mouth and short dark hair.

  “What did you study?”

  “Human Nay-cha,” she said in fake Brooklyneese.

  I laughed and got caught up in a coughing fit.

  “You should do something about that, fella,” she said. “Like turning your head away when you get going. I’ve got a living to make and I don’t work on my back.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, recovering enough to talk.

  “Hey,” she whispered. “You seem like a decent guy. I just got on here and I’ve got eight hours to go. Don’t make this the start of a hard night.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “Let’s say I lost. What’s a beer cost?”

  “Twenty-five,” she said. “Drop four bits and you’re J.P. Morgan.”

  I dropped fifty cents. She called for a beer from the bartender and asked if I’d carry the beer and my cold to a dark corner.

  “You Merle Gordon?” I said, reaching for the beer.

  She looked up into my eyes for the first time. Hers were moist and brown and deep.

  “Your eyes are like good beer,” I said.

  “You’re a charmer. How’d you know my name?”

  “Kid named Ray Narducy gave it to me. Said you might be able to help me.”

  “Do what?” she said suspiciously.

  A few more customers came in and moved to the bar. Someone dropped a nickel in the juke box and Dinah Shore sang “I Hear a Rhapsody.”

  I was a little tired of telling my tale, but I enjoyed leaning toward her and watching her serious face. I went through Capone, the body in the closet, Nitti, and the Marxes.

  “You know how many Ginos there must be in and around Chicago?” she said, shaking her head.

  “Well,” I offered, “we can narrow it down. How many are working for the gangs in gambling?”

  “Who knows? Fifteen or twenty. One even comes in here. Gino Amalfitano, but he’s not your man. He’s in numbers and small. Works the South Side. I’ll ask around for you and let you know. Where you staying?”

  “The LaSalle,” I coughed. “Call me anytime or leave a message.”

  “You should get in bed alone and take something for that,” she sighed with a shake of her head.

  I finished off my beer just as Benny Goodman started to play “There’ll Be Some Changes Made.” I was tired, foot-weary, and out of ideas.

  “Hey, wait,” she said.

  I came back.

  “There’s a Gino I’ve heard about who might be your man. Works at a place in Cicero. Private. Gambling. Gino—Gino Servi. It’s called the Fireside. And there’s—”

  “Thanks,” I said sincerely and lovingly. “I’ll try Servi.”

  Leonardo Bistolfi’s key chain had a disc with “Fireside” enameled on it. It was a possible connection. Even if it fell through, I’d have a good excuse to see Merle Gordon again.

  “Tell them Kitty Kelly sent you,” she said, throwing the dice again. I bundled up and went back onto Wabash. Above my head the elevated trains made their way around the Loop. I was onto a lead and in love again. All I needed was a new respiratory system.

  I walked back to the LaSalle Hotel. It was about five blocks. When I got there, I wasn’t in a bad mood. I wasn’t in any mood at all. I was weak-kneed and aching.

  As soon as I hit the lobby, the desk clerk from the night before recognized me. I had my key in my pocket. I headed for the elevator, but the desk clerk stopped me. I half expected him to wring his hands. He sputtered and stuttered and said Mr. Kotrba, the manager, would like to see me. I said all right and followed him back to the desk. Mr. Kotrba was two hundred pounds of grey, plump pomp and circumstance. He had an extra chin and an angry superiority. He was ready with the wrath of the Lord. I had met dozens of him before. He thought he was Hell on a half shell, but he was a pancake. I started in before he could speak.

  “Ah, Mr. Kotrba, I was planning to speak to you. Glad I caught you. My company, MGM, called me today and asked me what happened here, suggested I get out of a hotel that allowed murders in the rooms. One of our attorneys, Mr. Leib, even suggested that it would be a good idea to pass the word to people in the other studios to stay away from the LaSalle when they came to Chicago. He even suggested the possibility of a lawsuit because of the emotional distress this has caused me.”

  Mr. Kotrba’s mouth dropped open. I had him backing up and looking for a defense when his original idea had probably been to tell me to get my ass out of his hotel and stop dropping bodies and messing his walls. Kotrba had no flexibility. He was a pushover.

  “Don’t worry,” I said with the best smile I could muster, knowing it would look sardonic. “I talked them out of it, told them the LaSalle was normally a quiet, reasonable place to do business.”

  “We appreciate that,” said Kotrba, patting down wisps of white hair. The desk clerk standing behind him looked mildly amused. He shot me a look of conspiracy which I refused. Whatever his problems with Kotrba, I didn’t need a partner.

  Before Kotrba could say “But—” I added, “I’m waiting for a special letter from the studio on how I should handle this. Has it arrived?”

  The desk clerk stepped forward after pulling something white from the room rack behind him. He handed me an envelope clearly marked with an MGM in the corner. It was, I knew, the $300 Hoff had arranged for.

  “Thank you Mr.—”

  “
Katz,” said the clerk, preening. His small mustache glistened. “Curtis Katz.”

  I opened the envelope without showing its contents. The bills were there. I turned my back on Kotrba whose face now looked white, cold, and a bit dusty like Chicago snow. My sigh was suitable. I pocketed the envelope and turned again.

  “They suggest I remain, and the matter be forgotten unless something else happens.” I looked straight at Kotrba. This was the moment of truth in which I’d either be in the snow with the beginning of pneumonia or I’d be in a warm room in a few minutes. I could go to another hotel, but that would take time and a bunch of phone calls to tell people what had happened.

  “We’re very pleased to hear that,” Kotrba sighed with relief.

  “Good,” I said. “Send a boy up to my room in five minutes for my suit. I want it cleaned and pressed, fast.”

  “Of course,” said Kotrba, “and if there’s anything we can do, please let Mr. Katz know.”

  I went up the elevator and into my room. With the door open, I checked the bathroom, under the bed and in the closet. There were no bullies or bodies. I locked and double bolted the door, took off my suit, hung it on a hanger, and started running a hot bath while I made a few calls.

  First I called Kleinhans. It was after six, and he was out getting a sandwich. Then I called my office in Los Angeles. It was just after four there, and Shelly Minck should still be in. He was.

  “Toby,” he shouted, ever distrustful of the ability of the phone company to transmit voices outside the circumference of Los Angeles County. “I’m glad you called. Remember Mr. Stange?”

  Mr. Stange was a neighborhood bum Shelly had pulled out from under the stairs in our office building. Mr. Stange had only one tooth. Shelly had dedicated himself to saving that denture and anchoring a new personality to it.

  “I remember Mr. Stange.”

  “We saved the tooth. There’s a slight infection, but nothing serious.”

  Shelly’s office, hands, and body were a hymn to decay. His only defense against rampant infection was the cigar he held in his mouth even when working on patients. He was enough to make Lister and Semmelweis commit murder or resign from the health game.