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

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “I see,” said Prune, giving the evil eye to Maureen Kelly. “And what will this cost the city?”

  “Cost?” I said, looking at him in disbelief. “Why should it cost? We’re prepared, in fact, to make certain guarantees for housing, publicity, food contracts, local talent, security.”

  “I see,” said Prune, trying to smile and failing. “Well, perhaps I can arrange a short meeting with the Mayor.”

  “Well,” I said. “It’s either now or not at all. I’m on a very tight schedule.”

  “Well, give me just a few minutes to check,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “A few minutes is about all I can spare.”

  The prune went through a door marked “Private” and Maureen Kelly smiled at me—a pale smile from a child of the city made anemic in the molehill of City Hall.

  “Can I get you anything?” she said. “Coffee?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Coffee.”

  She went through a second door, and I moved quickly to the one Prune had gone through. I could hear him talking inside, but I couldn’t make out the words. I put one hand on the door and turned the handle slowly and gently till it was open a thin crack.

  Prune’s voice came through clearly.

  “Late thirties or early forties, hair greying at the temples, about my height, with a flat nose. No I don’t think he’s dangerous, and I don’t know how he got past Alex. No. Of course not. He’s in the reception room of the Mayor’s office. That’s right. No, I do not know what you’re waiting for. Get up here fast.”

  As he put down the phone I closed the door and turned to find Maureen with a steaming cup in her hand. My grin was enormous.

  “Hold that for me just one second,” I said. “I have to find the men’s room.”

  I lowered my hands and moved leisurely but distinctly to the outer door, closing it behind me on the image of the slightly bewildered Maureen Kelly. There were a few people in the tile-floored hall. The sound of footsteps and the shaft of light from a single window made it feel like an old drugstore. I hurried to the stairway and went up half a flight. The footsteps from below were heavy and slower than they should have been. Leaning over the rail, I saw three blue uniformed cops come up and run down the hall toward the mayor’s office with guns drawn, ready to blow away intruders and complainers.

  I went down behind them with one hand on the rail, going two steps at a time. When I hit the main floor I lifted my collar, regretted giving my scarf to the kid on the West Side, and walked to the nearest exit. A cop stood in the street looking toward me. I retreated back into the cool echoes of the hallway. The cop from outside came through the door. In the few seconds it took for his eyes to adjust to the grey electric light, I opened the nearest door, went in and closed it behind me.

  I was in a small office with two men. A thin guy in a white shirt with a big Adam’s apple leaned over a guy at a desk who looked like a cop. The guy at the desk was short, stocky but not fat, with serious dark eyes. He was about my age, and wearing a neat, dark suit. His clothes reminded me of the uniforms Catholic kids had to wear in high school. His eyes met mine and I knew he was going over the description of the mad chopper killer. Instead of turning away and rushing into the possibility of a waiting cop outside the door, I smiled and stepped forward with my hand out.

  “My name’s Derry, Charles Derry,” I said. “From Cleveland—Maple Heights, really. Looking into some investment possibilities. Contacting politicians, people around City Hall.”

  The stocky man didn’t get up and he didn’t take my hand. Without taking his eyes from me he said to the thin man, “Thanks Ed.” Ed looked at me suspiciously and backed away from the desk. The stocky man said nothing until Ed had left the room.

  “Ed’s a waiter at Henrici’s around the corner, brings food over for people when they can’t get away from the desk.” He nodded to the desk in front of him and I noticed a plate of food.

  “The special,” he explained. “Fried scallops, julienne potatoes, cole slaw, rolls and pie and coffee for seventy-five cents. Not as good as eating at home but the next best thing.”

  He opened his palm and pointed to a chair next to the desk. I sat down and watched him eat for about five minutes.

  “My name’s Daley, Richard Daley,” he said, pushing a fruit cup toward me like a short college lineman giving a handoff. I took the fruit cup and a spoon. “I’m a state senator,” he went on, “and I didn’t shake your hand for a reason. You picked the wrong guy for a patsy, fella. So, eat your fruit cup and walk out of here.”

  He spoke with what seemed a careful choice of words, almost rehearsed, but delivered with an accent that said he would never get rid of the old neighborhood where guys said duh instead of the and gunna instead of going to or even gonna.

  “Your name’s not Derry,” he said, sitting back warily with his hands on the desk while I ate the fruit cup, almost choking on an unseen watermelon seed. “If your name’s Derry, you changed it from Nathan. You’re a Jew. And you’re no businessman looking for investments. Businessmen looking for investments aren’t jumping unannounced into City Hall offices. They’re downtown setting up lunches and having lunches set up for them. So, as soon as you finish choking, you can say goodbye before you pull whatever you were going to pull on me.”

  “Hold it,” I said, drinking the juice from the fruit cup to stop my spasm. “O.K. I’m not a businessman. My real name’s Pevsner.”

  He nodded with his eyes on me.

  “I make my living knowing the difference between a Pole and a Rumanian and a businessman and a con man.”

  “Democrat?” I guessed.

  “Right,” he said soberly. “You?”

  “Democrat,” I said.

  “All right, fellow Democrat. Why don’t you tell your tale quickly while I digest my lunch?”

  With nothing better to do while I hid from the cops and nothing much to lose, I told Senator Daley of Illinois my story. He was a damn good listener who threw in two or three questions to be sure I wasn’t making it up.

  “I’m from a part of Chicago called Bridgeport,” he said when I had finished. “It’s a tough neighborhood, but it’s a good one. When you first came in, I thought you were someone I once knew in the Valentine Club from the neighborhood. We were taught not to kill people and not to cheat people. You might have to shake a few hands and a few heads and pull a few deals, but you do what you can in this town and it’s a good town. When the Republicans had Chicago with Thompson, people like Capone did what they wanted. Not just with the city but the whole state. The Democrats are changing that. It’s not going back the way it was.”

  He had gradually gotten more and more excited by his little speech, which had started as an explanation to me and moved into a statement to himself and an unseen public. His face flushed and he gave me a lopsided Irish grin.

  “The Nittis and Capones and Servis are through,” he said. “The gang killing is going to stop. Chicago and Illinois are going to be the best run city and state in—”

  “I’m not even a voter,” I threw in.

  He chuckled, which was better for his digestion than turning red and angry.

  “A man who wants to get somewhere in politics has to know when to trust people,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “If he makes too many mistakes, he proves himself a poor judge of character and doesn’t deserve the trust and loyalty of others. That’s a small campaign speech, but I believe it. Sit still a few minutes and I’ll see what I can do.”

  He left the room and I polished off the roll he had left while I waited. I wasn’t sure whether he had decided I was someone to trust or someone not to trust. If I was the latter, a couple of cops would be coming through the door. If I ran now, I might make it out of the building if no one was waiting for me, but I had the feeling that if Daley wanted me to stay he would have taken care to see that I didn’t try to run. When he came back in five minutes or so, Daley was smiling. He moved back behind the desk and pulled out his
wallet. Before he sat down he handed me his card.

  “This isn’t my office. I’m just using it for a few days. You can reach me at the number on that card. You’ve got twenty-four hours to take care of Mr. Marx’s troubles,” he said. He looked at his watch. “That means you turn yourself in by two o’clock tomorrow afternoon and do what you can to help the police find out who killed those men. The police won’t pick you up or bother you till then.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’d like to say I’ll pay you back some day, but I can’t even vote for you.”

  “That’s all right,” he grinned. “If you know any Illinois voters, you might suggest that they stick with the Democrats. By the way, I trust you, but I also called a friend with the police department who had records on the case. They don’t really think you did it. Trust is one thing. Stupidity is something else. It’s a good idea to back up your trust with information.”

  “Mind if I have that embroidered and hung on my wall?” I said, giving my best pleased grin.

  “Be my guest,” he said, and added, “If things get a little out of hand and you need a good lawyer, I may be able to make a few suggestions. I’ve got a law degree from DePaul.”

  He seemed particularly proud of the last statement, and since it was the only sign of vulnerability he had shown, I nodded in respect.

  “One more thing,” I said, moving to the door.

  “Yes,” he said, looking up from his work.

  “How do I get to Henrici’s?”

  “Out the door on Clark Street, north to Randolph and turn right. You can’t miss it.”

  I went out to Clark Street and walked past the cop at the door who had obviously received the word on me. He looked me over to be sure I knew he was looking. I looked back and moved slowly up Clark Street with my hands in my pockets. I found Henrici’s. It looked a little fancy but Daley had assured me the special was seventy-five cents. He was right.

  By the time I had downed a half dozen scallops, the restaurant was filled with Loop lunchers and I hadn’t worked out a better plan. I passed on the fruit cup and had a chunk of orange cake, but that didn’t help any thing either. I eyed an almost good-looking secretary downing a tuna on toast at the next table, but she didn’t look at me so I left a quarter tip and walked into the cold with my head up.

  Two of my difficulties were taken care of. My stomach was full, and the cops and the crooks were giving me a little time.

  10

  “You got friends in high places,” Kleinhans said.

  “Yes, and in medium places too, I hope.”

  I was calling from a Woolworth’s on State Street. In one hand, I had the phone, in the other, a hot dog sandwich. The hot dog was skinny with nothing on it but a little mustard. The phone had more mustard on it than the dog.

  “What can I do for you, California?” he said.

  “Two things. I’ve got a meeting set up tonight between Marx and Servi. That should clear Marx, but a thought struck me. What if Servi’s the one who’s been knocking off the multitudes? What if he pulled this caper on the mob to pick up a clean $120,000?”

  “Then he’ll just identify Chico Marx as the Chico Marx who owes the mob a lot of money,” Kleinhans concluded.

  “Right, and Marx either comes up with the money or they start playing games with him and me—games that end with the two of us in small, mailing-size boxes.”

  “So, why doesn’t Marx just pay if it comes to that?”

  “Hasn’t got the money,” I explained, putting the stale hot dog bun down in the phone booth ledge. “His brothers will give it to him, but he’s got his own principles. I think he might duck out on a debt or put off paying, but I don’t think he’ll pay for something he didn’t lose.”

  “So,” sighed Kleinhans, “where do I come in?”

  “You were assigned to work with me, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How about arranging for a little protection in case we have to make a fast exit?”

  It seemed reasonable to him. I told him the time and the place of the meeting and suggested that he have a car with a big star parked right in front of the New Michigan Hotel.

  “Don’t hide it,” I said.

  A lady of about forty-five, with a white turban and a dead white mink around her neck peered in at me in the phone booth. She looked at her diamond-studded watch, under long black gloves. Then she looked at me. Her teeth were clenched in impatience. I offered her a bite of hot dog through the window. She turned her back on me.

  “O.K.,” said Kleinhans. “You said there were two things I would do.”

  “Right, the second is to tell me where in the Loop I can buy an egg. I’ve gone through four blocks without seeing anything that looked like a grocery.”

  He asked where I was and told me how to get to a fancy grocery called Smithfield’s. He didn’t ask me why I needed an egg. I said goodbye to Kleinhans and said I’d turn myself in the next day, as I had promised Daley.

  “Take care of yourself, Peters,” said Kleinhans, “and don’t do anything too stupid.”

  “It’s in my blood,” I said. “My brother’s a cop.”

  We both hung up, and the well-dressed lady shoved past me into the booth. I finished my hot dog and made my way to Smithfield’s, where I bought a half-dozen eggs. I was tempted to buy a can of quail eggs, too, just to keep on my shelf in L.A. to impress the social register when they dropped by, but my environment was a dead giveaway, and I didn’t want to actually eat quail eggs.

  A little after four I went into, Kitty Kelly’s. Merle was at her table. She gave me a small smile and blew her nose.

  “Look what you did,” she said, rolling the dice. Her dress was covered with spangles that glittered in the light from the bar. “I’m losing customers from this damned cold you gave me.”

  She shook her head and kept the small ironic smile to show she didn’t mean it, but she did mean it a little, too.

  I ordered a beer for myself and a glass of wine and orange juice for her. I did the bit Ian Fleming had pulled at the Fireside. My fingers didn’t have his flare. It was a kind of comic parody of what he had done, but it did get a small audience of late afternoon marginal businessmen, two Twenty-One girls and a bartender.

  “Drink it,” I said. “Old California cure for the common cold.”

  “You know what you can do with that?” she said.

  “Yeah,” I answered, “but it wouldn’t cure anything that way. Take my word. I’ve been around doctors a lot recently.”

  She said “What the hell,” downed the orange juice and egg and slugged the wine in two gulps.

  “You’ll feel better in half an hour,” I predicted, and handed her the carton with five more eggs, telling her to use them every two hours.

  I purposely lost a few bucks playing Twenty-One and mentioned that I might be getting near the end of my Chicago stay, one way or the other.

  “You’ll come by and pick up your suitcase, I hope,” she said, sounding semitough. “I’m not mailing it to you.”

  “I thought I’d be around at least through the night and you might put me up again.”

  “I might reinfect you.”

  “It’s worth the risk.”

  Her smile this time was real, and I asked her how to get in touch with Ray Narducy, the versatile cab driver who had introduced us and did the world’s worst Charlie Chan impression. She gave me the number from a book she fished out of her purse, and said he usually went home at dinner time to save a half-buck or so.

  “He’s a sardine freak,” she said. “Eats the stuff every day in sandwiches, salads. He’s a good kid, but for a few hours a day he smells like the lake on a hot day when the fish are dying.”

  After another five minutes of equally intimate conversation, I squeezed her hand, told her I’d see her later, and made room for a partly plastered businessman who was going to make snappy conversation with a lovely lady while he tried to recover his bar bill.

  Narducy was home.

>   “How’d you like to work for me tonight?” I said. He said he would, and I told him to pick me up in front of the Drake Hotel just before nine. “I’ll have the Marx Brothers with me as an added treat.”

  “I do imitations of all three of them,” he said happily. “I even do a Zeppo, but most people don’t recognize it.”

  “Maybe you could skip the impressions tonight. We’re going to have things on our mind. Now go back to your sardine sandwich.”

  “How did you know I was eating sardines?”

  “I’m a detective, remember?” I said. “Nine, in front of the Drake.”

  My wallet told me I had about seventy bucks left. My memory told me I had nothing in the bank. In fact, with my bill from the LaSalle, I was almost minus. I still couldn’t take a chance on calling Hoff or Mayer and getting fired. If I held on and the case got wrapped up fast, I had enough to get back to L.A., submit my bill to Mayer, and have a few bucks for some gas and a bag of tacos.

  Something resembling sleet pissed cold in my face as I walked in early evening darkness back toward the Drake. I stopped at a coffee shop for a tuna on toast and a Pepsi. I was the only customer. The place was shiny and clean with a steel counter that reflected me from its mirror surface. I tried to ignore myself, ate fast, left a reasonable tip to a waitress who was listening to Smiling Jack on the radio, and continued my journey back to the Drake.

  The Marxes had already eaten when I got there. The card game had temporarily ceased, and they were debating the future. I just sat back in a comfortable chair with my hat over my eyes and waited for time to pass.

  Every once in a while, I heard them arguing about doing a radio show. I wondered how Harpo would do a radio show, but I minded my own business. Groucho and Chico also argued about doing another movie. Groucho said the script about the department store was awful and couldn’t get better. Chico suggested that some things could be done with it.