Chicago Lightning : The Collected Nathan Heller Short Stories

by Collins, Max Allan

  Vaughn Monroe was singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky” on the radio—in full nasal throttle. And we were still whispering.

  Cohen shifted his weight. “Listen, you and me, we never had no problems, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And you know your partner, Fred and me, we’re pals.”

  “Sure.”

  “So I figured I’d throw some work your way.”

  “Like what, Mick?”

  He was sitting sideways on the couch, to look at me better; his hands were on his knees. “I’m gettin’ squeezed by a pair of vice cops—Delbert Potts and Rudy Johnson, fuckers’ names. They been tryin’ to sell me recordings.”

  “Frankie Laine? Vaughn Monroe?”

  “Very funny—these pricks got wire recordings of me, they say, business transactions, me and who-knows-who discussing various illegalities…I ain’t heard anything yet. But they’re trying to shake me down for twenty gee’s—this goes well past the taste they’re gettin’ already, from my business.”

  Now I understood why he was whispering, and why the radio was blasting.

  “We’re not talking protection,” I said, “but straight blackmail.”

  “On the nose. I want two things, Heller—I want my home and my office, whadyacallit, checked for bugs…”

  “Swept.”

  “Huh?”

  “Swept for bugs. That’s what it’s called, Mick.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what I want—part of what I want. I also want to put in my own wiretaps and bugs and get those two greedy bastards on my recordings of them shakin’ me down.”

  “Good idea—create a standoff.”

  He twitched a smile, apparently pleased by my approval. “You up for doing that?”

  “It’s not my speciality, Mick—but I can recommend somebody. Guy named Vaus, Jim Vaus. Calls himself an ‘electronics engineering consultant.’ He’s in Hollywood.”

  The dark eyes tightened but retained their deer-in-the-headlights quality. “You’ve used this guy?”

  “Yeah…well, Fred has. But what’s important is: the cops use him, too.”

  “They don’t have their own guy?”

  “Naw. They don’t have anybody like that on staff—they’re a backward bunch. Jim’s strictly freelance. Hell, he may be the guy who bugged you for the cops.”

  “But can he be trusted?”

  “If you pay him better than the LAPD—which won’t be hard—you’ll have a friend for life.”

  “How you wanna handle this, Nate? Through your office, or will this, what’s-his-name, Vaus, kick back a little to you guys, or—”

  “This is just a referral, Mick, just a favor…I think I got one of his cards….”

  I dug the card out of my wallet and gave it to Cohen, whose big brown eyes were dancing with sugarplumbs.

  “This is great, Nate!”

  I felt relieved, like I’d dodged a bullet: I had helped Cohen without having to take him on as a client.

  So I said, “Glad to have been of service,” and began to get up, only Cohen stopped me with a small but firm hand on my forearm.

  Bing Crosby was singing “Dear Hearts and Gentle People” on the radio—casual and easygoing and loud as hell.

  “What’s the rush, Nate? I got more business to talk.”

  Sitting back down, I just smiled and shrugged and waited for the pitch.

  It was a fastball: “I need you should bodyguard me.”

  “Jesus, Mick, with guys like Stompanato and Niccoli around? What the hell would you need me for?”

  He was shaking his head; he had a glazed expression. “These vice cops, they got friends in the sheriff’s office. My boys been gettin’ rousted regularly—me, too. Half the time when we leave this place, we get shoved up against the wall and checked for concealed weapons.”

  “Oh. Is that what happened to Happy Meltzer?”

  “On the nose again! Trumped-up gun charge. And these vice cops are behind it—and maybe Jack Dragna, who’s in bed with the sheriff’s department. Dragna would like nothin’ better than to get me outa of the picture, without makin’ our mutual friends back east sore.”

  “Hell, Mick, how do you see me figuring in this?”

  “You’re a private detective—licensed for bodyguard work. Licensed to carry a weapon! Shit, man, I need somebody armed standin’ at my side, to keep me from gettin’ my ass shot off! Just a month ago, somebody took a blast at me with a shotgun, and then we found a bomb under my house, and…”

  He rattled on, as I thought about his former bodyguard, Hooky Rothman, getting his face shot off, in that posh shop just beyond the metal-lined door.

  “I got friends in the Attorney General’s office,” he was saying, “and they tell me they got an inside tip that there’s a contract out on yours truly—there’s supposed to be two triggers in from somewheres on the east coast, to do the job. I need somebody with a gun, next to me.”

  “Mickey,” I said, “I have to decline. With all due respect.”

  “You’re not makin’ me happy, Nate.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m in no position to help out. First off, I don’t live out here, not fulltime, anyway. Second, I have a reputation of mob connections that I’m trying to live down.”

  “You’re disappointing me….”

  “I’m trying to get my branch office established out here, and you and Fred being friends—you hanging out at Sherry’s—that’s as far as our relationship, personal or professional, can go.”

  He thought about that. Then he nodded and shrugged. “I ain’t gonna twist your arm…. Two grand a week, just for the next two weeks?”

  That might have tempting, if Cohen hadn’t already narrowly escaped half a dozen hit attempts.

  “You say you got friends in the Attorney General’s office?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Fred Howser and me are like this.” He held up his right hand, forefinger and middlefinger crossed.

  If the attorney general himself was on Cohen’s pad, then those wire recordings the vice cops had might implicate Howser….

  “Mick, ask Howser to assign one of his men to you as a bodyguard.”

  “A cop?”

  “Who better? He’ll be armed, he’ll be protecting a citizen, and anyway, a cop to a hoodlum is like garlic to a vampire. Those triggers’ll probably steer clear, long as a state investigator is at your side.”

  Cohen was thinking that over; then he began to nod.

  “Not a bad idea,” he said. “Not a bad idea at all.”

  I stood. “No consulting fee, Mick. Let’s stay friends—and not do business together.”

  He snorted a laugh, stood and went over and shut off the radio, cutting off Mel Torme singing “Careless Hands.” Then he walked me to the steel-lined door and—when I extended my hand—shook with me.

  As I was leaving, I heard him, in the private bathroom off his office, tap running, as he washed up—removing my germs.

  I had a couple stops to make, unrelated to the Cohen appointment, so it was late afternoon when I made it back to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Entering my bungalow—nothing fancy, just a marble fireplace, private patio and furnishings no more plush than the palace at Versailles—I heard something…someone…in the bedroom. Rustling around in there.

  My nine millimeter was in my suitcase, and my suitcase was in the bedroom. And I was just about to exit, to find a hotel dick or maybe call a cop, when my trained detective’s nose sniffed a clue; and I walked across the living room, and pushed the door open.

  Didi Davis gasped; she was wearing glittery earrings—just glittery earrings, and the Chanel Number Five I’d nosed—and was poised, pulling back the covers, apparently about to climb into bed. She looked like a French maid who forgot her costume.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” she said. She was a lovely brunette, rather tall—maybe five nine—with a willowy figure that would have seemed skinny if not for pert breasts and an impertinent dimpled behind. She was tanned all over. Her hair was up.
It wasn’t alone.

  “I thought you were working at Republic today,” I said, undoing my tie.

  She crawled under the covers and the sheets made inviting, crinkly sounds. “Early wrap…. I tipped a bellboy who let me in.”

  Soon I was under covers, equally naked, leaning on a pillow. “You know, I run with kind of a rough crowd—surprises like this can backfire.”

  “I just wanted to do something sweet for you,” she said.

  And she proceeded to do something sweet for me.

  Half an hour later, still in the bedroom, we were getting dressed when I brought up the rough crowd she ran with.

  “Why didn’t you mention you used to date Frank Niccoli?”

  She was fastening a nylon to her garter belt, long lovely leg stretched out as if daring me to be mad at her. “I don’t know—Nate, you and I met at Sherry’s, after all. You hang around with those kind of people. What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is, suppose he’s a jealous type. Niccoli isn’t your average ex-beau—he’s a goddamn thug. Is it true he smacked you around?”

  She was putting on her other nylon, fastening it, smoothing it; this kind of thing could get boring in an hour or two. “That’s why I walked out on him. I warned him and he said he wouldn’t do it again, and then a week later, he did it again.”

  “Has he bothered you? Confronted you in public? Called you on the phone?”

  “No. It’s over. He knows it, and I know it…now you know it. Okay, Nate? Do I ask you questions about your ex-wife?”

  Didi didn’t know my wife wasn’t officially my ex, yet; nor that I was still hoping to rekindle those flames. She thought I was a great guy, unaware that I was a heel who would never marry another actress, but would gladly sleep with one.

  “Let’s drop it,” I said.

  “What a wonderful idea.” She stood, easing her slip down over her nyloned legs, and was shimmying into her casual light-blue dress when the doorbell rang. Staying in a bungalow at the Beverly Hills, incidentally, was the only time I can recall a hotel room having a doorbell.

  “I’m not expecting company,” I told her, “but stay in here, would you? And keep mum?”

  “I need to put my make-up on—”

  The bell rang again—pretty damn insistent.

  I got my nine millimeter out of the suitcase, stuffed it in my waistband, slipped on my sportjacket and covered it. “Just sit down—there’s some magazines by the bed. We don’t need to advertise.”

  She saw the common sense of that, and nodded. No alarm had registered in her eyes at the sight of the weapon; but then she’d been Niccoli’s girl, hadn’t she?

  I shut her in there and went to answer the door.

  I’d barely cracked the thing open when the two guys came barging in, the first one in brushing past me, the second slamming the door.

  I hadn’t even had a chance to say, “Hey!” when the badge in the wallet was thrust in my face.

  “Lieutenant Delbert Potts,” he said, putting the wallet away. He was right on top of me and his breath was terrible: it smelled like anchovies taste. “L.A. vice squad. This is my partner, Sergeant Rudy Johnson.”

  Potts was a heavy-set character in an off-the-rack brown suit that looked slept in; hatless, he had greasy reddish-blond hair and his drink-reddened face had a rubbery softness. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose as misshapen as a blob of putty somebody had stuck there carelessly, his lips thick and plump and vaguely obscene.

  Johnson was thin and dark—both his features and his physique—and his navy suit looked tailored. He wore a black snapbrim that had set him back a few bucks.

  “Fancy digs, Mr. Heller,” Potts said, prowling the place, his thick-lipped smile conveying disgust. He had a slurry voice—he reminded me of a loathsome Arthur Godfrey, if that wasn’t redundant.

  “I do some work for the hotel,” I said. “They treat me right when I’m out here.”

  “You goin’ back to Chicago soon?” Johnson asked, right next to me. He had a reedy voice and his eyes seemed sleepy unless you noticed the sharpness under the half-lids.

  “Not right away.”

  I’d never met this pair, yet they knew my name and knew I was from Chicago. And they hadn’t taken me up on my offer to sit down.

  “You might re-consider,” Potts said. He was over at the wet bar, checking out the brands.

  “Help yourself,” I said.

  “We’re on duty,” Johnson said.

  “Fellas—what’s this about?”

  Potts wandered back over to me and thumped me on the chest with a thick finger. “You stopped by Mickey Cohen’s today.”

  “That’s right. He wanted me to do a job for him—I turned him down.”

  The bloodshot eyes tightened. “You turned him down? Are you sure?”

  “I have a real good memory, Lieutenant. I remember damn near everything that happened to me, all day.”

  “Funny.” That awful breath was warm in my face—fishy smell. “You wouldn’t kid a kidder, would you?”

  Backing away, I said, “Fellas—make your point.”

  Potts kept moving in on me, his breath in my face, like a foul furnace, his finger thumping at my chest. “You and your partner…Rubinski…you shouldn’t be so thick with that little kike.”

  “Which little kike?”

  Johnson said, “Mickey Cohen.”

  I looked from one to the other. “I already told you guys—I turned him down. I’m not working for him.”

  Potts asked, “What job did he want you for?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  He swung his fist into my belly—I did not see it coming, nor did I expect a slob like him to have such power. I dropped to my knees and thought about puking on the oriental carpet—I also thought about the gun in my waistband.

  Slowly, I got to my feet. And when I did, the nine millimeter was in my hand.

  “Get the fuck out of my room,” I said.

  Both men backed away, alarm widening their seen-it-all eyes. Potts blurted, “You can be arrested for—”

  “This is licensed, and you clowns barged into my room and committed assault on me.”

  Potts had his hands up; he seemed nervous but he might have been faking, while he looked for an opening. “I shouldn’ta swung on ya. I apologize—now, put the piece away.”

  “No.” I motioned toward the door with the Browning. “You’re about to go, gents…but first—here’s everything you need to know: I’m not working for Cohen, and neither is Fred.”

  The two exchanged glances, Johnson shaking his head.

  “Why don’t you put that away,” Pott said, with a want-some-candy-little-girl smile, “and we’ll just talk.”

  “We have talked. Leave.”

  I pressed forward and the two backed up—toward the door.

  “You better be tellin’ the truth,” Potts said, anger swimming in his rheumy eyes.

  I opened the door for them. “What the hell have you been eating, Potts? Your breath smells like hell.”

  The cop’s blotchy face reddened, but his partner let out a sharp, single laugh. “Sardine sandwiches—it’s all he eats on stakeouts.”

  That tiny moment of humanity between Johnson and me ended the interview; then they were out the door, and I shut and nightlatched it. I watched them through the window as they moved through the hotel’s garden-like grounds, Potts taking the lead, clearly pissed-off, the flowering shrubs around him doing nothing to soothe him.

  In the bedroom, Didi was stretched out on the bed, on her back, head to one side, fast asleep.

  I sat next to her, on the edge of the bed, and this woke her with a start. “What? Oh…I must’ve dropped off. What was that about, anyway?”

  “The Welcome Wagon,” I said. “Come on, let’s get an early supper.”

  And I took her to the Polo Lounge, where she chattered on and on about the picture she was working (with Roy Rogers and Dale Evans) and I said not much. I was thinking about t
hose two bent cops, and how I’d pulled a gun on them.

  No retaliation followed my encounter with the two vice squad boys. They had made their point, and I mine. But I did take some precautionary measures: for two days I tailed the bastards, and (with my Speed Graphic, the divorce dick’s best friend) got two rolls of film on them receiving pay-offs, frequently in the parking lot of their favorite coffee shop, Googie’s, on Sunset at Crescent Heights. I had no intention of using these for blackmail purposes—I just wanted some ammunition, other than the nine millimeter variety, with which to deal with these bent sons of bitches. On the other hand, I had taken to wearing my shoulder-holstered nine millimeter, in case things got interesting.

  And for over a week, things weren’t interesting—things were nicely dull. I had run into Cohen at Sherry’s several times and he was friendly—and always in the company of a rugged-looking, ruggedly handsome investigator from the Attorney General’s office, sandy-haired Harry Cooper…which rhymed with Gary Cooper, who the dick was just as tall as.

  Mick had taken my advice—he now had an armed bodyguard, courtesy of the state of California. His retinue of a Dwarf or two also accompanied him, of course, just minus any artillery. Once or twice, Niccoli had been with him—he’d just smiled and nodded at me (and Didi), polite, no hard feelings.

  On Tuesday night, July 19, I took Didi to see Annie Get Your Gun at the Greek Theater; Gertrude Niesen had just opened in the show, and she and it were terrific. Then we had a late supper at Ciro’s, and hit a few jazz clubs. We wound up, as we inevitably did, at Sherry’s for pastries and coffee.

  Fred greeted us as we came in and joined us in a booth, Didi—who looked stunning in a low-cut spangly silver gown, her brunette hair piled high—and I were on one side, Fred on the other. A piano tinkling Cole Porter fought with clanking plates and after-theater chatter.

  I ordered us up a half-slice of cheesecake for Didi (who was watching her figure—she wasn’t alone), a Napoleon for me, and coffee for both of us. Fred just sat there with his hands folded, prayerfully, shaking his head.

  “Gettin’ too old for this,” he said, his pouchy puss even pouchier than usual, a condition his natty navy suit and red silk tie couldn’t make up for.