Not long after that I was approached by the hospital’s medical director, Dr. Herman Siskin, a well-fed middle-aged doctor with salt-and-pepper hair and matching mustache. He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit and shades-of-blue striped silk tie—no hospital whites for this boy.
“Mr. Heller,” he said, offering his hand, which I shook. “I understand you’re in charge of Mr. Ragen’s security.”
“That’s right.”
“The facts are these. Mr. Ragen’s wounds are extensive. He’s had five blood transfusions thus far, and penicillin has been administered. Whether or not his right arm can be saved, we don’t yet know. His age, the loss of blood, and the resultant shock condition…well, let’s just say he’s not in for a short stay here at Michael Reese.”
“I see.”
“We have a private room ready for Mr. Ragen,” he said, pointing down the hallway, “and we’re prepared to accommodate his and your needs.”
“Thanks. But let’s start by getting him on a higher floor than the second.”
“Why’s that?”
“You can throw a bomb through a second-floor window.”
That opened his eyes. “Perhaps he’d be better off outside the main building.” Then, as if to assure us both his concern wasn’t for his facility, he added, “Somewhere not as easily accessible to the general public.”
“How about a private wing, where we could maintain tighter security?”
He nodded down the hallway to the left. “I’d suggest the Meyer House—which a patient of Mr. Ragen’s means might prefer, anyway. It’s connected by an enclosed walkway between buildings. You’d have a stairway and an elevator to watch—and the connecting corridor. That’s all.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s have a look.”
Drury’s coppers stayed on duty and I let Dr. Siskin walk me down the hall, through an archway into the connecting corridor to the Meyer House, where we took the elevator to the third floor. Siskin led me down a well-lit, vaulted corridor and showed me to a spacious, warmly appointed room—maple furnishings, a lounge chair upholstered in flowery chintz, wall mounted electric fan, writing desk, chest of drawers, private bath with tub; it was fancy enough to make you sick, or anyway wish you were sick. From the window I saw a wrought-iron-fence-enclosed lawn, beyond which was Lake Park Avenue and the I.C. tracks. It seemed okay, from a security standpoint. The only drawback was a standing fire escape down the hall on the south end wall, maybe thirty feet from Ragen’s door.
“No getting away from fire escapes in a hospital,” the medical director said, with a little shrug.
“We’ll keep a man posted by it,” I said. “Does this building have a separate kitchen?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, the food service in Meyer House is its pride and joy. This wing was built to serve our wealthier patients—Mr. Ragen can, when he’s up to it, have lobster if he likes. Why do you ask?”
“They may try to poison him.”
He blinked. “I can give you my personal assurance that the head dietician herself will prepare Mr. Ragen’s meals.”
“Your personal assurance is just swell, Doc, but are you willing to prove it by tasting his food before he does?”
His mustache twitched; he found that a little impertinent, I guess, and I guess it was.
“I don’t mean to offend you, Dr. Siskin, and I appreciate your willingness to discuss security measures with me. But I must warn you I’m going to suggest that the Ragen family be extremely cautious. I’ll advise that they use their personal family physician, if possible. I’m also going to suggest that they hire private nurses.”
“Why?”
“Because you have a big staff here. If we don’t do it my way, then anybody in a white uniform will be able to get in that room.”
“And not everyone in a white uniform,” he said, nodding, “is necessarily a doctor.”
I nodded back. “We’ll put together a list of names. Nobody whose name isn’t on that list is going to get past the guards.”
“Mere association with the hospital won’t guarantee admittance, in other words.”
“If you want to put it that way, yeah. We got to be able to monitor who goes in and out of that room—just as carefully as you people are going to monitor his vital signs.”
“Understood.”
“Don’t feel insulted about my keeping the hospital staff out, Doctor. I’m going to try to keep the cops out, as well.”
“Well…I can understand that.”
I grinned. “Chicago born and bred, Doc?”
Under the mustache, a small smile formed. “Yes. And if I can be of help, where keeping the police at bay is concerned, say the word.”
“All you got to do is tell anybody official that Mr. Ragen isn’t ready to receive visitors yet. That he’s not up to the strain.”
“How long would you like me to maintain that posture?”
“Till I say otherwise. Or Ragen himself, of course. He’s the boss.”
Siskin nodded. Then he said, “I’m impressed, Mr. Heller. You seem to know your job. And I can assure you we know ours, as well.”
“I’m sure you do. And don’t be so impressed with me. I’m the schmuck who was bodyguarding him when the shit hit the fan, remember.”
He had to put some things in motion here, so I walked myself back to the main building, where I found Ellen Ragen and two of her sons waiting outside the double doors of the surgery, the two Drury-picked cops still on watch.
Mrs. Ragen was a small, pudgy woman with a lot of dark curly hair—undoubtedly dyed. I didn’t know who she’d been before she married Jim—just some simple Back-o’-the-Yards gal, or a chorus girl or what; but it was clear she’d been a looker once, before age and weight made her face puffy. Now she wore too much bright red lipstick and too much make-up in general, giving her the clown effect of the older woman who was once pretty and keeps trying to get pretty again by applying more and more pancake and rouge. A losing battle. So was the one she was having with her mascara, which was running down those heavily made-up cheeks like narrow black ribbons. Her dress was black, too—premature mourning weeds—with a small gray hat perched amidst the mound of hair and a sort of gray and black speckled vest with a big sparkly brooch.
Her son Jim was a younger (37 or 38, I’d guess) version of his father, minus the glasses and plus hair; he wore a dark suit and kept an arm around his mother. Younger son Daniel, in his early twenties, wore a blue sportshirt and slacks and looked like a college kid, which he was, at DePaul. Facially he resembled his mother, though he was taller. But then so was a fireplug. Daniel—or Danny, as the family called him—looked concerned enough but was fidgeting, hands in pockets.
“Mr. Heller,” Mrs. Ragen said, garish red lips trembling, “what am I going to do if I lose my dear husband?”
The formality of that sounded silly, or it would have if she hadn’t meant it so deeply.
“You’re not going to lose him,” I said.
Jim, Jr., released her and she came toward me, wanting to be hugged, so I hugged her. She smelled like face powder. Her cosmetic-counter efforts to forestall getting older were as ill-advised as her husband’s attempt to beat the Outfit, and just as futile. They had a lot of money, these people, and they were old enough to retire, and young enough to enjoy it. Why didn’t they? As I patted her in a “there, there” manner, she seemed very small, despite her bulk. Like a child.
It embarrassed me, holding this pudgy little woman who I barely knew; but I felt a strange affection for her at that moment. I don’t know how guys feel about their mothers, because I never knew mine. But maybe this was something like that.
Only you couldn’t tell it from Danny.
“Mom,” he said, turning it into a whining two-syllable word, “can I just check in with you and Pop later? The doctor said he was going to pull through okay. Margie’s waiting downstairs. We were supposed to meet some friends tonight, at Riccardo’s—”
If he were my kid, I’d have de
cked him. But she just eased out of my grasp, a graceful woman despite her heft, and patted him on the cheek and said, “You were a good boy to come by here, Danny. Don’t you worry. Your pop’s going to be all right.”
Danny grasped one of her hands with both of his and put some warmth into his words: “I know he is, Mom. He’s a tough old guy. They aren’t going to get him.”
She beamed at him and he smiled and waved and headed down the hall. Jim, Jr., seemed faintly disgusted by all this. So was I. Even the two coppers guarding the double doors rolled their eyes at each other.
“He’s a good student,” she said to me, smiling, proud, face streaked black by mascara. “He’ll make a wonderful lawyer someday, Mr. Heller.”
“I’m sure he will, Mrs. Ragen.”
“I hope his father lives to see it.”
“Me, too, Mrs. Ragen. I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job today for him. I’m sorry I let this happen.”
She smiled at me sympathetically and patted my cheek like she had her son. Neither of us deserved the treatment.
I showed her and Jim, Jr., to Ragen’s private room in the Meyer House wing. Settled Mrs. Ragen in the lounge chair and her son at the writing desk, and explained the security measures I’d already taken and intended to take, including that they use their own family physicians to attend Jim.
“I’m sure Dr. Graaf will be glad to help out,” Jim, Jr., said.
“And Dr. Snaden is in town,” Mrs. Ragen said, looking at her son eagerly, as he nodded back with a small smile. “He’s been our doctor in Miami for years.” She looked at me and needlessly added, “We have a place down there.”
“Is Snaden going to be in town long?”
“He’s moving his practice out to California someplace,” the son said, nodding. “His practice in Miami has fallen off some, and some of his patients have moved to the West Coast. He was from here originally—still has a place here, in fact—and told me he was going to be on hand for several months, settling various matters.”
“Good. Lucky break. If he and your other doctor will cooperate, it’ll help us keep close tabs on Mr. Ragen’s recovery. I want only a few trusted parties able to get into this room—including medics.”
Mrs. Ragen smiled up at me like I was somebody really special; it was a nice smile, even streaked black like that.
“Mr. Heller,” she said, “I can understand why my niece is in love with you.”
That damn near made me blush; first time this decade.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said.
“Neither do I,” a hard-edged yet melodic voice said.
I turned and looked at Peggy Hogan, who was standing in the doorway of the room, her violet eyes red from crying, her jaw tight but trembling. She was wearing a dark blue dress with a white floral pattern; her hands, at her sides, were fists.
She whisked past me and went to her aunt and said a few words of comfort to her, putting a hand on her shoulder; she smiled and nodded at Jim, Jr., and then she turned to me and said, “Let’s talk in the hall.”
I followed her out there; we walked down to a lounge area between corridors. There were several chairs and couches, but we didn’t sit.
“I should be very angry with you,” she said, lower lip trembling.
“You’re doing a damn good job of faking it, if you aren’t.”
“You promised me you wouldn’t take any dangerous jobs. You promised me that was behind you.”
“Something came up…I had to fill in…”
“People shooting at you in the street! You shooting at them!”
“You used to like life not to be dull.”
“I was a kid, then. I was attracted to danger.”
“Here I thought it was my boyish charm.”
Then she clutched me, held me to her, hugging for dear life.
“Nate, Nate,” she said. She was sobbing. Christ, she was sobbing! What was this about?
She moved back to look at me, keeping her arms around me. Freckles on her nose made her look like a kid. “I was so worried when I heard.”
“How did you hear, anyway?”
“Lou Sapperstein. He called.”
“What did he call you for?”
“He didn’t. He called you and got me. I was waiting for you. At the Morrison. We had a date tonight, remember?”
She had a key.
“Oh, hell. I forgot all about it…”
“Never mind that. Just let me hold you.” She held me. “Hold you.”
I squeezed her tight. She smelled good. Not like face powder, or roses, either. Probably the Chanel #5 I bought her.
Then I broke the clinch.
“Peg, what did Lou want?”
“He said he’d found the guy you were looking for.”
“Tendlar?”
“I think so. Who’s that?”
“A guy that works for me. A guy that used to work for me, anyway. What else did Lou say?”
“He said he was sitting on the guy for you.”
I smiled. “Good. Anything else?”
“He said to tell you this guy wasn’t feeling good and needed some special medicine.” Peggy made a confused face. “He said to tell you you were going to have to feed this guy…this doesn’t make sense…a certain fish.”
I laughed. “It makes sense to me. I’m going to have to make a call, and get somebody to take my place, here.”
“Aren’t you going to look after my uncle?”
“I can’t do it twenty-four hours a day, Peg…but I’m going to do my best to keep him alive.”
“You didn’t do so good this afternoon, did you?”
“Are you scolding me?”
“No.” She came back into my arms. “I was sick when I heard. Worried for you. Scared to death for Uncle Jim. He’s been so good to me, Nate.”
“What am I, chopped liver?”
She kissed me; sweet and long.
“You don’t taste like chopped liver,” she said.
“Neither do you,” I said, and kissed her back.
She pulled away, straightened her dress and said, “Those gangsters did this, didn’t they?”
“Sure.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“I’m going to try to keep your uncle alive, for the immediate future. And then convince him to sell his business to them.”
The violet eyes popped open like windows whose shades got yanked. “Give in to them?”
“Of course, give in to them. What else?”
She shook a fist. “Well, fight them, of course! Like Uncle Jim!”
“Yeah—just like Uncle Jim. Who’s on his back with his collarbone shattered and his arm mangled, throwing down transfusions like a drunk with a fifth of whiskey and a water glass.”
She shook her head, shook her head. “I don’t believe you’re saying this. Surely you want to get the people who shot Uncle Jim—who tried to kill you! Don’t you think they ought to be brought to justice?”
“What justice is that? They own the cops, or most of the cops, anyway.”
“I don’t know…it just doesn’t seem right. We should do something.”
“You should do nothing but give your relatives some moral support. I’m going to do my job and see if I can’t keep your uncle alive.”
She sighed. She shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.”
“But you’re disappointed in me.”
“No. Not really.”
“What happened to not wanting me to take dangerous assignments?”
“This is different. This is personal. This is family.”
“This is nuts.”
“I just wish you…we…could do something, damnit!”
“I’m not Gary Cooper, honey. Nobody is.”
“Gary Cooper is,” she said, with a little pout.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think his real name is Frank.”
That made her smile, and she came over and gave me another hug. About then, Jim, Jr., cam
e and found us.
“Pop’s back in his room,” he said. He looked ashen. I think the sight of his wounded father had shaken him pretty bad. “He’s awake—wants to see Mr. Heller.”
I walked down there. The little room was crowded. Ellen Ragen was standing holding her husband’s left hand, gently; a bottle of plasma was feeding that left arm some life, trying to put some color in the white little Irishman. A nurse was tending the plasma, while a doctor was writing something down on a clipboard. The doctor, a somber chap in his mid-forties, glanced at the three of us as we squeezed in, and said, “Everyone, including Mrs. Ragen, needs to clear the room. We’re going to be bringing in an oxygen tent momentarily.”
“Give me a minute with my friend here, Doc,” Jim said, nodding—barely, but nodding—toward me.
“No more than that,” the doctor said, sternly, and he went out, taking everybody but the patient, nurse and me with him.
“They’ll try to kill me here, lad,” he said. His eyes, for the first time since that afternoon he hired me as his bodyguard, showed fear. “I’m a dead man, sure.”
“Not yet you aren’t,” I said, and I quickly filled him in on my security plans. He smiled, narrowing his eyes in little facial assents to all of it.
“Can you protect my family?” he asked.
“You bet. I’ll put every op I have on this.”
“God bless you. God bless you.”
“What’s this about a statement to the State’s Attorney’s office?”
“I thought that would warn the bastards off.”
“Don’t think it worked, Jim.”
“It should’ve. It should’ve. They know I made affidavits.”
“Affidavits?”
“I fuckin’ read ’em to Serritella! Three affidavits in my safe deposit box. Had my lawyer write ’em up.”
“What’s in those affidavits, Jim?”
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