“You’re dead unless you talk,” I said through my teeth. “Who bought you. Guzik?”
He was shaking his head side to side, face slick with tears and snot, lips pulled back, teeth showing, and it was not a smile. “I don’t even know Guzik. I never even met the son of a bitch.”
“Give me that fucking thing,” I said to Lou, and held out my hand, and Lou filled it with the hose, and Tendlar cried out, “Don’t! I can’t take any more of it. I don’t know anything, Christ! Honest!”
“Honest?” I said. “Swear to God?”
“Don’t hit me again….”
I hit him again. In the chest.
He coughed and wheezed and moaned.
I turned to Lou, casually. “Did you know we’re only four or five blocks south of the Nitti family deli, Lou? You can spit from Bill’s doorstep and, if the wind is with you, hit an Italian.”
“Really,” Lou said, interested.
I finished my beer, handed the empty to Lou, paced about Tendlar, slapping the rubber hose gently into my palm. “Nice place you got here, Bill. Just you and the rest of the rats.”
“It’s…I know it’s a dump, but I got divorced last year. You know that. Alimony. You know.”
“I pay you better than this. Alimony or not, why are you living in such a goddamn dump?”
“It’s…it’s hard to find a place…”
I went over to one rickety end table where today’s Green Sheet, a racing publication, sat under an empty Pabst bottle; various horses were checked off, various notations had been made.
“One of our client’s publications,” I said, picking up the tip sheet, taking it over and holding it front of him. “He’ll be glad to hear you’re supporting him.”
He sucked some snot up inside him. Tried to pull himself together. Tried to keep his chin from trembling. Couldn’t.
“I knew you gambled some, Bill. I didn’t know it was this serious.”
He swallowed. “You know how it is.”
“Got in a little deep, did you?”
He nodded.
“Not anymore you aren’t. You got out, didn’t you?”
He swallowed again. “I don’t have anything to tell. Honest to Christ I don’t.”
“You’re thinking they’ll kill you if you tell. Well, I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
“You’re no killer.”
“Ask the Japs.”
He looked like he was going to start crying again. “But I really don’t have anything to tell you.”
“Let’s start with the obvious. You did sell me out. Just tell me that much. Never mind who.”
“If…if I said that I did sell you out…I’m not saying I did, Heller…but if I did say that, you wouldn’t make me tell who?”
“I wouldn’t make you tell who, Bill. Just tell me you sold me out.”
He swallowed. He cast his eyes toward the floor. He began to nod.
“You sold me out?”
He kept nodding.
“Say it, Bill.”
“I sold you out, Heller.” He looked up, with a pleading expression. “It was big dough. You’d’ve done it in my place, and I wouldn’t blame you.”
“How much, Bill?”
He coughed. “Damn summer cold,” he said.
“How much, Bill?”
“Five gees.”
I glanced at Lou. He raised his eyebrows. That was a lot of dough.
“It got you out of the hole,” I said.
He nodded frantically. “And then some.”
“Why didn’t you take off? You had to know I’d come around.”
“I didn’t figure you for this…the goddamn rubber hose treatment. You just don’t seem the type.”
“You’d be surprised how testy I get when people try to kill me.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Did they tell you not to run, Bill?”
He nodded again, not frantically. “Yeah…they said if I held up under whatever came…cops or you or whatever…there’d be another gee in it for me.”
“Six thousand to play finger man,” I said. And to Lou: “I wonder what the hell the shooters got paid?”
“Whatever it was,” Lou said, working on a bottle of Pabst, “I bet they have to give it back. They screwed up. Ragen’s alive, after all.”
“That’s true.” I smiled at Bill. “Now. Who?”
“What? You said…”
“I lied. Who bought you?”
“Don’t hit me again.”
“Tell me and I won’t.”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“You’ll think I’m lying. You’ll hit me again.”
“No I won’t. Who?”
“I don’t know, really. It was all done over the phone.”
I hit him again. Across the left bicep.
“You liar,” he said, bitterly.
“I can be a real asshole sometimes,” I admitted, and hit him again.
“You can hit me all you want,” he said, bawling like a baby, “but it’s true. It was all done by phone, and money drops. I never saw nobody. They called me, I never called them; I don’t have a number or nothing. The voice was male, but it didn’t even have no accent. I’m telling the truth.”
I looked at Lou. He shrugged.
“Yeah,” I said, tossing the rubber hose over on the worn couch. “I think you are.”
I told Lou to get a cold wet towel and I wiped Bill’s face off. Lou uncuffed him. I took the Murphy bed down and helped him to bed.
“You’re going to have a couple of rough days,” I said.
He was on his back, pajamas clinging to him damply, eyes closed, arms at his side. He looked like a corpse.
“You’re going to hurt like hell,” I said, “but don’t tip to anybody that we worked you over. We stayed away from your face, so you should be able to pull it off. Don’t tip the cops, don’t tip the newshounds, don’t tip nobody. Not your phone contact, either.”
He nodded. It was barely perceptible, but it was a nod.
“And I wouldn’t skip town if I were you,” I said. “It just wouldn’t look good. In fact, after you had a day in bed, I want you to come back into the office. Business as usual.”
He opened his eyes. “Does this mean I’m not fired?”
I looked at Lou and shook my head. Lou was laughing silently.
“Bill,” I said. “I’m going to keep you on for the next month or two. Till this blows over. You’ll get paid and everything. I’m going to back you when the cops and anybody else, Walt Pelitier for example, asks about your part in this. I’m going to say you’re a stand-up guy and clean as a whistle. I don’t want any bad reflection on the agency, understand?”
He swallowed and nodded.
“But you’re going to stay away from me. Just go to your little cubicle and make your phone credit checks and wait for the day, before very long, when I’m standing before you with a smiling face, telling you to get out of my sight forever or I’ll fucking kill you.”
He looked at me blankly for a long time.
“Oh,” he said, finally. “Then I guess a letter of reference is out of the question?”
At one-thirty in the morning, the plush, high-ceilinged lobby of the Morrison Hotel tended to be about dead as its marble floor. A few clusters of out-of-town businessmen were getting in from their evening’s entertainment in the big city, talking a little loud, a little drunk; a well-dressed older man in a tux and a good-looking dame in a clingy gown were moving arm-in-arm onto an elevator; the overweight, alcoholic house dick, Matthews, was sitting on a divan almost as overstuffed as he was, next to a palm that was also potted. That was about it.
The night man lurking behind the marble-and-bronze check-in counter—skinny, pockmarked, Gable-mustached Williams, who had been assistant manager for going on ten years now, all the while maintaining the supercilious attitude of one rising fast in his chosen trade—was not glad to see me. He didn’t push it, however, because
I lived here and took no shit at all off him.
“Messages?” I asked.
He smiled and nodded—which was unusual. I had expected the normal long-suffering sigh of one forced to endure the indignity of the superior doing the bidding of the inferior; instead he rather cheerfully turned to his wall of boxes and came back with a stack of note sheets.
“Reporters,” he said, looking down his nose, mustache twitching, as he smiled thinly so we could share his contempt for such lower life forms.
I shuffled through the messages; Davis of the News had called every hour. This was typical of the aftermath of an episode like this afternoon’s—not that today had been an average day in the life of Nathan S. Heller. If it were, I’d have been dead of old age at twenty-five. Still, I’d been pulled in off the sidelines into the middle of mob activity often enough to know the reporters would swarm in the wake.
“Hold all calls?” Williams asked, almost civilly.
“Yeah, except from Lou Sapperstein. And I guess Lt. Drury; no other cops—if they call, I’m out. Throw these away, would you?”
I pushed the stack of messages his way and he accepted them dutifully if not graciously.
I took an elevator up to the twenty-third floor, which was in the nineteen-story tower atop the Morrison’s central twenty-one stories (all of which made it the city’s tallest hotel), to “suite” 2317, one rather large room with a kitchenette and a smaller bedroom. Not unlike Tendlar’s place, just bigger and nicer.
And, I thought as I worked the key in the door, there was another nice difference: nobody would be handcuffed to a chair waiting for a rubber hose workout from yours truly.
But as the door barely cracked open, I realized somebody had to be waiting in there for me: the light was on, and I hadn’t left it on.
I had one bad moment, hand drifting toward my nine millimeter under my shoulder.
Then I smiled to myself, thinking Peggy, and went on in.
Where, smack in the middle of my floor, face down, kissing the carpet, as if he’d fallen off the nearby couch, was a guy in a lightweight, light brown summer suit. A big guy—not as big as a house, but if he were a garage he’d be the two-car variety. He also had a bloody head, or anyway a bloody back of the head, which otherwise was covered in dark brown, well-greased hair. Around and about his upper torso were the shattered pieces of a porcelain vase and some paper flowers; said vase had once resided on the RCA Victor console radio to the left of the door as you come in.
By this time, I was shutting the door behind me and getting my nine millimeter out, after all. It looked like this ungodly goddamn day wasn’t over yet….
I was bending over the guy, hand on his throat, seeing if he was alive or not, when I heard her.
“Nate…did I kill him?”
She was standing in the doorway to my bedroom. She was still wearing the dark blue dress with the floral pattern, but neither it nor she looked as crisp as at the hospital earlier. Her eyes were as violet as ever but also wider than ever. She had a .45 Colt automatic in her dainty hand. That hand, which was dwarfed by the gun, was trembling. So was the rest of her, but the hand more so.
“He’s alive,” I said, rising, going to her, taking the gun from her, tucking my own away, taking her into my arms. “What the hell happened here?”
“I was waiting for you,” she said, looking into my eyes apologetically. “I wanted to be with you tonight. I just didn’t want to be alone, after what happened to Uncle Jim and you…”
“You wouldn’t have a key if you weren’t always welcome,” I said. “Now, what about Kilroy, there? It was you who busted him over the head with my Aunt Minnie’s vase?”
“I didn’t even know you had an Aunt Minnie!”
“I don’t. It’s the hotel’s vase. I was just trying to keep things light.”
Her eyes and nostrils flared. “Light? Light? I’ve been waiting here with what I thought was a dead body for hours, waiting for you, thinking maybe I killed him, wondering what I should do…Nate…Nate, I’m frightened.”
I held her close, glanced back at the guy. “He showed up hours ago?”
She drew away just a little and nodded. “Don’t know how long, exactly. I let myself in about eleven and he was already here—after I closed the door behind me, he came out of the bedroom with that gun.” She meant the .45 that was now in my hand. “He told me to relax—we were going to wait for my ‘boyfriend.’ That’s you.”
“No kidding. So how did you arrange to smack him with the vase?”
“I was just nice to him for about fifteen minutes—smiling, chatting about the weather, just making an inane commentary—he didn’t tell me to shut up, either. He was smiling at me. He didn’t say much, but when he did, he called me ‘cutie.’” She cringed. “And then I asked him if I could turn on the radio. I said I’d be more comfortable with some music playing. He thought that was a good idea.”
“And he was sitting on the couch, there, with his back mostly to you, and you clobbered him.”
“But good. He fell over like a ton of bricks. Then I got his gun so when he woke up I’d be ready for him—only he never woke up.”
I glanced over toward our sleeping guest. “He’s hurt pretty bad. I better get some medical help for him, or maybe we will have a corpse on our hands.”
“I don’t understand…all I did was hit him with a vase.”
“This isn’t the movies, honey. A blow like that to the head’ll kill you, as often as not.”
“Well, he started it.”
I checked his wallet. According to his driver’s license, his name was Louis J. Fusco and his address was 7240 South Luella Avenue.
“I know this address,” I said, studying the license. “Where do I know it from?”
She raised her heavy dark eyebrows in a facial shrug, as she gazed down innocently at me and my pal Fusco.
“Of course,” I said, smiling, standing. “That’s Guzik’s address!”
Now her eyes narrowed. “Jake Guzik? That Greasy Thumb character that had Uncle Jim shot?” She kicked Fusco; not very hard. “I wish I had killed you,” she told the slumbering thug. “If that’s who you work for.”
“Guzik lives in an apartment house at this address,” I said. “He owns the place. This guy is probably one of his personal bodyguards, with an apartment in the same building. I should’ve known right away.”
“Why?”
“Guzik sent for me earlier. A man of his—that same clown that accosted us on the street, outside of Berghoff’s last year— was waiting in my office building. Guzik mentioned he’d sent a guy here, too. I figured they would’ve remembered to call him off, once they picked me up. They obviously didn’t.”
She cocked her head, looking at me like I was the eighth wonder. “You saw Guzik tonight?”
“I’ll tell you all about it. Let me make a couple of calls first.”
I phoned down to the front desk and Williams answered. “This is Heller. Send Matthews up.”
“Why, certainly, Mr. Heller.”
“How much did he pay you?”
“Pardon me?”
“How much did this mug who’s out cold on my carpet pay you for letting him in with a pass key?”
He gulped. “How can you even suggest…”
“I get suspicious when you don’t treat me like dirt, Mr. Williams. Of course, it could have been Matthews, or one of the bell boys. I’m just too tired to care, let alone look into it. But if this ever happens again, I’m going to feed you the fucking goldfish.”
“The what?”
I cut him off, then called the number on the card Guzik had given me.
“What?” a gruff voice said. Not Guzik’s.
“This is Heller. Your boss sent a guy around to pick me up at my place, and forgot to call him off. My girl crowned your boy with a vase and I think he’s going to need some stitches.”
“Oh. Where are you, the Morrison?”
“That’s right. I’m so pleased that you f
ellas keep up on my whereabouts. I’m sending him down with the house dick. He’ll have him in the alley, the loading dock area. You go in off Dearborn.”
“I know where it is. I’ll send somebody. Twenty minutes, probably.”
“Take all night, if you want. He might be dead by morning, but that’s your problem.”
I hung up. She was looking at me carefully, the violet eyes still narrowed but filled with wonder. She looked like a kid, freckles trailing across her nose.
“How can you talk to people like that,” she asked, “like that?”
“I have to talk to all kinds of people in my line.”
“No, I mean, get so tough with them. Aren’t you afraid of them?”
“Scared shitless. But if you let them push you around, they don’t respect you.”
“You want the respect of such people?”
“Sure. They leave you alone, more, if they respect you.”
She gestured to the unconscious Mr. Fusco on the floor.
“Leave you alone like this, you mean?”
“Tonight’s an exception,” I said. “Is it Tuesday yet?”
“Technically.”
“Good.” I sighed. “I’ve had enough of Monday. You want a beer or something?”
“Please,” she said.
I got a couple of bottles of Blatz out of the Frigidaire and poured hers in a glass. We sat at the table in the kitchenette end of the room, by the window, which was open, the breeze wafting through, some traffic sounds too, and drank our beers and waited for Matthews to come up.
Which he did, in several minutes. The red-faced heavy-set dick in the rumpled brown suit had trouble bending over to help me lift the still out-cold Fusco up off the carpet. I got my first look at Fusco’s face, at this point, and it was nothing to write home about—he was just another dark, craggy dago stooge from the Guzik camp.
“The least you could do,” Matthews said, in his gravelly way, breath like a brewery, “is slip me a fin for my trouble.”
“Somebody let this guy in my room,” I said, helping Matthews usher the heavy Fusco out into the hall, “and it just might’ve been you.”
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