I sat. Seeing him up close, he didn't look any worse. He was bandaged around the throat, from the slug he took in the neck, and he didn't seem to be able to move his head, so my chair was seated at an angle where he didn't have to.
"You didn't know, did you?" Nitti said.
"I didn't know," I said, and I told him how Miller and Lang had picked me up at that speak and brought me along for the ride, without telling me the score.
"Bastards," he said. His mouth was a line. He looked at me; his eyes were calm. "I'm told you quit the department."
"That's right." I said. "I've had it with those sons of bitches."
"You were the one that got an ambulance called. Those bastards woulda let me bleed awhile."
"I suppose."
"Since you quit, that means what? What are you gonna say at my trial? They'll try me for shooting that prick bastard Lang, you know."
"I know."
"You read that load of baloney in the papers that Miller's giving out? Is that the story they're going with?"
"More or less, I guess."
"You going along with it?"
"I'm going to have to. Frank."
Nitti didn't say anything; he looked straight ahead, at the wall, not at me.
"Cermak had me in for a talk," I said.
Nitti turned his head to look right at me; it had to be painful- he moved like the Man in the Iron Mask. His teeth were together when he said. "Cermak."
"I'm opening up a little private agency. Cop is the only trade I got. Cermak'll block my license if I don't play ball."
Nitti turned his head back and looked toward the wall again. "Cermak," he said again.
"And I killed a guy up there. Frank."
Nitti's mouth twitched in a one-sided smirk. "Nobody important."
"Not to you. maybe. I didn't like doing it. And since I'm the only copper up there who managed to kill somebody. I'm the one to take the fall if the stories don't jibe."
Nitti didn't say anything.
"If you have any other ideas, I'm open," I said.
Nitti said. "I don't suppose you'd want something with my outfit."
I shook my head no. "It'd be no different than the cops. It's something I want out of altogether. Thank you, though, Frank."
Nitti's eyes looked at me. They were amused. "You're a pal of Ness', aren't you?"
"Yeah." I said, smiling a little, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "But I ain't no Boy Scout."
"I know," Nitti said. "I remember the Lingle case."
A voice behind me said. "Frank. Please." It was Dr. Ronga.
"Un momento, Papa"Nitti said.
Ronga shook his head, shut the door, and Nitti and I- and Mutt, who was seated over in the corner- were alone again.
"I want you to know." Nitti said, "that I hold you no grudge. I understand your position. No reprisals will be taken against you. At this time. I don't even think reprisals will be taken against Lang and Miller. The bastards. They are not worth the trouble. As Al used to say, 'Don't stir up the heat.'"
I smiled a little. "Did he say that before or after Saint Valentine's Day?"
Nitti smiled a little, too. "After kid. After."
"I better be going. You get some rest. If you want to see me again, just call. You don't need to send anybody forme."
"Good. But stay a few moments. There are some things you need to know."
"Oh?"
"You know Cermak was ours, don't you? Al helped get him in, you know."
I nodded. Cermak's association with the Capone gang went back at least as far as when Tony was "mayor of Cook County," and let Cicero happen.
"But now this fair is coming in. This world's fair. And there's gonna be a lot of money to be made. People coming from all over. Hicks and high-hats and everybody between. And they're gonna want things. They're gonna need things. And somebody's gonna provide things. Whores. Gambling. Beer- on the fairgrounds if it's legal by then, in the speaks if not. Either way, it'll be our beer they're drinkin'. Lot of money to be made. I ain't telling you nothing you don't already know.
"But the bankers and the other swells, they know Chicago's got a bad rep. In fact, this fair they're throwing is supposed to bring people back here, to see what a great place this is, safe, wonderful, and all. So how can somebody like Ten Percent Tony clean the city up and still give the people what they want- like whores and gambling and booze- and keep his pockets nice and full, too? By putting the screws to us, the old Capone mob. The feds got a lot of mileage out of sending Al up. Your pal Ness got lots of press, 'Eliot Press' we call him, the fed who announces his next raid in the papers." He laughed, and flinched just a bit.
I said, "So Cermak's connecting with the smaller mobs, then. Roger Touhy. Ted Newberry. Small fry he can control, manipulate."
Nitti looked at me so hard it about knocked me over. "And throw us to the goddamn wolves. The people who made the son of a bitch."
"You're probably right. Frank. But what does it have to do with me?"
Nitti smiled. "I just thought you'd like to know that Ted Newberry put up fifteen thousand dollars for anybody who'd bump me off."
I leaned forward. "You're sure of this?"
"Dead sure. And added to all the other ways those sons of bitches Miller and Lang screwed you is they weren't gonna cut you in."
I just sat there.
"Just thought you'd like to know," Nitti said.
I stood. "Thanks, Frank. I hope you get well."
"You know," Nitti said, "I believe you do."
The fix was in at the inquest. It was held in a meeting room at the morgue, presided over by the coroner. Since all the cops on Cermak's hoodlum squad were officially deputy coroners, the phrase "conflict of interest" might come to mind. But not in Chicago.
Cermak had covered himself, where I was concerned: I was never asked to give my version- or any version- of Frank Nitti being shot. A signed statement by the still-hospitalized Lang was entered, which covered the Nitti shooting, and Miller testified to his part in the proceedings and backed up Lang's story (though he had not been in the room with us). The questions the coroner asked me were limited to the second, fatal shooting, with the foregone conclusion that the truth on the Nitti matter had already been entered into the record.
The rest of the (you should excuse the expression) gang from the office at the Wacker-Lasalle all testified as well: Palumbo, Campagna, the accountant, the two runners. None of them were asked anything about the Nitti shooting- and, in fairness, none of them had been in the room when it happened, so why should they and all of them confirmed my version of the death of one Frank Hurt (which sounded like something Nitti might've muttered deliriously on his way to the hospital). Hurt panicked, Palumbo said; the kid had commented on having an out-of-state warrant against him and not wanting to go in for a showup, and Campagna had suggested he take the ledge over to the fire escape while he had the chance. And I'd come in and somebody had thrown him a gun and I'd shot him. Everybody told it the same; nobody (including me) seemed to know where the gun had come from.
I think Nitti had put the fix in, too; I was starting to be glad he and I'd had that little talk. Both he and
Cermak had made the inquest easy for me.
So it was cut-and-dried. But it didn't start till ten-thirty, and with all those witnesses, it dragged on. and I missed a lunch date with Janey. I caught her in the office at the county treasurer's at City Hall by phone, about two. and apologized for standing her up.
"Did it come out okay?" she said. There was just the slightest edge of irritation in her voice. "The inquest?"
"Yeah. I came out smelling like a rose. So why do I feel like I need a shower?"
"There's a shower at my place." she said, sounding friendlier.
"Yeah. I remember."
Janey, incidentally, was a lovely girl of twenty-five years and 125 well-placed pounds; with darkish blond hair worn short and wavy, and dark brown eyes highlighted by lona. standing-at-attention lashes. She was smart a
s she was beautiful, and she let me sleep with her once a week or so, as soon as I started talking marriage. We'd been talking marriage for almost three years now. and I'd given her a little diamond last year. I only had one problem with Janey: I wasn't sure if what I felt for her was love, exactly. I also wasn't sure if it mattered.
"I'll make lunch up to you," I said.
"I know you will." she said, like a threat.
"How about tonight? I'll take you someplace expensive."
"I'm working late tonight. You can come out to my place if you want. About nine-thirty. I'll fix sandwiches."
"Okay. And tomorrow night, we'll take in the Bismarck dining room."
"I'd settle for the Berghoff- that's expensive enough."
"We'll do the Bismarck. It's a special night. I have something special to tell you."
Real special: I hadn't broken it to her yet that I'd quit the department.
"I already know, Nate." she said.
"What?"
"It was in the papers today. Just a little footnote to one of the follow-up articles on the shooting. That officer Nathan Heller had resigned to pursue a career in private business."
"I, uh- I wanted to tell you about it myself."
"You can, tonight. I'm not crazy about you quitting the department, but if your uncle Louis has offered you a position, I think that's fine."
Janey was like that: jumping to conclusions based upon her own desires.
"Yeah, well, let's talk about it tonight," I said.
"Good. I love you, Nate."
She didn't whisper it, which meant she was in the office alone.
"Love you, Janey."
That afternoon I moved out of the Adams and into the office in Barney's building. Barney had moved fast: a big brown box was against the right wall as you came in, next to the closet door. The box was a Murphy bed; he'd even got sheets and blankets for me, which were in a drawer at the bottom of the box, under where the bed fell down out of it when you pulled the latch, which I did. It was a double bed, no less; Barney was being optimistic for me. I stretched out on the bare mattress. It wasn't as comfy as Janey's bed, but it beat the hell out of what I had at the Adams. I studied where some paint was starting to peel on the ceiling, for a while, then got up; put the bed back up and in.
The closet was hardly spacious, but it was roomy enough for my three suits. And I had a box of books and other personal junk, which I slid onto the shelf at the top of the closet; it just fit. My suitcase went on the floor in there; I figured to live out of the suitcase, till I got some kind of dresser or something.
Which presented a problem: How could I make this place look like an office and not a place I lived in? I didn't think that would impress prospective clients much: an office with a dresser and a Murphy bed in it, an office that was obviously where this poverty-stricken private dick was forced to live. It wouldn't inspire confidence.
Well, the Murphy bed I couldn't do anything about; but I could get around the dresser. I'd get ahold of a couple filing cabinets, or maybe one big multi-drawer one. and file my clothes and such in the bottom drawers. And speaking of bottom drawers. I could then file my underwear under U, I supposed. I smiled to myself, shook my head; this was ridiculous. What was I thinking of. giving up the cops and a life of crime for this? I was sitting on the edge of the desk, laughing silently at myself, when I noticed the phone.
A black, candlestick phone with a brand-new Chicago phone book next to it. My flat-nosed Jewish mother, Barney Ross, did work fast. Bless him.
So I sat behind the desk and I tried it out. I called my uncle Louis at the Dawes Bank. He and I weren't particularly close, but we kept in touch, and I hadn't talked to him since this mess began, and I thought I should. I also thought he might be able to get me a couple file cabinets wholesale.
I had to go through three secretaries to get him, but I got him.
"Are you all right, Nate?" he said. He sounded genuinely worried. But this was Wednesday, and the shooting was Monday, and I didn't exactly remember Uncle Louis calling on me at the Adams to express his concern.
"I'm fine. They had an inquest today, and I'm completely in the clear."
"As well you should be. You deserve a medal for shooting those hoodlums."
"The city council's giving me three hundred bucks. Me and Miller and Lang, each of us get that. And commendations. That's like getting a medal, I suppose."
"You should be honored. You don't sound it."
"I'm not. I quit the department, you know."
"I know, I know."
"You saw it in the papers, too, huh?"
"I heard."
Where would Uncle Louis have heard?
"Nate," he said. "Nathan."
Something was coming; otherwise it would've just been Nate.
"Yes, Uncle Louis?"
"I wondered could I have lunch with you tomorrow."
"Certainly. Who's buying?"
"Your rich uncle, of course. You'll come?"
"Sure. Where?"
"Saint Hubert's."
"That's pretty fancy. My rich uncle's going to have to pick up the tab if we go there. I never been there before."
"Well, be there tomorrow, promptly at noon."
"Promptly, huh? Okay. You're the boss; you're the only rich relative I got."
"Dress nice, Nate."
"I'll wear the clean suit."
"I'd appreciate that. We won't be dining alone."
"Oh?"
"There's someone who wants to meet you."
"Who would that be?"
"Mr. Dawes."
"Yeah. sure. Rufus or the General?"
"The General."
"Say, you aren't kidding, are you?"
"Not in the least."
"The biggest banker in Chicago wants to see me? Former vice-president of these United States meets former member of the downtown division's pickpocket detail?"
"That's correct."
"Why, for Christ's sake?"
"Can I count on you for noon. Nathan?"
Nathan again!
"Of course you can. Hell. Maybe we can stick Dawes for the check."
"Noon, Nathan," Uncle Louis said humorlessly.
I sat looking at the phone, after hanging up. for maybe ten minutes, trying to figure this. And it just didn't figure. Cermak and Nitti wanting to see me was one tiling; Dawes was something else again. I couldn't work it out.
And I had forgot to ask about the file cabinets.
At about six, I went down onto the street and found another cool evening waiting for me- the day had been cloudy, no snow, a little rain, and the sidewalk was shiny, wet. Van Buren Street itself, though, sheltered by the El tracks, looked dry. A streetcar slid by, obscuring the store across the way- Bailey's Uniforms- for just a moment. I walked to the restaurant around the corner from Barney's building; it was a white building with a vertical sign that spelled out
B
I
N
Y
o
N
S in neon-outlined white letters against black, with the word "Restaurant" horizontally below in black cursive neon against white. Not a cheap place, but they didn't rob you either, and the food was good, and since I'd missed lunch I decided I could afford something better than a one-arm joint.
I couldn't afford it, really: I'd get one more paycheck from the department and then would have to dig into the couple thousand I had salted away- a combination of the remainder of the small estate my pa left and money I'd been putting aside for a house for after Janey and I got married.
I had about an hour to kill before hopping the El to go out to Janey's flat on the near North Side, so I hit Barney's blind pig again, and Barney was in there, sitting in a booth with a hardly touched beer; he lit up like July 4 when he saw me.
I was embarrassed What can you say when somebody goes that far out of his way for you?
"Might've made up the bed, you thoughtless bastard," I said, with a sour smile.
&nbs
p; "Go to hell," he said pleasantly.
"I tried to call you at the gym this afternoon, but couldn't get you."
"I was doing roadwork around Grant Park. I usually do that in the morning, but I had some business to do. and Pian and Winch insist on that roadwork. 'cause my wind ain't my strong point."
"You had business to do, all right. Going out and getting that Murphy bed. and getting a phone put in. You forgot to get me a file cabinet, you know."
He shrugged. "They couldn't deliver till tomorrow."
"You're kidding."
He wasn't.
I said. "I hope you know I'm paying you for all this."
Barney nodded. "Okay."
"You might have argued a little."
"That gracious I'm not."
Buddy Gold came over from behind the bar and leaned in to our booth, raising his furry eyebrows sarcastically. "You got a phone call. Heller- that fed friend of yours."
I took it behind the bar.
"Eliot," I said "what's up?"
"Nate, can you get free?"
I looked at my watch; I needed to hop the El in half an hour to keep my date with Janey.
"Is it important, Eliot?"
"I think it's something you'd find interesting."
Eliot tended to understate, so that meant it was probably crucial I come.
"Okay. You going to pick me up?"
"Yes. I'm at the Transportation Building, so it won't be more than ten minutes. I'll try for five."
"Okay. You know where I am, obviously. Want to stop in for a beer?"
"No thanks. Nate." There was a smile in his voice; he liked to pretend he didn't have a sense of humor, but he did.
"Why don't you pick me up in that truck of yours, the one with the prow on the front end? You can just butt your way in. pick me up. and get a little work done on the side."
Eliot allowed himself a short laugh. "Why don't I just honk instead?"
"And I thought you had style," I said, hanging up.
I tried to call Janey to tell her I'd be late, but she wasn't home yet. So I went back to the booth.
"What does Ness have going?" Barney asked.
"He didn't say. Sounded like he was in a hurry to get there, wherever it is we're going. I haven't talked to him since this brouhaha started brewing. I do know he's involved peripherally. I saw in the papers that he and another prohibition agent questioned Campagna and Palumbo and the others when they were still in custody, that same day of the shooting. I meant to give him a call, but I didn't get 'round to it."
True Detective Page 8