True Detective

by Max Allan Collins

  We were in the midst of Little Italy, my silent blond passenger and I. but this was a remarkably nice neighborhood for the area- and a sleeping one: it was approaching midnight, with no one on the street. no other cars at the moment, nobody but the blond and me. Down at the end of the long block was Our Lady of Pompeü Church, with an open bell tower that could also be used as a lookout, if Nitti was feeling especially threatened.

  In fact, the location seemed designed to be easily defensible. The Ronga apartment was in the middle of the block, a massive three-story graystone that came right up to the sidewalk; this was unusual, as other buildings in the neighborhood were set back from the walk, with a little yard and stairs going up a story to an entrance. Across the street were more apartment buildings, also three stories, where men could be posted on rooftops, if necessary.

  I drove past; the next block over, on the left, there was a little cul-de-sac park. Lexington otherwise seemed to be fancy two-flats, row houses, small mansions, all set back with modest fenced front yards. A ritzy neighborhood, for Little Italy. Cabrini Hospital and Notre Dame Church were nearby; maybe that explained it.

  I turned right at the church and cut down an alley behind it. taking a jog over to another alley that would take us directly behind Ronga's graystone. It was more a glorified gangway than an alley, and it was tricky, weaving around garbage cans; my passenger leaned from one side to the other as we went. Another alley intersected and I glanced down to my left, past my inattentive companion, and saw an old-fashioned lamp over the side door. Ronga's side door.

  I continued down the gangway-style alley, stopping behind the building, but not killing the motor. A series of three open porches, one stacked atop the other, joined by one open staircase, ran up the back wall. Underneath the porches was a row of garbage cans, tucked away there. I sat and let the motor run and waited for something to happen.

  Two figures appeared on the middle porch; two men in shirts with rolled-up sleeves and ties loose around their necks and no coats or hats. Two men with guns in their hands. One revolver each. They leaned over the porch and assessed the situation.

  The motor still running but cutting the lights, I opened the door, stood out on my running board; if I'd opened my door wide, it would've smacked into the wall of the adjacent building- the alley was that narrow.

  "Any of you guys know me? I'm Heller."

  The two guys looked at each other. One of them was starting to look familiar, a small, dark man with a cigarette in his slack lips, its amber eye looking down at me.

  Louis "Little New York" Campagna said, "What the hell ya doin' here. Heller?"

  "This isn't my idea." I said. "This guy said I should bring him here."

  Campagna exchanged glances with the other man, who was fat, dark, with eyebrows that joined in one thick line over beady black eyes. Campagna and his cigarette and his gun looked down at me. "What guy?"

  "I don't know his name. He's wounded. He says he works for Nitti and made me bring him here."

  "Get the hell outa here," Campagna said.

  "He's got a gun." I said.

  Campagna and the fat guy backed away, but they were still up there looking down.

  "I think he's passed out," I said. "Give me a break! Handle this."

  Campagna came clomping down the wooden steps; he didn't move fast. He looked at me with more distrust than one person should be able to muster and, revolver at the ready, squeezed past the car on the opposite side of me, by the window the blond sat next to. I stayed on my own side of the car: I had a gun in my hand, too, but with the car between me and Campagna, that wasn't readily apparent. Above me the fat gunman was watching.

  "Jesus." Campagna said, looking in. "He looks dead."

  "Could be," I said. "He was gut-shot."

  "Whaddya doin' bringin' him here for. ya stupid bastard?"

  "He had a gun. Stumbled in my office, bleeding, and said he was shot and wanted me to drive him. I did what I was told. You do know him. don't you?"

  "Yeah. I know him. I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it, though. Get him outa here."

  "Fuck you, jack. He's your dead meat."

  Campagna glared at me.

  I tried to look apologetic. "Come on, take him off my hands. Look, it's his car- you can dump it someplace. I'll catch a cab."

  "All right. Shit. Fatso!"

  Fatso came trundling down the steps. As he reached the bottom, I stayed where I was while Campagna stepped away from the car, and he and Fatso faced each other within the tight dark alleyway.

  Campagna tucked his gun in his belt. "Go someplace and flick yourself. Heller," he said, dismissing me.

  barely glancing back at me.

  Fatso put his gun away, too. and asked Campagna what it was all about, and I shut the engine off and stepped out from around the side of the car and laid the silenced gun across the back of Campagna's head, and he went down like so much kindling. Fatso's mouth dropped and his hand moved toward his waistband, but then he saw the look on my face- it was a sort of smile- and thought better of it.

  Campagna was down there with red on the back of his head and on one ear; he looked out. He was out.

  Holding the silenced gun on Fatso, I bent down and yanked Campagna's revolver out of his belt and emptied the cylinder of its bullets onto the brick alleyway, tossed the gun down the alley, where it fell a good distance with a dull clunk. Fatso had his hands in the air and I got his revolver out of his waistband and repeated the procedure.

  Then, in a stage whisper, I said to Fatso, "Use his tie to tie his hands behind him."

  He did what I told him. Huffed and puffed a bit, but he did it.

  "Who's up there?" I said, still whispering.

  "What do you mean?" he said, glancing back at me as he bent over working, picking up on the sotto voce. The single eyebrow across his forehead was raised almost to his hairline.

  I put the silenced gun's snout near his. "Guess what I mean."

  "Just Nitti."

  "No other bodyguards?"

  "A guy in the apartment over the pharmacy. He just stays there, sort of on call."

  "Nobody else?"

  "Two men in the apartment above; they're the day shift. Asleep, now."

  "And?"

  "Most of the people in the building are family or friends. Dr. Ronga owns the building. But no more bodyguards."

  "Where's Ronga now?"

  "At Jefferson Park. The hospital."

  "When'll he get back?"

  "Not till morning. He's on duty all night."

  "Nitti's wife? Ronga's?"

  "Mrs. Nitti and her mother are in Florida."

  "Is that the truth?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, it's the truth!"

  "If it isn't, I'll blow your guts all over this alley."

  "If you live that long."

  "Take that chance if you like."

  "I'm tellin' the truth. Heller. There? Is that good enough?"

  Campagna's hands were bound tight with the tie; he was breathing heavy, but was still dead to the world.

  "Haul him over under the steps and put him behind the garbage cans. Get him out of sight."

  He dragged Campagna like a sack of something and put him down the same way, as he moved the cans out a bit to make room. Then he heaved Campagna back there.

  "Now what?" he asked.

  "Now turn around," I said.

  He sighed and shook his head and did. I laid the barrel of the ami across the back of his head.

  He landed in the garbage cans and made a clatter. I just stood there looking up, the gun in my hand, waiting for someone to stick his head over the porch and look down. Just fucking waiting.

  Nobody did.

  I used Fatso's tie to tie his hands behind him. I rummaged around in one of the garbage cans looking for some paper or cloth; I found a nice dirty dish towel that had got burned, along the bottom, and discarded. I ripped it in half, wadded each piece, and shoved it in either unconscious man's mouth. Then I tied each ma
n's shoelaces together, before laying the fat man on top of Campagna. That stood more likely to kill "Little New York" than my slugging him.

  Kid games, I said to myself silently, thinking about the shoelaces. I'm playing kid games. I looked over at the car; the blond was visible behind the windscreen, tilted to one side, his eyes still open a bit. Not really, he seemed to be saying.

  Somewhere, way down the alley, a tomcat let go a yowl; then the night went silent again. It was cool for late June, but I felt hot; well, I'd been working.

  I went up the stairs. Onto the first landing: the lights were off in the flat on this level. I went on up to the next. Ronga's apartment. I could see a light on in there, past a second, enclosed porch.

  There was a heavy door with a lock, standing open, from when Campagna and Fatso had come out to check up on the car that had stopped in the alley, and a screen door that was shut, but not locked. I peeked in. A figure was moving in the white room beyond; the room was a kitchen. The man seemed to be Nitti.

  I didn't like the way the silenced gun felt in my hand; the automatic was still under my shoulder, but I supposed I should use this bulky- goddamn gun. since it belonged to the blond, and the portion of my brain that was still rational said it was a good idea to use the other man's gun for what I was about to do.

  So I went in through the screen door, with a killer's silenced gun in my hand; I went in to shoot and kill Frank Nitti.

  Who was in his pajama bottoms, at the oak ice chest across the kitchen from me. with his back to me, as he bent down, rummaging around in the icebox. His back was slimly muscular and tan, the latter from his naturally swarthy complexion and Florida; there was a nasty fresh red scar on his lower back, where Lang had shot him. In his right hand was a bottle of milk. His left hand was in there picking at stuff in the icebox.

  He heard me come in but didn't turn.

  "What's the commotion, Louie? A couple of kids in a car losin' their cherries, or what?"

  "Well there's going to be blood spilled," I said. "You're that far right."

  Nitti didn't move; the muscles in his back tensed, but he kept his pose. Then, slowly, he glanced back at me. I couldn't see much of his face, but I could see the confusion.

  "Heller?" he said.

  "Surprised?"

  "Where's Louie and Fatso?"

  "In the garbage."

  "Are you feelin' okay, kid?"

  "Take your hand out of the icebox. Frank. Nice and slow."

  "What, you think I got a gun in the icebox? You fall off your rocker or something Heller?"

  "I fell off something higher. Just take the hand out and turn around slow."

  He did. There was another small but nasty red scar on his chest; and one more on his neck, where he'd also been shot by Lang. It looked like an ugly birthmark. He still had the milk bottle in one hand, nothing in the other.

  "I was just raidin' the icebox, kid." he said, keeping it casual, but his narrowed eyes were anything but. "There's some leftover roast lamb in there. You wouldn't want to help me finish it. would you?"

  The kitchen was white and modern; cozy, with a table in the midst. There were some cards on the table, from where Campagna and Fatso had been sitting, I supposed.

  "Anybody else in the apartment, Frank?"

  "No."

  -

  "Show me around."

  He shrugged. Walking slowly, he led me through the place, going down a hallway that had several rooms off either side, bedrooms, a sitting room, a study. At the end of the hall was a big living room. The rooms were large, well-furnished; the walls were decorated here and there with Catholic icons. Nobody but Nitti was home.

  In the kitchen again, I let him sit at the table, with his back to the door I'd come in. I sat with my back to the sink, so I could see the back door at my right and the hallway at my left. Nitti was studying me. He'd grown out his inverted-V mustache, I noticed; it was thicker, now. He looked older; skinny; small. While he hardly looked like a man on death's door, he was clearly not the man he'd been before Lang shot him.

  "Kid. Mind if I take a swig of this milk?"

  "Go ahead."

  He took two gulps, right from the bottle, and for a moment a milk mustache mingled with Iris own, till he wiped it off with the back of one hand.

  "Ulcers." he said. "All I do these days is drink milk."

  "My heart bleeds."

  "Yeah, well so do my ulcers, you little punk bastard. What the goddamn hell's this about? You're committin' goddamn suicide, you know."

  "There's a dead man downstairs."

  He sat up. "Louie? If you killed Louie, so help me I'll"

  "Campagna's all right. He won't know his name for a couple hours, but he's all right. So's Fatso."

  "Then, who…?"

  "A blond guy. I don't know his name. But I've seen him around."

  Nitti raised his chin and looked at me from slitted eyes.

  "Last time I saw him," I said, "was at Bayfront Park, when you sent him to help kill Cermak. The time before that I saw him running down Randolph Street; that was when Capone sent him to kill Jake Lingle. And tonight, tonight you sent him to kill Nathan Heller. And he didn't get the job done, did he?"

  Nitti was shaking his head. "You're wrong. Wrong."

  "Tell me about it. Tell me you sent that son of a bitch to Florida just to catch some sun."

  He pointed a finger at me, like my gun pointed at him. "I didn't say I didn't send him to Florida. What I do say is I didn't send him to kill you."

  The gun in my hand was stalling to shake. I heard myself say. "He pushed me off the Sky Ride tower. Frank. Six hundred feet in the sky. and by all rights I should be a twisted sack of bones and meat on a morgue tray right now, but I'm not. I'm here, and he's dead, and so are you, Nitti. I wish to Christ Lang had killed you that day. I wish to Christ I hadn't made 'em call an ambulance for you, cocksucker."

  Nitti sat there quietly; when I ran out of speech, he patted the air softly, as if quieting, settling down, a child.

  "Heller," he said. "I didn't send him. I didn't even know the bastard was in town. He doesn't work for me."

  "Fuck you. You're dead."

  "Wait. Just w&it. Lower that goddamn thing, will you? Hear me out. I didn't say he never done work for me. He's from the East. He's a guy Johnny Torrio recommended to Al, back on the Lingle deal; and I use him now and then- on ticklish matters."

  "So that's what I am. A ticklish matter."

  "I know how you feel. I know the kind of emotions that are running wild in you. kid. I know all about revenge. If Ten Percent Tony wasn't in hell already, you could ask him if Nitti doesn't know all about revenge. But I didn't hire a contract on you. I swear by all that's holy."

  As if on cue. a church bell began ringing. Midnight. I wondered idly if it was Notre Dame or Our Lady of Pompeü.

  I said "Who sent him then?"

  "I don't know the answer to that. Not for sure. But I can figure it out. So can you. if you try."

  I was starting to feel confused: I was starting to wonder what the hell I was doing. The momentum, the moment, was slipping away from me…

  "The Lang trial is comin' up in September." Nitti said. "Or have you forgotten? Is that all past history to you now? Well, it isn't past history to some people."

  "Are you saying Lang sent that guy? He doesn't have the money or the connections to"

  "He doesn't have the brains, or the guts, either. No. Not Lang. Nobody. Nobody sent him. You sang on the stand. Heller. You made news in Chicago: you told the truth. How do you think your blond buddy felt when he heard you were doin' that? You can identify him as the real killer of Jake Lingle; you can identify him as a second gunman at the Cermak kill. What sort of thoughts do you suppose went through his head when he found out Nate Heller's got a sudden case of telling the truth on witness stands? Who can say what might come out at this Lang trial. Lang was at Bayfront Park, too, you know."

  I was resting the elbow of the arm with the gun-in-hand, on the
table; now I leaned on the other elbow, too, and was rubbing the side of my face. I swallowed. My mouth was dry. And I felt sick to my stomach.

  So did Nitti, apparently, because he took another swig of milk.

  He wiped off his mouth, smiled, and said, "Put the gun down. Just set it on the table."

  It sounded like a pretty good idea, but I wasn't ready to believe him just yet.

  I said, "What about Jimmy Beame, then?"

  "Forget Jimmy Beame. And I'm doing you a favor, giving you that advice. So put the gun down, take the advice, and go. Just go away."

  I felt a surge of something; my face felt flushed. "I almost believed you for a minute, Frank. But now the truth comes out, whether you meant it to or not. Jimmy Beame was tied to Ted Newberry, I don't know how exactly, except that it was through the Tri-Cities liquor ring. And then he infiltrated your organization, and you found out, and you what? Had him killed? You're smiling. I'm right, aren't I? I'm right. And I started snooping around, and when I connected with Dipper Cooney- you were at the goddamn fight yourself, Frank- you tried to kill us both, but managed only to shut Cooney up, and"

  "Cooney died because he was with you. That's my guess, anyway. And that dead blond son of a bitch out there was who did it."

  That's right: the car he was sitting out there in right now was the car that had glided by shooting last night.

  Nitti's voice was a calm drone. "I've known you were looking for Jimmy Beame for a long time." he shrugged. "Since you first started hitting the flophouses on North Clark Street. Nothing much 'scapes my notice, kid."

  "He is dead, though, isn't he?"

  "Yeah. And he did do some work for Ted Newberry- ran some errands for Ted and his pals in the Tri-Cities. But you're forgetting something: between Saint Valentine's Day, '29, when him and Bugs Moran just missed the party, and that ditch in the dunes this January. Ted was one of ours. Back when the Beame kid was working for him, Ted was working for me and Al. So that fairy tale you built won't wash."

  "Tell me a tale that will wash."

  "No. You go home. I owe you one. And here's how I'm gonna repay you: the blond's going for a midnight swim in his car, in the Chicago River; and I'm gonna tell Louie and Fatso it was all a misunderstanding and they shouldn't kill you. That's how I'm gonna repay you. Now leave the gun- it's the blond's, ain't it? Dicks don't pack silencers, at least that I ever heard of."