The Million-Dollar Wound (25 page)

There was no sarcasm in it.

I swallowed. “Please, Sally. I…please.”

She turned to Eliot and said, “Could we have a moment alone, please? I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Ness.”

“It’s Eliot, and don’t be silly,” he said, and was gone.

“You’re still mad at me,” she said.

“I don’t remember being mad at all.”

“Do you remember not returning my phone calls the last two times I was in town?”

“That was years ago.”

“I haven’t seen you since…when was it?”

“Nineteen forty?”

“November 1939,” she said. “That night I bribed my way into your apartment. That gangster… Little New York…he showed up and you pulled a gun on him. Do you remember that?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Do you remember how sweet that night was?”

I couldn’t look at her. Her blue eyes were just too goddamn blue for me to look at them. “It was a swell night, Sally.”

“I wish you’d call me Helen.”

“There’s no going back.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was too long ago. There’s no going back.”

“Nate, I know it was wrong of me to just leave you a note like that. I should’ve stuck around, or called you the next day, but it was a bad time for me—I was bankrupt, I was working my ass off getting my business life back together, and my personal life just got lost in the shuffle, and…”

“That’s not it.”

“What is it, then?”

“There’s no going back,” I said. “Excuse me.”

I opened the door; Eliot was standing out there, leaning against the far wall. “We better go,” I said.

“If you want,” he said.

“Sally, you look great,” I said, my back to her. “It was great seeing you again.”

I went back to the table. Eliot trailed after, in a few minutes.

“Where have you been?” I said, and it sounded nasty. I hadn’t meant it to, really, but it did.

“Talking to a fine lady,” he said, angry with me but holding himself back. “She thinks a lot of you, and you should’ve treated her better.”

“What did you talk about, anyway?”

Very tightly he said, “She’s concerned about you. Why, I don’t know. But she asked me a few questions, and I answered them. Why, is your civilian status a military secret?”

“Hell,” I said, getting up, “my life’s an open book.”

And I got up and walked outside. Stood on the corner and listened to the El roar by. I could smell the lake.

Eliot joined me, after paying the bill. He looked sad, not angry. I felt sheepish.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Forget it. You want to get another beer someplace?”

“No.”

“Want a lift someplace? I got a car, at the hotel garage. Better still, I got an E sticker.”

I laughed shortly. “You and every politician in town, I’ll wager.”

“For a guy just back from overseas,” he said, “you’re catching on fast.”

“This isn’t my first time in Chicago.”

“No? Then maybe you could recommend someplace else we could have a beer. What do you say?”

I said, finally, yes, and we walked to Barney’s Cocktail Lounge, where Barney’s brother Ben hugged me, even though we’d never been friends, really. I was the closest thing he could get to his brother, so I made do for a surrogate hugee. He’d talked to Barney long-distance in Hollywood just today. Barney indeed would be home soon, but Ben didn’t know when exactly.

The bar closed at one o’clock—another wartime sacrifice, but as a wise man once said, if you can’t get soused by one you ain’t trying—and Eliot and I stumbled out onto the street, and he set out toward his hotel, the LaSalle, and I walked home.

I wasn’t drunk, really. I’d had six or seven bottles of beer all told, spread well out over the evening. But you would think I’d drunk enough to make me tired. You would think I’d had long enough a day, shitty enough a day, to be sleepy.

But instead I sat at my desk in my skivvies with the glow of the neon night sunning me through the window. I sat there slumped on my folded arms like a kid sleeping on his desk at school, only I wasn’t sleeping. I sat there staring at the Murphy bed, folded down, fresh sheets and blankets waiting, that bed I’d slept in so many times, so many years before. Janey. Louise.

I reached under the desk and searched for and found the key I’d taped there, long ago. I removed it and worked it in the bottom drawer. There, waiting for me, was a bottle of rum, and my nine-millimeter automatic, both tangled up in my shoulder holster. I untangled them, left the gun in its holster out on the desk and drank from the rum like it was a bottle of pop.

But I still couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even think of sleeping.

Who killed you, Estelle?

D’Angelo, are you back, too? Are you fighting the homefront war like I am? Was Estelle a casualty?

Monawk—who killed
you,
buddy? Bullets flying everywhere, Monawk screaming, Barney pitching grenades, D’Angelo, where are you?

Somebody screamed.

Me.

I sat up.

I
had
slept. Just for a moment. I was sweating, as if from a fever. Neon pulsed over me. I sat there, chilled, wondering if I could ever sleep again without returning to that shell hole. Wondering if I could ever sleep again until I knew what happened to Monawk.

And Estelle. They were tied together in my mind, now, those two deaths, those two murders, and D’Angelo was the knot.

Somebody knocked at the door.

I glanced at my watch; it was after two.

I jerked the nine millimeter from the holster.

I walked slowly to the door and flung it open and pointed it at the person standing there.

A tiny little person, smelling like talcum, wearing a tailored mannish suit with high square padded shoulders, only it wasn’t a man. Sally stood with her purse in front of her like a fig leaf and her blonde curls piled on her head like a friendly offering to an unfriendly god, and I stood there in my skivvies with a gun in my hand and she smiled, sweetly, sadly, and said, “Please don’t shoot.”

I dropped the gun to the floor and took her in my arms and held her. Held her.

“Helen,” I said. “Helen.”

The next morning it was snowing, the wind off the lake turning modest flurries into a whistling, swirling near storm. I dug my hands in my overcoat pockets, my hat pulled down, looking down, getting snow tossed in my face anyway, like fine particles of icy glass, as I walked the several blocks from the El to the Linn Funeral Home, for Estelle’s services.

The Linn’s tiny mortuary chapel was in a low-rise business district in the blue-collar section of Lakeview, two blocks south of Wrigley Field. Only a handful of mourners showed up. I squeezed the hand of Estelle’s weeping mother, and shook the hand of her confused stepfather; I’d never met either before, but her mother remembered my name from when I’d dated Estelle, back when she was a girl working the counter at Rickett’s. I could see Estelle’s pert beauty lurking in the older woman’s thin face, those same green eyes, only the mother’s were behind wire-rim glasses and lacked the gloss of greed. I shook the hand of an attractive brunette in a fur stole, a cousin of Estelle’s; five would get you ten she was a 26 girl, too.

Last night’s papers, and this morning’s, were already filled with tales of the “queen of the dice gal’s” many suitors; but none of them seemed to have showed. The small colorless chapel wasn’t a third full, and the only men present were the stepfather, the undertaker, Drury’s boss Chief of Detectives Sullivan, and me. No clergy. Her mother had tried, but no luck: it was unhallowed ground for Estelle. Half a dozen glamour girls in fashionable black, ladies of the evening whose beauty looked harder in the daytime, sat weeping into hankies, or trying to remember how to weep. Those who could were crying for themselves, I supposed, knowing that there but for the grace of God…

The functional gray-metal casket was closed, of course. No mortician alive could have restored that face. Atop the coffin lay a simple spray of orchids. The card read: “To a good pal.” Unsigned, it seemed to me obviously Dean’s work. A real sentimental guy, that Nicky.

I stood there and looked at the casket and tried to believe she was in there. That pretty, greedy little dame. I couldn’t. No tears would come to my eyes either, and a part of me was trying. Well, I’d cried for her last night. That was good enough. So long, baby.

The undertaker locked the chapel doors, to keep out the morbid, though the snow had already done the job, for the most part, and walked to a small podium and spoke a few muffled words, made virtually inaudible by the wracking sobs of Estelle’s mother.

It soon came time for the casket to be borne to a waiting hearse, only there were no pallbearers. The undertaker recruited Chief Sullivan and me, but six were needed to do the job. Of the handful of the curious who stood in the snow outside—mostly the professionally curious, which is to say reporters—three were enlisted and we carried Estelle to the hearse, which had a C sticker, by the way, like most vehicles used for delivery. The family was being helped into a limo by the undertaker’s assistant. A four-car procession, led by the hearse, was all it took to bear the mourners. There was a black limo across the street, parked, its engine going, the windows fogged up; but, oddly, it didn’t pull in behind the other cars, as they left for St. Joseph’s Cemetery, driving into the blustering snow. But then I didn’t go with them, either. I just stood there letting the particles of icy snow flick at my face.

One of the pallbearing reporters was an old friend of mine. Hal Davis of the
News.
Even with a heavy overcoat on, and a pulled-down fedora, his head seemed too large for his body; the bright eyes in his boyish face—he was approaching fifty but looked thirty-five—grew brighter as he recognized me.

“Hey, it’s Heller. I must’ve been walking behind you. For all the men she boffed, you’d think they wouldn’t have to resort to strangers to cart her away.”

I decked him.

He hit the snowy sidewalk, or anyway his ass did, sending up puffs of powdery white. He hadn’t landed so hard, really. He looked up at me, his pride more wounded than anything else, a small trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth.

“What was that for?”

“General principle. You’ve had that coming for years.”

“Fuck you! Help me up.”

I did.

He brushed himself off, his coat first; the few other reporters were dispersing, smiling at Davis’s fate. He dusted off his hat. “And here I wrote that nice piece about you the other day.”

I decked him again.

He looked up, rubbed his face. “Didn’t like the piece, huh?”

I helped him up again. “Don’t say anything else. I might hurt you next time.”

“There’s a hundred in it for the personal story of your love life with Estelle. Don’t do it! I’ll press charges, Heller, I really will!”

“Go away, Davis.”

“Goddamn. The war sure has soured you. What happened to your sense of humor? Used to be a guy could depend on you, when a C-note was involved.”

“Go away.”

He looked at me like I was some weird animal he’d never seen before, shook his head, dug his hands in his overcoat pocket and walked toward his parked auto. It had a C sticker, too. For purposes of delivering horseshit, I would imagine.

I crossed the street, heading toward the El station, when the front door of the parked limo swung open and a uniformed chauffeur stepped out and said, “Mr. Heller. Excuse me, sir?”

I’d never heard “Excuse me, sir” posed as a question before; it was novel enough an event to make me stop in my tracks, and back up, despite the cold and the snow.

The chauffeur was a pallid fleshy-faced man of about forty-five with a bottle-bloodshot nose; terrific choice for a driver.

He said, “Mr. Wyman would like to speak to you.”

“Who? Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

He opened the back door and I climbed in. A man of medium but powerful build, in his mid-fifties, in a gray suit and a dark tie, his overcoat folded neatly on the seat beside him, sat morosely, staring forward, wet trails on his ruggedly handsome face.

This was Earl Wyman, self-made man, a construction worker who bettered himself, the president of an ornamental iron company with a fancy Michigan Avenue office, now, a man who two years ago had been messily, publicly divorced by his wife, who had named one Estelle Carey as a correspondent in the proceedings.

I got in and sat there and Wyman said, without looking at me, “Could I drop you at the El station?”

“Certainly. It’s nasty weather even for a short walk.”

He tapped on the window separating us from the front seat and the chauffeur, who responded to the tap by pulling out into the street. We were not headed toward the El station, and I said as much.

Wyman, still not looking at me, said, “We’ll just drive for a few minutes, if that’s all right. I’d like a word with you, Mr. Heller.”

I unbuttoned my overcoat; it was hot in here. The car’s heater was a furnace.

“How is it you know me?”

He smiled faintly, just for a second. “I might say from the newspapers. You’ve had occasion to be in them. Most recently just the other day. And, in passing, last night and this morning. But your experiences on Guadalcanal are quite…stirring. You must be a brave young man.”

“I’m not particularly brave, and youth, I find, is fleeting.”

He looked at me. His eyes were gray. And red.

“A wise observation, Mr. Heller.”

“Not really. More like trite. Estelle told you about me. That’s where you know me from.”

He nodded, slowly. “She trusted you. I’d even say…she came close to loving you. Or at any rate I could tell she had been in love with you once. As much as she could love any man, that is. Of course she loved mammon best of all.”

Well, that was a little arch, but I couldn’t argue with him.

I said, “She loved Estelle, not wisely, but too well. And so did you.”

He looked away from me. “I loved her very, very much, for the little good it did me. She could be very cruel. No—that’s not fair. She didn’t have a mean bone in her body. She was just so very…acquisitive.”

“Yeah. She was that. What can I do for you, Mr. Wyman?”

He didn’t answer. Not directly. “I’m so…ashamed of myself. I came here today, full well intending to go in and sit among the mourners, but… I came here for the inquest, you know, early this morning, and they continued it till a few weeks from now, so I came out to my limousine to wait, and then the reporters began showing up, and I… I was a coward.” His head lurched forward and he covered his face and began weeping. “I was a coward. A craven coward. I loved her so. And I didn’t, couldn’t so much as go in and…”

I shifted in my seat. This was the most uncomfortable limo I’d ever sat in, and it wasn’t just the heat, and it didn’t have anything to do with the seat cushions.

“Look, Mr. Wyman,” I said. “She’s dead. It doesn’t matter whether you went in there and paid your last respects or not. Say good-bye to her in your own way…in your, you know, your own heart.”

He wiped his face off, with almost frantic swipes of one palm, as if noticing for the first time that tears were there, suddenly embarrassed by them, saying, “I… I like to think she knows I came today. That I… I did, in my own private way, pay my proper respects. That I did, that I do, still love her. That she’s watching, from above.”

If Estelle was watching, it probably wasn’t from that particular vantage point; if she was watching, it was probably hotter there than this car. Or her apartment had been, at the end. If she’d gone anywhere.

But I said, “Sure, Mr. Wyman. That’s the ticket. I’m sure she knows how you feel. Now, uh, the next train leaves in ten minutes. What can I do for you?”

He looked at me, tentatively. “The papers mentioned you were one of the first at the…scene.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you happen to have a look around the apartment? Did you aid the detectives in examining Estelle’s things?”

I nodded. “Up to a point, yes.”

“The, uh, stories said that certain personal effects were found…letters from a serviceman, photos, an address book…my name was in the latter, though the papers don’t have that. Yet.”

“I saw all that stuff, yes.”

Now he looked at me sharply, intensely. The gray eyes alert. “Did you see anything else?”

“I saw a lot of things, including Estelle herself and various instruments of torture.”

He shuddered. “That’s not what I’m inquiring about.”

It was so hot in this goddamn car, I was sweating; snow storm outside, and I’m sweating. “Mr. Wyman, I appreciate your grief, I share it, but will you get to the fucking point?”

He sighed. “I understand your frustration. I hope you can forgive my, well…I’m out of sorts today, Mr. Heller. This has shaken me. This…”

“Get to the point. I have a train to catch.”

He turned to the fogged-up window next to him, as if looking out. “Did you see a red book?”

“A red book?”

He stared at the fogged window. “With a clasp. Perhaps two inches thick. The book, I mean.”

“A diary?”

Now he looked at me. “A diary.”

“Estelle kept a diary?”

“Yes. Did you see it?”

“No. There was no diary. And I was one of the first on the scene, as you said.”

His eyes narrowed. “Not the very first.”

“The firemen were the
very
first. Some patrolmen and detectives after that.”

He was quite forceful, now, as he spoke; for the first time, I could see the successful man of business in him.

He said, “I believe that someone stole that diary. Perhaps one of those…public servants who preceded you.”

I shrugged. “That’s certainly possible.”

“I would like you to get it back.”

“That would be withholding evidence, Mr. Wyman.”

He gestured in an open-handed way meant to suggest how reasonable he was. “Mr. Heller, you can read the damn thing if you find it. If what is in the diary should seem to you potentially helpful, in an investigation of her murder, why by all means turn it over to the police.”

“After tearing out any pages referring to you, you mean.”

Tiny smile. “Of course. You see, I’m about to be remarried. And, I’ve reason to believe, Estelle…recorded personal things about me. About us.”

“Sexual things, you mean.”

He pursed his lips. Then said, “That is correct. I’ll give you two thousand dollars, and expenses.”

“I want a grand retainer. No refunds if I can’t come through for you.”

“Done.” P. T. Barnum was right.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

“Mr. Heller, I’m engaged to a lovely woman. From a good family. You must help me keep this scandal contained.”

“I thought you loved Estelle.”

“I did. I do. I was still seeing her, from time to time. I won’t deny that. I’ve admitted as much to my fiancée, and we’re working that out. But another public display of my indiscretions could ruin me. Personally. Financially.”

He reminded me of Eliot talking about how Nitti was slipping.

I said, “When did you last see Estelle?”

“Sunday.”

This was Wednesday.

“That recently?”

“That recently. It was a…farewell dinner of sorts. I told her this would be our last evening together, because I was going to be married again. I…think I even believed what I was saying. At any rate, I called for her at 9:00 P.M.” He smiled, privately. “We wore evening clothes. She was lovely. We spent the evening at the Buttery, where we dined and danced. As usual, Estelle didn’t drink and she didn’t smoke. She seemed in exceptionally high spirits. She was doing well; she had a lot of money in the bank, she said. I shouldn’t worry about her future.” Tears were rolling again; God, I felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t the heat, it was the humanity. “I don’t know where she got her money. She hadn’t worked for several years.”

He didn’t know she was a call girl, then; well, the papers would tell him about it soon enough.

Speaking of which.

“Mr. Wyman,” I said, “if a cop or somebody lifted that diary, and didn’t turn it in as evidence, then it’s going to be sold to the papers. That’s the only reason a cop would swipe it. To make a buck in that fashion.”

His expression was firm. “Let it be known—let it
quietly
be known—that I will double any newspaper’s highest bid.”