True Crime (14 page)

He tipped his hat and was gone.

I wondered if I should have given him Lawrence’s address after all. Why bother? I’d been paid one hundred dollars by Frank Nitti to go to bed; and two East Chicago cops had given me some rubber-hose incentive to do just that. Cowley was on his way to meet with Anna Sage. She could tell him Lawrence’s address. She could get her blood money, and her free pass with the immigration department. Let her do it.

I had other things to do.

Like hurt.

I opened my eyes, one at a time. Sun was filtering in through sheer curtains. I was under the covers in Sally Rand’s bed in her air-cooled apartment; Sally was on top of the covers next to me, in white lounging pajamas, a pillow propped behind her as she smoked and read a magazine.
Vanity Fair.
This was, if memory served, Sunday; and she didn’t do a matinee on Sunday; local bluenoses wouldn’t let her get away with it.

I sat up in bed, slowly.

“Good morning,” Sally said, with a sideways glance and a wry little smile.

“Is that what it is? Morning, I mean?”

“For the next few minutes.”

“It’s almost noon?”

“Almost noon. How do you feel?”

“Different than yesterday.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Today my head hurts too.”

Her smile was a smart-aleck curve. “You shouldn’t have drunk all that rum last night.”

“It was your idea.”

“No, it wasn’t. You sent me out for it.”

“I did?”

“Yes—I merely suggested alcohol as an anesthetic. And you were too fussy to settle for something civilized, like gin. You made me go out and get rum.”

“I’m a sick boy. I deserve to be pampered.”

“And you deserve that hangover, too.” She put the cigarette out in the tray on her nightstand, flopped the magazine on her lap. “How else do you feel?”

I rotated my shoulders; lifted my legs. “About the same. Maybe a little better.”

She threw back the sheets.

“Well,” she said, “you seem to be changing color. For what it’s worth.”

The black-and-blue splotches on my legs had turned purple, with patches of yellow spreading within them. My skin looked like a suit in poor taste.

“Why don’t you go take a shower?” she said. “I’ll get some brunch going….”

I took her advice; cold first, then hot. I did feel better. I still ached, but it didn’t hurt just to breathe. Except for my head. Maybe that was it—maybe the hangover was distraction enough to make me forget the other aches. I got out of the shower and toweled off—and it didn’t hurt any worse than having somebody tear off one of my fingernails—and found a little can of tooth powder on the counter by the sink with a brand-new toothbrush. Brushing my teeth made me feel vaguely human again, and I wrapped a fresh towel around my middle and plodded back into the bedroom.

The new suit I’d bought with Nitti’s money was laid out there for me; also a shirt I’d bought, a hat, and socks and underwear, not new, but clean. I hadn’t brought any of this with me, so it looked like my friends had been taking care of me. I got into the underwear and pants and shirt and went to the kitchen, where she was making brunch. Scrambled eggs again, or actually an omelet with some diced vegetables and cheese. It reminded me a little of the side dish at Pete’s Steaks and I felt my stomach go queasy. But then I was all right, and I wouldn’t have said anything to her even if I wasn’t.

I took a seat at the table and she glanced over with a maternal smile. “Barney brought some of your things over,” she said.

“I don’t have many friends,” I said, “but I got the right friends.”

“You count me among them?”

“You and Barney are at the head of the list, today. If Barney hadn’t come in when those guys were dancing with me, I might be in traction right now.” I laughed, and it only hurt a little. “They didn’t exactly expect a world’s champion fighter to come to my rescue. The guy he lit into must have a swollen puss about now.”

“He really took care of ’em, huh?”

“He did all right for a lightweight. Anyway, it sent them running fast enough.”

“You know who they were?”

“Not their names. But they were East Chicago cops.”

“Cops?”

“Yeah—say, have you seen the papers today, been listening to the radio?”

She shrugged, stirring the eggs. “I have the Sunday
Trib
in the other room, if it’s the funnies you’re after.”

“I don’t follow the funnies. What about the radio?”

“I had the radio on, earlier. Why?”

“What’s in the news?”

“The heat. Real muggy out there today. It’s one hundred one point three degrees, last tally I heard. Seventeen died of heat prostration yesterday, and half a dozen more reported today already.”

“Nice to be inside where it’s cool.”

“Why’d you ask? It’s not the heat you’re interested in.”

“I thought there’d be something else in the headlines.”

“What?”

“Dillinger captured.”

She looked away from the pan she was cooking in to give me a wide-eyed, disturbed look.

“Nate—why don’t you find another way to make a living?”

“I considered nude ballet with a bubble, but it’s been taken.”

She crinkled her mouth and chin in mock-anger. “You’re dodging the issue. You’re an intelligent, capable man. Why do you sit in that shabby little office, doing shabby little work? Not to mention dangerous.”

I shrugged. Didn’t hurt much. Half a fingernail being torn off. I said, “My work isn’t usually dangerous. Don’t be deceived into thinking exciting things like these happen to me every week. Hard to believe as it may be, I never been worked over with a rubber hose before.”

She had turned away from me; she was easing the omelet out of the pan onto a plate. “A lot of people go through life without ever being ‘worked over’ with a rubber hose at all.”

“Think what they missed.”

She put the omelet down in front of me, with a side plate of toast. “You like some cottage fries with that?”

“No. This’ll be fine.”

“Coffee?”

“Orange juice’d be better.”

“I already squeezed some.” She got a small white pitcher out of a small white icebox and poured me a large clear glass, turning it orange. I sipped it and it tasted good; the feel of the pulp in my mouth was nice. The hangover seemed to be fading.

Just the same I said, “And a side order of aspirin?”

She smiled and nodded. “Comin’ right up.” The aspirin was on the kitchen counter; I took two with the last swallows of the orange juice.

Then she sat by me and said, her expression almost somber, “I wouldn’t like to see anything happen to you.”

“I wouldn’t like to see anything happen to you, either.”

“You live in your office, Nate. I saw it. You sleep in a Murphy bed.”

“I know guys who sleep in parks.”

“Don’t try to shame me—I’m no snob, you know that. I just know a real waste when I see one.”

“A real waste.”

“Yes. A waste of a mind, potentially of a life.”

“This omelet is very good. Sure you don’t want to give up show biz and marry me?”

She laughed, sadly. “You’re hopeless.”

“That’s what they tell me. Look, Sally—Helen—I only have one trade. It’s all I’m trained for, it’s all I know. And I really do have plans to live somewhere besides my office someday. I’ll have a good-size agency with operatives working under me, and a nice big office with a pretty secretary to fool around with while my wife raises little Nates and Helens at home.” That made her smile, not sadly. “It’s a shabby little office, because I’m just starting out, and this is the goddamn
Depression
, okay?”

“Okay, Nate. I won’t press. Maybe it’s none of my business.”

I touched her hand. “It’s your business. You’re my friend. That gives you the right to stick your nose in, at least till I ask you not to.”

Impish smile. “Friend, huh? You sleep with all your friends?”

I managed to do an exaggerated shrug and not pass out. “Just you and Barney,” I said.

“You’re looking for another beating, Heller.”

“I promise I’m not. This omelet
is
good. Are you sure there was nothing about Dillinger in the papers or on the radio?”

“Of course I’m sure. If John Dillinger had been captured, it’d be all over the place. Wouldn’t it?”

I nodded. Not much pain. “It should’ve took place last night. They were meeting with Anna Sage—she would’ve given them the address or otherwise led the feds to him….”

“Dillinger, you mean.”

“Yes. I don’t understand why it didn’t happen.”

“Maybe something went wrong.”

“Maybe,” I said, and stood. “Mind if I use your phone?”

Not liking it, she said, “Not at all.”

In the living room, I sat in an overstuffed round-looking chair by the window and dialed the phone, a white candlestick type she kept on a low coffee table. The curtains were back and I glanced out as I waited for the call to go through. Down where Lake Shore Drive curved around the front of the Drake, people on Oak Street Beach and the surrounding park formed a blanket of flesh, staring out at the ironic blue lake, where sailboats and yachts taunted them. The boats were keeping away from the shoreline, though; just beyond the bobbing heads of more casual bathers a pathway was being maintained for those single-minded souls competing in the
Herald and Examiner
fifteen-mile marathon swim.

From the phone a young male voice said, “Division of Investigation, Hart speaking.”

I could hear something of a hubbub in the background.

“I’d like to speak to Inspector Cowley.”

“Inspector Cowley’s tied up. Can I help you?”

“Tell Cowley Nathan Heller’s on the line.”

“Sir, we’re busy here, could you—”

“Tell Cowley Nathan Heller’s on the line.”

There was a pause while he thought it over, then a sigh, and another pause while he fetched Cowley.

“Mr. Heller,” Cowley said, “let’s keep this short. Now what can I do for you?”

“Sounds to me like you’ve got a rather full house for a Sunday afternoon.”

“Twenty or thirty people, and it’s rather frantic; now what do you want?”

“What happened last night?”

“I didn’t think you were planning to be involved in this matter any further, at this stage of the game.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened last night, Cowley?”

“If it’s the reward you’re after, I may be able to arrange a partial—”

“Fuck the reward, and fuck you, Cowley!”

There was a long silence.

Then Cowley said, “We met with Anna Sage last night. She promised to deliver Dillinger to us today. That’s all.”

“That’s all? Why didn’t she give him to you last night?”

“She didn’t expect to see him again till today. She and Polly Hamilton and Dillinger have a date of sorts to go to the movies together. At the Marbro. The features change today, you know.”

“This is stupid—Anna Sage knows where Dillinger’s been staying…it’s a swanky place on Pine Grove.”

“
You
know where he’s been staying?”

“Yes.” I gave him the address. I could hear his pencil scribbling it frantically down.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before, Heller?”

“It’s like I been telling you—I didn’t want to finger the guy because I wasn’t sure he really was Dillinger. I was afraid you guys might blast some poor civilian into Kingdom Come because he had two arms and legs and eyes, just like Johnny.”

“Well, this is Dillinger all right.”

“You won’t get any argument from me on that score. Otherwise I don’t know why Frank Nitti would want him dead.”

Cowley didn’t like being reminded of Nitti’s role in this; I could tell from the silence over the wire.

Then he said, “We’re waiting for a call from Mrs. Sage, any minute now, at which point we’ll go to the Marbro. There are continuous showings all day, and since this plan is in motion already, and we haven’t the manpower to spare for a spur-of-the-moment effort, we won’t be following up on this address, not at this time.”

“Use your own judgment.”

“Our plan of action for the Marbro is well under way. We sent agents over yesterday evening and we’ve made maps covering exits and entrances, alleys and fire escapes, and surrounding streets. We’re ready to put the plan into play when Mrs. Sage calls.”

“Why don’t you just go over to Pine Grove and see if Johnny’s home? Or why not just move into Anna Sage’s apartment till he shows up?”

Silence for a moment; embarrassed silence, I thought.

“Heller, uh…this is Chief Purvis’ plan and, uh, Mr. Hoover has approved it. I’ll make them both aware of the Pine Grove situation, and perhaps they’ll act on it. But I believe we’ll be following through with the Purvis plan….”

“
What
plan?”

“We’ll have agents on the fire exits and on either side of the front entrance. Chief Purvis will be on one side, Zarkovich on the other.”

That sounded like a cross fire to me.

“Why them?” I said. “I thought you told me
you
were going to see to it that Dillinger was captured, not shot.”

“Heller, last night when we met with Mrs. Sage, it was under what you might call cloak-and-dagger conditions. We picked her up on the North Side, drove a ways to a secluded spot along the lake, and I was with Captain O’Neill in one car, while Chief Purvis and Sergeant Zarkovich—and Mrs. Sage—were in the other.”

“What does that have to do with my question?”

“Simply that only Chief Purvis and Sergeant Zarkovich know Mrs. Sage well enough to recognize her…I wasn’t in the car with her.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Have you considered the crowd you’re going to be dealing with at that theater? With this heat wave, everybody and his duck is going to the movies to cool off! If you have to shoot it out, you’re not going to get just Dillinger—you’ll probably bag a grandmother and a ten-year-old or two.”

“Heller, I’m going to be there, and I’ll control the situation myself. You have my word on that.”

“I’m not your goddamn conscience, Cowley. Do what you want.”

“Mr. Heller. If you’ll excuse me…I have to attend a briefing.”

“What, is Little Mel going to explain how he plans to fuck up even worse than Little Bohemia?”

“I don’t appreciate your language, Mr. Heller. It so happens I’m a good Mormon—”

“I don’t care if you’re a bad one. Melvin Purvis is a fuck-up in any religion.”

Cowley cleared his throat. “Sergeant Zarkovich is about to give us a detailed description of Dillinger, now that his appearance has been altered by plastic surgery.”