Dying in the Post-War World

18

The phone call came late morning, which was a good thing: I didn’t even make it into the office till after ten.

“You were a busy fella yesterday, Heller,” Sam Flood’s voice said cordially.

“I get around, Sam.”

“Papers are full of you. Real hero. There’s other news, though, that hasn’t made the papers yet.”

“By the afternoon edition, it’ll be there.”

We each knew what the other was talking about: soon Giorgio (George) Morello would be just another of the hundreds of Chicago’s unsolved gangland killings.

“Lost a friend of mine last night,” Sam said.

“My condolences. But I don’t think he was such a good friend. He loused up that job with the girl, and he tried to sell me a cemetery plot last night.”

The possibility of a phone tap kept the conversation elliptical; but we were right on track with each other.

“In other words,” Sam said, “you only did what you had to do.”

“That’s right.”

“What about that item you were gonna try to obtain for me?”

“It’s in the hands of the U.S. Postal Service right now. Sealed tight — marked personal. I sent it to you at your liquor store on the West Side.”

“That was prompt. You just got hold of the thing last night, right?”

“Right. No time to make copies. I didn’t want a copy, Sam. Your business is your business. Anything I can do to make your happy home stay that way is fine with me. I got a wife, too. I understand these things.”

There was a long, long pause.

Then: “I’ll put your check in the mail, Heller. Pleasure doin’ business with you.”

“Always glad to hear from a satisfied customer.”

There was a briefer pause.

“You wouldn’t want to go on a yearly retainer, would you, Heller?”

“No thanks, Sam. I do appreciate it. Like to stay on your good side.”

“That’s wise, Heller. Sorry you had that trouble last night. Wasn’t my doing.”

“I know, Sam.”

“You done good work. You done me a favor, really. If I can pay you back, you know the number.”

“Thanks, Sam. That check you mentioned is plenty, though.”

“Hey, and nice going on that other thing. That sex-maniac guy. Showed the cops up. Congratulations, war hero.”

The phone clicked dead.

I swallowed and sat there at my desk, trembling.

While I had no desire to work for Sam Flood ever again, I did truly want to stay on his good side. And I had made no mention of what I knew was a key factor in his wanting that photo back.

It had little, if anything, to do with keeping his wife from seeing him pictured with his former girlfriend: it was the table of Sam’s friends, glimpsed behind Sam and the girl in the photo. Top mobsters from Chicago, New York, Cleveland, and Detroit. Some of kind of informal underworld summit meeting had been inadvertently captured by a nightclub photographer. Proof of a nationwide alliance of organized crime families, perhaps in a major meeting to discuss post-war plans.

If Sam suspected that I knew the true significance of that photo, I might not live to see my kid come into the world.

And I really wanted to.