True Crime

1

Somebody had to burst Sally Rand’s bubble.

And I was elected. I was, after all, the guy she’d hired to find out the truth about the self-professed oil millionaire from Oklahoma who’d proposed to her last Saturday night, after a month of flowers and gifts and nights on the town — though Christ knows where Sally found the time for the old boy, what with her various shows at the Paramount Club, the Chicago Theater and of course here at the Streets of Paris, at the world’s fair.

Sally had made the world’s fair, you see, or at least that’s what her press agent had led everybody but Chicago to believe. Story was the poor old Century of Progress Exhibition was a dismal flop till Sally dropped her pants and climbed behind her ostrich plumes, at which point the fair’s turnstiles began spinning like the city fathers in their graves.

Only that was a press agent’s dream; the fair was its own dream-come-true, and help from Sally Rand was appreciated, but hardly crucial. Chicago had watched through the fall, winter and spring as the art-deco spires rose from eighty-six acres along the lake, and by summer the city was eager to leave hard times temporarily behind to enter the City of Tomorrow. The turnstiles were spinning from the fair’s first morning, and Sally was only one of a small army of exotic dancers who helped fan the latter-day Chicago fire.

Because there was more than naked women to see at the fair. Like silk stockings being woven, and a Gutenberg Bible (and the press it had been printed on); like the Silver Streak streamliner; and an automobile assembly line; and something called television. You could even see a million dollars (at the Federal Building, under armed guard) or a million dollars worth of diamonds (at the General Exhibits building, similarly guarded). And kids of all ages could wonder at Sinclair Oil’s plaster dinosaurs, and the Seminole village where real, live Indians wrestled real, live alligators. And you could see Time and Fortune magazine covers two stories high, and a thermometer nineteen stories higher than that. You could see a lot more than just Sally Rand in the nude.

Not that there was anything wrong with seeing Sally Rand in the nude. I’d seen her show last year, the first year of the fair, and she by damn didn’t have anything on under there but her. The boys hadn’t been lying! And I understood this year she’d traded her plumes in for a big transparent balloon, a bubble she called it, and was nuder than ever.

I supposed most healthy male Chicagoans had made it out to Sally’s show during the opening week of the fair. But this was my first time this summer to the Century of Progress, though it had been open over a month already — because I’d had my fill of the place the summer before.

Like a lot of people in Chicago, for me the 1933 fair had meant work. Thousands of jobs had been created by the Dawes brothers — Rufus T., president of the fair, and his older brother General Charles G., former vice-president of the United States (under Coolidge), thought by many to be the real brains behind the Century of Progress. Say what you will about the Dawes brothers; dismiss them as businessmen/bankers whose efforts were self-serving, if you like. But they saw to it that a lot of dough got pumped into the Windy City.

Hotels were packed (and the hotels could use it — most of ’em were verging on bankruptcy before the fair) and restaurants and theaters did booming business, as did the newly reopened nightclubs and taverns (or at least newly openly reopened) after beer became legal in April of ’33, during the fair’s first summer. Prohibition gasped its last dry gasp (Repeal was only months away); and the Century of Progress — awash in beer as it was, thanks to the Capone/Nitti Outfit, who were willing to sell people suds even if it was legal — became a celebration of a better, wetter, tomorrow.

Of course, many — probably most — of the fairgoers were from out of town; and amid all those solid citizens from the farms and villages of the Midwest were pickpockets from everywhere else. And that’s where I came in.

Me. Nathan Heller. A private operative, but formerly a plainclothes dick on the pickpocket detail. Having that background, I’d been hired to coach the pith-helmeted private police force working the fairgrounds in the fine art of the dip. Or should I say, the fine art of spotting and nabbing the dip. And I’d done some supervising throughout the summer and fall, until the close of the fair in November. The job had paid a pretty penny.

I’d been hired by General Dawes himself, not because I was such a stalwart citizen, but because I had him over a barrel. That’s another story, which has been told elsewhere; for the purposes of this narrative, it’s enough to say that once General Dawes had repaid what he felt was a debt owed me, he saw fit not to hire me back when the Century of Progress was held over for a second year.

That, and a few other unpleasant experiences on these fairgrounds, had kept me away this summer, thus far. Now, as I strolled the fair on this sultry July afternoon, the walkway brimming with women in bright print dresses and floppy hats and men in shirt sleeves and straw boaters and kids in short pants and smiles, I felt a sense of nostalgia for the place, I’d spent time here with a woman I loved. Still loved.

But she was in Hollywood, both literally and figuratively, and I was in Chicago, underfed and underworked. Sally Rand was the first client I’d had in two months, outside of the ongoing work I did for a retail credit firm, checking credit ratings and investigating insurance claims. The A-1 Detective Agency (me) had had a good first year; unfortunately, it (I) was deep into its second year, and subsisting mostly on the dwindling proceeds of the first.

If Mr. Roosevelt was leading the country out of the Depression, he was starting somewhere other than Chicago — or anyway, somewhere other than the corner of Van Buren and Plymouth.

So now here I was again, feeling faintly ridiculous in my light-weight white suit and wide-brimmed Panama hat (souvenirs of a Florida job last year), wandering the avenues of the City of Tomorrow, in the shadow of the twin Eiffel-like towers of the fair’s famed Sky Ride, where “rocket cars” skimmed above the flat surfaces and pastel colors of the modernistic pavilions. One of the towers was nicknamed Amos, and the other Andy, but I never could remember which was which. (Except on the radio.) I hopped a double-decker bus, took a wicker seat on the upper open deck, where you could feel a lake breeze cut through the heat; that felt good, but being here at the fair again felt odd. It was like I was my own ghost, somehow; haunting myself. I got off at the Streets of Paris, which you entered through a big blue-and-white-and-red facade designed to look like a steamship.

Inside, the narrow “streets” were patrolled by phony gendarmes, a temporary world of sidewalk cafés with striped awnings and little round tables under big colorful umbrellas, and stalls where you could buy Parisian hats (by a North Side milliner) and charcoal sketches of yourself (by a Tower Town art student in a beret and paste-on mustache), along walkways prowled by chestnut vendors, strolling troubadors and flower girls. (No wildly careening taxicabs or whores, however.) The flat surfaces of flimsy exterior walls were covered with startling bright posters, and an outdoor “Lido” swimming pool boasted free floor shows of bathing beauties every bit as lovely as Miss Rand.

But Miss Rand was a star, now (she’d made a movie in Hollywood with George Raft, since her success here last summer), and she had her own revue in the Café de la Paix, with dancing girls and the works. She had a matinee coming up in half an hour, so I went in and dropped her name and a tuxedoed waiter whose French extended to, “This way, mon sewer,” sat me at a postage-stamp table, near ringside.

The place was nearly full, couples mostly, the men trying to hide anticipatory smiles, the women pretending to be embarrassed, when irritated (if curious) was more like it. Meanwhile, overhead fans kept the place cool — overhead fans and beer.

The show took place on the dance floor, behind which the tuxedoed orchestra was seated in tiers on a stage; there was no seating to the right or left of the polished floor, which extended to draped areas on either side. I was halfway into a second beer when the orchestra began playing something vaguely Parisian and the lights dimmed and the dance floor filled up with blond show girls in filmy dresses, moving around trailing gauzy cloth like untalented but well-endowed Isadora Duncans.

After a while the show girls went away, the lighting went blue, and Sally came gliding on, in a clinging white gown, long blond tresses swaying, accompanied by her big bubble, which she guided, though it seemed to have a mind of its own. The orchestra, who kept their eyes on their music despite the rear view they were getting, played Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, while the gown seemed to accidentally slip, and expose a breast. Then it slipped again, and pretty soon it slipped entirely. This was seen in gratefully accepted glimpses, as she moved behind and to either side of the bubble as she bounced and directed it, but as the orchestra eased into a Brahms waltz, the glimpses became more generous, and as the blue light dimmed noticeably, Sally stepped from behind the bubble, nude as a grape, smiling, Godiva-like hair almost glowing, hands arched in a combination of grace and pride.

When I entered her dressing room backstage, she was sitting before her lightbulb-surrounded mirror combing out her medium-length light brown hair; the long blond hair — a wig — was on the head of a dressmaker’s dummy nearby. She wore a silky blue robe and had a bobby pin in her teeth.

“Heller!” she said, looking at me in the mirror. “I saw you, ringside. How’d you like the show?”

“I liked it fine. I’ve always liked classical music.”

She put the hairbrush down and the bobby pin too and turned and looked at me; her wide, red pretty smile seemed sincere. She had the longest eyelashes I ever saw on a woman (or a man, for that matter) and they seemed to be real. Her eyes were the same color blue as her robe.

“Culture lover, huh?” she said. “Take off your hat, and pull up a chair. I like your white suit.”

I took off my hat, pulled up a chair. “I feel like an ice-cream man.”

“The ice-cream man cometh, huh? What did you find out for me?”

A little fan — an electric one, not the kind Sally hid behind — was whirring on a table over to the left, turning in a little half-circle, blowing streamers in the air.

“Your sugar daddy may be a gold digger.”

She looked disappointed, but only mildly. “Oh?”

“He’s in oil, all right. He owns a gas station.”

“The lying little weasel.”

“These are hard times; he used to own a dozen of ’em, all over Oklahoma. He may have been worth a little dough, once. Hell, he still is. A little dough.”

“But he doesn’t make two grand a week like yours truly.”

“Ouch,” I said. “Don’t say that to a man you’re paying ten bucks a day and expenses.”

“Maybe you’re in the wrong business.”

“I’ve been told that before. But so far nobody’s offered me two grand to prance around in my birthday suit.”

She smiled wryly and leaned forward, folded her hands; her silky blue robe fell open, just a little. One well-formed, large but not-too-large breast was half-exposed. I crossed my legs.

“You might look pretty good in your birthday suit,” she ventured.

I shook my head, grinned. “Not two grand worth.”

She lit a cigarette. “You want one of these?”

“No thanks. Not a habit I ever picked up.”

She shrugged. “They say it’s good for you. Anyway, Heller, why haven’t you made a pass at me?”

I didn’t see that coming, so it took me a moment before I could reply.

“You’re a client,” I managed. “It wouldn’t be ethical.”

“Ethical? In Chicago? I think I’ve made it plain I find you attractive. And there’s worse-looking women in town than Sally Rand.”

“So I hear.”

She blew a smoke ring. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Why, ’cause you’re a star? I met famous people before.”

“Did you ever sleep with any?”

“Just Capone. He snores.”

She laughed; it was high-pitched, very feminine. But there was a core of strength in the little dame, no question.

“So my millionaire’s a faker, huh? Easy come, easy go. I guess I didn’t want to quit show business, anyway.” She sighed and turned back to the mirror. “How old are you, Heller?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Her electric fan whirred; streamers tickled the air.

“I’m almost thirty,” she said. “How long can I take my clothes off for a living?”

“From the looks of you, a good long time.”

She had been around, though, even if it didn’t show. She’d been a cigarette girl and a chorus girl, a dancer in a Gus Edwards Revue, an extra in the silents, a Hollywood Wampus Baby Star, which led to a contract with De Mille, though when sound came in she was dropped. She was a has-been of twenty-eight when she made her overnight success after fourteen years in show business by dressing as Lady Godiva for a Fine Arts Ball at the Congress Hotel on the eve of the world’s fair.

Now she was peeking out from behind fans and bubbles, when she wasn’t in and out of court — which of course created the publicity that kept her hot.

“My real name is Helen, you know,” she said. “Helen Beck. But very few people still call me Helen.”

“Would you like me to?”

“I’m thinking about it.” She began brushing her hair. Her other hair, the blond wig on the dressmaker’s dummy, was blowing a bit in the electric fan’s breeze. “Do you know where I got my name?”

“Off a Rand McNally map?”

“You’ve read the newspaper stories, then.”

“Who hasn’t? You’re better known than the First Lady.”

“And a damn sight better looking.”

“Yeah, but so am I.”

She turned and smiled and looked at me. “Why are you still here?” She said this with no nastiness.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you thinking about making a pass at me?”

“Maybe.”

“What changed your mind?”

“You’re not a client, anymore.”

“Does that make it kosher?”

“It could.”

She stood and the robe slipped to her waist. Her breasts were very beautiful. She was powdered white, for the stage; talcum powder. She smelled good; she smelled like a great big baby.

I went over and kissed her.

It was a nice kiss, but something was missing. She looked up at me with those long lashes and sad blue eyes.

“What is it, Nate? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, moving back. “Maybe I better go.”

“It’s that actress of yours.”

“You — you know about her?”

“I know a lot of things. She left you. Went to Hollywood. You don’t owe her anything.”

“We still write.”

“Do her letters keep you warm at night?”

“Not particularly. But in this weather, who needs it?”

“Maybe you do. Come and kiss me again.”

I thought about it a second, then did.

It was better this time.

“You need a new girl,” she said, and enfolded me in her arms.

“Maybe I need a new actress,” I said into her neck. Her sweet, talcum-smelling neck.

She pushed me away, gently, keeping me within her arms. Her eyes, her smile, were knowing and yet gentle, very gentle.

“I’m just a Missouri farm girl,” she said. “Scratch most any actress, and that’s what you’ll find. We’re not special. Just playing at being special.”

“Shush, Helen.”

The floor was wooden but her silk robe was cushion enough.

Now all I needed was another client.

2

He was waiting outside my office door, hat in hand.

My office was at the dead end of a hall on the fourth floor of the building on the corner of Van Buren and Plymouth, just a stone’s throw from the exclusive Standard Club. But don’t get the wrong idea: it was also just a healthy spit away from a couple of flophouses. Chicago’s an open-minded place — bums and bankers, whores and debutantes, crooks and cops. There’s room for everybody, here. Just don’t ask me to sort out who goes in what slot.

The building my office was in was full of marginal businesses and second-rate doctors and third-rate lawyers and possibly one first-rate detective who deserved better. So if anybody shlepped up three flights and stood outside my office, he was either a bill collector, a process server or a potential client. Walking down the corridor, the wood-and-mostly-glass walls of offices on either side of me like a tank I was a fish in, I studied this bird and tried to sort out his slot.

He was a pale blond man with a darker blond mustache, immaculately groomed in a tailored brown suit with a yellow-and-brown bow tie. The hat in his hand was straw, with a chocolate band; he had a thin, rather pointed nose and eyes the color of slate behind wire glasses. He looked rather harmless, and from the way he stood, head bowed a bit, he seemed shy, even a little timid. Which either made him a client, or a process server. Process servers study looking timid, you know.

On the chance that he might be a client, however, I did not turn around, but kept walking; approached him.

“Mr. Heller?” he said. He smiled tentatively; the skin of his face pulled tight over his cheeks. Like he’d never smiled before. Even tentatively.

“That’s right,” I said, and he stood to one side as I unlocked the pebbled-glass door.

“I’d like to inquire about your services,” he said.

I smiled and made a gracious gesture with one hand. “I’d like you to,” I said, and he nodded, and stepped inside.

Mine was a good-size office, but there was no outer waiting area, just one big room, with cream-color plaster walls. A big scarred oak desk was opposite the door, and behind the desk were windows, several of which I immediately opened to let a little air in. Out the windows was a view of the El. There was also a brown leather couch with tears repaired with brown tape, a wooden filing cabinet, a hat tree and, against the right wall as you came in, a big brown cabinet.

“Is that a Murphy bed?” my potential client asked.

I got him a chair and he sat across from my desk, which I got back behind and said, “Yes. Were like Pinkerton’s. We never close.”

He shrugged. Seemed embarrassed to have brought it up. “I just... wondered. You just don’t often see a Murphy bed in an office.”

“I live here,” I said, taking my suitcoat off and tossing it on the desk, loosening my tie, rolling up my sleeves. It was hot, and, unlike Sally Rand, I had no fan. “If you’d like to take your coat off, be my guest. Make yourself at home.”

He waved that off, despite a faint beading of sweat along his forehead, but did place his hat on the edge of my desk, saying, almost incredulously, “You live here?”

“I try not to advertise it, because it doesn’t impress my other clients any more than it’s impressing you. But I have an arrangement with the landlord to live in the office in exchange for rent. I’m a night watchman of sorts.”

“I see.” He folded his arms, crossed his legs; tried to hide his second thoughts about hiring me.

“Times are hard,” I said.

He looked at me blankly.

“It’s been in all the papers,” I said.

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I... I’m not bothered by your lack of...”

“Of a secretary. Of associates. Of decent furniture. I’m relieved.”

He smiled again, a little nervous twitch of a smile; his face was tight as a mask. “I’m not a wealthy man, myself. I probably couldn’t afford someone like... Pinkerton’s or Hargraves. What are your rates, Mr. Heller?”

“Ten dollars a day and expenses.”

He nodded, stroked his mustache, adjusted the way his glasses were sitting on his nose.

“Is that too high for you?” I asked. “I assure you I’m fully qualified. I was on the police force here for a number of years...”

He twitched his smile again. “I won’t hold that against you, Mr. Heller.”

Where this flash of humor — however slight — came from, I hadn’t the faintest idea; but a brief sparkle in the slate eyes disappeared as quickly as it came, and he said, “I have full confidence in you, Mr. Heller.”

That stopped me.

“Why?” I said.

That stopped him.

“Well... let’s just say you were recommended by an attorney.”

“Who would your attorney be?”

“I, uh, didn’t say it was my attorney, Mr. Heller.”

“If I was referred to you by an attorney, I’d like to know who it was.”

“Is that important?”

“If I haven’t heard of him, I’m going to start wondering what this is about. Excuse me, but one thing I can’t allow my clients to be is evasive with me. I can’t do honest work for you if you won’t be honest with me. Fair enough?”

“Louis Piquett,” he said, softly.

“Louis Piquett,” I said.

I didn’t know what to make of that. I had done a job for Piquett once — through him, I’d performed a service for a certain underworld figure. Much of Piquett’s practice was criminal law, so it was natural he’d have connections with both mob and local government (the line between which was often a fine one).

Piquett had a large, and apparently mostly aboveboard, practice; he was, after all, a former city prosecutor — though admittedly that had been in the especially corrupt administration of Big Bill Thompson (a onetime law partner of his). That his client list included a who’s who of bank robbers and gangsters — among them Leo Brothers, the accused slayer of Jake Lingle — only made him “colorful” in Chicago terms.

“Okay,” I said, still a little thrown. “That’s a reference I can accept. How do you know Piquett?”

“He’s the attorney my employers recommended.”

“Who are your employers?”

“I’d rather not involve them — they’re a grain sales and service company, out of Gary.” He cleared his throat, and added, “Indiana?” as if I might not know where Gary was.

Well, this at least made sense; a grain company might have had business with the mob, back in the recent bootlegging past, which could lead them to Piquett. That seemed innocent enough. And so did my client.

I took out a yellow pad from a left-hand drawer. Began scrawling some notes in pencil.

“Why don’t we start with your name,” I said.

“Howard,” he said. “John Howard.”

“All right, Mr. Howard. What is it I can do for you?”

He uncrossed his legs; put his hands on his knees. “This is hard for me...”

“Just regard me as you would your attorney, Mr. Howard. Whatever you say, it’ll be confidential. Anything embarrassing, or illegal... that’ll stay within these walls. Between us. And whatever problem you’re having, it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before, believe me. Like a doctor, I’ve seen a lot of different kinds of illnesses.”

“I think my wife is cheating on me.”

Imagine that.

“Go on,” I said.

“I’m a salesman. Traveling salesman. Selling to feed and grain stores in a two-state area. That keeps me on the road much of the time. Weeks at a time, at times.”

“I see.”

“And Polly... well, Polly’s always been a little free-spirited. Very independent.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Just over a year. A few months ago, I got this new territory — it was a big opportunity for me, how could I pass it up? Only it meant... being gone for longer stretches of time than before. And, well, she didn’t seem to mind. I guess I wish she would have minded. Then last week I found out she’s been working at a café. Took the job without even telling me. I confronted her about it, asked her why, why on earth she was doing this, didn’t I make good money, didn’t I do right by her, and she said she was just bored — and that ‘a girl can use a little money of her own.’”

“Do you have any children, Mr. Howard?”

“No. None. Not yet. I hope to...”

“I see. Is it so wrong for her to have a job, a little something to keep her busy?”

“I suppose not.”

“Extra money, in times like these, is that anything to be angry over?”

“Perhaps not...”

“Wouldn’t some husbands be grateful for the extra income?”

“Possibly...”

“If that’s all the more reason you have to be suspicious, I’d have to advise you — much as I hate to lose a prospective client — to leave well enough alone.”

Outside, the El rumbled, rattled; he glanced at it, like the world passing him by. I waited for the noise to go away before getting back into this — with the open windows, there was no other choice.

Then, when silence filled the room again, he looked at me and said, “She should have told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That she was working! She should have asked me.”

“Asked your permission, you mean?”

“Well of course! I’m — I’m the husband, aren’t I?”

“Somebody’s got to wear the pants,” I said, keeping the sarcasm to myself, I hoped.

“That’s not the most disturbing part.”

“Tell me what is.”

He looked away from me, as if he couldn’t bear to make this admission and eye contact at the same time. “She’s working under her maiden name. Hamilton. Not her married name.”

That seemed curious, but not necessarily sinister.

“She’s just asserting her independence,” I said.

“But she’s a married woman!”

“Married women have a right to an identity of their own. Or anyway that’s what a lot of ’em think.”

He spoke barely moving his lips. “She may be asserting more than just her independence.”

“You think she’s seeing other men, then?”

“That’s what I’d like you to find out.”

“You have no other reason to believe this other than your wife using her maiden name to get a job.”

“There’s another reason.”

“Well?”

He sighed, heavily; looked out at the El. “It’s personal.”

“Getting cuckolded is personal, Mr. Howard. Convince me I wouldn’t be wasting your money by taking on this job.”

“It’s the way she is... way she acts... in bed.”

“Cold, you mean?”

He looked at me, the slate eyes very sad. “Not at all. Just the reverse.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I should have this guy’s problems.

“She’s doing things I didn’t teach her.”

“Oh. Maybe she’s imaginative, or has a girlfriend who’s been around who shared some secrets.”

“Or read a sexual manual. Or was more experienced before our marriage than she at first let on. Yes, I’ve thought of those things. But she’s trying too hard, in bed; it’s as if — as if she’s trying to allay any suspicions I might have. Besides. A husband senses when a wife has been unfaithful, don’t you know that?”

Actually, I knew the opposite to be true in many cases; but why argue with money?

“I’ll be glad to look into this, Mr. Howard. For one reason only — to ease your mind. I’m inclined to think your wife will come out of this smelling like a rose.”

“I pray you’re right, Mr. Heller.”

He gave me the particulars — the address of the café, 1209½ West Wilson Avenue, which was in the neighborhood known as Uptown, so called because that was where the El ended; and their apartment, in the Malden Plaza Hotel, a few blocks from where she was working. He also gave me a snapshot of her, a pretty, apple-cheeked girl who seemed innocence personified.

I gave him some particulars, too — assured him that I would shadow his wife without her knowing; that if I did find she had a lover or lovers, I would make no direct confrontation. That sort of embarrassment, that sort of complication, he pointedly did not want. I assured him that his wife — and any lover — would not know I was there. That was my job.

He didn’t want photos; he wasn’t looking for evidence for a divorce case.

“I just want the truth, Mr. Heller.”

“That’s a scarce commodity, Mr. Howard,” I said. “And this is Chicago...”

I asked him for a twenty-five-dollar retainer and he stood and drew five tens from a fairly well-stuffed wallet.

“Since I’ll be on the road, and you won’t be able to reach me,” he said, spreading the five bills on my desktop like a poker hand, “I’d prefer to pay you for a full week’s work, now.”

I managed not to stutter. “Fine. If I need to go beyond a week...?”

“Do it. I’ll be in touch soon.”

With a final tight mirthless smile, he extended his hand and I stood behind the desk and shook it.

“I appreciate your help, Mr. Heller.”

“I hope I can be of help, by proving to you you’ve a good, loyal, loving little wife at home.”

“I pray so,” he said. “I pray so.”

Then he was gone, and I put his money in my pocket, and wondered where I’d seen the pretty, apple-cheeked girl in the snapshot before.

3

I started the job the following Monday, which was the day the heat wave really started taking itself seriously. At 7:00 A.M. I caught the El — Uptown was six miles north of the Loop — and already it was sweltering; every man on the train was in his shirt sleeves, with suit-coat over arm or left the hell home. The only men I saw that day with their coats on were the old gents sitting on benches in front of the El station, where I got off at Wilson and Broadway; they seemed to be unchanging fixtures of the landscape, a part of the ornate, carved-stone station, like the marble arch with the clock in its grillwork belly that hovered above the front entryway.

The terra-cotta El station — patterned, so they said, after New York’s Grand Central — was typical of the Uptown district’s naïvely grandiose opinion of itself. Though few of the buildings were taller than three stories — the exceptions being a couple of hotels and a few high-rise apartment houses and the occasional office building — Uptown fancied itself a miniature Loop, and with some justification. The gingerbread on the buildings bore the influence of that other Chicago world’s fair, the Columbian Exposition of ’93, where the hodgepodge beaux arts style of pseduo-European/classical architecture reigned; and in Uptown to this day a fairlike atmosphere prevailed. There were movie palaces like the Riviera, dance halls like the Aragon, specialty shops, department stores, banks, drugstores, delis, tearooms; restaurants from Russian to Polish to Greek, as well as chop suey joints and a Swedish cafeteria.

In this blistering weather, however, the beaches of Lake Michigan, the eastern border of Uptown, would be doing more business than the businesses — with the possible exception of the orange juice huts and ice-cream parlors. And the bars and cafés, offering something cool to drink, wouldn’t be faring poorly, either.

The Howard girl’s café was a block from the station — a sign protruded over the sidewalk proclaiming it the s & s sandwich shop — in a three-story building with apartments above. Since its address had a “½” in it, I’d expected a hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon; but as I walked by, glancing in the window, I saw a long counter and floor space to the tune of eight or ten tables, and a trio of waitresses, one of which was the apple-cheeked pretty Polly.

That’s all I saw, because I was glancing, and I walked across the street to a four-story residential hotel called the Wilson Arms. The bottom floor was a bar, and the check-in desk was at the top of the second floor. The place was no competition for the Edgewater Beach, but it was no flophouse either. I paid for three nights — which set me back as many dollars — and rented an electric fan for one day. At twenty-five cents, the fan was highway robbery; after all, I knew store clerks who were making only a nickel an hour, these days, and glad for it. But it was hot, and I had a fifty-buck retainer to play with, and Chicago was unfair even when there wasn’t a depression.

So I sat in a small room on the second floor by the open window, the fan on a table not far from me, blades clicking on the wire mesh as they whirled around, attempting to cool me. I had pulled up an easy chair and was as comfortable as possible, my tie loosened, my shirt unbuttoned.

Down on the street, as morning headed toward noon, the sidewalks were filled with men in shirt sleeves and girls in light summery dresses. The dresses clung sweatily to the girls, which in many cases made for pleasant viewing; the equally sticky shirts of the men, with their underarm sweat circles, didn’t. There weren’t many school-age kids around — they were at the beaches, mostly — but matronly gals in shade hats and tent dresses prowled the sidewalks, carrying shopping bags, looking cross and wishing they were younger and weighed less. I wished I could grant them their wish.

In this heat nobody but working stiffs stayed indoors. Even in cool weather, though, there’d have been plenty of activity on this street. Broadway and Wilson was the heart of Uptown’s considerable commercial district; parked autos lined either side of the street, and cabs prowled constantly by, often finding takers.

Polly’s café was doing a brisk business, as people headed in for Cokes and lemonades. Cooling off was the priority of the day. College boys (or anyway college-age boys) sat on little stoops in doorways, or leaned against lampposts, often nibbling at ice-cream cones that threatened to melt down their arms, or drinking orange juice out of paper cups that gave them citrus mustaches. The boys were watching the girls in the summery, sweat-clinging dresses, the little rats. Shame on ’em.

Hard times seemed not to have hit Uptown as hard as some parts of the city; but there were, now and then, reminders: several men wearing homemade sandwich signs wandered by, asking in bold hand letters: WANTED — A DECENT JOB. Then something personally descriptive, like FAMILY MAN, 43. In smaller letters beneath were printed job résumés, including phone numbers and addresses.

From down the street I heard Louis Armstrong, faintly; I craned my head out the window. There was a shoeshine parlor down there, on Polly’s side of the street; the colored boys in their undershirts and wide pants were singing along with the Victrola, mimicking Satchmo, as they whapped the cloths across their customers’ hot feet. They even danced a little. But just a little. In this heat I was surprised they could sing. Jazz does wonders.

Buttoning my shirt, snugging my tie, I went down to the bar and bought a bottle of cold beer and back up to the room and spent an hour drinking it; the last swig was warm as spit. By now there’d been any number of men going in the sandwich shop alone who might have been Polly’s boyfriend; but no one had stayed longer than it would take to have a Coke or anyway a sandwich. Polly was working the tables, and I caught a glimpse of her occasionally in the café window, taking an order at, or clearing, one of the front tables. Nothing seemed to be going on in Polly’s life today except waitressing.

She still seemed familiar to me. And I still hadn’t placed her.

By 2:00 P.M. my stomach was making noise, so I went down on the street and gave one of the college-age boys half a buck to go across the street and buy me a ham-and-cheese sandwich at Polly’s café. He didn’t ask why I didn’t want to cross the street myself; he just went for the sandwich, brought it to me in a paper bag five minutes later, and earned the quarter’s change. Maybe now he’d go rent himself an electric fan.

The sandwich was okay, the bread was fresh at least, but another beer from the bar downstairs to wash it down was better. Afternoon came, and the heat let up a bit; down to the mid-nineties. Customers, many of them male, and unaccompanied, went into the café; but none stayed long enough to rate even a suspicious glimmer.

By 7:00 P.M., I’d had five beers and as many trips to the hall john. The beers had taken no inebriating toll on me, spread out over the eleven or so hours I’d been here. But they — and the clicking bladed fan — had kept me awake, and alive. Evening was on its way — though it was still sunny out; who the hell’s idea was this daylight savings time crap, anyway? — and a reprieve from the communal hot seat would soon be in Chicago’s grasp.

Shortly after seven, Polly Howard (or Hamilton, as she was calling herself here) stepped out of the café, wearing a pink-and-white print dress with a bow in front. She must’ve changed out of her waitress uniform in the back. Despite having worked a twelve-hour shift in unbearable heat, she looked rather fresh, her reddish-brown hair bouncing above her shoulders as she looked side to side, a small purse in her hands held like a fig leaf in front of her.

Since she seemed to be waiting for someone, someone who might be about to pick her up, I hurried out of the room and down the stairs and then slowed to a saunter to find an inconspicuous spot on the street, to continue watch. I wandered up to the corner and picked up a Daily News from the stand; making like I was reading as I walked, I could see Polly standing there, patiently, waiting for her ride. Men and boys walking by gave her the eye, but got nothing back for their trouble.

Maybe Polly was faithful to her traveling-salesman hubby.

A cab pulled up and a man got out.

He was a handsome, dapper-looking dark-haired man with a pencil mustache and gold-rim glasses and a tailored gray suit, suitcoat slung over his arm. He was hatless. Not tall. Not short.

The cab stayed in place, motor purring as the man held the door open for Polly and she flashed him a smile that said her husband was in a lot of trouble.

He got in after her, and the cab pulled away, east on Wilson.

A second later I flagged the next eastbound cab and climbed in back and leaned forward and pointed.

“Follow that car,” I said.

4

The red taillights of the Yellow cab up ahead of my Checker were soon headed south, down Broadway; when we cut over on Diversey, toward the lake, it was obvious we were headed for the Loop. The guy in the gold-rim glasses and mustache must’ve wanted to impress pretty Polly, because they could’ve almost fallen onto the El, as close to the Wilson Avenue Station as her café was. And here he was cabbing it downtown. Throwing his — and my — money around.

That fifty-buck retainer was looking smaller and smaller.

When they got out in front of the Morrison Hotel on Madison, just a few blocks from my office — which I’d vacated to be closer to Polly, remember — I really began to resent the way the guy was spending my money. The Morrison had a traveler’s lounge where I freshened up each day, thanks to an arrangement the landlord of my building had made for me. Being led here was like following your wife and her boyfriend to your own house. Somehow I was beginning to feel as much a sucker as my poor traveling-salesman client.

Well, Polly and her pal probably weren’t here for the mattress — there were a few thousand less conspicuous places in the city for a one-nighter than a hotel in the heart of the Loop — so they had to be here for the nightlife.

Which irked me, because the Uptown area — which they’d fled by cab — was, at night, the North Side’s Great White Way. A hodgepodge of nightclubs and restaurants, to be sure, with its share of sleazy joints, but also ritzy ones and everything between. Why come to the Loop? Except to impress a dame and blow your money. And mine.

My cab went on by as the mustached man, his arm gently around the beaming Polly’s shoulder, went in the main entrance. I paid the cabbie around the corner — a buck for the ride and a dime tip — got out, made a note of the expense in my little notebook, and went around to the Clark Street entrance.

The Morrison lobby was plush, lots of gray marble and dark wood and stuffed furniture and bronze lamps and a ceiling that went up to heaven, which by Chicago standards is a couple of stories. At the fancy marble-and-bronze check-in there was no sign of Polly and her boyfriend. I had a good idea where they were.

A marble staircase led down to the Terrace Garden, a big shiny art-deco dine-and-dance spot the before-and-after theater crowd had made popular. We were in the “during” mode at the moment, where theater was concerned; but the place was still doing nice business. Great to see so many people had money to spread around in times like these — too bad I wasn’t one of them.

Polly and friend were seated at one of the round tables in the circular, terraced dining area that surrounded the sunken dance floor, where even now Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians played their bouncy, mellow brand of hokum while couples in evening attire — white coats for the men, low-cut formals for the ladies — mingled with real people, a certain number of world’s fair tourists among them, who met the dress code (ties for men, no slacks for women) but would never make the society page. Part of the reason business here was so brisk was the pleasant, even icy feel of the air conditioning. A man could get used to not drowning in his own sweat, given half a chance.

The food here was first-rate, but not cheap; I talked it over with my stomach and decided to take a table, despite being uncomfortable about calling attention to myself by dining alone — this was a couples crowd, almost exclusively, and I should probably just go stand at the bar. But what the hell. I ordered the boiled brisket of beef with horseradish sauce, made a mental notation of the expense (not wanting to take out my little notebook), and sipped some rum while I waited for my meal, watching Polly and her friend holding hands across their table, on the other side of the room from me, seated on the terrace level just above the dance floor, just as I was.

Polly was animated and constantly smiling; it was a nice smile, but it tried a little too hard. He seemed taken with her, but was more reserved: she seemed to be doing most of the talking. They had cocktails — gin fizzes, it looked like — and took in a dance before their main course arrived. They danced right by me, at one point, and that’s when I recognized Polly.

She, however, didn’t recognize me; or didn’t seem to, when I just barely glanced at them, between bites of brisket, over the little white fence that separated us, as they floated by.

Still, there was no mistaking her.

“Nate, you bum,” a familiar tenor voice said. “You’re supposed to be working!”

I touched a napkin to my mouth and smiled up at my friend Barney Ross, who was wearing a tux he looked uncomfortable in and had a good-looking redheaded girl on his arm, which made a more comfortable fit.

“I am working,” I said softly. “Why don’t you and your lovely friend fill these two empty chairs before you blow my cover?”

Barney’s bulldog-cute face made an embarrassed smirk and the puppy-dog brown eyes rolled, and he pulled a chair out for his lady and sat down between us and shrugged and said, “So tonight I’m a shlemiel. I’ll pick up the check.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I got a client who’ll pick it up.”

His grin turned lopsided. “Gee, that’s white of you, Nate. I think I’ll have lobster.”

“I’m not that white, chum. I don’t pick up checks for rich guys, even when I’m getting expenses.”

The redhead smiled at hearing Barney called “rich,” but it embarrassed him.

“Rich, smich,” he said. “A few years, I’ll be out of work and borrowing from you.”

“Keep playing the ponies and you may be right.”

Barney’s only vice was gambling; that, and being a soft touch for his old West Side pals. We’d grown up together on Maxwell Street, when I’d been his family’s Shabbes goy (my father was a Jew, but nonpracticing; my late mother’s Catholicism never caught on with me, either). By the time I was a teenager, I was living in Douglas Park, but I’d come back Sundays to Maxwell Street where Barney and I worked together — Barney as a “puller,” a barker in front of the store who often physically yanked prospective buyers off the street and inside; and me taking over from there, with the sales pitch. A couple of roughnecks, but Barney was rougher, a scrappy little street fighter who’d had to fend for himself and his family since he was a kid of thirteen. That was when thieves shot Barney’s father in the Rasofsky’s hole-in-the-wall dairy, and killed him.

By the way, in case you didn’t recognize the name, Barney Ross grew up to be another kind of fighter, namely the lightweight champion of the world. And just this past May he’d taken the legendary Jimmy McLarnin in NYC for the welterweight crown, as well.

“This is Pearl,” he said, gesturing to the attractive redhead. “The gal I been telling you about.”

I reached a hand across the table and took hers, shook it; her hand was smooth and warm and she had a nice smile. Her eyes were big and blue, and her nose was a little big. It looked good on her, though. She had a low-cut blue velvet formal on; her bosom was milky white and there was plenty of it.

“So you’re Barney’s private detective friend,” she said.

I put a finger to my lips in a shush gesture. “Let’s make that our little secret, for the time being.”

Barney put an arm around her shoulder and said, sotto voce, “Like he said before, he’s working. He’s tailing somebody or something. Mum’s the word.”

She crinkled her chin in an embarrassed, attractively earthy little smile. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” I said, smiling back. “Let me get you something from the bar...” I started to wave for a waiter.

“Thanks, Nate, but no,” Barney said. “I’m in training, remember?”

“But Pearl’s not. Are you, Pearl? And have you eaten yet?”

They admitted they hadn’t, and I insisted they join me.

“A man alone at a place like this sticks out like a sore thumb,” I explained. “Stick around and make me look legit.”

They ordered — Pearl asked for a Pink Lady, and both of them had the baked finnan haddie à la Moir — and Barney said, “Pearl’s in from New York through the weekend, Nate.”

“That’s terrific.”

“I, uh... wanted her to meet Ma, and my brothers and my sis.”

“This sounds serious.”

Barney almost blushed; Pearl just smiled.

“Be true to this guy, Pearl,” I said, “or someday you might have somebody like me following you around.”

Barney leaned forward conspiratorially. “Is that what this is about?”

I nodded. “That pretty apple-cheeked lass and the mustached gent across the way are, well, naughty. Or so it would seem.”

“His wife your client?” Barney asked.

“Her husband,” I said.

He shook his head. “Dirty business you’re in.”

“Beats having some guy bash your head in.”

He smiled a little, cocked his head. “If you’re trying to describe the way I make my living, let me remind you a couple things. First, I make my living by having some guy try to bash my head in — nobody’s quite got the job done yet. And second, my work pays better than yours.”

I took a last bite of brisket. “Yeah, but you can’t eat on the job.”

Pearl was watching us closely, and seemed to have figured out that Barney and me needling each other was just a sign of how deep our friendship ran.

“Incident’ly,” he said, “Pearl’s got her own room, here. Just wanted you to know, before you got any ideas.”

“Barney, with you everything’s got to be kosher,” I said. “Personally, I enjoy being a fallen angel.”

“You’re getting your religions mixed up, Nate.”

“It’s the Irish in me.”

Barney lived in a suite here in the Morrison; and the hotel had even converted a portion of one of their exercise rooms in the traveler’s lounge into a mini-gym — good public relations, having a champ on the premises, accessible to the people.

Pearl, trying to fathom what must’ve seemed at times to be psychic communication between Barney and me, said, “How did you know Nate was supposed to be working tonight?”

Barney looked for a way to say it, but I said it for him.

“Barney’s my landlord,” I said. “Has he taken you to his ‘Barney Ross Cocktail Lounge’ yet?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“It’s about the only investment he’s made that doesn’t have four legs. Anyway, he owns the whole building, in case he hasn’t mentioned it, and my office is there. In exchange for rent, I stay there at night and keep an eye on the premises. On nights my work takes me away from the building, I call the landlord, to warn him his night watchman’s not going to be around.”

“Which is seldom,” Barney said, as if defending his generosity to Pearl, who looked at him with a warm glow that had admiration in it as well as love. I hoped it would last. I hoped they would never have some sorry son of a bitch like me following either one of them around.

Their food came, and I asked Barney about his next fight.

“Not till September,” he said.

“McLarnin again?”

With visible discomfort, he said, “McLarnin again. Fair’s fair — gotta give him another shot at it.”

I’d seen that fight, and while Barney won by a wide margin, he’d taken some hard shots from McLarnin, who was a power-house hitter, particularly his short right cross, which had sent many a good man into dreamland. McLarnin was heavier than Barney, but not slow. The rematch would be no picnic.

“I’ll have some tune-up bouts between now and then,” he shrugged. “No title defenses, though.”

Across the way Polly and her date were heading down to dance some more; Lombardo was doing a version of “Pennies from Heaven” that would’ve made a marshmallow sick to its stomach.

“Don’t you just love that,” Pearl said, looking out at the dance floor.

“The music, you mean?” I asked.

“Of course! What else?”

“The finnan haddie?”

She turned to Barney. “Make an honest woman out of me. Dance with me.”

“Sure,” he said. “Soon as I finish my fish.”

Pearl had already finished her fish, so she took the opportunity to go to the powder room. Shortly thereafter, Polly and her mustached friend glided by. Barney caught a glimpse of them, as he put a final bite of fish into his mouth, and his eyes narrowed.

“Where do I know that girl from?” he said.

“You recognize her, too, huh?”

“I don’t know. She looks kinda familiar.”

“Remember a few months ago when we were doing Uptown, one night?”

He winced. “You mean that night I went off training, a little.”

“Yeah. You went off training a little, like some guys fall off buildings a little.”

“Just don’t tell Winch and Pian.”

Winch and Pian were Barney’s managers, who were stricter than a Catholic upbringing.

“I won’t tell your ma, either. Particularly not where you know that girl from.”

“Oh, shit,” he said, as it came to him.

“That’s right,” I said. “That bar on Halsted? I knew the gal who ran the place, she was from East Chicago? Remember?”

East Chicago wasn’t a part of Chicago; it was in Indiana nearby. Nearby enough that my work took me there from time to time.

Barney glanced around to see if Pearl was coming back yet.

“We didn’t go upstairs with those girls, did we?” he said.

“We started to,” I said. “We were both pretty drunk.”

“God, if the reporters had got hold of that. I got a reputation.”

“The reporters wouldn’t print anything to darken your sickeningly pure name, you little shmuck. You passed out and Anna — that’s the gal that ran the place — laid you out on a bed. By yourself.”

He nodded, sort of remembering it.

“What about you, Nate?”

“Me?” I said. “I was drunk, too. But I went upstairs with one of the girls.”

Polly glided by in her man’s arms.

“That one?” he said.

I nodded.

“Oh boy,” Barney said.

Pearl came back, and she and Barney went down for a dance. Across the way, the girl in pink and white and the man in the gold-rim glasses and mustache were getting up to go.

Shortly after, so did I.

They took a cab again; gritting my teeth, I followed in one, too. The expenses were chipping away at my fifty-buck retainer; and my conscience, or that tattered thing that flapped in the wind of my brain where my conscience used to be, chipped at my concentration.

I didn’t know which confused me more: that my traveling-salesman client’s bride was a prostitute — possibly an ex-prostitute, giving her the benefit of the doubt — or that I’d screwed her once.

And, as I recalled, drunk or not, liked it.

5

Back in Uptown, the cab let Polly and her boyfriend off at the corner of Wilson and Malden, and they walked half a block to the Malden Plaza, a four-story residential hotel. It seemed a newer, more modest building than its neighbors, with their terra-cotta trimming and elaborate porches; this building had only some halfhearted gingerbread along the roof and over the entryway, was set back from the sidewalk without a porch, and seemed to have been squeezed in between the two more elaborate apartment buildings on its either side, on what might have been a mutual yard between them, by a landlord whose greed outdistanced his aesthetics.

Gray suitcoat still slung over his arm, Polly’s dapper Dan opened the front door for her and they stepped inside.

My cab went on by, and I got out a block down, near Saint Boniface Cemetery. Malden was an odd little street — existing a scant four blocks, connecting two cemeteries; the other one, Graceland Cemetery, was full of famous dead Chicagoans, in their fancy tombs — George Pullman was in a lead-lined casket under concrete and steel, to keep pissed-off union types from seeing him without an appointment, presumably. I walked down the little street, with death at its either end, coat slung over my shoulder, thinking about how my traveling-salesman client was likely to react when he heard about his wife.

It was a hot night, tolerable only when you thought back to the day, and a few people were still sitting out on porches, on the stairs, cooling off as best they could. Now and then people would look in the direction of the lake, wondering where the breeze was.

But it was ten-thirty, and a lot of people were in bed by now — possibly including Polly and her guest — and it wasn’t hard for me to find an empty stoop approximately across from the place, to sit on and seem like just another neighborhood joe trying to beat the heat.

I couldn’t stay here all night, though; if I’d brought my car up here instead of taking the El, I could’ve parked on the street and most likely got away with maintaining a watch. But an all-night stakeout wasn’t practical here. Sooner or later somebody — a cop possibly — would question my presence. I’d have to make my stay a short one.

From the look of the building, the flats within were probably single rooms. This was the address my client had given me for his and his wife’s home; so this was where they lived together, when he wasn’t on the road — meaning he must not’ve been making much, hawking his feed and grain. He’d said he made “good money,” but that’s a vague term. Just because his wallet seemed fairly fat didn’t mean anything — it could’ve been his life savings. Probably that fifty-buck retainer cut him deep.

Of course they hadn’t been married long; he’d said he just landed a new territory, so maybe they planned on moving up in the world soon. Nothing wrong with the neighborhood (if you didn’t mind cemeteries — and dead neighbors seldom keep you up at night with their loud parties). But this was the least classy building on Malden. Then, who was I to talk, a guy who slept in his office.

Half an hour dragged by. There were lights on in some of the windows, but most were dark; all were open. It wasn’t good weather to keep the windows shut. It wasn’t good weather period. I felt like I was wearing the heat; like it was something I had on. Something heavy.

Heavy like the guilt that had settled over me for having fucked pretty Polly one drunken night in a room over the bar on the corner of Willow and Halsted. And feeling guilty was stupid, as well as pointless: How was I supposed to know the little prostie would quit the business, and marry some poor putz who thought she was just a waitress or something? A pathetic chump who would then, thanks to God’s sick sense of humor, hire me to ascertain his bride’s virtue? A hardworking salt-of-the-earth salesman who wondered why his wife seemed to know things in bed that he hadn’t taught her...

I wondered if Polly really had quit hustling. Maybe dapper Dan wasn’t a boyfriend — maybe he was a john. Maybe, like her waitress job, this was something she was up to while her hubby was on the road, something designed to fight her boredom and keep her wearing nice clothes and build a nest egg to help move ’em both into a nicer apartment.

And if she was hustling, should I tell the husband?

Of course I should. I wasn’t paid to decide whether or not the information I turned up was good for my client’s health; if my client paid for me finding out certain information, he deserved to get it. And brother was he going to get it.

Maybe this was innocent; maybe they were in there having tea and milk. Polly wasn’t necessarily over there boffing that guy in the glasses. Right. He probably took ’em off first.

What the hell. I already had enough to tell my client what he didn’t want to know. I could get up off this stoop and walk over to the Wilson Avenue El and go back to the office and get a good night’s sleep, and to hell with traveling salesmen and traveling salesmen’s wives and guys that boffed traveling salesmen’s wives.

At that point, after having been in there an hour, the dapper Dan came out of the building and walked up to Wilson Avenue and hailed a cab.

I hailed one, too.

Followed him to a nice three-story apartment building, a big brick place that probably had flats running to six and eight rooms. It was on Pine Grove Avenue, near the lake, near Lincoln Park. Dapper Dan had dough — more dough than a traveling salesman, that was for sure.

He went in, and my cabbie drove on.

I had him drop me at the El station. I’d planned to stay overnight at the room I’d rented, at the Wilson Arms, but now I couldn’t see any point in it. I did figure to give my client some more of my time, tomorrow, but I also figured to follow Polly around in my car, to hell with this cab noise.

So I didn’t return to Uptown till near seven the next night. I spent the day in Evanston investigating an insurance claim; why sit in that little hotel room, looking out the window at Polly’s sandwich shop? It wasn’t going anywhere. And neither would she, till after work.

My ’29 Chevy coupe with me in it was parked down the street when she came out of the S & S just after seven, wearing a light blue dress and a darker blue hat that fit snug to her head, and waited for her boyfriend to show up. That’s the way it seemed, at least: her behavior today was no different than yesterday.

Neither was dapper Dan’s.

With one exception: while he arrived in a cab again, he shooed it on, and they walked arm in arm, east on Wilson. He looked jaunty, with a straw boater and a white shirt with dark pinstripes and a blue tie and pale yellow slacks.

I got out of the car and shadowed them.

They walked under the El and across to a waffle shop on Sheridan. It was a small place, but at this point I figured I could risk them making me. After all, I’d pretty well established what was going on here; I’d already earned my client’s money — did it really matter whether Dan was her boyfriend, or just another john? Either way, she was fucking somebody who wasn’t her husband, and that’s all I’d been paid to find out. But for some reason, which I cloaked in giving my client his money’s worth, I couldn’t let go of this just yet.

They sat at a table; I sat at the counter. We all had waffles and bacon. We all had coffee.

Then we all went to the picture show. Viva Villa with Wallace Beery, which was playing at Balaban and Katz’s Uptown on Broadway. We didn’t sit together. And I didn’t get spotted. There were better than four thousand seats in the Uptown, all of them full; there wasn’t an air-cooled movie palace in town that wasn’t doing land-office business, and the cavernous, opulent Uptown, with its sculptures and murals and gold drapes, was no exception.

I almost lost Polly and Dan, when the show was over; the fancy lobby was mobbed, and I had just squeezed out onto the street when I saw them pull away in a Checker cab. I caught the next cab and fell in behind them.

Tonight, they went to his place, that fancy apartment house near the lake; maybe her room in the Malden Plaza was too cramped. Maybe she had a Murphy bed; speaking from experience, I can say that making whoopee in a Murphy bed’ll do till the real thing comes along — but Dan probably had six or seven rooms in his flat, one of which was no doubt a room with a bed in it that didn’t fall down out of a box or the wall.

It was too ritzy a neighborhood to risk my sitting-on-the-stoop ruse, so I stayed in the cab and headed back to her place, the Malden Plaza. There I took my position on a stoop opposite and waited for Polly to come home. After two hours, I decided she probably wasn’t going to.

So I walked over to the Wilson Arms and finally used that bed I’d paid for.

The S & S opened at six-thirty, so I wandered across the street at seven. I’d made a decision — in my sleep apparently, because there it was in my brain when I crawled out of the sack: I was going to talk to Polly.

I didn’t know what I was going to say — certainly not that I was a private detective checking up on her for her husband. Still, I felt the need to talk to her. To see if I could get her side of the story. Maybe even give her a break.

Or not.

I wasn’t sure. I just felt I somehow owed her this much. Possibly because I couldn’t remember paying her for that night over the bar on Halsted.

I took a counter seat and a pretty brunette with a cap of curls and blue eyes came up to take my order. I asked for scrambled eggs and bacon and orange juice, and while I waited for them, I glanced around, looking for Polly. There were only two waitresses here today — the girl behind the counter, and a poor harried thing with blond hair and too many tables.

When the brunette waitress delivered my juice, I said to her, “You’re shorthanded this morning.”

“I’ll say,” the brunette smirked. “Our other girl called in sick today.”

“Polly, you mean?”

“Yeah. I don’t remember you eating here before—”

“Sure. Bunch of times.”

“If it’d been at the counter, I’d remember you.”

She went away and I sipped the juice. Pretty soon she placed the eggs and bacon in front of me.

“Toast doesn’t come with it,” she said, “but I can get you some.”

“Please.”

When she delivered a little plate of toast, I said, “I know you’re busy, but I wondered if I could ask you something.”

She smirked again, but it was pleasant. “Make it quick.”

“Does Polly have a steady boyfriend?”

“Yeah. For the past few weeks she has.”

“Funny,” I said. “I thought she was a married gal.”

The waitress shrugged. “She was,” she said.

“Was?”

“Yeah. Excuse me, I got customers.”

“Uh, sure. I’m sorry.”

She came back a little later and asked me if I wanted coffee.

I said yes, and she poured me some, black.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said.

I found a smile for her. “That’s hard to believe. What did you mean, Polly was married?”

“What do you think? She’s divorced. Has been for two or three months. Why don’t you stop back when we’re not so busy and we’ll get acquainted?”

6

The woman who ran the tavern on the corner of Willow and Halsted wasn’t around, but the apron behind the bar traded me his boss lady’s home address for a buck. You can’t buy that kind of loyalty — unless you have a buck.

She lived about a mile north of the bar, at 2420 North Halsted, on the second floor of a big graystone three-flat. The ground-floor was unlocked; I climbed the stairs and knocked on her door. She answered on the third knock, just barely cracking open the door, peering out at me with one large dark eye, startlingly dark against the white sliver of her face.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” she said. She had a low, melodious voice, and a Garbo-like middle-European accent.

“I’m Nate Heller,” I said, taking off my hat. “The detective. Remember?”

The dark eye narrowed.

“We met over in East Chicago, a couple times. And I was in your bar not so long ago. With Barney Ross?”

The dark eye widened and what little I could see of her redrouged mouth seemed to smile.

Then the door opened and Anna, a big dark-haired handsome woman in her early forties in a gray tailored suit with white frills at the neck, gestured for me to come in.

I did, and she took my hat and placed it on a small table in the entryway.

“Mr. Heller,” she said, smiling, but politely. Shrewdly? Cautiously. “What brings you here? And how did you locate me? I’ve only lived in this apartment a few weeks.”

“I’m a former Chicago cop, Anna,” I said, pleasantly. “I know all about bribing people.”

Her smile was reserved yet genuinely amused; she gestured again. “Come,” she said. “Sit.”

She showed me into a big living room where a thick carpet and dark expensive furniture bespoke money. And why not? There was always dough to be had when you ran a bar — particularly when you had B-girls and rooms upstairs.

“America’s treating you good, Anna,” I said, seated on a well-stuffed sofa, glancing around.

“I’ve been good to it,” Anna said, seated primly in a chair nearby. It was warm in here, though not stifling; there was no electric fan, but the front windows were open. Anna seemed not to notice the heat. A little yellow bird in a standing cage was sitting silently nearby, taking the heat less well than Anna; too damn hot to chirp.

For a Romanian immigrant — probably an illegal one — Anna was doing very well indeed. She had to be: she was operating in Paddy Bauler’s ward, the forty-third, where nothing came free.

“You wouldn’t be fronting for somebody, would you, Anna?”

Her smile faded, but she wasn’t exactly frowning. “That’s a little forward, Mr. Heller, for a guest who hasn’t announced his intentions.”

She had that oddly formal, calculated manner of speaking of someone who’s learned English as a second language; I found it kind of charming — and somehow unsettling.

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s none of my business what your business arrangements are. Say, do you own this building?”

My impertinence got another genuine smile out of her; her teeth were very white. And, unlike Anna, not first generation.

“I might,” she said. “It was my understanding you were no longer with the police—”

“I’m not,” I shrugged. “But I’m still a cop. Just because you go private, that doesn’t take the cop out of you.”

“It was also my understanding that you weren’t on friendly terms with the police.”

I shrugged again. “We try to stay out of each other’s way. I still have friends on the pickpocket detail. But you can’t testify against cops and not make some other cops not like you.”

“Even if the officers you testified against were guilty.”

“Every cop I know is guilty. But suppose the force was a bunch of lilies and all I did was pull a couple weeds... I’d still be seen as a squealer.”

Anna smiled like a wry sphinx. “The world of crime, the world of law. Two sides of the same coin.”

“A double-headed coin at that.”

“The last time we met you didn’t strike me as a philosopher.”

I shook my head. “I probably struck you as a drunk who wanted to get next to one of your girls.”

“As I recall, you succeeded.”

“Right. Which is sort of why I’m here...”

“Sort of?”

“How well do you know Polly Hamilton?”

“Is there some reason why I should answer that question?”

“Is there some reason why you shouldn’t?”

She thought about it.

“I could insult you and offer you money, Anna,” I said, making a show of looking around the joint, “but I hate giving money to people who’re doing so much better than me.”

Annas smile shifted gears to madonna-like. “I won’t ask you for any money, Mr. Heller. I will ask if you’d like some tea, or coffee? Or something stronger?”

“How about something cool — ice water?”

“Fine.”

She rose and left the room; I thought I heard something off to the right. Like somebody moving around in the next room. There were six or eight rooms in this flat, at least. From the sound I heard, maybe she was taking in boarders. Or maybe some of her girls were staying here with her.

She returned with ice water for me and coffee for her; she didn’t seem to feel the heat, despite her almost wintery apparel.

“What’s your interest in Polly, Mr. Heller?”

“It has to do with a job I’m on. Nothing criminal, I assure you; Polly’s not in any trouble. Not... legal trouble.”

“What other kind is there?”

“Oh, well — there’s man trouble.”

“I’ve heard of that,” she allowed, sipping her coffee.

“Is Polly married, Anna?”

“She was. To a policeman in East Chicago.”

“A policeman?”

Anna nodded. “She met him when she was working for me.”

“At the Kostur Hotel?” That was where Anna ran her brothel, in Gary; there’d been an infamous speakeasy and gambling casino in the basement, called The Bucket of Blood. Shootings and stabbings were commonplace, though Anna was known to run a clean, straight house upstairs.

“Yes,” Anna admitted. “At the Kostur.”

“That’d be a few years ago. Polly looks pretty young to have worked for you at the Kostur, what, eight years ago?”

“She looked even younger then.”

“I bet she did. How’d she happen to meet a policeman?”

Now Anna really smiled. “However could a girl meet a policeman in a brothel?”

“Sorry. That was dumb. So she married a policeman.”

“Yes.”

“And it didn’t last.”

“It didn’t last.”

“Could you describe him for me?”

“Why? Mr. Heller, you’re really overstepping—”

“Please. Humor me. There’s no harm in it.”

She sighed. “He’s a tall man, rather lean. Brown hair, with a bald spot. Not unpleasant to look at.”

That didn’t sound like my client.

I hadn’t taken the brunette waitress back at the S & S too seriously when she said Polly was divorced; after all, my client had told me his wife was working under her maiden name, and — particularly if she was running around on him and possibly even hustling — she very well might not be spreading around the fact that she was married.

I tried again. “Her husband’s name wouldn’t have been Howard, would it?”

“No,” Anna said. “Keele. Roy Keele.”

“And they were divorced only a few months ago?”

“That’s right.”

My client had told me he and Polly had been married over a year. So much for the notion that my traveling salesman might be her second husband, on the rebound from Keele.

“Tell me,” I said. “Has she had any steady boyfriends?”

“Yes,” Anna said, nodding. “Several. Lately, one who calls himself...” And she paused here, as if what followed would be significant. “...Jimmy Lawrence. Says he works at the Board of Trade.”

“Gold-rim glasses, pencil mustache, kind of medium build? Nice dresser?”

She kept nodding, seeming suddenly vaguely troubled. “That’s him.”

“Who before that?”

She touched a finger to her cheek, thinking. “I believe — I’m not sure, mind you — I believe it was a traveling salesman.”

That was more like it. Now I could begin to make sense of this.

“Was his name Howard? John Howard?”

“I don’t know. I never knew his name. Why don’t you ask Polly?”

“That would be awkward, at least at this point. The traveling salesman, is he a blond man, also with wire glasses and mustache?”

“Why, yes.”

“Physically a bit similar to this Jimmy Lawrence?”

“I suppose. Why?”

“Nothing. I had a client who lied to me, is all. A man who said he was a husband when he was really just a jilted boyfriend. Who was afraid no self-respecting private detective would take on his case, if he weren’t the girl’s spouse.”

“He doesn’t sound like he’s from Chicago.”

“No,” I said. “He just passes through here, obviously.”

I stood.

“Thank you, Anna. And thanks for the ice water.”

“Are you going to talk to Polly?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why? I’ve finished the job I was hired to do. And I’ve answered the questions that had my curiosity up. You needn’t show me out, and thanks again...”

She reached out and touched my hand; her touch was warm, her hand was trembling. Trembling! This cool cucumber was trembling...

“Why, Anna,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, her face impassive, but her hand still trembling against mine. “Please — sit down. I’d like to talk to you. I need to talk to someone, and... you would do nicely. You’re almost a policeman, after all.”

I sat down.

Her dark eyes seemed very soft, then, and compelling; this big attractive woman had the ability to seem strong one moment, vulnerable the next — like many madams, she’d got out of hustling herself early enough to hold onto her looks; but had hustled long enough to remember how to push a man’s buttons.

Leaning forward in her chair, hands folded in her lap, she said, “You spent a night with Polly once.”

“In a manner of speaking. I was drunk, and I hadn’t been with a woman in a long time... I’d had some of that other kind of trouble — woman trouble. You’ve heard of that.”

My effort to lighten this conversation wasn’t having much effect: Anna’s ready smile was nowhere to be seen.

“She liked you,” Anna said.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said.

“She said she did. And you, maybe you liked her, a little?”

“I liked her in the sack, Anna, to be blunt, but that’s as far as it went. I was drunk, remember? And if you do remember, you’re one up on me.”

Her face looked pale and tragic, the dark eyes hooded, the red mouth a thin line. “I thought you might be interested in... helping her.”

“Well... sure. I guess. Anna, I’ve been shadowing her for a couple of days, and she hasn’t recognized me, even up close. We’re not bosom buddies.”

“But you’d help her, if you could. You’d help anybody in trouble.”

“Not really. But make your pitch. You’ve got my curiosity back up, if that’s what you’re after.”

She stood and paced; whether for dramatic effect, or out of actual nervousness, I didn’t know. I still don’t.

She stopped and said, “Polly may be in dangerous company.”

“How so?”

“This Jimmy Lawrence. She brought him here. For dinner. Polly, and several of the other girls, are more than just employees to me — they’re family. And I often invite them here. Have Romanian specialties, which I cook myself. I’m famous for my culinary arts, for my dinner parties.”

“I’m convinced. But you’ve drifted off the point, Anna.”

She paced some more, then sat down next to me; put a hand on my knee. She smelled good — face powder and exotic perfume. She might have been as much as fifteen years older than me, and I was very much aware that she had been in the cold-blooded sex business for decades, that she’d been a hustler then and a madam now; nevertheless, she had a sultry sensuality that made me uneasy.

“My son Steve and his girl, they’ve gone out with them. Several times.”

“Gone out with who?”

“Polly. Polly and her boyfriend Lawrence.”

“So?”

“Do you know how much danger they’re in?”

“Who’s in? What danger?”

“My son Steve! And his girl. They’re just kids. In their twenties.”

“So am I, Anna, and your point eludes me.”

“Do you know what the other girls at the sandwich shop call Lawrence, behind his back?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Dilly.”

“Oh. What’s that stand for? Has he got a pickle in his pocket, or what?”

“No,” Anna Sage said. “They think he looks like Dillinger.”

7

I drove over to Pine Grove Avenue and parked just across and down from the ritzy digs where Polly Hamilton’s boyfriend lived. Since she had called in sick today, Polly might well be in there with Jimmy Lawrence right now; bedridden, probably. I hoped the poor girl got to feeling better...

I sat in my shirt sleeves on the rider’s side with the windows rolled down; I could actually feel something passing for a lake breeze. In front of me was this morning’s Herald and Examiner: “a paper for people who think,” according to Mr. Hearst. Well, maybe he was right — I wasn’t reading, but I was thinking.

Thinking about Anna Sage, and her contention that Polly Hamilton’s male companion Jimmy Lawrence was really one John H. Dillinger.

“Didn’t you notice the resemblance?” she’d asked.

No, I’d said; but, yeah, I guessed he looked a little like Dillinger.

So did a lot of people. Every few days, these last months, there’d be another story about a “Dillinger double” who’d been picked up by the police, somewhere in the Midwest. One poor guy in St. Paul had been arrested five times and was on his way to the local police station to try to work out this mistaken-identity problem for good when he was arrested again; he wasn’t sprung till they’d taken his fingerprints and compared them with Dillinger’s.

Less than a month ago, another unwitting Dillinger double had strolled out of the lobby of the Uptown Theater — where Polly and her beau and yours truly had seen Viva Villa last night — and faced six riot squads of Chicago cops, who advised him not to move or they’d blow his head off.

And just this past Sunday an insurance salesman in Columbus, Ohio, had got off a plane from a business trip to Indianapolis only to be greeted by a dozen shotgun-bearing cops who had received “positive identification” of his being Dillinger from the manager of the hotel where he’d stayed the night before. Whether the guy sold life insurance or not, the papers hadn’t said.

A sort of Dillinger fever gripped the country, and had ever since the bandit’s year-long spree of bank robberies came to a bloody head a few months ago, at the Little Bohemia Lodge in upper Wisconsin, when the feds’d had Dillinger trapped and managed only to kill a civilian or two, and capture a few of the gang’s molls, while Dillinger, “Baby Face” Nelson and crew slipped out the back door.

How this “public enemy” (a phrase borrowed by the feds from Chicago, where the Crime Commission had coined it for Al Capone) became a household word in one short year had more to do with the style the outlaw brought to his robberies than the robberies themselves. The outline of his legend was already known to every man, woman and child in the country — including this kid.

Given a twenty-year sentence by a hanging judge for his first, relatively minor offense, twenty-year-old Johnny Dillinger had gone from his father’s farm to the reformatory and on to jail, spending nine years going to school under the tutelage of the likes of Harry Pierpont, Homer Van Meter and John Hamilton — experienced, hardened criminals all, skilled in the art of robbing banks.

When Johnny was paroled, following a petition seeking his release to help work on his father’s farm (signed by the man Dillinger had robbed as well as the now-repentant judge), he immediately began robbing banks and stores to raise money to finance a jailbreak, to get Pierpont, Van Meter, Hamilton and six other of his buddies out of the state prison at Michigan City. He smuggled several guns into the prison in a barrel of thread sent to the prison’s shirt factory; the nine Dillinger pals escaped just in time to bust John himself out of the jail at Lima, Ohio. Seems he’d been captured while visiting pretty Mary Longnaker, one of his numerous girls. The press loved Johnny and his pretty girls.

They loved Johnny, period. Because when he robbed his banks, he leapt over bank railings, flirted with the ladies and was courteous to the men. When somebody got shot, Johnny never was the one to do the shooting; and he regretted such violence — such as when Pierpont shot the sheriff during the Lima crash-out, and Johnny paused to kneel by the dying man, whom he’d grown fond of during his incarceration, saying sadly to Pierpont, “Did you have to do that?”

The public loved that; they loved it when he allowed the depositers unlucky enough to be in the bank being robbed to hold onto their dough — he wanted only the “bank’s money.” And when he busted out of the Crown Point, Indiana, jail using a wooden gun he’d carved and then darkened with shoe polish (so the story went), the common man said, “Nice going, Johnny — you showed ’em, Johnny!”

The common man liked identifying with John Dillinger, and why not? He had the common man’s face. Oh, perhaps a shade on the handsome side, at least for a bank robber; and his photos often showed him with a wry smile worthy of a picture-show heavy. But he had the kind of face you passed in the street and didn’t think twice about.

Unless a sort of national hysteria was under way, as in these past three or four months, when “positive identifications” of Dillinger would be reported in, say, Massachusetts and Ohio — on the same day.

So when Anna saw a Dillinger resemblance in Polly’s dapper Dan, I was momentarily caught off guard, but not bowled over. Dillinger was on everybody’s mind, in every paper’s headlines; like this one I was pretending to read — DILLINGER SEEN IN FLORIDA — and the one Jimmy Lawrence had been reading a few nights ago in Anna’s flat. So she said.

It had gone like this: Anna had prepared a Romanian specialty for Lawrence, Polly, Anna’s out-of-work son Steve and his girl, whose name Anna didn’t mention. They’d eaten in the kitchen, next to several open windows, which helped with the heat. After dinner, the women cleared the table and began doing the dishes; there was talk of playing pinochle later. Conversation lagged — too damn hot for chatter. Still, despite the heat, Lawrence lit up a cigar — a big, fat expensive one. And he began to read the paper.

After a while he said, “Well — they’ve got me in St. Paul today,” and laughed.

Then he got up and went out on the back stairs to smoke some more, and get some air. Anna stopped polishing a dish long enough to look at the front page of the paper Lawrence had been reading; the face of John Dillinger stared at her, from a photo.

I had said to her, on hearing this tale, “How can he be Dillinger? He looks a little like Dillinger. Sure. But not just like Dillinger.”

Hadn’t I heard about plastic surgery? Gangsters go underground and get plastic surgery these days, she said. Like she was talking about the latest dance step.

Still, it was hard to dismiss Anna’s opinion. This was not the hysterical reaction of a harried housewife in Duluth, on her way to the bank with this week’s hard-earned deposit in hand, who spotted a man who looked like that John Dillinger and ran immediately to the station house. No. Anna had been around; she’d been dealing with crooks and crooked cops since I was in knee pants. If she thought this guy might be Dillinger, well... this guy might be Dillinger.

And if he was, maybe I’d do something about it. After all, the reward money was hovering at around twenty thousand dollars, half of it federal, half of it from half a dozen states in the “crime corridor” of the Midwest, where Dillinger had been harvesting banks for over a year now.

Only I couldn’t go to the cops. I was persona non grata with too many of the boys in blue for that. And the head of the special Dillinger Squad — forty officers strong — was none other than Capt. John Stege (rhymes with “leggy”), who would rather shoot me than give me the time of day.

Stege was a rarity in Chicago — an honest cop; he was one of half a dozen individuals credited with being “the guy that got Capone” (my friend Eliot Ness was another) and, in a way, Stege was as worthy of that credit as the next guy (Eliot included). Stege had fought Capone’s Outfit all through the twenties and it was his raid on Capone’s Cicero joints that brought forth the ledgers that allowed the feds to put together the income tax evasion rap that finally sent the Big Fellow to Atlanta.

But Stege’d had his share of bad press, too. He’d lost his job as chief of the Detective Bureau over the Jake Lingle case; he’d looked dirty, guilty by association, because he was thick with the police commissioner, who in turn had been thick with reporter Lingle, who’d been thick with Capone and company. This all came out after Lingle was murdered in the subway tunnel under Michigan Avenue.

I’d been involved in that case; specifically, I’d been a traffic cop on Michigan Avenue, and had pursued, and failed to catch, the fleeing killer. I’d been a star witness at the trial. I’d lied, of course, to help put away the scapegoat the Outfit had given the D.A.’s office to satisfy the public and the press. And had gone on to be a plainclothes cop, as part of my good-conduct reward.

It was then that my father, an idealistic old union man who hated the cops and hated me becoming one, blew his brains out with my gun. But that’s another story.

Stege, like my father, smelled a bad apple when young Nate Heller traded his uniform, and his integrity, in for plain clothes. He — and a lot of people on the force — pegged me as a kid on the make, willing to go along with just about anything. That led to my being pulled in by two real sweethearts named Lang and Miller — the late Mayor Cermak’s chief bagmen and bodyguards (this was before Cermak was late, of course) — on an attempt on Frank Nitti’s life.

That was when I left the force to go private; but eventually I had to testify about the Nitti hit, and — since Mayor Cermak had since been killed in Miami by a Sicilian assassin named Zangara — I felt under no obligation to lie. Maybe I was trying to make it up to my old man and his Bughouse Square idealism. Or maybe I was trying to make it up to me. But I told the truth on the stand — a novelty around these parts — and made Lang and Miller, and the late mayor, look very bad.

Stege, though a tough, straight cop by Chicago (or any) standards, had a blind spot: he didn’t like even a crooked cop getting a public bath. And I was an ex-cop who’d publicly bathed not only two Chicago police sergeants, but Mayor Cermak as well.

And Stege had been a Cermak crony. The story went that shortly after Cermak was elected, Stege had been transferred to the South Wabash station, in the heart of Bronzeville, to “raise hell with the Policy racket” — and in the process the captain put about two hundred colored prisoners in jail per day, in cells so crammed they couldn’t sit. The Negro politicians had bitched to Cermak, at first, then finally begged: What did Cermak want from them, to get Stege out of their district?

“Become Democrats,” Cermak said.

And they did.

Stege would’ve done anything for Anton J. Cermak, and I had dirtied His Honor’s posthumous honor. The last time I’d seen Stege — at City Hall, where I’d come to testify in one of the subsequent Lang-Miller proceedings — I’d nodded to the stocky, white-haired copper, saying, “Good afternoon, Captain.”

And Stege had said, “Go straight to hell, you lying son of a bitch, and don’t come back.”

Hal Davis of the Daily News had heard our exchange, and, cleaning it up a bit, added it as color in his coverage of the trial. Now whenever I talked to my few remaining friends on the force, the first thing I heard was, “Shall I say hello to Captain Stege for you, Heller?” Followed by smug laughter.

No, I wouldn’t be able to go to Captain Stege with this; of course, if Jimmy Lawrence did turn out to be Dillinger, and I gave him to Stege, maybe I’d be off the captain’s shit list.

But if Jimmy Lawrence turned out to be just another Dillinger double, I’d probably find myself tied up in a little room in the back of some station house somewhere doing the rubber-hose rhumba.

Around dusk a Yellow cab pulled up in front of the apartment house, but on my side of the street, facing south. I leaned back and dropped my hat down over my face — mostly — and made like I was snoozing. A few minutes later Jimmy Lawrence and Polly Hamilton, arm in arm, came out the front and got in the back of the cab. I waited thirty seconds, crawled over in the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition and pushed the starter and pulled out after them.

The Yellow cut over to Halsted and before I knew it the scenery was looking familiar.

The cab stopped in front of a big graystone three-flat and waited as Jimmy Lawrence got out to hold the door open for Anna Sage, who came out of her apartment building in a smart blue dress and a broad-brimmed white hat.

I followed them to the Marbro Theater on the West Side.

We all saw You’re Telling Me with W. C. Fields.

It was funny.

8

The next morning around ten I walked over to the Banker’s Building on the corner of Clark and Adams and took an elevator up to the nineteenth floor, where the feds kept house. The chief agent of the Chicago branch of the Division of Investigation was Melvin Purvis, but I hoped to speak to Sam Cowley.

Cowley I’d never met, but my friend Eliot Ness — who until about a year ago had been the top fed where crime-busting in Chicago was concerned — had spoken highly of him. Purvis, whom I’d met once or twice but didn’t really know, was another kettle of fish; Eliot had contempt for the man — though I had to keep in mind that Ness and Purvis were enough alike that a little professional jealousy on Eliot’s part was not to be ruled out.

After all, Purvis, a Justice Department special agent, entered the Chicago picture about the time Eliot, a Treasury Department man, was being phased out, his Prohibition Unit going gradually out of business when Repeal came along (beer was legal first, so the Prohibition Unit limped along well into 33). Purvis was the guy who’d get to go after the outlaws like Dillinger, while former gangbuster Ness was being shuffled offstage, being turned into a mere “reven-ooer.” Even now Eliot was chasing moonshiners around the hills of Ohio, Kentucky and Tennessee.

But from what I’d observed — admittedly from a distance, reading about him in the papers, listening to my pals on the pickpocket detail gossip — Purvis was a fuck-up. His biggest claim to fame was tackling the “terrible Touhys,” a gang of suburban bootleggers who’d been too minor for Eliot to mess with, though they’d somehow managed to keep Capone off their home turf of Des Plaines. Post-Repeal, the Touhys were really not worth messing with — but last year Purvis had charged Roger Touhy with the hundred grand kidnapping of William Hamm, the Hamm’s Beer baron. It didn’t make sense; Touhy was well fixed and moving into legit concerns. Maybe Touhy’s motive was supposed to be envy — since Hamm was back in the brewing business legally.

Purvis proudly told the press he had an “ironclad case,” an opinion the jury didn’t share. Even before Touhy was cleared, underworld word was the Karpis-Barker gang had pulled the Hamm snatch; if Purvis was any kind of investigator he’d have heard that too — I heard it, and I wasn’t anywhere near the case.

Almost immediately, Purvis hit Touhy with another kidnapping charge — that of Jake “The Barber” Factor, no less, a notorious if slick international con man with Capone ties. Everybody in town knew that Factor was just looking to avoid extradition to England, that he’d kidnapped himself (with a little help from his Capone connections) and framed Touhy.

Everybody but Purvis, apparently; he’d bought it — and managed to sell it to a jury, this time, because poor old Roger “The Terrible” was doing ninety-nine years at Joliet. And no sooner had the prison doors shut than Frank Nitti — at the helm of the Capone Outfit — waltzed into Des Plaines.

Purvis had come off looking good in the press, however, though the Little Bohemia episode, last April, had finally caught “Little Mel” with his pants down. (I heard Purvis didn’t like being called Little Mel to his face, but that’s how everybody referred to him behind his back.)

Purvis had had a tip that Dillinger and his gang were holed up in the Little Bohemia Lodge way at the top of Wisconsin. He and a couple handfuls of other agents piled into three little planes and flew to Rhinelander, where they connected with Division of Investigation agents from St. Paul. The hastily assembled task force commandeered some local cars and drove another near-fifty miles over snow-covered secondary roads. Two of the four cars broke down along the way, and by the time the sixteen agents reached Little Bohemia, half of them were riding the running boards, chattering with cold.

They approached the lodge on foot, moving through the pines, flashlights in hand. As the agents reached the lodge, which was brightly lit, three men exited the front door and went quickly to a coupe in the nearby parking area, and Purvis ordered his men to open fire. One of the three men was killed instantly; the other two were wounded.

Purvis and his agents had just killed a Civilian Conservation Corps worker and wounded a CCC cook and a gas-station attendant. Meanwhile, John Dillinger, among others, having seen the flashlights, had gone out the back way. Baby Face Nelson stopped long enough to shoot up some feds. And hours later Purvis collared some of the gang’s molls, who’d been huddling in the basement with the lodge’s staff, while the feds had pummeled the place with machine-gun fire.

This time the press had Purvis for supper. There were demands for his resignation aplenty, but his boss J. Edgar Hoover had made a show of standing behind his boy — at the same time bringing reliable, methodical Sam Cowley in to take charge of the Dillinger case...

There was no secretary or receptionist in an outer office, at the Chicago field office of the Division of Investigation. There was no outer office. It was just a big open room full of desks, without any partitions. Agents were scurrying around with papers in hands, going from desk to desk conferring with their brethren, and the typewriters clicking and phones ringing and electric fans whirring mixed with street sounds coming from open windows, making a cacophony that had to be talked over.

One of the agents, seated at a desk near the door, looked up from a typewriter with irritation; apparently being close to the door got him stuck with receptionist-type duties.

“Can I help you?” he said sharply. He had a smooth rosy-cheeked face and light blond hair and, like everybody in the room, had his coat off but his tie snugged at his collar. He looked like he didn’t shave yet.

“I’d like to see Sam Cowley,” I said.

“If you’re with the press, you should know by now that all reporters are barred till further notice from this office.”

“I’m not from the press. I’d like to see Sam Cowley.”

“The inspector’s out of the office,” he said, crisp as dark toast. All these guys looked like college kids. Which they were — attorneys and accountants who, in better times, might be earning some real dough in private practice.

“When will he back?”

The rosy-cheeked agent had already looked away from me and back at what he was typing.

“Tomorrow,” he said, not looking at me. Typing.

I put my hand on the typewriter, on the platen, and kept it from turning; he looked up at me with round outraged eyes.

“I pay your salary, junior,” I said. “Let’s have a little service, here. And some respect while you’re at it.”

He sighed and smiled, just a little. “You’re right. My apologies. It’s hot.”

“Yeah. Ever since Little Bohemia.”

His smile faded momentarily, then returned; just a ghost of a smile, but it was there.

“You’ll have to speak to Chief Purvis, if this can’t wait till tomorrow. If it’s about John Dillinger, that is.”

“How did you know it was about Dillinger?”

“You asked for Cowley. Dillinger’s his only case. And the only other guy that works on Dillinger is Chief Purvis.”

“Every crank call you get, every little tip—”

“Goes straight to Cowley and Purvis. Separate copies to each desk.”

“Interesting. Could you tell me where Chief Purvis’ office is?”

“This is the only office we have, mister. And that’s Chief Purvis back by the window, in the corner.”

I should’ve spotted him before, but he was so small he was blocked. He was the only man in the room wearing his suitcoat, a smartly tailored light gray. The only difference between his desk and anybody else’s was that it was slightly bigger and glass-topped. And by an open window, where something approaching air was wafting in, along with street noise.

I walked down a path between the desks and Purvis looked up from his work and in a rather high-pitched Southern drawl said, “You’re Nathan Heller, aren’t you? Sit down.”

I had to admit (to myself) I was impressed; we’d only met once — Eliot had tersely introduced us and we shook hands — and had nodded at each other another time in the Federal Building, in a manner that didn’t necessarily mean we were acquainted and/or recognized one another.

Like the guy Polly Hamilton was dating, Melvin Purvis was a dapper little man. He was only a couple years older than me, but still the oldest man in the room. He pushed aside a report he was reading, closing the file folder and smiling at me. His hair was brown with a stray lock dangling onto his forehead, his face heart-shaped with pointed, chiseled features, like a ventriloquist’s dummy. The eyes in that wooden face, however, were sharp and dark.

“I’m surprised you remember me,” I said.

“Ness introduced us. He doesn’t think much of me. That’s all right. I don’t think much of him. No offense meant.”

“None taken.”

“I just find your friend Ness, well — I find his penchant for press agentry a little much.”

I resisted the urge to tell Little Mel that the thing he and Eliot had most in common was that particular penchant.

Instead, I said, “Some positive press wouldn’t hurt you, right now, would it?”

He smiled on one side of his face; it made a dimple bigger than Shirley Temple’s.

“I can’t blame you for that crack,” he said. The Southern accent seemed soothing on this hot day. I wondered if Purvis being from the South had given him the ability to take heat like this in stride, sitting there in his coat like that.

“You’re undoubtedly a busy man, Mr. Heller,” he said, without sarcasm. He seemed to have some of that Southern politeness, too; he seemed honestly to be a gentleman. “Why are you here?”

“I may have seen Dillinger.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I hear that from a lot of people — most of them aren’t trained detectives, however. You wouldn’t make a statement like that lightly, now, would you, Mr. Heller?”

“No I wouldn’t. I’d like to ask you something, though.”

“What is it?”

“After the affair at Little Bohemia, I heard Will Rogers say on the radio that he figured the feds would eventually shoot John Dillinger — if he could manage to get himself in the middle of some innocent bystanders.”

To his credit, Purvis only smiled. And on both sides of his face, this time. “I heard him say that, too. What’s your point?”

“It’s just that I read in the papers that the Justice Department has admitted it’d prefer its agents shoot Dillinger on sight rather than risk another gun battle. That both your boss Hoover and his boss the attorney general have said, ‘Shoot to kill, then count to ten,’ where Dillinger’s concerned.”

Purvis was leaning on his elbows, his hands clasped together prayerlike; he smiled impishly and shrugged.

“That’s what I figured,” I said. I stood up.

“Where are you off to, Mr. Heller?”

“I don’t feel confident enough that this individual is Dillinger to give you specifics of where you might find him. There’ve been too many people who look like Dillinger lately almost get their heads shot off by overeager lawmen. I don’t think I want to be part of that.”

“And you think I’m capable of that?”

“I think you want a dead Dillinger awful bad.”

“Sit down, Mr. Heller.”

I just stood there.

“Please,” he said. He gestured with an open hand. “Sit down.”

I did.

“Your concern is noted,” he said. “Perhaps justified. The Little Bohemia debacle has served to make yours truly look a little trigger-happy. That I admit. But consider this: if I shoot the wrong man, if I shoot an innocent bystander, I’ll find myself the next day back in South Carolina mowin’ my daddy’s yard.”

“I doubt that,” I said, charmed a little in spite of myself. “You’re a lawyer, and that daddy you mentioned is rich, I hear.”

“You hear right. That just means he has a bigger yard for me to mow. Times are a little hard to be hangin’ out a shingle. I need this job, Mr. Heller. Can I call you Nathan?”

“Nate.”

“Call me Melvin, if you would. I need this job. I don’t need to mess it up — not any further. Little Bohemia was the last mistake I can afford to make.”

“So if I give you this information, you won’t fuck it up.”

He didn’t flinch at the harshness of that; he just shrugged again. “I’ll try not. Who can say? Public enemies don’t tell you when or where they’re going to be, or what they’re going to do. A crystal ball is not part of a special agent’s government issue.”

“Who said it was?”

“You did, Nate. You asked me, in effect, to guarantee that if you give me some information, I won’t... foul up. Correct? How can I guarantee you anything, other than I’ll give it my best shot?”

The guy was sincere — he had a touch of Southern bullshit, and a streak of pomposity — but he was for real.

“I don’t know,” I said, glancing around the room at the young agents scurrying about, going no place. “I don’t know if these college boys can cut the mustard.”

“Nate,” Purvis said, leaning forward, looking like a puppet come to life. “The division has found it infinitely more sensible to teach intelligent men to be manhunters than to try teaching manhunters to be intelligent.”

“Don’t make me sick.”

“I notice you didn’t go to the police with this—”

“No, I didn’t go to the cops. The head of their Dillinger detail isn’t fond of me.”

“Ah. Captain Stege. Seems to me I heard that you and he weren’t close. But even without Stege, I wonder if you’d go to Chicago’s finest — a corrupt, lazy, unskilled bunch of louts, as we both know. My people, however, have gone to school. For which you deride them, but they’ve gone to school, and not just college. They’ve learned to photograph fingerprints and where to look for them. They’ve learned how to use a microscope. They’ve learned the science of ballistics. They learned how to shoot every weapon, from a pistol to a machine gun. Nate, the criminal mind is clever — but the scientific mind is always its superior.”

“Let me ask you something.”

“Of course.”

“Tell me the inside story on the Kansas City Massacre.”

At Union Station in Kansas City, federal and local officers ushered gangster Frank “Jelly” Nash from a train to a car that would take him to Leavenworth. Just as they’d piled into the car at Union Station, a big man with a tommy gun showed up, quickly joined by two other gunmen, and all three sprayed the car with bullets, killing four lawmen, and Nash.

Purvis cocked his head back. “It’s one of the two events that gave the Justice Department the punitive power it has today. The other, naturally, being the Lindbergh kidnapping.”

“I see.”

“When I became a special agent, I was limited in the cases I could investigate. My duties were largely... inquisitorial. I couldn’t even make an arrest. When I ran down my man, I was compelled by law to call in a local policeman or a U.S. marshal to snap on the bracelets.”

“And the Kansas City Massacre changed all that.”

“Yes. It, and the Lindbergh tragedy. The public revulsion that followed the Kansas City Massacre, particularly, got us more money, more men and better backing — and better laws. The heavy artillery we needed to meet the hoodlums on their own battleground and take ’em for a cleanin’.” He stopped, realizing he was lecturing, falling into one of his standard spiels for the press, probably; he seemed a little chagrined, but also seemed to catch that I was leading him on. “But why am I telling you all this? You’re on the fringes of law enforcement yourself — surely you already know it.”

“And have you nabbed those responsible for the Kansas City Massacre?”

Purvis shifted in his seat; his confidence was suddenly undercut by an apparent nervousness. “One of the men, Verne Miller, was found dead in a ditch.”

“A Syndicate hit.”

“Apparently.”

“Why, do you suppose?”

“For botching the job. For killing the man they were there to rescue.”

“Nash, you mean.”

“Certainly. And for killing police officers and federal agents. For bringing the heat down on the lawless.”

“That last I can buy.”

“What don’t you buy?”

“Nash was the target. Because he knew too much. Surely you know that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“All right, Melvin. Have it your way. Nash wasn’t the target; he just got accidentally machine-gunned. Who else are you looking for, in connection with the massacre?”

“Well, the other two killers, of course — ‘Pretty Boy’ Floyd and Adam Richetti.”

“What if I said that was a load of hooey. That Floyd and Richetti weren’t there.”

His thin lips pursed. “I’d say you were mistaken.”

I shook my head, smiled humorlessly. “Well, I hear they weren’t there.”

“You’re mistaken.” And finally some sarcasm crept into the drawl: “Unless your sources of information are better than mine.”

“Melvin, some things you can’t find out looking through a microscope.” I rose. “I’ll see you later.”

“Sit down, Heller. Sit down!”

I didn’t.

I said, “I may have seen Dillinger. I’m going to check into it a little more. You see, the guy who may be Dillinger is hanging around with a client of mine’s girlfriend. And if you and your college boys get her killed, my client’s going to be unhappy with me. So I’m going to take it nice and easy on this one. I’ll get back to you.”

The muscles in his jaw were pulsing. “Is that your final decision, Mr. Heller?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. And don’t bother having any of these Harold Teens try to tail me... you and your boys have been embarrassed enough lately.”

His jaw muscles still jumping, he said, “There’s reward money in this, Heller.”

“I know there is. I mean no offense, Purvis. I’ll be back in touch.”

“Soon?”

“Soon.”

With Cowley, I thought.

And left.

9

I spent the afternoon tailing Lawrence and Polly for what I assured myself was one last time. Around noon I’d driven back to the apartment house on Pine Grove, near the lake, and, with suitcoat and hat off and tie loosened, had just got settled in on the rider’s side with my newspaper when a Checker cab pulled up, and Lawrence and Polly came out and got in. Lawrence was in shirt sleeves and bow tie and straw hat and yellow slacks; and Polly was in a yellow dress and matching hat. They looked like an advert for butter.

I followed ’em to North Lincoln Avenue — just a block or so from Anna’s — and they got out of the cab. As I drove by I saw that, not ten feet away from them, two uniformed cops were standing on the corner, talking. Lawrence didn’t even glance their way. A squad car went by just after I parked, and it swung around to pick up one of the cops, and Lawrence and Polly, strolling along now, didn’t seem to notice or care. If this Lawrence was Dillinger, he was one cool customer.

But apparently not so cool, on this blistering day, to be able to resist the strawberry sundaes he and Polly ate, in lieu of lunch, at the soda fountain next to Biograph Billards. Here they split up, with Polly beaming at him and giving him a peck on the cheek; off she went, presumably to shop — North Lincoln being a nifty little shopping area.

I stayed with Lawrence. I hung a loose tail on him — if this really was Dillinger, he’d be picking up on me any time now, unless I was very careful. After all, he might be armed — though I didn’t see how: he had no coat on, and there was no gun bulge in any of the pockets of his yellow slacks.

Whoever he was, he got his hair cut at the Biograph Barber Shop; and then went across to the Biograph Theater and in the door just to the right of the marquee. Visiting his bookmaker, no doubt — there’d been a bookie joint operating in the loft over that theater for years.

A few minutes later he came out and walked down the street to a haberdashery, the Ward Mitchell Company, where he bought a striped shirt. This I’d glimpsed through the storefront window, and was on my way across the street, to maintain my tail at a distance, and almost missed it when Lawrence came out of the store and bumped into a beat cop who was walking by, swinging his stick.

Lawrence dropped his package, and the bull helped him pick it up and they smiled and nodded to each other and walked on.

The hell with it, I thought, and went to my car and headed back to the Loop. That flatfoot sure didn’t think Lawrence was Dillinger, and Lawrence didn’t exactly wet his pants on bumping into the law, either. Hell with it.

By four that afternoon I was sitting in a booth in Barney Ross’ Cocktail Lounge, having a beer. Ceiling fans whirred overhead and, with the beer, made the heat almost seem to go away. It was a long, narrow, dark room with a bar against one long wall, a small dance floor at the far end, a few tables by the dance floor, and booths lining the walls. There were framed photos of fighters everywhere, and not just Barney — King Levinsky, Jackie Fields, Benny Leonard, among others. Barney himself was rarely around the place, these days — too public a figure for it, and Pian and Winch, his mother-hen managers, didn’t like him owning a bar, let alone hanging around in one. Barney had a wholesome reputation going for him, and counted plenty of kids among his fans, so him lending his name to the place was bad enough, much less actually being there.

And he was busy. Not just with the fight game, but speaking at civic functions (hearing a Barney Ross speech was a pleasure I’d somehow managed to avoid) and generally being Chicago’s favorite son.

So when Barney surprised me and walked up to the booth, I asked him for his autograph and he told me where to go and grinned and sat across from me, and watched with envy as I drank my beer.

“Where’s Pearl?” I asked him.

“State Street.”

Like Polly, Pearl had gone shopping.

“How’s that case coming?” he asked me.

“Private dicks don’t work on cases. Lawyers work on cases. Sherlock Holmes works on cases.”

“Oh, yeah? So what are you working on?”

“A job. At least I was.”

“Oh. The one from the other night.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“You wrap it up, or what?”

“What. I’m thinking about tossing in the towel on this one.”

“Happens to the best of us,” he shrugged, waving for his bartender, an ex-heavyweight named Buddy Gold, to come over. He asked Buddy to bring him a glass of soda water.

“I did what my client paid me to,” I said. Adding, “Even though he lied to me.”

“Doesn’t sound to me like you tossed in the towel.”

“This has gone past the job itself into something else. Something maybe worth serious dough — but I’m not sure I want any part of it.”

“Why not?”

“I’d be the finger man. A guy’d probably die because of me.”

Barney studied me close, to see if I was leading him around the bend.

I said, “A wanted man, you understand. A bad guy. But he would probably die.”

He knew I was serious now. He said, “Nate, uh...”

“What?”

“Why don’t you take a pass on this one — whatever it is.”

“That’s good advice.”

“You don’t need the grief, mentally.” He said mentally like mently.

“I know.”

“You still carrying the gun?”

He meant the automatic that my father had killed himself with.

“I don’t carry it often. But I still got it.”

“It’s what you carry when you feel you need to carry a gun, though.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

His soda water came; he sipped it; smiled.

“Good,” he said.

I smiled at him. I knew what he meant.

A big tall man in a natty dark suit and a gray snap-brim hat was asking a question of Buddy Gold at the bar. Buddy pointed over to us, and the man — a dark, handsome guy in his late thirties — ambled over.

“Another fan,” Barney muttered under his breath.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Mr. Heller,” the man said, nodding to me. “I don’t believe we’ve met. But I’m—”

“I know who you are, Sergeant Zarkovich,” I said. “No, we haven’t met, exactly, but you were pointed out to me several times in East Chicago. This is Barney Ross. Join us, if you like.”

He smiled; it was a winning smile, I’d have liked him immediately if I hadn’t known him to be the crookedest cop in East Chicago. Which was going some.

He said, “I recognized you, of course, Mr. Ross,” and he tipped his hat, “and it’s a real honor to meet you. I saw you take Canzoneri. I won a half a C, thanks to you.”

The big man was still standing there, so Barney, smiling back at him, said, “Thanks. Do join us, why don’t you?”

“No, thanks. And I apologize for busting in. I just wondered if I could have a little of Mr. Heller’s time... in private... when you two men are through talking. I can wait over at the bar...”

He was smooth, I had to give him that. But seeing him here was giving me a sick feeling.

He was the cop in East Chicago who the madams paid off every month; he was the bagman, the collector, who Anna Sage would’ve had dealings with. Would’ve, hell — that was where I’d seen him, where he’d been pointed out to me — in East Chicago, at the Kostur Hotel.

“Don’t be silly,” Barney said, “join us — have a beer on the management.”

“Well, okay,” Zarkovich said, his smile turning shy. Aw shucks, the bagman said.

He scooted in on Barney’s side, dwarfing the champ.

“I knew you had Canzoneri,” he told Barney. “I wasn’t worried a second.”

“You were the only one, then,” Barney said. “That was too close to call. They didn’t even consider me champ in NYC, till I beat their boy on his home ground.”

“And gave him a good licking.”

Barney made an embarrassed face; but he enjoyed the attention. He was a good guy, but he was human.

“Tried like hell to knock him out,” Barney said, almost apologetically. “Son of a gun just wouldn’t go down.”

“Look, Zarkovich,” I said, leaving off the “Sergeant.” Annoyed with all this small talk. “If you got business with me, let’s go upstairs to my office.”

Barney seemed offended by my lack of manners. “Nate, come on — I’m the one who insisted he join us.”

Zarkovich half-stood. “I apologize for intruding.”

Barney really was embarrassed now, put a hand on Zarkovich’s arm, stopping him. “You’re not intruding. Let me get you that beer—”

I slid out of the booth and stood. “I’d just like to get business out of the way, first. We’ll be back down later, Barney. We’ll both let you buy us a beer — if you’ll be around awhile.”

Barney’s face settled into a distrustful mask. “Uh, sure, Nate. I’m just waiting for Pearl to get back with what’s left of my money. I’ll be here half an hour or so at least.”

Zarkovich thanked Barney for his hospitality and followed me out onto the street, in the shadow of the El, where we went in the door between the cocktail lounge and the pawnshop and up the stairs to my office, where I unlocked the door and ushered him in. We hadn’t said a word on the way.

I opened a window and got back behind my desk and Zarkovich stood till I gestured for him to sit, in one of the chairs opposite me. He took off his hat, and I invited him to take off his suitcoat; he smiled politely and, despite the heat, declined.

“I thought we should talk,” he said.

“I wonder what about.”

“You seem to be ahead of me, Mr. Heller.”

“Let’s drop the ‘mister’ horseshit, okay, Zarkovich? Anna Sage still owns two houses in East Chicago, so you’re here today collecting from her, right?”

His handsome face was impassive.

I went on. “Only this trip Anna happened to tell you a story, and it interested you. A story about a man one of her girls has been seeing.”

He nodded.

“What Anna told you was she thinks the man might be somebody famous,” I said.

He nodded.

“Now I wonder who that somebody famous might be. The Dionne Quints? Charlie McCarthy? John Dillinger?”

He had big hands; he clasped them together and then cracked his knuckles. It sounded like the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre.

He said, “Your remarks don’t amuse me, Heller.”

“They were for my own benefit. It’s my office, after all. What the hell.”

“This is a serious business, you know.”

“No. Do tell.”

“You’re just a penny-ante private cop who used to be a penny-ante Chicago cop, Heller. You’re nothing special. You were on the take like everybody else.”

“You’re repeating yourself. You already said I was a Chicago cop.”

“Funny. Just don’t be so high and mighty. Some graft comes my way, all right? I don’t deny it. That doesn’t make me a bad cop. If times weren’t so hard, I—”

“Wouldn’t be wearing a hundred-dollar suit and a ten-dollar tie? I don’t care if you’re a grifter, Zarkovich. If you weren’t, you’d be unnatural, a saint or something. And I wouldn’t feel comfortable around you.”

“You feel comfortable around me, do you?”

“Yeah. I’m at home. I know where you’ve been and where you’re going.”

“I could say the same thing about you. Mind if I smoke?”

“I don’t care if you burn.”

Zarkovich gave me a little twitch of a smile and took out a silver cigarette case, selected a cigarette and inserted it in a black holder, and lit up.

“How did your meeting with Purvis go?” he asked.

If that was supposed to throw me, well, I felt steady enough. I didn’t like the idea that I’d been tailed and hadn’t picked up on it; but I didn’t bust out crying.

I said, “I told him I might have seen Dillinger. But I didn’t go any further than that.”

He nodded, the cigarette holder at a jaunty, FDR angle. “Wise. Waiting to talk to Cowley?”

“Yeah. Maybe. If I talk to anybody.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe there’s nothing to talk about; Jimmy Lawrence takes an awful lot of taxicabs for a Board of Trade clerk, but that isn’t illegal.”

“You have your doubts he’s Dillinger?”

“Hell yes. If this guy is Dillinger, he’s the brazenest, coolest lad I’ve ever come across. He goes to public places all over the city, day and night; he bumps into cops without blinking; wears snappy clothes — this is a whole new way of lyin’ low. And he’s apparently unarmed... he doesn’t even look like Dillinger, exactly.”

Zarkovich nodded knowingly, smiled the same way. “Plastic surgery. Good enough to give him a sense of confidence. To go out in public and be an everyday joe. But it’s a false sense of security. Anna recognized him, for one.”

“So she says.”

“So does he. He admitted to her last night he was Dillinger.”

“What?”

“Call her,” he said, pointing to my phone. “Ask her yourself.”

“Why would he admit that?”

“He trusts Anna. She can be warm and motherly, you know.”

“I bet.”

“She’s been nice to him and, as a madam, she seems trustworthy from his point of view... fellow underworld denizen and such like. And Anna’s been known to, uh... rent space out to fellas on the run.”

“I see. And now Anna wants to sell Mr. Dillinger out.”

“What’s to sell out? He isn’t one of her roomers; he’s got his own place, doesn’t he? On Pine Grove Avenue?”

I nodded.

“Is it Anna’s fault the guy confided in her?”

“Zarkovich, what’s this got to do with me?”

He drew on the cigarette holder. “I’d like you to talk to Purvis again — or Cowley. I’d like you to arrange for one or both of them to meet with Anna.”

“Why doesn’t Anna approach them herself?”

“With her criminal record, she could use an intermediary.”

“Why don’t you do it?”

He made a sweeping, magnanimous hand gesture. “I could. In fact, I was going to suggest we go together. You could report what you’ve observed; and I would say Mrs. Sage, an old friend from East Chicago, contacted me about Dillinger, and put us in touch.”

“Why don’t you just leave me out of it?”

He shrugged. “Just trying to be fair. Can’t see the point in working against each other. There’s plenty of money in this for all concerned, Heller. At least twenty grand, to split four ways.”

“Four?”

“Besides you and I, and Anna, there’s my immediate superior, Captain O’Neill. He’s in town today, too.”

“He always accompany you to pick up collection money from madams?”

“Heller, we were in town following up leads on the Dillinger case. We had a tip our man was in Chicago, on the North Side.”

“From Anna?”

“No. From a gambler I know, a Croatian. But never mind that. When I talked to Anna yesterday — not long after she’d talked to you — I realized our man was within our grasp. We have a vested interest in Mr. Dillinger in Indiana, you know.”

“Besides the twenty-thousand-dollar reward money, you mean.”

“Of course. Dillinger’s an embarrassment to Indiana — a native son gone wrong.”

“Is Leach in on this?”

Captain Matt Leach was the Indiana state cop who had devoted his entire career, of late, to tracking down Dillinger. A publicity seeker who made Purvis and Ness seem modest by comparison, Leach was hated by a lot of cops, but he was known to be a tireless, even obsessive pursuer of Dillinger.

“No,” Zarkovich said tersely. “He’s not involved. This is East Chicago business.”

“A minute ago you said Dillinger was Indiana business.”

“Specifically, East Chicago.”

“Why?”

“He killed a cop there.”

“Oh. That’s the one killing they have him for.”

“That’s right. He killed a cop on his way out the door of the First National Bank, killed him with a machine gun. And there were plenty of witnesses.”

“And you knew this man, this cop Dillinger killed.”

“Yes — a fine man, who left a widow and children.”

“So you’d like to get Dillinger.”

“Yes.”

“You want to be in on the kill.”

“You might say that.”

“As opposed to the capture.”

“Heller, do you really think Dillinger could be taken alive?”

“Why not? He’s been caught plenty of times before.”

“But he knows this time he won’t get away; there wouldn’t be any repeat of the Crown Point disaster — no female sheriffs or shoe-polish guns.”

“Maybe you’re right. I don’t know. In any case I don’t think I’m interested.”

“Suit yourself. You’re not planning to talk to Cowley, then? Or Purvis, again?”

“No. But if you want revenge for that East Chicago cop, then Purvis is the man to see. He’ll shoot first and ask questions later, all right.”

Zarkovich stood and put his hat on, smiled wryly, cigarette holder still in his mouth. “I’ve dealt with Purvis before. A very excitable boy. He’s just too young for the job.”

“His ‘men’ are even younger.”

“I know. The boy’s bungled every job he was ever sent on; he should never have been put in charge of things. It’s a good thing... never mind.”

“It’s a good thing the East Chicago police are around this time to help him out?”

“Yes,” Zarkovich smiled. “Exactly.”

I stood behind my desk. “Just out of curiosity, Sergeant — what are you going to do?”

“Try to arrange a deal in Anna Sage’s behalf.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Anna’s got some problems with the immigration people. She thinks maybe these government men could swing things her way, if she helps out with Dillinger.”

“Maybe they could. I take it you won’t be going to the Chicago cops, then.”

“Hell, no! Would you?”

“Stege is a good man.”

“That’s funny, coming from you.”

“Just because he doesn’t like me doesn’t mean I don’t respect him. He’s honest and tough. You’d be much better off with him than Purvis.”

“Thanks for the opinion, Heller. You’re out, then?”

“I’m out.”

“That doesn’t make much sense to me, you know.”

“Just as long as it makes sense to me,” I said.

He shrugged and left. The topic of going back down to have a mutual beer with Barney never came up.

But I went down and joined Barney, who asked me why I was so rude to Zarkovich.

I explained that he was a bagman for East Indiana politicos.

“And he’s got ties to the Capone crowd,” I said. “Not just because the brothels are Syndicate controlled, either. He was up on a federal conspiracy charge about four years ago. He sided with the Capone faction in a gang war that involved some local East Chicago hoods. He got off, ’cause his politico pals clouted him off. But that is one dirty cop, my friend.”

“He seemed okay.”

“He’s slick, and he’s smart. But once he stepped into this picture, an odor turned up. A fishy one.”

“So you’re getting out of this case,” Barney said. “Or is that ‘job’?”

“I don’t know what it is,” I said.

But I didn’t answer the rest of Barney’s question, because I wasn’t sure if I really was out of the Jimmy Lawrence-Polly Hamilton case. Job.

I drove over to Anna Sage’s three-flat and parked down the street and sat on the rider’s side and pretended to read the Trib while I watched. One of the things I was watching for was Zarkovich. I didn’t see him.

Around seven-thirty a Checker pulled up and Jimmy Lawrence, with Anna on one arm and Polly on the other, came out of the three-flat, got in the cab, and headed for the Loop.

I followed them, and guess where they went?

Down to the lakefront, to the fair.

Where they caught Sally Rand’s show at the Streets of Paris.

10

“That was nice,” Sally Rand said, lighting a cigarette, sitting up in bed with a silk sheet draped across her breasts, “but somehow I don’t think your heart was in it.”

I propped the pillow up behind me and sat up myself. “I thought my heart was in it,” I shrugged.

“That wasn’t your heart, sweets. But I’ll settle.” She stroked the side of my face with the back of a gentle, long-nailed hand; the nails felt cool. The whole world felt cool, up here in her air-conditioned suite atop the Drake. “What’s on your mind, Heller? What’s going on behind those brown eyes?”

“Not much.”

“You want to get some shut-eye? It’s pretty late.” The radium hand of the little round chrome clock on her white nightstand glowed half-heartedly in the near dark. What light there was in the room came in the windows; she had the shades up, curtains back, and the light from Lake Shore Drive and the Gold Coast and winking boats on the lake came in and bathed us like a cool blue breeze.

“Sleep if you like, Helen.”

I was still calling her Helen; at least in bed I was. She seemed to like it. Being called Helen, I mean. And the rest of it, too, I guess.

She stabbed the cigarette out prematurely in a round glass tray on her nightstand. Then turned back to me, leaned on an elbow and smirked. “Most men in this burg would give up one of the family jewels for a night with Sally Rand. And you somehow don’t seem too thrilled.”

“It’s not you. Really.”

“It’s something else.”

“Yeah. Something else. You get some sleep. I’ll just put on my clothes and head back to my place.”

“The hell you will! You’ll spend the night, whether you want to or not, Heller. I’ll be damned if I’ll put up with any hit-and-run driving through this joint.”

I half-smiled at her. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just figured I was lousy company. I’m tickled pink to be sharing a bed with Sally Rand — even if I do happen to know she’s really Helen Beck from Missouri.”

She hit me with a pillow.

Then she flicked on the nightstand lamp. It was a translucent glass tube with a silver base, and the light it gave off glowed; it made her, and the room, look like a soft-focus photograph. She leaned forward, pretty breasts swaying, and kissed me on the mouth for about thirty seconds, then kissed me again, just a smack.

“Let’s get up,” she said, “and I’ll fix you a midnight snack.”

“It’s after midnight.”

“Don’t quibble.”

“I don’t have any pajamas. Will you take offense if I get dressed?”

“Yes. Eat in your underwear. I won’t tell anybody.”

She got up, her body as graceful and supple moving across her bedroom as onstage; she slipped into a white silk kimono, belted it, and waited for me to climb out of bed and follow her. Which I did.

She led me out through the living room, its soft plush carpet soothing my toes. The room was something out of Hollywood, running to modern, rounded furniture — sofa, divan, chairs, all soft-looking and covered in a sort of sun-bleached gunnysack. Everything was white (except for occasional blond wood) right down to the marble fireplace over which hung an airbrushed painting of orchids. On her way to the kitchen, she stopped to turn on a lamp on the blond end table by the sofa, a lamp that looked like her: a silver nude holding a round piece of frosted glass, like a flat bubble, behind which a pale little light gave off a minimal glow.

Earlier, before tumbling into bed, we’d sat in this living room, having martinis — a drink I hate, but when Sally Rand offers you martinis in her white art-deco suite before going off to bed with you, you can afford to suffer a little — and leafing through her big scrapbook of show biz clippings and such. There were stills of her in a silent called Paris at Midnight (she was wearing her natural light brown hair publicly in 1926) and another called Golf Widows (but by ’28 was blond); and some on-the-set shots with De Mille, as well as some publicity photos from her Orpheum circuit act, “Sally and Her Boys.” Then the huge front-page spread of her Lady Godvia entrance at the Fine Arts Ball, and the many court appearances her nude dancing earned her (she was given a year in jail, but won an appeal before serving a day) and several pamphlets complaining about her act circulated by “anti-indecency leagues” (anti-indeceny being a lot like pro-decency, I would imagine) and a few stills from the movie she’d made not long ago, with George Raft. I mentioned to her that I knew Raft, and she said, “Small world,” and left it at that. Never name-drop with celebrities.

Now, in the white, modern compact kitchen, where mosaic white tiles chilled my feet, she scrambled some eggs and put me to work squeezing some oranges; she made some American fries, too, and toast, and we sat in the big modern living room, the one little lamp on, the city lights coming through a wall of windows, with the plates on our laps and our feet up on an ottoman.

“Where’d you learn to cook like this?” I said.

“Back on the farm. And I’m a bachelor girl pushing thirty, Heller. If I can’t cook by now, I won’t ever learn.”

“You can cook,” I confirmed. “Why don’t you give up show business and marry me? I’d let you cook like this all the time. Hell, I make good money. It only takes me a year or so to make what you make in a week.”

She made a crinkly closed-mouth smile, while she dealt with a bite of breakfast. Then she said, “If that’s a serious proposal, I’ll give it some thought. But you might as well know I’ll never give up show business. You have to take me and my fans, too.”

“Which fans are those? Feathered, or men with their mouths open?”

“Fans in general. You don’t disapprove of what I do, do you?”

“No,” I said, meaning it. “It’s harmless. And you’re good at what you do. I admire that. It’s really very lovely, your act.”

“Thanks, Nate,” she said. Nibbling on a corner of toast. Eyes sparkling. Corners of her mouth upturned. “I could go for you in a big way. I really could.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

Her smile faded; she wasn’t mad or anything, just all of a sudden serious. She put a soft, warm hand on my bare arm.

“You’re ‘all the boys,’ Nate. I’m no floozy.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest...”

“I know you didn’t. But you got a right to think I sleep around. Any man who had me on my dressing room floor’s got a right to think I might be a trifle... promiscuous. But I’m not. You’re the first man up here in a long time. That ‘oil millionaire’ you checked up on for me, he only dreamed of getting up here.”

“You mean you never cooked him breakfast?”

“Not an egg. Got me?”

“I gotcha.”

“Good. Just ’cause I take my pants off to make a buck doesn’t make me a...”

“No it doesn’t. And if I implied that, shame on me.”

She leaned over and gave me a buttery kiss, buttery from the toast.

“Thanks, Nate.”

“It’s okay, Helen.”

She smiled at that; she had a rather wide smile, too wide by some men’s standards, but I thought it was her best feature.

I figured we’d shut the book on this subject, but she went on, looking off distractedly toward the windows and the lights of the Gold Coast. “It’s just that I wasn’t raised to entertain men in my rooms. I was raised to believe in virtue triumphant, honesty prevailing... the old homilies, the old values. They don’t hold up in the real world too well, though, do they, Nate?”

“Not in Chicago they don’t.”

“Not anywhere. Not in these times. Not since the Crash. How can a man who’s been at his job thirty years suddenly not have a job? How can it be that businesses that have been around for generations suddenly aren’t anymore? I had friends jump out of windows, Nate. With accuracy.”

“Things are getting better, Helen. A little.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just feeling guilty.”

“Why?”

“For being a bad girl and taking off my pants to make a buck. It isn’t what my daddy wanted out of me, and it isn’t what I wanted out of me, either. I wanted to be a ballerina. I wanted to be an artist. An actress.”

“A girl’s gotta eat.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said, eating a last bite of American fries. She chewed somberly, swallowed and said, “Maybe I feel guilty ’cause I get thousands of dollars for strutting around with my pants off, while men with families are getting peanuts for working in a factory or something. Or getting nothing at all, ’cause they can’t even find a factory to work in. It just isn’t right.”

“Why don’t you give all your money to the poor, then?”

“Don’t be silly! I can’t feed the world! I’m not that well off, I... you’re needling me, aren’t you? That was the point you were making.”

I shrugged, smiled, chewed.

“I don’t know, Nate. I eat caviar, and people a few blocks away are in soup kitchens; I wear mink, and pregnant women in Hoovervilles are wearing rags. I pay five hundred bucks a month to sublet this fancy-ass flat from a fag who’s in Florida, and over in Little Italy, not a mile from here, families are living in basements for six bucks a month. How do you expect me not to choke on my success a little?”

I sipped my orange juice. “Pay your taxes. Find a church to give some money to. That’s a start. Support some charities, if you like. But don’t climb on the cross. It’s hard to hold those fans with your hands nailed like that.”

She smiled crookedly. “There’d be too many lechers like you trying to climb up there with me.”

“That’s the ticket,” I said. “These are sad times, Helen. Your heart can break every time you walk down the street, if you let it. And there isn’t much you can do in this life but your job, if you’re lucky enough to have one, the best you know how. And try not to hurt too many people along the way. And maybe buy an apple from a guy on a street corner, once in a while, even if you don’t like apples.”

She studied me; she had a pale, beautiful look, right then, that I can see before me now.

“You’re okay, Heller,” she said. “This town hasn’t got the best of you yet.”

I laughed a little. “Oh yes it has. Many times.”

“Here I been bellyaching about my silly concerns, and it’s you who’s been so troubled and preoccupied all night. What’s going on with you, Heller? And why exactly did you show up unannounced at one of my shows, on a Thursday night? Last I heard from you, you planned to come by on Friday...”

“I was just anxious to see you.”

“Horseflop. What’s eating you? Come on, Heller, spill!”

I sighed, thought it over.

Then I said, “Can you keep something to yourself, even if it’s pretty hot stuff?”

She blinked, shrugged. “Sure.”

“You got newspaper pals, and I—”

“This won’t be in any of the boys’ columns, I promise you.”

“I know it won’t. This is front-page stuff, Helen. Ben Hecht would come back to cover this.”

“Now you gotta tell me.”

I told her.

I gave her chapter and verse on the events of the week, from my traveling-salesman client to the guy who seemed to be Dillinger.

“I know I ought to walk away from this,” I said, “but I feel a sort of... I don’t know, responsibility for Polly Hamilton. Not ’cause I... slept with her once. That was nothing — it was just business. But my client hired me to follow her, and that’s business of another stripe. Now, I know he hired me to see if she was cheating on him — he didn’t pay me to be her bodyguard or anything. But he clearly cares about her, and here I am, leading her into a potentially dangerous situation. Potentially, hell — she’s going to be in the middle of a goddamn shooting gallery.”

“You really think the federal men will just start blasting away at Dillinger, then.”

“Hell yes. And I’m not even sure the guy’s really Dillinger. I feel a certain responsibility for putting that poor bastard’s head on the block, too — and even if it is Dillinger, I’m not crazy about setting him up for an execution. That’s a job for a judge and jury.”

“If you feel this way, why don’t you just warn Polly Hamilton? Get her out of there?”

I shook my head. “She hasn’t left the guy’s side in days; she’s shacking up with him, for Christ’s sake. I can’t warn her without warning him.”

“Maybe you should. Warn him, I mean.”

“Maybe I should. But what if he is Dillinger? If I go near him, I might get my head shot off. Or if he just lams, and the feds get wind I warned him, suddenly I’m an accomplice or accessory or something. Obstructing justice, that’s called, Shit. I should just walk away from this one. I really should.”

“That’s what you told this Zarkovich guy — that you wanted no more part of this.”

“You bet. When I found out that son of a bitch was involved, I knew I wanted to jump ship.”

“You say he’s a smooth character, though.”

“Very. A real ladies’ man, too. They call him the ‘Police Sheik,’ back in Indiana.”

“What’s his relationship with this Anna person... Anna, what was it?”

“Sage. Well, like I said, he’s a bagman. He picked up money from her and other madams to pass along to the big boys, keeping some for himself.”

“Do you trust Anna Sage?”

“Not particularly.”

“But you don’t suspect her of anything, either.”

“No.”

“You don’t think maybe she talked to this Zarkovich before she talked to you?”

“I suppose that’s possible... but why would she talk to me about her suspicions, if she’d already talked to Zarkovich?”

“I been in show business since I was about nine. And I can tell you from experience, things are rarely as they seem.”

“I don’t get you.”

“This whole thing seems... orchestrated, somehow. Don’t you think?”

I didn’t answer.

“You were led to Jimmy Lawrence. By your traveling-salesman client — who you have no way of contacting, right?”

I nodded.

“In fact, you can’t even check up on the guy. The only address you have is that flat in Uptown where Polly Hamilton lives.”

I nodded again. “And since they aren’t married, that’s not really his address. Right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Did he tell you what company he worked for?”

I shook my head. “Just a feed and grain company. No name.”

“So you can’t check up on him.”

“I can’t check up on him. Well — he said the firm was out of Gary. That would be a start.”

“So this client, who lied to you, leads you to Polly Hamilton and Jimmy Lawrence. Now, Polly Hamilton knew you through Anna Sage, so if Polly was in on this — just bear with me, Heller — if she was in on this, she could well assume you’d check up on her with — or try to warn her through — Anna Sage.”

I started nodding again. “And Anna Sage fed me the Dillinger story.”

“And Anna Sage led Zarkovich to you.”

“No denying that much.”

“Maybe you’re being used to set this guy up — whether he is or isn’t Dillinger.”

“But why? A simple anonymous phone call would do the trick just as well — they could call the cops or the feds and say, ‘I think I saw Dillinger at such and such,’ and accomplish the same thing.”

“I can’t explain it, Heller. You’re the detective. You’ve got to figure the motives out. Me — I just know theater when I see it.”

We took the dishes out to the kitchen, and soon she was snoring peacefully beside me while I lay with wide-open eyes staring into how smart she was.

11

I spent the next morning, Friday, sitting in my office running phone checks on the credit ratings of half a dozen would-be borrowers. This I was doing for the Retail Credit Company in Jackson Park, the single account that was keeping me afloat these days. The thought of a piece of the Dillinger reward money coming my way hung in the hot air in front of me, like laundry on a line.

Just around noon, when I was thinking about going downstairs to the deli for a pastrami sandwich, a big moonfaced man of about thirty-five in a gray hat and a gray suit and a gray tie came in. His complexion was a little gray, too — that hot ball of sun that had been baking Chicago for days upon end hadn’t got to him yet, it would seem.

“Mr. Heller,” he said, taking off his hat. His dark brown hair was longer on top than on its graying sides.

“Yes?” I said, half-rising.

“I’m Sam Cowley. With the Division of Investigation.” He moved forward with a tight, somber expression and extended a hand. I rose the rest of the way to take it, then motioned for him to have a seat.

“Mind if I take off my coat?” he asked. Apparently the sun had got to him a bit.

I said sure. Since I wasn’t wearing a coat myself, this piece of protocol struck me as excessive, but sincere — unlike smoothie Zarkovich, who used manners and charm as devices, Cowley was just a big heavyset guy who seemed a little awkward having to deal with people.

Or at least with me.

“I understand you spoke with Chief Purvis yesterday,” he said. He had slipped the coat on the back of the chair. I’d misjudged him and the sun: the sweat circles on his shirt, under his arms, were like moons. They complemented his round face.

“I spoke with Chief Purvis,” I confirmed.

“He informs me you feel you may have seen John Dillinger.”

“That’s right.”

He moved his hat around in his hands, fingers on the brim like he was drying a plate. “We could use any information you might care to give us.”

“I’ve... reconsidered.”

“How so?”

I chose my words carefully. “I now feel I was hasty. I’ve had second thoughts about the likelihood that the man I saw was John Dillinger.”

Cowley made a small shrugging gesture with his head. “There have been some misidentifications. I can understand your caution.”

“Your associate Mr. Purvis — Chief Purvis — strikes me as a little too hot to trot, where Dillinger’s concerned. I’m afraid he’d shoot Aunt Jemima if you pointed at her and said, ‘There’s Johnny.’”

I thought I saw the faintest trace of a smile appear on Cowley’s lips, but he buried it. Said, “Chief Purvis is not alone on this investigation.”

“I know. Your boss Hoover sent you in to be a steadying influence. I read the papers.”

Cowley stirred in his chair. “That — that wasn’t in the papers, not in that manner.”

“I can read between the lines. Your boss seems real public-relations conscious to me. He couldn’t fire Purvis after Little Bohemia without making the division look bad; so he sent for you.”

Cowley waved a big deliberate paw in the air, said, “Be that as it may — I can assure you, any information you relay to our office — to me — will not be treated lightly, will not be acted upon rashly.”

He was choosing his words carefully, too. I leaned back in my chair; studied him. I instinctively liked this man. He was a big, shy bear who could be trusted. He struck me as competent, as well. But I was still afraid that his competence would only be canceled out by Purvis’ incompetence.

“I’m looking after a client’s interests,” I said. “And I don’t think my client’s interests would be best served by my getting further involved in this matter.”

Cowley’s face turned stern and he pointed a finger at me as thick as a twenty-five-cent cigar. “If you’re aiding and abetting a fugitive, Mr. Heller, you can’t hide behind the cloak of your profession. You’re not a lawyer. Just a private operator. You’ll go to jail.”

“Inspector Cowley,” I said, with what I hoped was a peacemaking smile, “I’m not harboring a fugitive. My client is not John Dillinger. He happens to be a traveling salesman and a law-’biding citizen. Whose girlfriend happens to be seeing another man, on the sly.”

Cowley nodded thoughtfully. “The man who may be Dillinger.”

I pointed at him this time. “That’s a good way to put it. A man who may be Dillinger. And to be frank, if I had to bet on it, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t bet against.”

Cowley lifted his shoulders and eased them back down. It was about as demonstrative as he got. “Why not clear it up by leading us to this man? We can talk with him, find out who he is, clear this all up.”

I shook my head and kept shaking it. “My client’s girlfriend has been at this man’s side day and night for at least a week. If I lead you to him, how can I be assured your overeager associate won’t lay down a tommy-gun welcome for this ‘man who might be Dillinger’ — a welcome Nervous Purvis is likely to extend to my client’s girl, as well?”

He didn’t blink at my rather arch brand of sarcasm. He just said, “Maybe you can best prevent that by being involved yourself.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

“Are you still shadowing this man?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve ascertained what I need to, where my client’s concerned. I’ve fulfilled my responsibilities. And besides, maybe you’ve actually got somebody in that officeful of college boys who might succeed in shadowing me. Though I sincerely doubt it.”

Cowley looked at me blankly; then the corners of his mouth turned up, barely perceptibly, and he said, “I doubt it, too.”

An El train rushed by and we just sat and listened to it.

Then Cowley said, “We’ve had contact from someone else who has a line on Dillinger.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Someone who’s seen him on the North Side.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Someone with a police agency. An out-of-state agency.”

“Really.”

“East Chicago, Indiana, as a matter of fact.”

“No kidding.”

“A Sergeant Martin Zarkovich and his captain, a man named... it escapes me...”

“O’Neill,” I said.

Cowley, feigning surprise, said, “You know of them?”

“I know Zarkovich. I don’t believe I’ve met O’Neill, but I’ve heard of him.”

“Do you have an opinion of, uh, the East Chicago police?”

“Generally, or specifically?”

“Either. Both.”

“Generally, corrupt. Specifically, Zarkovich.”

He smiled a little and leaned forward in his seat. He held the hat in one hand, now, and seemed to be offering it to me.

He said, “Then you know why we can use a corroborating source. As a matter of fact, if I could handle this through you entirely, I’d feel more comfortable. So would Chief Purvis.”

That surprised me. “Really?” I asked. “What makes me such a sterling character?”

“Being compared to Zarkovich,” Cowley said, deadpan.

That made me smile. “You’re going to have to go with Zarkovich. He’s a cop. Why don’t you bring Stege in, while you’re at it?”

Cowley didn’t answer at first. “There’s little love lost between our office and the Chicago police. Precious little mutual respect or cooperation.”

“I take it this state of affairs predates your coming aboard.”

“I haven’t been here long, Mr. Heller. You know that. Just since April. But it doesn’t take very long to realize the Chicago police are lacking in certain respects.”

“So instead you deal with East Chicago? Look, there are a few good Chicago cops around — and Stege is one of ’em. I know, I know — you’ve heard he doesn’t think much of me. Granted. But you could do with him in your corner, on this one, believe me.”

Cowley rose. He wasn’t leaving: he was just restless. Quietly so. He went over to one of the windows and looked out at the El. Without looking at me, he said, “I hear you’re an honest man, Mr. Heller.”

“More or less,” I said.

He smiled, again without looking at me. “That’s high marks in Chicago. We, uh... have a mutual friend, you know.”

“I know.”

Eliot Ness.

“So,” Cowley continued, “if I say some things off the record, you’ll keep them there.”

“I’m not a reporter.”

“If a reporter asked you.” He looked over at me sharply. “Or even a judge.”

I nodded.

He walked back and stood by the chair. Said, “Zarkovich and O’Neill have made some conditions. One of them is that Stege and the Chicago police not be involved in Dillinger’s... capture.”

“Why do you pause before the word ‘capture’?”

He hesitated. “It has to do with another of their conditions.”

“I see. Have you agreed to these various conditions?”

“Not yet. That’s where you come in, Mr. Heller. Why not help the federal government avoid having to rub up against something as dirty as the East Chicago police? Why not tell us what you know, and keep us from having to deal with the likes of Zarkovich and O’Neill?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Well,” Cowley said, with an air of finality, “think it over. But think quickly. Because this is liable to come together quickly.”

“And go down the same way?”

He nodded slowly. He put on his coat, his hat. “Your help would be appreciated. By tomorrow, say.”

“I’ll be thinking it over.”

“Why don’t you contact your client, if you’re worried about getting his girlfriend involved?”

“I’m afraid I have no way of contacting him. He’s on the road, and said he’d check back in with me. He hasn’t, yet.”

Cowley shrugged. “You’re a detective. How did he get in touch with you?”

Through a referral from a lawyer. Specifically, Louis Piquett. Piquett!

“Say, Inspector. You’re obviously more up on the Dillinger case than I am. What lawyer was it Dillinger contacted to come up to Crown Point and defend him, right before he broke out last year?”

“It was February of this year,” Cowley said. “And I’m surprised at you, Mr. Heller — you said you read the papers, and the papers played up Dillinger’s hiring such a colorful ‘mouthpiece.’”

And I — like you — knew what he’d say next.

“Louis Piquett, of course,” Cowley said, and nodded to me, and left.

12

They call LaSalle Street the Wall Street of the West. Whatever, it’s a concrete valley where money and power live — if there’s a difference. Between Randolph and Washington streets, well before its claustrophobic canyon dead-ends at the Board of Trade Building, LaSalle in an act of sacrifice before the great god graft devotes an entire city block to City Hall, a modern whitestone monolith with classical airs. Money and power reside there, as well.

But tucked away in the skyscrapers along LaSalle, above the giant banks and brokerages, are small offices where men who are not financial wizards nor politicans but who find their way toward money and power, just the same, also reside. Men like attorney Louis Phillip Piquett.

On the west corner of Washington and LaSalle, a sleek gold-brick skyscraper was where Piquett kept his office. He was on the twenty-fifth floor. Looking down on City Hall.

Going up in the elevator was like riding in an oven; it was just me, the uniformed operator and a couple of guys in business suits. I was in a business suit, too. We were basting in our own sweat. This was LaSalle Street, however, and one of the few places in the city where shirt sleeves were not the heat-wave order of the day. I suppose when you’re on your way to an air-conditioned office, you can afford roughing it.

Piquett’s office was air-conditioned, beyond its pebbled-glass-and-wood facade, and brother did it feel good. The waiting room was surprisingly modern, for such an old-fashioned mouthpiece, with a white wall-to-wall carpet and black leather chairs with chrome arms along the glass-and-wood walls; there were several doors leading off the reception area, all of which said PRIVATE in black letters. A disturbingly pretty secretary at a big black desk, her head a cap of blond curls, gave me a sharp businesslike look, letting me know her chorus-girl beauty may have got her the job, but she was here to work, by God. She was, in fact, typing at the moment, sitting sideways at her desk working at a typewriter on a stand. She had black-frame glasses she maybe didn’t need and a white mannish blouse and said, “Yes?”

“I’m Nathan Heller,” I said. “Would you tell Mr. Piquett I’m here to see him?”

“Have you an appointment?”

“No.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Piquett’s a busy man.”

The office wasn’t exactly jumping: we two were alone in the reception area, and there were no sounds from behind the doors marked PRIVATE.

“Just let him know I’m here, would you?” I said, and smiled politely, letting her know her chorus-girl beauty didn’t interest me particularly, which I could tell bothered her. She was the sort who resented you for noticing she was pretty but if you didn’t, resented you for that. I sat down. She knocked on Piquett’s door and went in and in a minute or so came out looking vaguely confused, then covered it quickly with that businesslike manner.

“He’ll see you,” she said, and I started to rise, but she motioned me back. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

And she returned to her typing.

I sat and read one of the handful of magazines on a small glass-and-chrome table between two of the chairs; a Saturday Evening Post from the second week of January. Between the air conditioning and pictures of kids building snowmen, I was ready to find myself a pair of snowshoes.

The frosty receptionist answered the phone on her desk and it was an inner-office call; she glanced up at me disinterestedly and said, “You can go on in, now.”

I’d been waiting half an hour.

Piquett was seated behind his desk, paperwork spread out across it unconvincingly. He’d kept me waiting on purpose; why, I didn’t know. But one thing was for sure: Piquett wasn’t a paperwork-style lawyer.

He’d never been to law school; he studied the law books while working as a bartender and waiter. That much was well known by the public at large, who viewed him as a colorful character. Lesser known was Piquett’s stint as a hanger-on at police precinct houses, carrying messages to lawyers and bail bondsmen, as sort of an apprentice ambulance chaser. Ward heelers and politicians, as well as various underworld characters, were valuable connections made in those days by the would-be lawyer (rumor had it he tried out for the bar a dozen times before passing). And working as a waiter and bartender in road-houses and, later, in various Loop and North Side restaurants and taverns enabled Piquett to make some good, lasting friendships.

One of which, you would think, was the friendship between Piquett and Heller, the way the stocky little man stood and smiled and flung his hand out toward me. I shook it, and he gestured for me to sit in a chair opposite him, and I did, but he remained standing.

For a small man, he cut an impressive figure. Even on this warm day (albeit in an air-cooled office), he wore a three-piece suit, though nothing fancy; the vest and gray-speckled tie were for respectability, but the slightly worn look of the suit was for Clarence Darrow mock-humility.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said, with a disarming half-smile. His features were crowded toward the center of his chubby face — bright eyes, bulbous nose, tiny mouth; dark circles under the bright eyes gave him an intensity, and the effect was at once boyish and fatherly. His most striking feature, however, was his hair: a three-inch-high salt-and-pepper pompadour rose in startled waves, as if he’d stuck his finger in a socket.

“Nice to see you, too, Counselor,” I said, smiling faintly. The only time I’d ever seen him had been in court, in the Lingle murder case. I’d been testifying for the prosecution; he’d been the defense lawyer. Still, we’d been on the same team. Both of us were helping railroad a Syndicate patsy named Leo Brothers, Piquett’s client, who’d been chosen by the Capone crowd to take the rap.

“What brings you here, Mr. Heller?” He sat.

“I wanted to thank you for referring one of your clients to me. I sure can use the business.”

He brushed a hand over the pompadour and it did a little dance. “I don’t remember having recommended your services, Mr. Heller. Although I may have. You did reliable work for me, and my client, last year.”

All my dealings with Piquett on that job had been via intermediary or phone.

“But you don’t specifically remember recommending me to anyone?”

He shrugged, smiled like a pixie. “Sorry. I’d love to be of help. And I’ll certainly keep you in mind, for future referrals. I do, however, have a permanent investigator on staff.”

“I see. Do you know a John Howard?”

Piquett thought, then slowly shook his head. “Can’t say as I do.”

“He’s a traveling salesman.”

Piquett shook his head slowly, no.

“Works for a feed and grain company. Whose bosses gave him your name.”

Piquett shook his head slowly, no.

I described my client; Piquett shook his head.

“This isn’t good,” I said.

“Why is that?”

“I appear to have been used to set somebody up.”

“How so?”

“Mr. Piquett, my guess is that you already know the answer to that question.”

His round face took on a cherubic innocence that would’ve fooled most any jury.

He said, “I really don’t know what you mean, Mr. Heller.”

“You don’t.”

“I do not. I haven’t the slightest idea what point you’re trying to make.”

“Well, I’m no orator. That’s not my line. I’m just a detective who doesn’t like being played the fool.”

“No one does, Mr. Heller.”

“I understand you’re representing John Dillinger these days.”

With a tiny smile, Piquett said, “That’s correct.”

“The first time I ran into you, you were defending Leo Brothers — a man accused of killing Jake Lingle... a friend of yours. In fact you were one of the last to see Jake Lingle alive. And yet you defended the man accused of killing him.”

“Everyone deserves representation under the law, Mr. Heller. That’s the American way.”

“And on that job I did last year for you — your client was Al Capone.”

A small noncommittal shrug. “Yes.”

“And now you’re representing John Dillinger. Don’t you ever represent anybody who isn’t a gangster or a thief?”

Hands folded on his desk, he smiled like a child and said, “They’re the only ones who have money these days, Mr. Heller.”

“What I don’t get is why you’re helping set up your own client. The reward money’s substantial, but Dillinger himself ought to be pretty well fixed by now...”

Piquett stopped smiling. “If you’re implying that my client, Mr. Dillinger, is in some danger at the moment, that’s hardly news. Every lawman in the country is gunning for him. But I would hardly betray my own client, Mr. Heller. And if you have knowledge of any... conspiracy to do him harm, why, I’d be grateful for details.”

“You’re a slick one, I’ll give you that.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Heller.”

“Do I. Let me tell you something, Piquett — I got off the force and into private business because I was sick and tired of being pulled into this scam and that one. I got good and fed up with being up to my butt in graft and bullshit. And I didn’t — and don’t — like being played a patsy, particularly where setting somebody up for a kill is concerned. So I’m not taking kindly to being pulled into this setup, whatever the hell it’s really about.”

“I thought you said you weren’t an orator, Mr. Heller.”

“I’m not. But whoever decided to use me in this one made a bad mistake. Because I’m pulling the rug out from under this whole damn deal. Got it?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion of what you’re talking about.”

“Do you know Anna Sage?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Martin Zarkovich?”

“Not familiar with the name.”

“Polly Hamilton? Jimmy Lawrence?”

“No... no...”

“I see. You’re going to play it cute and innocent. Fine. And that traveling salesman who came to me just happened to use your name...”

Piquett stood, glanced out the window, down at City Hall; then moved around from behind his desk and sat on the edge of it. With a patient smile and a run of his hand over the salt-and-pepper pompadour, he said, “Mr. Heller, I am a public figure. Just because someone walks into your office and invokes the name Piquett, that doesn’t make Piquett a part of anything.”

That actually was pretty convincing; I tried not to show it in my face.

But he caught it. And went on: “Futhermore, I may very well have mentioned you as a reliable investigator to several people, who may have passed your name along to this Howard fellow. Yes, it seems to me I have mentioned your name to several other lawyers and a number of other professional people as well...”

Now he’d gone too far; I knew he was faking.

I said, “Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on? Maybe if you cut me in, I’ll play along. Otherwise, I’m liable to blow off the whole deal.”

Hands folded over his vested belly, he sat perched like a leprechaun and said, “What deal?”

I stood. “Think about it, Louie.”

“About what?”

I was going out the door, when he called out, “Always nice to see you, Mr. Heller. Drop by anytime.”

The secretary-receptionist gave me an icy look and I walked out of the office, wondering if I should talk to Captain Stege about this, or maybe try to get through to Cowley — he’d seemed anxious enough to hear my story. Purvis I wanted to avoid at all costs; he was just too damn eager to bag his man.

The elevator ride was just as stifling going down, and in fact after the air-cooled comfort of Piquett’s office seemed even worse. The elevator operator didn’t smell so good.

I slipped out of my coat, when I got outside, LaSalle Street or no, and slung it over my shoulder.

That was when two big guys in suits and ties and hats came up to me and smiled. They looked like they could play catch with a Ford. They both nodded to me.

But only one of them spoke.

He said, “Mr. Nitti would like to see you. Just walk along with us, okay, Heller?”

13

It wasn’t much of a walk to the Capri Restaurant on North Clark Street. Just a block up. Like Piquett’s office, the Capri was close to City Hall, and its large, smoky, air-cooled dining room — the walls paneled in an unfinished oak, the booths covered in brown leather — was crowded with judges, city officials, attorneys, theatrical folk, strictly male. A few of them were heavies: in a booth nearby, Jake Arvey was animated as he chewed Pat Nash’s ear, while Nash seemed more intent on chewing his corned beef and cabbage. I thought I saw Rudy Vallee sitting at a table back in the far left corner, chatting over steaks and chops with a couple of men I didn’t recognize, theatrical agents or producers I supposed.

But I didn’t see Frank Nitti, even though it was widely known that he owned the Capri and held court here.

My two burly escorts escorted me politely to the left, through a glass door into a little tiled waiting area by an elevator. One of the pair, a guy with smile dimples so deep they stood out when he wasn’t smiling, pushed the button for the elevator. It came down and the cage door was opened from within by an elevator operator wearing a suit and tie and a bulge under his left arm.

“Better pat him down,” the elevator operator said.

The other escort, a guy without smile dimples but with several facial moles, said, “He don’t have his coat on, fer crissakes. Where’s he gonna keep a gun?”

As he was saying this, the other guy was patting me down. I didn’t have a gun. Or a knife or a bomb. Just my car keys and a money clip with ten bucks, a five and five ones. These he had me remove from my pockets, however, and examined them and handed them back, laughing a little at the money clip, smile dimples deepening.

“Sure rolling in dough, ain’t ya, dick,” he said, cheerfully.

He was too big to banter with.

So I said, “Right,” and stepped inside the elevator. They followed me.

We went to the third floor, where the two guys got off first. The elevator didn’t go back down; the elevator operator with the suit and the gun bulge stepped out and joined us. We were in an anteroom paneled in that same unfinished oak; the walls were barren.

Opposite the elevator there were double doors, which smile-dimples pushed through; he came back a moment later and, holding the door open for me, gestured with a thumb.

“Mr. Nitti’ll see you now,” he said.

I went in, and my escorts didn’t.

I was alone in a big dining room — cloth-covered tables and along the left wall a banquet table, the walls that same scarified oak — alone, that is, with Frank Nitti.

He sat, by himself, at a table for four at the far right of the room, his back to the corner. He was eating. He looked up from his plate and smiled on one side of his face and waved me over with a hand with a fork in it and looked back at his food.

There was no carpet on the parquet floor and my shoes made small echoes as I weaved through the well-spaced-apart tables back to the corner table, where Nitti glanced up again, half-rose, and nodded to a chair across from him. I sat.

I hadn’t seen him in about a year. He looked skinny and quite a bit older; he’d shaved his mustache off. Still, he was a roughly handsome man, with flecks of scar here and there on his face, notably his lower lip. His hair was slicked back and parted at the left. A former barber, he was always immaculately groomed. His suit was black, his shirt too; his tie was white, with a ruby stickpin.

He was eating what looked to be boiled beef with some small skinned potatoes and some sliced carrots. He was drinking milk.

He must’ve noticed me looking at this less-than-lavish lunch, because he grimaced and said, “Goddamn ulcers. Can you believe it? And this is one of the better meals I had lately.”

“Hardly pays to own a restaurant,” I said.

He smiled a little. “Yeah. Maybe I oughta find another line of work.”

I didn’t say anything; I was nervous. Nitti seemed to like me, but he was an intimidating figure, albeit a short one.

“Heller,” he said, “you look older.”

“You look about the same, Frank.”

“Bullshit. I aged ten years since those bastards shot me last year. If you hadn’t been there and made ’em call an ambulance, I’d be with the angels right now.”

“The angels, Frank?”

He shrugged elaborately. “I’m a good Catholic. Are you a Jew, Heller? You look more like a Mick.”

“I’m both and neither. I never been to church in my life, except your occasional wedding and funeral.”

He pointed his finger at me, and gave me a scolding look. “That ain’t good. Take my advice, kid — get some goddamn religion. You ain’t gonna live forever.”

“Should I take that as a threat, Frank?”

His smile returned; the ruby on his tie winked at me. “No. Just advice. I like you, kid. You did me a favor. I don’t take that lightly.”

“You returned the favor. We’re even.”

“Maybe. But I like you. You know that.”

“Well, uh, that’s good to know.”

“I got respect for you. You got, whaddya call it, integrity. Not too many people got that, you know.”

I figured he held this opinion because I’d quit the force after Mayor Cermak’s two police bodyguards had taken me along, unawares, into what turned out to be an assassination attempt on Nitti’s life.

“And you got balls,” he said, picking at one of the potatoes with his fork. “You’re smart and honest — though not so honest as to be a problem — and you got integrity. So that’s why I like you.”

I risked a wisecrack. “This is starting to sound like a testimonial,” I said. “Maybe we should move over to the banquet table, and invite those guys who brought me up here to join us.”

He tolerated that, even smiled again, then frowned and quickly said, “They didn’t get nasty, did they? I told ’em you were to be my willin’ guest. Nothin’ nasty.”

“They weren’t nasty, Frank. But they didn’t have to be. Where’d you get those guys, Lincoln Park Zoo?”

He drank some milk and this time when he smiled he had a milk mustache, which he wiped off with a thick hand on which rested a gold ring that must’ve weighed half a pound.

“Healthy-looking boys, ain’t they?” he said. “I beefed up my security after the Cermak hit.”

I didn’t know if he was referring to the attempt on his life by Cermak’s two cops, or the subsequent assassination of Mayor Cermak in Miami last summer, which he’d directed. And I didn’t ask.

“Would you like something to eat?” he asked, gesturing to the empty place in front of me.

Actually, I hadn’t eaten all day. But somehow I didn’t have much of an appetite, and declined.

“You’re wondering why I asked you up here,” he said.

“I think I know, Frank.”

He looked up from his boiled beef, with an almost pop-eyed look. “Really?”

“Well, let’s just say that I’ve figured out that Piquett kept me waiting in his office for half an hour so he could call you and you could send some people over.”

Nitti didn’t confirm or deny that.

He just said, “You’re involved in something. And I’m sorry as hell about it.”

He cut his beef with the side of his fork, leaving a pause for me to fill, but I couldn’t find anything to fill it with.

He ate a bite, and went on. “This thing that’s about to go down, I’m on top of it — it’s happening with my approval, even my guidance. But I’m an executive, kid. I don’t handle the detail shit, you know?”

“I can understand that, Frank.”

“I didn’t know they were going to pull you into this. And if I’d known, I’d have stopped ’em.”

“Who, Frank?”

“Don’t ask questions, kid. Just listen.” He paused to see if I was going to pay heed, and I was.

“I want you to get out of this,” he said. “And stay out. Just let things take their course.”

He ate his boiled beef.

“Is that all, Frank?” I said.

“Sure. You wanna go, go ahead. It was good to see you again.”

He’d been very careful in choosing his words — everything vague, all references couched in euphemism.

“Frank, we are talking about setting John Dillinger up, aren’t we?”

He shrugged, chewed, watched me with eyes that warned me not to go too far.

I went ahead anyway. Just a step at a time.

“It makes sense that you and your associates might like to be rid of a guy like this,” I said. Carefully. “Having the likes of Dillinger in town — and he seems always, eventually, to come back to Chicago to hide out — stirs up all kinds of heat. Local and federal.”

Nitti nodded, chewing.

I shook my head sympathetically. “Cops and feds can’t put out the dragnet for Dillinger and his ilk without disrupting your Outfit’s activities, of various kinds, in the process. Public outcry over gangsters like Dillinger leads to mass arrests — which your people get caught up in. Dillinger’s bringing down too damn much heat on the Outfit.”

Nitti narrowed his eyes and said, “Last December three of my best people were killed. It was a raid on a flat on Farwell Avenue by Stege’s Dillinger Squad; those trigger-happy sons of bitches mistook my guys for Dillinger and two of his pals. Shot ’em dead. Didn’t know they had the wrong men till they took their fingerprints, hours later.” Disgusted, Nitti sipped his milk. “It’s gotta end.”

“Is that what’s happening?” I asked. “You’re putting an end to Dillinger?”

“Be careful what questions you ask me, kid — I might answer ’em.”

“That fed Cowley came to see me today.”

Nitti said nothing; pushed his plate away from him. There was still some food left, but he’d had all of it he could stomach.

I said, “I got the feeling he’d cut a deal with Zarkovich, agreeing to shoot Dillinger down. Rather than take him in.”

Nitti patted his mouth with a napkin.

“So it’s not enough for Dillinger to be captured,” I said. “He’s got to buy it. He’s got to die.”

Nitti cleared his throat. “Let me tell you something, kid. For a long time these fuckin’ outlaws could get away with what they’re doing. They were like stagecoach and train robbers in the Old West; fact is, most of ’em are dumb Okies who think they’re Jesse James. And they got away with it, for a while. ’Cause all they needed was fast flivvers and lots of back roads and plenty of hideouts. And they weaved all across the country, and the law couldn’t even cross state lines to chase ’em. They had a sweet little thing going. Long-term, however, it stunk. Which is why only suckers — farmers, dumb Okies like that — got in that business. But they had their time, I’ll give ’em that. Only their time is over.”

He sipped some milk. He seemed to be through with his speech, but I nudged him on. Carefully.

“You mean their time’s over, because of the feds,” I said. “Because now the feds can chase ’em across state lines.”

Nitti nodded, shrugged. “That’s it, that’s a big part of it. The rewards on their heads’ll smoke ’em all out eventually, too. But times are changing. You can only get away with that shoot-’em-up bullshit for so long.”

“You mean you can’t get away with too many Saint Valentine’s Day Massacres.”

“No. And you can’t shoot too many Jake Lingles. The public likes to make a hero out of somebody like Al or Dillinger, for a while. But when things get too bloody, when the headlines get too nasty, the public turns on you.”

“Frank, these outlaws — your Outfit’s had dealings with ’em over the years...”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I hear things. I’m awake.”

“That’s a nice way to be, awake. You ought to hold onto that thought.”

I said nothing.

Then for some reason he continued. “Yeah, Al had a soft spot for that kind, particularly the bank robbers. Don’t ask me why. The suburbs, Cicero, Maywood, Melrose Park, they were always welcome there, where Al was concerned. There were always thieves hiding out there.”

“For a fee?”

“Nothin’s free, kid.”

“I’d guess a certain amount of fencing of goods and hot money by such thieves might also be handled through the Outfit.”

“Easy, kid.”

“And the guns those guys use, machine guns particularly, and explosives, they got to come from somewhere. And sometimes, like any small business, they’d need seed money, short-term loans. And Outfit sources are the natural place for both...”

Nitti was shaking his head, but not by way of denial. He said, “You better button it right there, kid.” Not mad; just fatherly advice.

I buttoned up.

Then Nitti couldn’t keep from saying: “It’s just better for some people to be dead, kid.”

He’d opened the door, so I took a breath and went on through.

“Well, uh, if somebody wanted Dillinger dead, why wouldn’t somebody just kill him? Why go to such elaborate lengths to have the feds do the job?”

Nitti’s mouth etched itself into an enigmatic little smile.

Then he said, “You’re operating here out of curiosity, Heller. Nothing else. No client. Just curiosity. And you know what happened to the goddamn cat.”

I knew.

“You played a part in this thing,” Nitti said. “Like I said, if I’d known they was planning to suck you in, I’d have stopped it. Only they did suck you in. Well, you played your role, now get offstage, go home. Stay out of it, and stay the hell out of the way.”

“What if Cowley or Stege or Purvis come around?”

“Why don’t you just report what you know to be true, and leave it go at that, in such event.”

“You mean, tell them about tailing Polly Hamilton and Jimmy Lawrence, and that Anna Sage says Lawrence is Dillinger.”

“Yeah. It starts and ends with that.”

“And I just stand by and let the poor shmuck get killed.”

He raised a finger in a cautionary fashion. “I’m not saying anybody’s going to get killed. But what skin off your ass is it if some fuckin’ Hoosier outlaw gets what he’s gonna get someday anyway?”

“Frank,” I said, “when I bitched about Cermak’s boys hitting you, the same argument was advanced. That Nitti was a guy who was going to meet a bullet one of these days anyway, so what the hell.”

He gestured with two open hands. “I’m a restaurant owner. Restaurant owners don’t get shot, not unless maybe some goddamn outlaw comes in and robs the till.”

“I don’t like being a part of this.”

“Good,” Nitti said. “Don’t be.” He reached in his right pants pocket and took out a money clip. The thickness of bills included a fifty on top, which he peeled off, then he peeled off another fifty. He smoothed them on the tablecloth before me; the two bills were spread out in front of me like supper. Like a six-course meal.

“I want to be your client,” Nitti said.

“You do?”

“Yeah, kid. That’s a hundred-dollar retainer. I want your services between now and Monday. I got something I want you to do for me till then.”

“What’s that, Frank?”

“Sleep,” he said. “Go home and sleep. Till Monday.”

I swallowed.

Then I took the money, because I didn’t dare not take it. Added it to the five and five ones on my own clip.

“This meeting between us, it never happened. Capeesh?”

“Capeesh,” I said.

“This is hard for you, ain’t it, kid?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I like you. I really do.”

And he did. He cared about me. The way you like and care about a character in a radio serial you follow. But if a streetcar ran me over in tomorrow’s episode, he wouldn’t lose any sleep that night.

“Is it okay if I go now, Frank?”

“Sure, kid. You don’t have to ask my permission to do things. You’re your own man. That’s what I like about you. Now, go.”

I went.

14

At my office that afternoon I couldn’t resist checking one last thing out. Frank Nitti or no, there was something I had to follow through on. In the bottom of my pine four-drawer file I had several out-of-town phone books, as well as two Chicago cross-directories (numbers first; addresses first). I took out the Gary, Indiana, book and looked in the Yellow Pages. There were six grain companies. I called the personnel departments of each; it took all the rest of the afternoon, and talking to two or three people each place, which ran my phone bill up, but I did it. And John Howard didn’t work for any of them.

Not that I’d expected him to. It was obvious, now, that my traveling-salesman client was a con artist hired to rope me into the play Zarkovich and Nitti were putting on. I felt like a chump. And with good reason: I was a chump.

I took the money clip out of my pocket, peeled off the two fifties Nitti had given me. A braver man would’ve tossed them in Nitti’s face. He’d also be a dumber man, and possibly a deader one. Maybe if I had the integrity Nitti was talking about, I’d turn the bills into confetti and toss them out my office window; or give ’em to the first down-and-outer on the street I ran across. But I needed a new suit, so I went out and bought one. The rest of the money could go for luxuries. Like eating and the phone bill.

Some of Nitti’s money I decided to blow on Barney Ross and his girl Pearl. I called him over at the Morrison and he said he and Pearl were planning to go out for a bite, but had no special plans. So I drove over and picked ’em up and took Pearl and her smart green dress and Barney and his blue bow tie to my favorite restaurant in the city, Pete’s Steaks.

Pete’s was on Dearborn, just north of Randolph. Pretty redheaded Pearl, on Barney’s arm, tried to hide her surprise as we approached the place; the neon sign that hung above the awning had a few vowels burned out, so that it read P T ’S STE KS, and looking in the window all you could see was an ordinary white-tile, one-arm joint. But then we went inside, and back to the rear of the place and up the steps to the air-cooled dining room, where framed autographed celebrity photos (including one from Barney, signed to Bill and Marie Botham, the owners — I never did find out who Pete was) rode the walls of the long, narrow dining-car-like room.

As soon as Pearl started spotting celebrities (Eddie Cantor and George Jessel were at a table together and, at another, second time today, Rudy Vallee) she brightened. The place catered to the show biz crowd, press agents, song boosters, chorines, vaudevillians, with a good number of newspapermen tossed in in the bargain. Doc Dwyer of the Examiner, Hal Davis of the News, and Jim Doherty of the Trib were here tonight, and probably some others I didn’t recognize.

Our table conversation ran to small talk — Barney had taken Pearl to the fair today, including Sally Rand’s matinee, which Pearl found “shameless,” but sort of giggled when she said it — and I mostly just listened. But Barney was watching me close; he knew I was in a black mood. He also knew I’d called and invited him and Pearl out to try to shake that mood, and that I wasn’t being particularly successful.

The steaks arrived and helped distract me. Thick and tender and juicy, with melted butter and a side concoction of cottage fries, radishes, green onions, peas and sliced Bermuda onions that spilled onto the steak. I’d eaten nothing today except a bagel at the deli under my office, when I’d got back from Nitti’s; it’d been all I could make myself eat. But I was ravenous, now, and I attacked the rare steak like an enemy. Pearl, fortunately, didn’t notice my rotten table manners; she was too caught up in her own Pete’s Special. Barney, though, continued to eye me.

A minor sportswriter from the Times, whose name I didn’t remember, buttonholed Barney on the way out, and I stood and talked to Pearl at the top of the stairs.

“You’re a very special friend to Barney,” she said.

“He’s a special friend to me.”

“When you’re in Barney’s position, the friends you had before you got famous are the important ones, you know.”

“Are you going to marry him, Pearl?”

“If he asks me.”

“He will.”

She gave me a pretty smile, and I managed to give one back to her. A smile, that is. I doubt it was pretty.

I drove them back to the Morrison, and let them out, but Barney leaned in the window on the rider’s side before I pulled away.

“Are you going to be all right, Nate?”

“Sure.”

“You want I should drop up tonight, and we can talk?”

“No. It’s okay. You only got tonight and tomorrow night before Pearl goes home. Spend your time with her, you bum.”

“You sure, Nate?”

“Sure I’m sure — now, go be with your girl!”

“Thanks for supper, Nate.”

I smiled and waved and pulled away.

Pete’s special steak, good as it was, was grinding in my stomach. I passed some gas and it smelled the way I felt.

There was a place in the alley behind the building where Barney let me park my Chevy. I’d been lucky — no vandals or thieves had had at it yet. During the winter, it was hell to start ’er up, on the really cold days; but on the really cold days I tried to work out of my office, anyway. A telephone’s a detective’s best tool, after all; and I was like anybody born and brought up in Chicago — I was more comfortable riding the Els and streetcars, and didn’t use the car much, really.

I stopped in Barney’s Cocktail Lounge for a beer, thinking about how you used to go into the place through the corner deli. The cocktail lounge had been a blind pig, a bar that seemed to be closed down and boarded up but was actually wide open, like Chicago. Somehow I missed sitting by the boarded-up windows. It had felt safe, secure, snug, somehow. I rarely took one of the window booths, these days. Tonight I sat along the wall.

After the beer, I had some rum. Just enough to settle my stomach. The warmth moved through my belly in a soothing wave. I felt better. I had a little more rum. Not too much. Sally was going to stop by this evening, after her show. She said she wanted to see how the other half lived, and I guessed it was time she found out, Murphy bed and all. But the least I could do was greet her soberly.

I sat there, sipping the rum, and felt so goddamn depressed I could cry. I got out of there before I did.

I walked up the stairs to my floor and down the hall and worked the key in the lock and stepped in and a fist sunk in my stomach and bounced off my spine. I fell on my knees and puked. Heard the door shut behind me.

“Did you get any on you?” a hushed voice said.

He meant me puking.

“Yeah, shit.” An arm wiped itself off on my back; I was still doubled over, retching, but nothing was coming out, now. A mulligan stew of steak, potatoes, radishes, peas and onions shimmered before me. It smelled foul and a little like rum.

A hand grabbed the small of one my arms and dragged me away from the pool of puke. So they wouldn’t get any more on them.

I looked up. The office was dark, just some neon glow coming in and making orange pulsing shadows on the craggy indistinct face under the fedora before me. The other guy was behind me, hooking his arms through mine, pulling me back, though I remained on my knees. The craggy-faced guy with neon on his face had something in his hand, something like a piece of tube only limp. It drooped, like a big phallus.

He raised his arm, quickly, and the thing in his hand swished. Then it swished again as he curved it across my chest.

A rubber hose.

“Fuck!” I said.

The arms behind my arms pulled back. “Take it like a man,” a voice said. Kind of a whiny, upper-register voice. “Take your goddamn medicine.”

The guy in front of me hit me about the body with the rubber pipe, my chest, my stomach, my arms, my shoulders. Not my face.

Then the guy behind me pulled me up, stood me up on shaky legs, and the neon-faced guy worked over my legs.

I took it like a man. Like any man would. I cried my fucking eyes out.

All I could hear was their breathing and the swish of the hose and my own whimpering. This went on forever — for three minutes at least — and then I heard something else.

A voice.

Barney’s.

“Nate,” he said, “are you in there?”

“Barney!” I yelled.

I looked over and he was peeking in the door and night vision and what little light there was allowed him to finally make out what was going on and he moved across the room and pulled the guy off my back and I could hear him belt the guy back there while I found the strength to smack the guy with the rubber hose in the mush with a fist on the end of an arm that had gone numb from pain anyway. He swung the hose and I took the blow on my forearm, but moved the hose and his arm out of the way while I butted him in the face with my head.

The sound of him landing on his ass was music. There was still an orange neon glow on his face, but bright red mingled there as well. I must’ve broke his fucking nose. I went to kick him in the balls and he grabbed my foot and threw me into my desk. The desk slid, banged up against the wall by the windows and the phone and desk lamp tumbled off and landed noisily and, holding his bleeding nose, the guy headed unsurely for the door. His panicked friend had Barney in a clinch, using his size to squeeze Barney and keep from getting hit anymore.

The bleeding guy was to the doorway, when he turned and said, “Toss him!” to his friend, and his friend threw Barney over at me and we were in a pile together. Barney’s guy slipped in my puke on the way out and took a fall on his face, then picked himself up and was gone. I would’ve laughed, if I hadn’t had the sense of humor beat out of me.

Barney got up slowly and shook himself — he’d taken a hard knock against the desk — and started to go after them, but by that time the sound of their feet slapping down the corridor had disappeared. He went to the window and looked down.

“Damn!” he said. “Someone’s out front with a car for ’em! There they go... damn!”

Shaking his head, he walked over and switched on the light by the door. I was still sprawled against the desk like a rag doll. Barney looked a little mussed up, still wearing his suit and bow tie, though the bow tie was sideways, now. I probably looked like shit.

He bent over me, touched the side of my face gently. “You look like shit.”

I tried to smile. Couldn’t.

“I was worried about you, Nate. Thought I’d better check in and see how you were doing. I guess I found out.”

I said something. Not a word. A sound.

“Nate, I’m going to put the Murphy bed down and get you stretched out on it so you can take it easy.”

I made a sound. Affirmative sound.

Then he was setting me gently down on top of the blankets on the Murphy bed. The overhead light was in my eyes and I winced at it, turned my head. He went over and quickly moved the desk back in place, picked up the phone, and the desk lamp, which he turned on.

“Something isn’t broken, anyway,” he said, with a little smile.

He went over and turned off the overhead light. Then into my washroom over by the door and dampened a washcloth and cooled my face with it. My face was the only place they hadn’t hit me, but the cloth felt good just the same.

“There’s a doc in residence at the Morrison,” he said. “I’ll call him and get him over here.”

I tried to swallow; my mouth felt like cotton.

He was over at the phone when I managed to say, “No.”

He looked back puzzled, then came over and sat on the edge of the bed. “No doc?”

“No broken bones,” I said. “Just gonna be sore...”

“I think you should see a doc.”

“Tomorrow.”

He didn’t like that, but he didn’t press. “You want the cops?” he said.

“That was cops.”

“Cops?”

“Rubber hose. Cops. East Chicago, I think.”

“You want some Chicago cops?”

“They’d... just thank the East Chicago boys.”

He smiled sadly. “What was it you said about your job? That it beat having people bash your head in?”

“Didn’t lay a... glove on my head.”

“No more talk. Get some rest.”

He went over to the washroom and got a towel and cleaned up the puke. He was on the floor doing that, in fact, when Sally showed up.

“What the hell is going on here?” she demanded. She had a white dress on. She seemed angry. And afraid.

Barney told her.

I passed out about then. When I woke up she and Barney were helping me out of bed and then out of my office and down the hall and even, God help us, down the steps. She seemed almost as strong as Barney. An athlete, too. Dancer.

Then they were putting me in the back of a cab.

I heard Barney say to her, “Are you going to be all right?”

“Fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Sally got in, told the cabbie, “The Drake,” and we were moving.

“What...?” I said.

“You’re staying with me at my place, tonight,” she said. “No one’s going to hurt you there.”

I went to sleep in her arms; my last conscious thought was how nice she smelled. Talcum powder...

15

A bell was ringing.

I opened my eyes slowly. The round chrome clock on Sally Rand’s nightstand said it was four-oh-seven. Sun streamed in through sheer curtains. I was bathed in sunshine and pain.

The bell kept ringing.

I managed to sit up, but it took a while. The pain was general. Everything from the neck down ached. A long slow dull ache. I’d been sleeping since late morning. I’d been awake for a few hours early this morning, I remembered; Sally had fed me some breakfast and some aspirin. She’d given me some aspirin the night before as well, she said, but I didn’t remember that. And I’d been awake awhile mid-morning, too: a doctor had come round — Barney’s doing — and recommended more aspirin. And sleep. And I’d slept.

The bell kept ringing. In a brilliant intuitive flash — even battered I was still a detective — I realized it was a doorbell.

I swung my legs over to the side of the bed. Lowered them to the floor. The pain became specific. My eyes teared, but I didn’t wipe them dry. I didn’t want to make the effort because my arms hurt worse than my legs. I looked down at my legs and they were splotched with black-and-blue bruises of various sizes — from as small as a dime to as large as a saucer, though they were oblong dimes and saucers. I was in my shorts, I noticed, and my undershirt. My arms had odd-shaped bruises, too. No small ones, though. Large black-and-blue patches, strips of black and blue from the rubber hose.

The bell kept ringing.

I stood. My legs started to buckle but I forced myself not to fall; if I fell, I wouldn’t be able to get up, and that would hurt even worse than standing. Moving across the soft carpet with the slow pathetic urgency of a very elderly man walking toward a bathroom that he has little chance of reaching in time, I found my way into the living room and, eventually, to the front door of the suite.

Facing the white door, the bell louder here (but I was used to it by now — in fact, I couldn’t remember a time when that bell wasn’t ringing), I decided to see if I could speak.

“Who?” I said. It didn’t hurt much to talk. I didn’t have a headache; the aspirin had done that much for me.

“Inspector Cowley, Mr. Heller. Sam Cowley. Could I speak to you?”

There was a night-latch, which I left in place, as I cracked the door open.

“Mr. Heller? Could I come in?” His round, somber, earnest face under the gray hat was damp with sweat.

“Another hot day?” I asked.

A tiny smile creased his face. “Hottest yet.”

“Another good reason for me to stay inside.”

“Could I come in?”

“That putz Purvis with you?”

“No. Nobody’s with me. Nobody knows I’m here.”

“I know you’re here.”

“Nobody at the office.”

I let him in.

The pain turned general again. A neck-to-toe ache. It felt like a cross between the flu and having fallen off a building.

Cowley took off his hat; he had on the same gray suit as before, and the same gray complexion. He wiped his face with a hanky, put it away, looked me over and shook his head slowly.

“My God,” he said. “You took a hell of a beating, didn’t you?”

“They wouldn’t serve me at a lunch counter down South, would they?”

“Your friend Mr. Ross told me you took a beating, but I didn’t imagine...”

“That’s how you found me? Through Barney?”

He nodded. “When I couldn’t reach you at your office this morning, I called around. Ross wouldn’t tell me where you were on the phone. So I went and saw him in person and he finally consented.”

“He’s a good judge of character.”

“Does that mean you don’t mind seeing me?”

“No. I don’t mind. I wanted to talk to you anyway, and it’s better for my health if you come to me. There are people who wouldn’t appreciate my going to see you.”

“The people who did this to you?”

“Among others. Could we sit down? Or would you prefer to wait till I collapse?”

Looking genuinely concerned, he said, “Oh, hell, I’m sorry — you need some help?”

“No. Just let me take it at my own pace. Let’s sit in the kitchen. It’s through there...”

In the small white modern kitchen, there was coffee on the stove. Bless Sally’s heart. She’d be doing her matinee about now. Dancing with a bubble.

I sat at the table while Cowley, at my direction, poured us some coffee. He put a cup in front of me and sat and sipped his own.

With a disgusted look, he said, “I know the aftermath of a rubber-hose session when I see one.”

“Well, you’re a cop. You’ve probably administered a few.”

He didn’t take offense; he didn’t even deny it. “Never to an innocent man.”

I laughed, and it hurt. “I been called a lot of things, but innocent?”

Cowley’s laugh was short and gruff, like he didn’t do it much. “More or less innocent, then. Was it cops?”

“Yeah. East Chicago boys, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Zarkovich and O’Neill?”

“Not personally. Zarkovich was behind it, I’m sure. Did he bring any men to town with him?”

The disgusted expression returned as he nodded. “A contingency of four, not counting him and his captain.”

“I didn’t get a very good look at the bastards who did this to me, but with that small a field to choose from, I might get lucky.”

“What was this about, Heller?”

I sighed. It hurt. “They wanted me out of commission. They weren’t trying to kill me or anything. Just hurt me bad enough to put me on the sidelines for a few days. Take me out of the action.” I sipped the coffee. It was hot, black, bitter; I liked it. “I’d served my purpose.”

“Which was?”

“To finger Dillinger for them. Specifically, to contact you guys. The feds.”

Cowley did a slow burn, like Edgar Kennedy. “Would you mind telling me the rest of it, in your view? I think I know most of it. But I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

“First, why don’t you tell what’s been going down on your end, where Mr. Dillinger’s concerned?”

He thought about that, then said, with finality and formality, “A few hours ago, in the lobby of my hotel — the Great Northern on Dearborn, to be exact — Melvin Purvis and I met with Martin Zarkovich.” It was like he was writing his field report. “We’ve set up a meeting with Anna Sage. For tonight.”

“And she’s going to give you Dillinger.”

“Apparently, yes.”

I thought about giving him Jimmy Lawrence’s Park Grove address. I thought about Frank Nitti telling me to stay in bed. I thought about the rubber hose swishing in the air.

I said, “I’m going to tell you what I think is going on here. It’s my best educated guess. And it’s just between you and me. Agreed?”

He nodded.

I told him, briefly, about the traveling salesman who’d come to me. About tailing Polly Hamilton and Jimmy Lawrence. About Anna Sage. Everything that led up to my seeing Purvis.

“And contacting Purvis was my function in this,” I said. “A private detective working on a domestic case who just happens to stumble onto Dillinger. Much better than an East Chicago cop like Zarkovich making first contact — the corruption on the East Chicago force makes the Chicago cops look like priests. You guys knew of Zarkovich’s reputation, and wouldn’t have liked the smell of this, if he’d initiated it. Yesterday you said straight out you’d rather deal with me than him, and that you liked the idea of having me — honest ol’ me — as an independent, outside, corroborating source.”

Cowley was nodding again, slowly. “No doubt about it. You gave the Dillinger story credibility.”

“Agreed. Now, anybody else in my shoes would’ve gone to Captain Stege, rather than Purvis. Stege has a solid name in this town, whereas Purvis’s been a joke since Little Bohemia. But my past differences with Stege — well known to just about everybody — made it easy to predict I wouldn’t go to him with the information. And if I had, I’d probably got tossed out on my ass.”

“You sound as if you think there’s a... conspiracy, here. That somebody consciously selected you for this. To put all this in motion.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know who selected me for my role. Piquett, probably. But it’s obvious who gave the go-ahead for the overall plan.”

“Who?”

I told him about my meeting with Nitti.

“If the Outfit wants Dillinger dead,” Cowley said, “why not just kill him, if they know where’s he hiding?”

“Well, they’ve obviously known that from the start. Nothing happens on the North Side that Frank Nitti doesn’t know about. And Dillinger’s hidden out on the North Side any number of times, over the course of a year.”

“Which would mean...”

“Which would mean he did so with Nitti’s knowledge — and, most likely, blessing.”

“You think Dillinger is connected to the Outfit, then.”

I shrugged. It hurt. “Only loosely. Only in the ways I outlined to Nitti. Baby Face Nelson is a former Capone torpedo, remember. They aren’t in the same organization, but they’re members of the same club.”

“Make your point.”

“Nitti made it: ‘It’s better for some people to be dead.’ Dillinger’s at the end of his string. But he’s got a reputation for not shooting it out with the cops, and after all his jailbreaks, security next time’ll be tight. Johnny won’t be doing any more crashing out.”

“Then it’s a simple case of ‘he knows too much.’”

I nodded. It hurt. “That’s why they wanted Purvis in on it. Because Purvis would agree to something Stege never would: to shoot Dillinger on sight. After all, your boss Hoover gave the go-ahead on that. Fuck capture. Kill him.”

Cowley looked bleakly into his coffee.

“It’s Syndicate all the way, Cowley. Anna Sage is a madam — and the Syndicate always has a piece of every brothel in any city of any size at all. Zarkovich has connections to the Capone crowd going back ten years, and is a bagman between the brothels and various crooks, some of ’em political, some of ’em Syndicate. Louis Piquett is in the Syndicate’s pocket, enough so to betray his own client, it would seem. Do I have to spell it out for you? Frank Nitti has set you up to kill Dillinger for him.”

Cowley’s face seemed impassive, but there was anger in his eyes. In his voice, too: “Why, damnit? Why don’t they just kill him themselves?”

“Why send a man when you can get a boy to do the job?”

“Don’t be cute.”

I gestured with one hand. It hurt. “That’s Nitti’s style. It’s the Cermak kill all over again. The world thinks a ‘demented bricklayer’ tried to kill FDR in Miami last year, and ‘accidentally’ killed the mayor of Chicago instead. But you and I know that Cermak and Nitti were blood enemies, and little Joe Zangara was a one-man Sicilian suicide squad, sent to take His Honor out. Which he did.”

Cowley said nothing; his face looked like it was made out of gray putty.

“Don’t stir up the heat, that’s Nitti’s motto. He learned the lesson early on that Capone learned too late — he learned how nervous the public gets when you go around having massacres on Saint Valentine’s Day. So let a would-be presidential assassin ‘miss’ and shoot ‘Ten Percent’ Tony Cermak instead. So let Melvin Purvis, G-man, courageously blow off John Dillinger’s head and make the kind of headlines the public’ll eat up.”

“You’ve made your point.”

“Not to mention how Dillinger’s outlaw cronies might react to one of their own being murdered by the mob; who needs a bloody shooting war breaking out with the likes of Baby Face Nelson and the Barker boys? That’s a battle Nitti could obviously win, but at a high cost — lives of his men, bad publicity — why bother risking it?”

“Enough, Heller.”

“Face it, Cowley. You’re being used.”

“Stop it.”

“Well, actually, it’s Purvis they’re using. He’s dependable. After all, Capone and Nitti used him to put Roger Touhy in Joliet, already.”

“Touhy was guilty.”

“Of a lot of things, but not the kidnapping you guys prosecuted him for.”

“I disagree.”

“It’s a free country, Cowley. You’re like the rest of us — operating of your own free will. It’s not like you’re a puppet or anything.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I know. But the way the Syndicate manipulates you feds is pretty funny. Do you really think Jelly Nash was ‘accidentally’ shot at the Kansas City Massacre? Sure — him and Mayor Cermak. Innocent victims.”

“You’re full of crap on a lot of this, Heller. You really are.”

“Maybe. But not on Dillinger. I’m on the money, there.”

Cowley’s coffee cup was empty; he held it by the china handle and tapped it nervously on the table. “Maybe you are. But it doesn’t make any difference.”

“It doesn’t?”

Cowley shook his head slowly. “Dillinger is public enemy number one. He has to be stopped. And where the information comes from that helps us stop him — whoever it is behind the scenes helping us get him — doesn’t matter. What matters, when you’re going after someone like Dillinger, is getting him. Nothing else.”

“I see. You don’t mind owing a debt of gratitude to Frank Nitti.”

“I don’t know that I do.”

“You heard what I said...”

Cowley grimaced. “Yes, and it makes a lot of sense. It just might be true. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Because Dillinger has caused your Division of Investigation so much grief, given you so much embarrassment, that you have to get him, whatever it costs.”

Cowley, with sadness in his eyes, said, “That’s exactly right.”

That’s when I decided not to give him Jimmy Lawrence’s address. That’s when I decided not to play, anymore. To do what Nitti wanted me to. To do what the East Chicago boys wanted me to. Stay home. Stay in bed.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Cowley said. He rose. “I’ll find my way out.”

He went out into the living room but then, suddenly, he was back in the doorway. With a small smile as inscrutable as a Chinaman’s, he said, “You just may be surprised how this turns out.”

“Why’s that, Cowley?”

“Purvis won’t be alone. I’ll be there, too, when we get Dillinger. And I’m not trigger-happy. And I’m also not inclined to keep deals with crooked cops who insist on me shooting the man they finger for me.

I smiled. It hurt. “You think you can take Dillinger alive?”

“I’m going to try. If Frank Nitti wants him dead, then Mr. Dillinger’s a man who may have some things I’d like to hear.”

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.

16

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.”

“Maybe Zarkovich can have his own plastic surgeons explain that: those ‘doctors’ from East Chicago who operated on me with a rubber hose.”

Short pause. “I don’t believe that to be true.”

“Sure you do.”

“I’ve got to go, Heller. Are you, uh, feeling any better?”

“A little, thanks.”

“Get some rest, why don’t you? Leave the police work to us.”

“Speaking of police work, how the hell did you get Captain Stege to go along with this cockeyed plan?”

Silence again.

“Cowley?”

“We see no reason to involve the Chicago police.”

“No reason to involve the Chicago police? In the capture of John Dillinger, in Chicago? Novel approach, Cowley. How’d you arrive at this?”

“Too many crooked cops,” he said, and didn’t sound too convinced himself. “Don’t want somebody on the inside to tip Dillinger off.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Cowley.”

“Why not?”

“If he heard about your plan, he wouldn’t believe it.”

Silence; then a grunt.

I grunted back and hung up.

I felt Sally’s cool hand on my shoulder and I glanced back at her.

“It’s going to happen tonight?” she said.

“I think so.”

“And it’s really Dillinger?”

“It’s really Dillinger.”

“Come to bed.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep anymore.”

“Who said anything about sleep?”

Well, I was definitely feeling better; but the effort was enough to tire me out, and I fell asleep again. By the time I woke it was getting dark out.

“What time is it?”

Sally, rousing herself beside me, looked over at her clock. “A little after six.”

“I’m sleeping my life away.”

“You’re just recuperating. Nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Who’s feeling guilty? Say, don’t you have a show tonight?”

“Yeah — gotta leave in an hour or so.”

I threw the covers off. “Let’s go in the other room and listen to the radio till then.”

We sat in the living room and listened to WGN, which was broadcast out of this very hotel; Wayne King the Waltz King bored us till the news came on. The hot spell, and the deaths by heat prostration, was the big story.

“When did you change your mind?” Sally said.

“About what?”

“This guy not being Dillinger. Didn’t you think it wasn’t Dillinger, at first?”

I shrugged. “I just wasn’t sure. He looked a little like Dillinger. But not exactly like him.”

“Then why do you now think this is Dillinger?”

“Because Frank Nitti wants him dead.”

“I thought you said Dillinger and the Boys were friendly.”

“Well, they used to be, before Dillinger’s fun and games started bringing the heat down on ’em.”

“Would they kill a friend?”

“Anytime, sugar.”

“But why would his own lawyer betray him?”

“Piquett? Money. Fear of reprisal from his other, more powerful client... those Boys you mentioned.”

“It seems to me the lawyer and the Boys might try to find a way to get rid of Dillinger without killing him. Like shipping him off to Mexico or something.”

“No, honey, he’s just too famous for that. As long as he’s alive, they’d keep looking for...”

I thought a minute.

Sally said, “Something wrong?”

I said, “Don’t you get tired of being smarter than me?” and got up. Went back into the bedroom and dressed.

She stood in the doorway and watched me. She was still in the lounging pajamas, and lounged against the door.

“What did I say?” she asked.

“You said this guy might not be Dillinger,” I said.

“And?”

“And he might not be.”

I kissed her on the cheek and left, moving faster than the pain.

17

A large homemade map of the Marbro Theater and its surrounding area, grease pencil on butcher paper, was pinned to the wall behind Cowley’s desk, which was in the opposite corner from Purvis’ currently empty one. A dozen or so agents in shirt sleeves and shoulder holsters were milling around the big open office, some of them sitting on the edges of desks, many of them smoking, the electric fans pushing the smoke around. Windows were open to let smoke out and let the cool night air in, only there wasn’t any cool air, just night. The college-boy agents had been here most of the day, waiting for Anna Sage to call.

I pulled up a chair, tossed my hat on the desk. My suitcoat, which I’d been lugging over my shoulder, I draped across my lap. “No call yet?”

Cowley’s gray face lifted from the cup of coffee he’d been staring into; his expression was one of frustration, but his eyes were just plain weary. He was in shirt sleeves and striped tie and shoulder holster.

“Worse than that,” he said. “She did call.”

“Hell! When?”

“A little after five.”

“What’s happened since then?”

He swallowed some coffee. “Nothing much yet. We had to send somebody over to the Biograph.”

“The Biograph? Why?”

Heavy sigh. “When she called she said Dillinger was there, at her apartment, and that they’d be leaving in five minutes — for either the Marbro or the Biograph. She wasn’t sure which.”

“Shit. The Biograph. That’s some wild card to get played this late in the game. What did you do?”

He told me. He’d quickly sent two men to the Biograph on the North Side to reconnoiter; they’d returned with notes on entrances and exits. A special agent had accompanied Zarkovich to the Marbro; and Purvis and another agent were staking out the Biograph. Each pair was to have one of its men phone in every few minutes with a report.

That had been an hour and a half ago.

“That’s a long five minutes,” I said, “especially if they’re going to the Biograph, walking from Anna’s apartment — the theater’s just around the corner from there, you know.”

“I know,” Cowley said glumly.

“Looks like it’s not going down tonight.”

“Looks like.”

“Just as well.”

“Why?”

“I’ve had some second thoughts about whether Jimmy Lawrence is really Dillinger.”

Cowley sighed again and looked upward, as if he would’ve thrown his arms in the air, if he’d had the energy. “You’re not going into that old song and dance again. What does it take to convince you, Heller?”

“Quite a bit, before I go pulling a trigger on a guy.”

“We’re not pulling a trigger on anybody — not unless he forces us to. And if it isn’t Dillinger, we’ll straighten it out after we’ve made the collar.”

“I thought you were going to supervise this yourself and make sure nobody got trigger-happy. Being a trained detective, I can tell right away you’re here sitting at a desk.”

He patted the air with his free hand, as he sipped his coffee. “I will supervise the capture. Don’t worry about that. When they spot Dillinger, I’ll be called and go straight to whichever theater it is.”

“They won’t take him as they see him go in?”

“Probably not.”

“Probably not?”

“With only two men at each site, we’d prefer to wait till our entire contingent has converged on the one correct theater.”

“Then what? Take him after he’s inside the dark theater?”

“Possibly. But only if there’s an open seat behind him and we could grab him from behind.”

I shook my head. “Not in this heat. There isn’t an empty seat in any air-cooled movie house in town, tonight.”

Cowley shrugged with his eyebrows. “Then we take him when he comes out.”

“Anna and Polly are with him?”

“The Sage woman and Miss Hamilton, yes.”

“Is Polly in on it?”

“We’ve been dealing with Mrs. Sage.”

“You mean Purvis has. You haven’t even met her.”

He scratched the side of his head, where it went from brown to gray. Didn’t look at me. “That’s right. But it’s not pertinent.”

“I think you should be very careful, if this does fall into place tonight. Particularly if you’re planning to let the East Chicago boys come along. Will they be a part of your ‘contingent’? All six of ’em?”

Stone-faced, Cowley just looked at me; then, slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.

I said, “Zarkovich is at the Marbro, I know. The rest of them, where are they now?”

Sarcasm etched itself into the corners of his eyes. “In our conference room down the hall, with some of my men, having sandwiches. Why, is there somebody you’d like to talk to?”

“Your conference room,” I said, my aches and pains suddenly coming back to me. “They ought to be comfortable, there. Isn’t that where you guys do your own rubber-hose work, and hang guys out the window till they talk and such?”

Cowley didn’t like that. But he just said, “That’s not the way we do things. Maybe it’s different in East Chicago.”

“So I hear. Anyway, be careful tonight, if you decide to go to the movies. Because the Outfit may be providing you with a fall guy for the main feature.”

“A fall guy.”

“A patsy. A ringer.”

He made a dry disgusted tch-tch sound. “And you think that would fool us. You think we could be fooled.”

“Well, Purvis could. He has been before.”

“Don’t start again, Heller...”

I shrugged elaborately, and it only hurt a little. “Hey, it’s your job on the line, not mine. Just don’t forget that you’re following through on something put in motion by Dillinger’s own lawyer.”

He swatted at the air with one thick hand, like my thoughts were flies. “That doesn’t mean anything. Piquett just double-crossed him, is all.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re falling in line with Piquett and doing Dillinger a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Getting him declared dead.”

Cowley, not a man given to smirks, smirked. “And what does John Dillinger do, once he’s ‘dead’? Disappear in thin air?”

“With the accumulated loot from his various bank jobs, sure. He could buy a fucking island.”

Cowley winced at “fucking.” He just didn’t like that kind of language; I knew he didn’t — that’s why I said it. Anything, to light a match under his Mormon butt.

“You’re a good man, Cowley,” I said. “Don’t get taken in.”

“Your confidence in me is an inspiration, Heller.”

The phone on his desk jangled and he grabbed it, the weariness in his face replaced with urgency.

Then his face fell, while at the same time he sat erect, as he said crisply, “No, sir. No developments... yes sir, immediately, sir... yes, sir, I quite agree. We’d reached that conclusion ourselves... yes, sir.”

He hung up.

“Hoover?” I said.

Cowley nodded. “He’s been calling every few minutes. From his home in Washington, D.C. Pacing his library, I gather.”

“This is a make-or-break moment for you guys.”

“Yes, and Hoover knows it. He was just vetoing the notion of taking Dillinger within the theater, by the way. He wants no gunplay in a crowded auditorium.”

“It occurs to me this sudden possible switch from the Marbro to the Biograph is a trifle suspicious.”

“Oh, really,” he said, with flat, almost disinterested skepticism. “Why is that?”

“It allows you to plan for one theater all day, and then pulls the rug out from under you at the last minute... besides scattering your forces between the two locations.”

Cowley counted on his fingers, as if explaining to a child. “First of all, we’ll have time to converge on whichever theater it is, before we take him, and that includes the two men currently covering whichever theater proves to have been a false alarm. Second, your suspicions only hold true if they go to the second theater, the Biograph, because we’ve had ample opportunity to scout the Marbro.”

“What’s playing?”

That threw him. “What?”

“What pictures are playing?”

Cowley rolled his eyes. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“You got a Sunday paper up here?”

He sighed heavily, called one of the college boys over. Told him to get me the movie listings from one of the Sunday papers. The college boy did, looking like a kid playing guns with that .38 slung heavily under his arm.

I spread the paper open on Cowley’s desk and pointed to the Marbro listing. “See what’s opening today? Little Miss Marker. Shirley Temple. Now look at the Biograph.” I pointed there. “Manhattan Melodrama. A gangster picture.”

Cowley tried to act like he didn’t get my point, but he did.

I told him anyway. “Whether it’s Dillinger or not, my guess is he’s going to the Biograph. The other’s a kid’s picture, and they’d have to go to the West Side, something like nine miles, to see it. Of course if he’s the kind of guy who’d rather sleep with Shirley Temple than Myrna Loy, my thinking here could be all wet.”

The sexual allusion to Miss Temple didn’t sit well with the good Mormon Cowley. He looked irritated. And he looked weary again. Particularly with me. “I don’t think you have business here, Mr. Heller. Why don’t you leave this to the government?”

“Good idea,” I said. “I’m in the mood for some relaxation, anyway.”

I stood up; put on my hat. Slung my suitcoat over my shoulder casually.

“Think I’ll take in a show,” I said, smiled, and let him do his Edgar Kennedy slow burn behind me.

18

The theater marquee was pulsing with little white bulbs in sockets, lined in rows and curlicues above and around the name on the front, Essaness, in cursive letters, and below, boldly in block letters:

On either side of the marquee, more rows of bulbs in sockets called attention to the featured attraction:

Below the marquee a dark blue banner with light blue letters hung; on the sides, under the featured attraction billing, it said iced fresh air; and in front it said:

The promise of cool air, as much as Clark Gable (and William Powell and Myrna Loy), accounted for the steady stream of people going in the theater. It was now 8:00 P.M. and the next show would start at 8:30. Couples, families and the occasional single man or woman approached the Biograph box office, a central glass booth, bought their tickets and went in to wait in the cool lobby and buy some popcorn and Coca-Cola.

Otherwise there wasn’t much activity on the street. The muggy night — overseen by an unreal, orange-tinted sky that seemed just as Hollywood as the Biograph marquee — was untouched by a lake breeze. Occasional traffic found its way down Lincoln Avenue, but no cool air. Not unless it slipped out of the doors opening and closing as people went in and out of the Biograph.

There were a few people around. Folks living in second-story apartments above shops along the street had their windows open and many were leaning out, wondering where the hell Chicago’s famous lake wind had gone to. The tavern next to the theater was open, Goetz’s Country Club, and a soda fountain down the block, and a few other places. None of the shops, outside of those selling orange juice or ice cream or the like, was open. Some younger people, in their teens and twenties, were out wandering, window-shopping, boys in shirt sleeves, girls in light summery dresses. Sometimes they were paired off, but more often a trio or quartet of girls giggled along, often followed by a similar number of swaggering boys. Even the heat couldn’t put a stop to mating rites. If anything it encouraged them.

Oh, and I was there. Having gone high-hat by cabbing it from the Drake to the Banker’s Building, I hoofed it from the latter to my office, where I got my Chevy and headed for the North Side, specifically Lincoln Avenue. I had thought about going up to my office for my automatic; but that seemed to be asking for trouble. There would be too many people at the Biograph tonight with guns without my adding to the arsenal.

I’d parked on the same side of the street as the Biograph, just to the right of the mouth of an alley. The marquee was glowing just down the street; between me and it was a grocery store, on the alley corner, and past that the tavern next to the theater. As I got out of my car, it occurred to me that just a few blocks down was the garage where the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre had taken place. Small world.

I fell behind a family, father and mother and a boy of about ten and a girl of about eight — on a summer, non-school night, and in heat like this, parents taking their kids out this late wasn’t unusual — and was just passing the Goetz Country Club tavern when I noticed an ostentatious-looking car, a gray-and-black Pierce Arrow, parked along the curb. I looked down through the open window.

Melvin Purvis was behind the wheel.

He was lighting a cigarette with a hand that was shaking; just a little, but shaking. He wore a jaunty straw hat and blue sports coat. He looked like he should have a debutante next to him. Instead he had in the rider’s seat one of those college-boy agents from the Banker’s Building, who was now looking at me with wide, somehow frightened eyes.

I held my palms up and out, chest-high, and smiled a little.

Looking past his college-boy companion and out at me, Purvis, cigarette lit now, frowned like a housewife whose cake just fell, and motioned at me. I went around on his side and leaned against the car and smiled in at him.

“Hello, Melvin,” I said.

“What the hell are you doing here, Heller?” He squeezed off each word, his Southern accent vanished. His speech pattern reminded me of Walter Winchell’s, at least at that moment it did.

“Just thought I should check in with you, since I was in the neighborhood,” I said cheerfully. “Just for the record, I’m not Dillinger.”

His mouth fell open a little and his eyes glowed like the tip of his cigarette, which dangled from his mouth forgotten.

“I just thought I should point that out,” I said. “I’m in no mood to get shot.”

“You’re interfering with a government job, Heller. Get lost.”

“It’s a free country, Melvin. I thought I might take in the show.”

He glanced over at his companion and his Southern drawl suddenly replaced the clipped Winchell tone. “Agent Brown,” he said, “why don’t you accompany Mr. Heller from the premises.”

I leaned in and stared right into Purvis’ startled face and smiled; I could smell Sen-Sen on his breath. “Send him on out. I never broke a government agent’s arm before.”

“Are you threatening—”

“Promising. Promising a scene bigger than any that ever played that movie house. Want to risk blowing your stakeout over that?”

He bit the words off: “Go to the movie then. Go to hell.”

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind standing out here and watching the parade of humanity go by. A detective can always learn something by studying people, you know.”

He looked over at Agent Brown. “Get in the back seat.” Brown did that, and Purvis looked at me; his face looked more than ever like the chiseled kisser of a ventriloquist’s dummy — when he spoke, I was almost surprised my lips didn’t move. He said, “Get in on the rider’s side, Heller. If you’re going to be around, at least you can be under my watchful eye.”

“I know I’ll sleep better tonight for it,” I said.

He jerked with this thumb. “Go around and get in.”

I did.

“Nice car, Melvin,” I said.

“Shut up and don’t bother me.” He was intently studying each passerby. His technique was as subtle as a guy in the front row at a State Street burlesque house.

“Say, uh... Melvin?”

Without looking at me, he snapped, “What?”

“You’re going to burn yourself.”

Then he looked at the cigarette in his fingers, burned down to the point where it would soon sizzle against his skin, and nervously jumped, flicked it out the window.

“Melvin,” I said, suddenly feeling a little sorry for him. “Calm down. Take it easy.”

He looked at me expecting sarcasm, didn’t see any, sighed a little, nodded, and kept looking. He was wearing, in addition to that navy-blue sports jacket with white buttons, white slacks and white shoes. He had a white hanky in his sports jacket pocket; the initials MHP showed. He was as immaculately groomed as Frank Nitti, albeit in an Ivy League manner foreign to Al Capone’s successor.

But he was sweating like a wop; that much they had in common.

He glanced at me, and, in a peacemaking gesture, said, “Would you like a cigarette?”

“No thanks.”

It was 8:15 now. Agent Brown got out to use the phone in the tavern to call Cowley and report no sign yet of John Dillinger.

“Melvin?”

“Yes?”

“I stopped by the Banker’s Building.”

He nodded. “Cowley mentioned it when we called in, a while back.”

“Did he say I might stop by?”

He nodded again. “Advised we keep an eye out for you.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

“No.”

“While you’re watching the folks pass by, mind if I tell you a little story?”

“I suppose not.”

And I told him how Frank Nitti had, in collaboration with Louis Piquett and Anna Sage and Sgt. Martin Zarkovich, put a man they called Dillinger on the spot. Set him up for execution.

Purvis was remarkably calm as I told him this.

“Much of what you say seems reasonable,” he said. “And, in truth, Sam Cowley did run some of this by me the other day. He admitted to me that his reaction to your... suppositions... was that we didn’t care where we got help in capturing this felon. I personally don’t believe the end justifies the means; but neither do I think one can work this side of the street without stepping in something occasionally.”

I didn’t know what to say to that; so I didn’t.

Purvis continued, all the while watching people stroll up to the Biograph box office to buy tickets. “What I don’t understand is your implication that the man we’re stalking tonight may not actually be Dillinger.”

“I’m not saying that’s the case,” I said. “Just a possibility. Frank Nitti’s pulled scams like this before.”

“It would be outrageous for Nitti and Piquett and company to dream they could get away with such a thing. I can’t believe they’d try.”

“You can protect yourself, in any event.”

He looked away from the people on the street, momentarily, and his eyes met mine. “How?”

“Don’t shoot Jimmy Lawrence tonight; and don’t let anyone else do it, either.”

His mouth made a tiny twitch and his eyes flickered and he looked back at the street, where people continued to approach the box office.

“Melvin,” I said. “What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?”

Brown wasn’t back yet from phoning in to Cowley. Purvis glanced toward the tavern to make sure he wasn’t on his way back yet; and then, with an exaggerated air of confidentiality, he said, “I will admit something to you... Sergeant Zarkovich and Captain O’Neill — neither sterling examples of law enforcement, I’ll grant you — took me to one side this afternoon.” He paused; puffed his latest cigarette.

“And?”

He exhaled. “He — Zarkovich, that is — told me that he wanted to go up to Dillinger, after the movie was over, and... blow his brains out, from behind.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I was. I told them I’d put up with no such thing — but they were of the opinion that, having brought Anna Sage to us, the least we could do for them is allow them to ‘finish him off.’ Naturally I refused.”

“Naturally.”

“So I want you to know I’m not taking what you’ve said lightly, Heller. There will be no gunplay, unless initiated by the suspect. But if Dillinger offers any resistance, each man will be for himself. It will be up to each individual to do whatever he thinks necessary to protect himself in taking this man.”

“But that’s only if Lawrence, or Dillinger or whoever he is, pulls a gun.”

Purvis nodded curtly. “There will be no executions under my aegis.”

Well, that sounded good and it sounded fancy, but I wasn’t convinced. Oh, Purvis was not a bad man; he was a little pompous, and he was certainly in over his head. But he wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t a coward — his being nervous like this didn’t make him a coward, just human. Still, I remembered the dead civilians at Little Bohemia, which took place under his “aegis,” too. And I had the feeling he — and even good Mormon Cowley — had not really vetoed the Zarkovich plan to blow Dillinger’s brains out. Nor did I think Zarkovich’s plan had been first proposed this afternoon; clearly it had been a part of the package since before a troubled Cowley first turned up at my office, Friday.

I was afraid that Melvin felt he could contain both Lawrence/Dillinger, and Zarkovich. That he could control the situation. He’d had to humor Zarkovich, because Zarkovich was his contact man with Anna Sage; he needed to keep the East Chicago cop happy. But, like Frank Buck, he intended to bring ‘em back alive.

And I just didn’t think Melvin was up to the job.

Brown came back.

He said, “Inspector Cowley says call every fifteen minutes instead of five, from now on.”

“I take it,” Purvis said, “there’s no sign of our man at the Marbro?”

“None,” Brown said.

“If he shows up anywhere,” I said, “it’ll be here. We’re just around the corner from Anna’s.”

“I know,” Purvis snapped. “Damn. Where are they? It’s been almost four hours...”

Brown said, “I think the inspector’s on the verge of giving up the ghost.”

I said, “I think they’re playing with you. Getting you worn out and frazzled. I think it will happen. Tonight.”

“So do I,” Purvis whispered, wide-eyed, and he pointed.

A man in a straw hat, gold-rimmed glasses, a striped white shirt, gray tie and gray pants walked along flanked by two attractive women. One of the women, walking along on the outside, was Polly Hamilton. She was wearing a tan skirt, white blouse and white open-toe sandals; she was beaming, and looked pretty as a summer’s day — or anyway, night.

The other woman arm in arm with Jimmy Lawrence, walking on the inside, also smiling but more restrainedly, was heavier set but still attractive, and wore a white hat and a two-piece burnt-orange bouclé suit. When the lights of the marquee hit her, Anna Sage’s dress seemed almost to glow, and seemed more red than orange.

Blood red.

19

By five minutes after nine, the rest of the agents had arrived. They parked their cars along North Lincoln Avenue and its side streets and took their positions. Melvin Purvis stood in the recessed area at the right of the box office, near a display case of stills from Manhattan Melodrama. Three more agents were staggered along the street, starting at the left of the box office and continuing on down by Biograph Billiards — though it seemed unlikely the Anna Sage party would head that direction upon exiting the theater, her apartment being the opposite way. Milling about the front of the theater were five men; a couple of them I figured to be East Chicago cops. A couple more agents hovered around the tavern that was next to the theater, a couple more in front of the grocery that was next to the tavern, on the corner by the alley; and seven men were stationed in the alley itself — including three who climbed a fire escape there, to get a bead on their man from above should he flee down the alley. And that did make sense, as the alley was a shortcut to Anna Sage’s.

Just on the other side of the alley, near where I’d parked my coupe, was a man I’d never met, but who was pointed out to me as Capt. Tim O’Neill of East Chicago. A dissipated-looking old copper with black-rimmed glasses and a pockmarked puss.

I viewed this from across the street, where Cowley held down a command post under a streetlamp; several other agents roamed Lincoln Avenue, on this side of the street, among them lady-killer Zarkovich, dressed tonight in a natty black suit and a straw hat, smoking an occasional cigarette in the black holder.

Cowley wasn’t pleased to see me.

“Stay on this side of the street,” he said, pointing a thick finger at me.

“That’s fine with me,” I said. I was the only one of these men not wearing his suitcoat. “I’m unarmed. I’m not interested in Wild West shows.”

Cowley slammed a fist into his hand. “This isn’t going to be any damn Wild West show! Understood?”

“Understood,” I said. “I just hope this cavalry you got riding circles around the fort understands, too.”

With quiet exasperation, Cowley made a motion with two hands like an umpire calling a guy “safe” — only that wasn’t Cowley’s meaning, in my case. He said, “Just stay out of the way. And stay out of this.”

“He isn’t armed, you know.”

“What?”

“I saw him go in. He doesn’t have a coat on. If he’s got a gun, it’s up his ass.”

“I don’t like that kind of talk. You’re crude, Mr. Heller.”

“It’s a rough old world, ain’t it.” I walked away and leaned up against the side of a building, by a barber pole.

Zarkovich, between smokes, wandered up to me; he was just tall enough to be able to look down on me, and I’m six foot. He said, “Warm night, Heller.”

“Getting warmer all the time.”

He had his hands in his pockets; his gold watch chain was showing. He smiled broadly but didn’t show any teeth. Rocked gently on his heels. Said, “I thought you were out of this.”

“Someday I’ll get you and your friends alone and demonstrate the superiority of a piece of lead pipe over a similar length of rubber hose.”

His smile drifted to one side of his face. “Whatever could you mean?”

I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t smiling.

He said, “I overheard Cowley giving you some advice. About staying back, and staying out. That’s good advice. Why not take it?”

“I probably will. I figure you’d like nothing more than for me to catch a stray bullet.”

“Oh, there’s a few things in this life I’d like more than that.” He nodded to himself, as if trying to list them mentally; it was a short list. “A few,” he added, then wandered down and sat in a car parked opposite where his buddy O’Neill was standing by the alley. Occasionally he smoked a cigarette in the black holder.

Across the way, standing by the glass case of movie stills, Purvis was fiddling with a cigar, but not lighting it. Lighting it was supposed to be his signal for recognizing Dillinger.

He claimed he’d recognized Lawrence as Dillinger immediately, when Lawrence walked by arm in arm with Anna and Polly. He’d said to me, and Agent Brown in the back seat, “That’s him. One glimpse tells me everything I need to know.”

“It does?” I asked him.

“It does,” he said, “I’ve studied every available picture of John Dillinger. You couldn’t miss it, if you’d studied that face as much as I have. Just looking at the back of his head I can tell it’s him...”

At this point Dillinger had been buying three tickets from the girl in the box-office window, while Anna and Polly chatted, waiting.

“How many pictures of the back of Dillinger’s head are there?” I asked Purvis, but he didn’t bother answering.

Shortly after Dillinger held the door open for his ladies and went in, so had Purvis. And so had I. He sent Brown to telephone Cowley, and asked me — actually asked me — to help him check out the theater. We’d bought tickets from the girl in the glass booth (no one at the theater had been alerted to the stakeout) and went on into the lobby, where the cool air and the smell of popcorn greeted us. There were a few people at the concession stand — Lawrence/Dillinger not among them, nor either of his ladies. We went into the auditorium, one of us on either aisle, and I began to wish I had brought my gun. The air in here was cooler than the lobby, almost cold. It was very dark. The heads of theater patrons were craned up looking at the silver screen where Mickey Mouse danced with some farm animals and spoke in a squeaky voice that reminded me a little of Purvis.

Virtually every seat in the house was taken.

We met in the lobby.

“Did you spot ’em?” he asked me.

“No. You?”

He shook his head. “I’d hoped to find them, and three empty seats behind ’em.”

“You know what people in hell want.”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t mind some, either,” he said, and he went to a drinking fountain and gulped several mouthfuls. When he was done I did the same. Then we headed back out to the hot street, and waited for the reinforcements to arrive.

That was the last active role I’d been asked to play here thus far, and would likely remain so.

Now the street seemed filled with men in hats and suitcoats, when before the majority of pedestrians and motorists were in shirt sleeves and, if any hat, caps. The agents stood out like a battalion of sore thumbs. I watched the girl in the box-office window, a pretty little blonde barely out of her teens. She looked scared.

I ambled up to Cowley.

Without looking at me, he said, “What do you want?”

I said, “The girl in the box office is getting spooked. Why don’t you let her in on it?”

“Mind your own business, Heller.”

“She thinks you’re a bunch of hoods, probably. And where the East Chicago boys are concerned, she’s not far wrong. Anyway, she probably thinks she’s about to be robbed. Several theaters have been robbed, these past few months, you know.”

“I wouldn’t know. That isn’t a federal offense.”

“Nice to know you guys stay so on top of things. Best of luck in all your future endeavors, Cowley.” I faded back to my spot by the barber pole.

In a few minutes I saw the girl in her glass booth furtively talking to a man in a white shirt and a bow tie and a mustache: the manager, no doubt. He was nodding, and then rushed off. None of the feds picked up on it.

Within five minutes a blue sedan with CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT in white letters on the sides pulled up; there were two cops inside. Neither had their blue coats on — because of the scorching heat, the cops had been allowed to work out of uniform this week, just wearing their caps and blue pants with blue blouses with badges pinned to their chests. These boys, obviously from the nearby Sheffield Avenue Station, looked tough and suspicious, and one of them hopped out, clutching a shotgun.

Zarkovich ran up to him before the cop had reached the sidewalk.

“This is a federal stakeout, mac,” Zarkovich said. “On your way.”

The Chicago cop didn’t take kindly to that, but a more diplomatic Cowley interceded, showed the cop his ID, and affirmed that this was a federal stakeout.

“We’d appreciate it if you’d remove yourself from the vicinity,” Cowley said, “before you blow our cover.”

The cop made a face. “Yeah, right. They’ll never spot you guys in those suits. Oh, brother!”

And he got in the squad car and they rolled away.

I went up to Cowley and said, “You might’ve told them it was Dillinger.”

Cowley said, “Chief Purvis is insistent on no Chicago cops. Anna Sage is deathly afraid some insider with the police will tip Dillinger off.”

“At this stage, how, exactly? Mental telepathy?”

Cowley glared at me, and I went over and leaned against the building by the barber pole. I was tempted to go across and get in my coupe and drive away. I was helpless to do anything about this situation; I could only hope my presence would be a reminder, a nagging one, to both Cowley and Purvis, of their responsibilities. That both of them would rein in on the East Chicago cops more, if I were around; that they’d both work a little harder at keeping their prisoner alive. I had told Cowley I wasn’t his “conscience.” Now I found myself somehow hoping I was.

The night wore on; I wasn’t sweating much, but I didn’t have a coat on like the rest of these jokers. Most of them looked drenched. Across the street sweat beads hung on Purvis’ face like the tears of a bawling baby. He wiped his face now and then, with that monogrammed hanky, but the sweat popped right back. Every now and then he’d take his revolver out and see if it was loaded; every time, it was.

Then a little after ten-thirty, by my watch, people started to come out of the theater. They didn’t stream out: Nobody was anxious to trade the cool interior of the Biograph for the sweltering Chicago night.

And through the milling crowd I could see Jimmy Lawrence emerge, with a woman on either arm. Polly and Anna. And he was hemmed in by the crowd, men, women and children. He seemed to be rather near Purvis and the display of movie stills. He seemed to glance at Purvis, and then glance away. I wondered if Melvin’s shorts were dry, after that.

Then the crowd, getting reluctantly used to the heat again, began to disperse, some of them getting into autos parked along Lincoln Avenue, others crossing the street toward me (and Cowley and crew), some turning left, others turning right, down the sidewalk.

These people allowed the feds in their suitcoats to blend in better, simply because there was something to blend in with. But since Lawrence/Dillinger was back in the recessed area between the box office and the display case of movie stills, few of the agents had spotted him, and those of us across the street, with a relatively good vantage point, couldn’t see all the agents, now. I did notice several who were giving some good-looking girls in the crowd the eye. They’d apparently had Biology, these college-boy feds.

Gradually the field cleared a bit and Jimmy Lawrence, arm in arm with his ladies, one of whom wore a dress that glowed red in the bath of marquee lighting, stepped out onto the sidewalk.

And a nervous Melvin Purvis tried three times to light his cigar with a match, by way of signal, and on the fourth succeeded.

From my vantage point I saw it all go down.

The agents closed in on him, like flies swarming on a single drop of honey. He didn’t see them. He walked slowly, as if strolling on a Sunday afternoon (and this was Sunday, although later than that, particularly for him), past the tavern, past the grocery store, and just at the alley Zarkovich, who’d jumped from his parked car and run across the street, where traffic was at the moment nil, shoved Lawrence or Dillinger or whoever the hell he was face-first to the pavement, flinging him out of the grasp of the two women, who fell away immediately, or at least Anna did, pulling Polly back by the arm as Zarkovich fired and someone else, O’Neill I think, fired from the other side of the prone man, fired down into the man while he, whoever he was, lay half in the alley, headfirst in the alley, rest of him on the sidewalk, and took the shots in the back and in the back of the neck, his body jerking, flopping, like a fish on the beach.

I ran across the street; several cars screeched to a stop, not to avoid hitting me, but because they’d heard gunfire and screams.

The screams hadn’t come from Lawrence, but from two women; in a bizarre piece of slapstick, both of them were holding their dresses up over their legs, where blood streamed from ricochet wounds. One of them collapsed near my coupe, by the time I crossed the street. A man bent to help her.

The body of the man who’d been shot was surrounded, too, by the agents and East Chicago cops; when they broke their circle, they had turned the body over and it held a .38 automatic in its slack dead hand. I pushed my way through the already building crowd (“Dillinger has been killed! They got John Dillinger!”). Got a closer look.

His face was gouged by two slashing bullet wounds; his eyes were open and empty. His shattered eyeglasses hung cockeyed across the bridge of his nose; his straw hat was still on his head, the brim bent back with a bullet hole angled through it. I leaned over him and touched the face, looked into the face.

A hand on my shoulder pulled me back. It belonged to Zarkovich.

“Get away from there, Heller!”

Another hand from behind me yanked me into the alley. People were coming down the alley toward the body; their feet clomped, echoing on the cobblestones.

But two others were running down that alley, away from the scene, hand in hand, like schoolgirls.

Anna and Polly.

I walked back toward the gathering crowd. This was Dillinger, they said; they got Dillinger. Women were kneeling, dipping their hankies and even the hems of their skirts into the pool of the man’s blood. Souvenir hunters.

Then Purvis was in their midst; he was angry.

“Get away!” he said. “Get away!”

They scrambled away, like rats in dresses, clutching their bloody booty. Purvis had frightened them, because he had a gun in his hand, and his coat was open, the buttons torn away when he reached for the revolver, going after Dillinger. But he hadn’t fired the gun.

Zarkovich and O’Neill had done all the shooting.

Cowley appeared from somewhere and was directing his men to cordon the body off.

“Keep these damn ghouls away!” Cowley ordered.

I approached the body again and looked down at it. Purvis and Cowley were there with me. They glanced at each other, then looked at me. They actually seemed embarrassed.

“I wanted to take him alive,” Purvis said, “but he pulled a gun.”

Cowley nodded, pointed down to the gun in the corpse’s slack hand. “You can see it right there.”

Purvis knelt over the body; with both him and the dead man wearing straw hats, Purvis seemed to be looking down at a ghastly mirror image. “It’s Dillinger, all right. No doubt about it. But it’s amazing the extent of plastic surgery he underwent. All the distinguishing marks on his features have been worked over. It was a good job the surgeon did.”

“Check his pockets,” Cowley said.

Purvis did. He found $7.80 and a gold watch.

Purvis held out the $7.80 in the palm of one hand, and said, “So much for the fruit of crime.”

Cowley took the watch; popped it open. There was a picture inside. He showed it to Purvis.

Purvis said, “That’s Dillinger’s old sweetie, Evelyn Frechette. No doubt about it.”

Cowley nodded.

I took a look at it. The picture was of Polly Hamilton. I didn’t say anything.

A couple of Chicago uniform cops, in blue shirts with badges pinned on, pushed through the crowd.

“So this is John Dillinger,” one of them said, looking down at the corpse.

Purvis said, “Yes it is. Uh... what do we do now?”

The two cops looked at each other. Then they looked at Purvis.

“Who’s in charge here?” one of the cops asked.

“I am,” Purvis and Cowley said.

The Chicago cops shook their heads and one of them said, “I’ll call a meat wagon.”

In minutes it was there, and the dead man was put on a stretcher and slung in back of the wagon; Purvis rode with him, with several other feds. Cowley stayed behind. The crowd remained thick. I pushed through toward my parked Chevy.

In the midst of the crowd, by the tavern, I bumped up against a big guy in a fedora. The tavern’s neon turned his face orange. He had a bandage across his nose. I gave him the hardest kidney punch I could muster.

“Oooofff,” he said, and hit the pavement. People were walking on him.

I kicked him in the ribs, while he was down there, and another East Chicago cop, a guy with a puffy face — courtesy Barney Ross — came pushing through the crowd, having seen what I did, and he swung at me and hit some woman in the side of the head. A barrel-chested man with her, her husband I guess, said, “Hey!” And smacked the East Chicago cop in the face a couple of times.

The crowd was such that it didn’t go further than that — no fight ensued or anything; and I was to my coupe, with a small sense of satisfaction in having somewhat settled a score.

But as I pulled away from the Biograph theater, I felt sick to my stomach, and vaguely ashamed. I’d seen this happening, and I hadn’t been able to stop it. Maybe I wasn’t smart enough or brave enough or tough enough. I must’ve been lacking something.

Because a man had died tonight. A man I had, in a roundabout way at least, fingered.

I’d got my first good close-up look at Jimmy Lawrence tonight, when I’d held his dead head in my hands.

And he’d looked less like John Dillinger close up than at a distance.

But he had looked real dead.

20

By a quarter till midnight, I was sitting at my desk in my office in the dark. Neon pulsed through the half-open windows in tempo with the rubber-hose aches and pains that had started in again, now that Sally’s last round of aspirins had worn off. I’d considered stopping in at Barney’s Cocktail Lounge for another sort of painkiller, but was in the sort of black mood that drinking would only turn blacker.

This was the first I’d been back to the office since I took that beating. Barney had cleaned the place up; everything was in order. What did I have to complain about? I had the world’s lightweight champ for a personal valet.

My mouth was trying to remember how to smile when the phone rang.

“Yeah?” I said.

“Nate?”

It was Sally.

“Hi, Helen.”

“I thought maybe you might’ve gone back to your office...”

“Where are you calling from? Didn’t you have a show tonight?”

“Yes — I’m calling from backstage. I tried to get you at my suite, thinking you’d be back there by now... I did give you a key, didn’t I?”

“You did. I just didn’t think I’d be very good company the rest of the night.”

“I understand.”

“You do, Helen?”

“Yes.” A pause. “People are saying John Dillinger was shot.”

“Christ, word travels fast in this town.”

“It’s true, then.”

“Somebody was shot, yeah.”

“Were you there?”

“I was there. I saw it.”

She didn’t say anything right back, and I could hear the Café de la Paix orchestra playing “Whoopee” in the background, Paul Whiteman style.

Then: “I’m going to take a taxi home in about fifteen minutes, Nate. Why don’t you head over to the Drake and meet me?”

“I don’t think I better.”

“We could talk...”

“I don’t think I have any talk left.”

“I’d like to help.”

“If anybody could, it’s you. Tomorrow.”

Another pause; another bride, another groom...

“Tomorrow,” she said.

And hung up. Me too.

I sat in the dark a few minutes; the street sounds were subdued tonight, I was thinking — then the El rushed by. After that I got up to pull the Murphy bed down out of its box. I was reaching up to do that when there was a sharp insistent knock on the door — a three-beat tattoo. Then again.

There was just enough light out there in the hall for me to make out through the frosted glass the shape of the person knocking. It was a small person. Not two cops with a rubber hose.

I unlocked the door and peeked out.

“I’ll be damned,” I said.

She smiled nervously and long lashes fluttered over eyes as blue as Sally Rand’s. But this girl in a white blouse and tan skirt and open-toe sandals was not Sally Rand.

“Hello, Nate,” Polly Hamilton said.

“Hello.”

“Can I come in?”

“Okay, but I’m not going to the movies with you, so don’t bother asking.”

Her lower lip quivered and she glanced down. “You must think I got that coming.”

“Don’t you?” I opened the door wide for her, and she slipped by me, her reddish-brown hair swinging in arcs alongside her face; she smelled like jasmine. I glanced out in the hall to see if anybody else was around. Nobody seemed to be.

I shut and locked the door, reached for the light switch and she touched my hand; her touch was as warm as the air coming in my open windows.

“No,” she said, breathily. “Leave them off.” For a minute I thought she was vamping me, but then I recognized the breathiness as fear. Fear and passion have similar symptoms, after all.

She had a little white purse with her, which she clasped fig-leaf style before her as she looked around the room. The light from the street let her do that.

“I didn’t notice you had that purse at the Biograph,” I said.

She looked at me sharply. “Were you there?”

“Are we going to kid each other, Polly?”

She got wide-eyed and sucked in air.

“No!” she said, as if insulted by the very idea she might be capable of less than truth.

“Yes, Polly, I was there. Across the street with my hands in my pockets, playing with myself. Just like the fed I was with.”

She gave me a reproving look. “Do you have to be so crude?”

“Funny, that’s what that fed’s always asking me. Personally, I think getting shoved on your face and shot in the back a couple times is rather on the crude side.”

She covered her mouth and looked down at the floor with the wide eyes; the hand was shaking. She was shaking. She seemed about to cry. But I didn’t see any tears.

“Why don’t you sit down, Polly?” I pointed to the chair opposite my desk.

She nodded and sat, clutching the little purse, her legs tight together like a virgin on her first real date. And trembling the same way.

I got behind the desk. Sat. Gestured to the lamp, and she nodded she didn’t mind and I turned it on. It didn’t make the room bright — just made a pool of light on the desk, not big enough for either of us to bathe in.

She glanced around the room some more. “Is that a Murphy bed?”

“I guess if anybody’d recognize one, it’d be you.”

She gave me a sharp look and didn’t seem to be trembling now. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It was a crude remark. Forget it.”

“All right. Aren’t you... wondering why I’m here?”

I shrugged. “I know I should be, but I haven’t been feeling good. Probably tomorrow I’ll get around to wondering, if you haven’t told me by then.”

With what tried to be sarcasm but came off as pique, she said, “I’m sorry you don’t feel so good.”

“Some of your ex-husband’s pals worked me over a couple nights ago.”

“My ex-husband’s pals?”

“Sure. He worked for the East Chicago police, didn’t he?”

“I, uh... yes. So?”

“So you divorced him a couple months ago. Was it amicable?”

She looked at me blankly. I liked her mouth; couldn’t help myself.

“Was it friendly? Your splitting up, I mean.”

She shrugged. “I suppose.”

“When did you meet him — while you were working at the Kostur Hotel?”

She nodded, then caught herself. “I thought you didn’t feel so good.”

“Having a pretty girl around seems to pep me up. In fact, I feel so much better, I am starting to wonder what you’re doing here.”

She looked at the pool of light on my desk, glumly. “So am I.”

Suddenly I was sick of this game.

“If you don’t know why you’re here,” I said, “you better go. I don’t relish being seen with you.”

That amazed her. “Why?”

“As it is now, I’m on the fringes of this mess. If I’m lucky I won’t get noticed much, when the cops and newshounds start sniffing. But with you in my lap, I’m smack in the middle.”

She leaned an elbow on the desk, cupped her hand and rested her forehead in it; she looked like a child who just heard about death for the first time.

She said, “I’ll go, then.”

But she made no move to. Just sat there looking like a tragic waif. Or trying to. She had too much sex to get by with it, exactly.

“Look, Polly, I was told by Frank Nitti not to get in this any deeper. And yet there I was tonight, out in front of the Biograph. It’s time I dropped out of the picture. And I don’t mean Manhattan Melodrama.”

Still with her head in her cupped hand, she shut her eyes and squeezed out a big tear that angled down her cheek and across her tilted face, her mouth, her chin, in a shiny line, before plopping on my desk like a solitary raindrop.

“I swear I didn’t know,” she said, wiping off her face with the back of her other hand. Her nails were as red as Anna Sage’s dress under the marquee lights.

“Didn’t know what?”

“That they’d kill him.”

“What did you think they’d do?”

“I didn’t think anything. I didn’t even know he was Dillinger.”

“Was he?”

She raised her head from her hand and looked at me, wondering what conversation I was in. “Was he what?”

“Was he Dillinger?”

Her eyes got even wider. Silent-movie wide. “Well, that’s what they’re saying...”

“Who? Who told you it was Dillinger, and when?”

“Well... I heard the federal men say it, just before Anna and me headed down the alley. I went back to the apartment with her for a while, and she admitted she knew he was Dillinger. She knew from the start.”

“Did she admit she’d put him on the spot for the feds tonight?”

Polly shook her head. “She just said she knew he was Dillinger. And then she told me to go home and... lay low for a few days.”

“So you came to see me.”

She shook her head again. “I took the El to the restaurant, first.”

“The S and S?”

“Yes. They were just closing. One of the girls there, Maxine, went across the street and had a beer with me. She didn’t want to, though... not proper, two girls alone in a tavern, she said. But she could see I was upset. She could see I needed the company.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing much. I told her Dillinger was dead. She wanted to know how I knew, and I told her to look in the papers tomorrow. And I told her I didn’t feel so good.”

“There’s a lot of that going around.”

“Why do you talk that way?”

“Because it amuses me to. It helps me not think about how much I hurt from your ex-husband’s pals feeding me the goldfish.” “Goldfish” was Chicago for rubber hose.

“Why do you keep saying that? You act like I know something about it, and I don’t.”

“What do you know?”

She leaned back in the chair; back away from the light and her face was less distinct. But I could hear her voice just fine: “Anna just told me to... date this guy. Keep him occupied. Keep him...”

“Happy?”

She sighed. “Happy. You mind if I smoke?”

“No. Use the ashtray, though.”

“Where is it?”

I pushed it towards her. It was a thick-rimmed little circle of glass that said Morrison Hotel in it.

She lit the cigarette and the orange tip was an eye in the darkness. She blew some smoke out and then started talking.

“He was a good-hearted guy. I got a thrill out of going around in cabs all the time. Twice he gave me money so Maxine and me could go to the fair. Once he gave me forty dollars and said I should go out and buy something with it. Another time he gave me fifty bucks to get my teeth fixed. I bought clothes with it, though. But he wasn’t mad when he found out.”

“He treated you right.”

She nodded through trails of smoke. “We had a lot of fun.”

“Who did you think this guy was?”

“Jimmy Lawrence. He said he was with the Board of Trade.”

“Did you buy that?”

“Well, he had plastic surgery scars, behind his ears. So I figured he was a small-time con Anna was keeping on ice for the Boys.”

“The Outfit, you mean.”

“I guess. I don’t know much about that sort of thing.”

“But Anna does.”

“Sure. She’s a madam, right?”

“You’re asking me?”

The blue eyes flared. “Does needling me make you feel like a big shot, Heller? Is that why you do it?”

“Sorry. Please continue.”

She drew on the cigarette again. “There’s not much more to say. He was a good dresser, clean and neat. He had a nice smile.”

“So keeping him happy for Anna wasn’t much of a chore.”

“That’s the hell of it. I got to like him, I really did. I was crazy about him, Heller. He had this terrific personality — he was kind and good to me. But he couldn’t have really been kind and good, and been John Dillinger, too, could he?”

“I’d say not.”

“I didn’t count on that. Liking him. You know, there was one song he was crazy about, from a Joan Crawford picture we saw at the Marbro.” She started to sing, in a pleasant little Betty Boop soprano: “‘All I do is dream of you the whole night through...’” Her lip was quivering. Another tear rolled down her cheek.

“Did he have a good voice?”

“He could carry a tune. You know, he was crazy about the movies. Couldn’t get enough.”

“Till tonight. You really did like him, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“You didn’t know they were going to hit him tonight?”

“No.”

“But you knew he was going to get hit sooner or later.”

“No! And I didn’t know he was Dillinger!”

“Why’d you come see me, Polly?”

“I knew you were following me and Jimmy — or Dillinger — around, before. Anna told me you would be.”

“Did she? Did she say why?”

“No. She just said if I noticed you following me, not to mention it to Jimmy.”

“Did she explain any of this?”

She shook her head. “No she didn’t.”

“Yours was not to reason why.”

“Mine was to do what I was paid to.”

“At least you’re honest about that much.”

“Nate, I’ve been telling you the truth. You got to believe me.”

“Then tell me why you’re here.”

She cleared her throat. “I wanted you to understand that I’m innocent in this.”

I almost fell out of my chair. “Innocent?”

“I didn’t know they’d kill him. I’m no — no finger man.”

“You’re no man, I’ll grant you that. Why tell me?”

“I just wanted you to know. That night we were together, it was special, Nate.”

“Bullshit! I was just another john. A drunk one, at that.”

She leaned forward, stabbed out the cigarette, reached her soft warm hands out and touched the hand I was resting on the desk. She had a pretty smile. Part of me wanted to pitch a tent in those blue eyes, and stay there.

“You were nice to me,” she said. “I liked you.”

“Like you liked Jimmy Lawrence.”

She drew back, pulled her hands away from mine, as if burned.

“You’re a nasty man,” she said.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’m also a live one, and hanging around with you probably wouldn’t do much toward my staying that way.”

“You bastard—”

“My parents were married, lady. I don’t know which side of the sheets you come from, and I don’t care. I do know why you came here, more or less... you’re trying to make yourself look ‘innocent’ in my eyes, so that when I tell my story to the cops and/or the papers you won’t look like Judas in a dress.”

“You son of a bitch!”

I stood. “Wrong again. My mother was kind and good. Like Jimmy Lawrence. Now, get the hell out of here.”

She stood. “You fucker!”

“You finally got one right. But not tonight, and not with you. Get out.”

Steaming, she turned to go and I followed her, to let her out. Just as we were approaching the door, a shape loomed behind the frosted glass and a loud knock accompanied it. I pushed her into the bathroom, at our immediate right, and raised a finger to my lips in a “shush” gesture, and she looked at me startled and scared, and I shut her in there.

Then I went to my desk, got my gun out and walked carefully to the door. Stood sideways against a wood portion of the wood-and-glass wall next to it. I didn’t know if my shape would show through the frosted glass, but I couldn’t see taking the chance.

Then somebody said, harshly, “Open up, Heller, or we’ll bust it down.”

I thought I recognized the male, gravelly, mid-pitched voice; I hoped I was wrong.

“Then don’t open it! Give me an excuse to kick it in!”

I wasn’t wrong.

I went back to the desk and put the gun away and glanced at the bathroom door and thought, Oh, boy, as I unlocked and opened my office door and a short stocky man with dark-rimmed glasses and white hair was standing there, fanning himself with his hat. That was the only sign the heat was getting to him, however: he wore a suit and tie and looked comfortable, not a bead of sweat on him. A heavy-set, taller man, also in a suit, sweating like sin, stood behind him in the hall against the wall, like a man in a line-up.

The stocky little man pushed by me and shut the door behind him, leaving his backup out in the hall.

“Make yourself at home, Captain Stege,” I said.

21

Stege went over and sat in the chair, which was probably still warm from Polly Hamilton. I didn’t turn on the overhead light; the desk lamp would be plenty. Stege found me distasteful enough to prefer the dark and, what the hell, looking at him did nothing for me, either.

He sniffed the air. Glanced at the smoldering lipstick-ringed cigarette butt in the ashtray. “Been entertaining a woman up here, Heller? I smell perfume amidst the tobacco fumes — and of course you don’t smoke.”

“I also don’t wear lipstick, but I’m flattered you know so much about me, Captain.”

He grunted. “Don’t be. It’s my business to know the enemy.”

“I’m not the enemy, Captain.”

He looked around the office. “Is that—”

“A Murphy bed? Yes.”

He nodded. “You work and live here. Business must not be good.”

“My business isn’t any of yours.”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“You’re here by my good leave, Captain. I didn’t see a warrant.”

He held out two small but powerful-looking hands, palms up; his fingers looked like thick sausages. “Am I searching the place?”

“Not yet.”

“And I won’t. This is a... friendly visit.” He almost choked on the word “friendly.”

“Your opinion of me is all wet, Captain. You think I’m a dirty cop, and—”

He pointed one of the thick sausages at me, blinked at me like a bird behind his round dark-rimmed glasses lenses. “I think you’re an ex-dirty cop. Let’s not get careless with our facts.”

I sighed. I should’ve felt nervous, what with Polly Hamilton in the bathroom across the room; but mostly I was annoyed — and weary. I still ached — and not just from the recent physical beating. There was a man who had died tonight and I’d been part of it. And I’d tipped to what was going on and still hadn’t been able to stop it.

And now here was pious Capt. John Stege, a Chicago cop so honest he made Eliot Ness look like Long John Silver. I needed this dose of conscience like Jimmy Lawrence needed a hole in the head.

“You know something, Captain... you pretend to hate me because I used to be a dirty cop. But that isn’t the real reason. The real reason is I exposed some dirty cops, and embarrassed you and yours.”

“Don’t be impertinent, or I’ll—”

“It’s just you and me in here, Stege. Maybe you ought to watch your mouth.”

He thought about that. Then said, “Are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m just prepared to tell you to go to hell anytime I feel like it. Understood?”

He took in a deep breath and something like a smile crossed his thin, tight mouth. I had the damnedest feeling he respected what I’d just said. Whatever the case, he said, “Understood,” and took a folded sheet of paper out of his suit pocket and unfolded it and spread it out on the desk before me.

It was a Division of Investigation wanted poster for John H. Dillinger.

“Thought you might like this souvenir,” Stege said. “I’ll be cleaning out my desk, you know.”

I nodded. “Not much for the Dillinger Squad to do with Dillinger dead.”

“What were you doing there, Heller?”

He meant the Biograph, of course. I didn’t pretend I didn’t know that.

I said, “Trying to stop it.”

“What?”

I wished I hadn’t said it.

But I had, so I needed to elaborate. “It was a setup, designed to let the East Chicago cops execute their man without interference. I knew it, and tried to convince Cowley. I tried to convince Purvis, too. Actually, I think I convinced ’em both, but they weren’t able to stop it. If indeed they wanted to.”

“Damn!” Stege said, and slammed a hard tiny fist on my desk top. The ashtray jumped. And unless I missed my bet, so did Polly Hamilton in the toilet.

“Sorry, Captain — that’s the way I see it.”

He waved me off. Stood and paced. Then he came over and leaned one hand against the desk and gestured with the other.

“They came to my office, beginning of last week. Zarkovich and his captain. What’s his name?”

“O’Neill,” I said.

“O’Neill,” Stege repeated, like he was uttering an oath. “You know what the sons of bitches said?”

“No.”

“They told me they knew where Dillinger was. He was in Chicago, hiding out, and they could lead me to him. But there was one condition — one small proviso... we had to kill him.”

He drew in a breath and looked at me, his eyes popping a little, a vein by one eye pulsing. Silence filled the room; a very loud silence.

Then he said, “We, the Chicago Police Department’s Dillinger Squad, were to promise that we would ambush our man, execute him. Or no information from our brother officers from East Chicago would be forthcoming.” And under his breath: “Bastards.”

“And you threw ’em out on their butts.”

He nodded slowly. “I told ’em I’d give even John Dillinger a chance to surrender.”

“Over these last six months or so, you’ve said the opposite to the press.”

He sat back down. “Not really. I picked the best marksmen on the force for our squad, simply because these outlaws are trigger-happy. Fight fire with fire.”

“You said you wanted to either drive the Dillinger gang out of the state or bury ’em. And you said you preferred the latter.”

Oddly, he seemed almost embarrassed. “Hyperbole.”

“Captain, you should be a happy man. John Dillinger is dead. Your quarry’s been bagged... even if you didn’t bag him yourself.”

He took a cigar out of his inside pocket, bit off the end, lit it up. “Your sarcasm isn’t lost on me, Heller. If you’re saying I’m jealous of the federal boys landing my man, you’re as full of crap as a Christmas goose. I don’t care who gets these lice, just so long as they get got.”

“Then why aren’t you a happy man?”

He put the cigar in the ashtray without puffing it past getting it going. With a bleak expression, he said, “Police executions make me sick.”

“The guy on the receiving end doesn’t feel any too well, either.”

He ignored that. What he said next seemed more for his own benefit than mine. “I try to be a good cop in a town where it isn’t easy being one. There’s few towns more political, and there’s no town as under the influence of gangsters. But I still take pride in my work, in my town, because once in a while we succeed. We fly in the face of what people expect from us. But when cops shoot fugitives in cold damn blood, without even a nod toward capture, well it makes me sick, Heller. It makes me wonder what the hell country I’m living in; we’re no better than Hitler’s bully boys, are we.”

“It wasn’t Chicago cops who killed the man at the Biograph.”

“No, it was federal men, I know that.”

“I told you before it wasn’t federal men.”

“Oh?”

“Take a wild stab at what two individuals fired the killing shots.”

“Zarkovich and O’Neill did it themselves?”

“Bingo, Captain. I’d give you a cigar but you already got one.”

“Damn. They were in with him, you know.”

“What?”

“That whole East Chicago crowd. Cops and politicians and judges. In with Dillinger. That’s what this is all about, really about. They wanted to silence him before he could spill the beans where Indiana corruption’s concerned. It all goes back to Crown Point.”

“The jail, you mean? Dillinger’s wooden-gun crash-out?”

Stege smiled his thin little smile again. “That was no wooden gun. Somebody smuggled it in to him. Somebody on the inside.”

“Who?”

“My sources say Zarkovich and a certain judge engineered it. I can’t prove it. Did you know that not long ago two East Chicago cops, two honest East Chicago cops, were investigating that very case, and during the course of it turned up dead alongside the road in their car? Fifteen minutes from their station house? With their guns tucked inside their coats? Never even went for ’em.”

“Cops killed by cops,” I said.

“So it would seem. What a world.”

I shook my head.

Stege wasn’t saying anything; he was, in fact, eyeing me suspiciously.

Slowly, he said, “You were part of it, weren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“There was money to be made in this. Graft money; mob money. Were you in bed with the East Chicago cops?”

“Please. Not on an empty stomach.”

Stege’s face was impassive, but his voice had an edge in it. “I know you, Heller. You were always for sale. You were always in it for yourself. You’re smooth in your way. You have a crude sort of wit. You almost fooled me. But I’m a cop with a cop’s instinct. And I think you and Zarkovich and O’Neill are bound up in this together. It doesn’t take me giving you the third degree to find that out.”

“You don’t have to give me the third degree at all. Zarkovich and O’Neill beat you to it.”

Stege laughed humorlessly. “Of course they did.”

“Not personally. They sent two of their strong-arms, and they fed me the goldfish.”

“Why?”

“Because I was trying to stop this from going down! And you can see how successful at it I was.”

Stege sighed coldly. “I don’t believe you. But I intend to investigate this matter thoroughly, and if I can nail those East Chicago cops to the wall, I will, so help me God.”

“Expose crooked cops, Captain? That’ll make the police look bad in the public’s eye. Are you sure you want to do that?”

He stood. “Your irony is heavy-handed, Heller. I’m unimpressed.”

I stood. “Did you ever see Sally Rand dance, Captain?”

“What? Uh, well... yes.”

“Were you impressed?” I was unbuttoning my shirt.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I took the shirt off and shined the lamp on me.

Stege said, “My God... they did feed you the goldfish.”

“Yes they did.”

He sat back down. So did I, after I put my shirt on.

I told him most of it — with the exception of meeting Nitti face-to-face; I kept my thoughts about the Outfit’s connections to Dillinger on a theoretical level. And, for the moment, I left out my notion that the dead man might not be Dillinger; one step at a time, after all.

He took out a small pad and wrote down the names Anna Sage and Polly Hamilton; he’d heard about two women being with Dillinger at the theater, but the feds had refused to give the names even to the Chicago cops.

I told him how I’d been chosen for my role at least partially because I would take my information to the feds, rather than the cops, since I was on the outs with the local P.D. — particularly the head of their Dillinger Squad, one Capt. John Stege.

“So even I played an unwitting role in this farce,” Stege said.

“Just some more heavy-handed irony,” I said, “only I can’t claim it as mine.”

He stood slowly; he seemed beaten down.

“There’s something else,” I said.

“Yes?”

“I don’t think the dead man is Dillinger.”

Stege gave me a look like I was a candidate for the loony bin. “Don’t be ridiculous — one of my men has already been to the morgue and shook hands with the corpse. It’s Dillinger all right.”

“It doesn’t look like Dillinger.”

“Plastic surgery,” Stege said, repeating the by-now-familiar litany.

“This whole elaborate setup might’ve been staged to put a patsy in Dillinger’s place, and let the real Dillinger ride off into the sunset.”

“Poppycock.”

“Well, if you feel that strongly about it, Captain...”

“No,” Stege said, shaking his head solemnly, “John Dillinger’s dead. No getting around that. But I aim to find out who put him on the spot...and that includes those crooked East Chicago bastards and Anna Sage and Polly Hamilton.”

“Be my guest.”

He walked toward the door and I followed him. We stopped by the door to the bathroom.

“Is this the commode?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I use it?”

“It’s out of order. Best I can do is a chamber pot.”

“Ah, never mind. It’ll keep. Thanks for the information, Heller. Thanks for the names of the two women. Very helpful. We’ll want to talk to them as soon as possible.”

“Right.”

I opened the door for him and, as an afterthought, he turned and offered me his hand. Surprised, I shook it.

Then he walked like a little general down the hall with the burly plainclothes man in attendance. Off to do battle with the East Chicago police; and to find a bathroom.

I closed and locked the door. Opened the bathroom door and Polly Hamilton, fists on her hips, was burning at me.

“You gave him my name!”

“Did you think it was going to be a secret? The dead man had your picture in his watch, you know.”

“I–I forgot he had that picture...”

“Well, you were at the scene when he was killed. Lots of people saw you. Come on out of that bathroom, Polly.”

She did. She looked forlorn. But pretty.

“I can’t go home. They’ll be waiting.”

“Face the music, or better, go see the feds. They’ll probably shield you.”

She looked up and her eyes did a little dance, like maybe she was remembering something Anna Sage told her along the same lines.

Then she got angry with me, or mock-angry. There was some coquettishness in it.

“Why did you tell him all that?” she wanted to know.

“He’s a cop and he asked me.”

“Oh, you’re such a shit.”

“I thought you had special memories of our night together?”

That made her smile; I still liked her smile.

“I need a place to stay,” she said. “No one would think of looking for me here...”

I was tempted. I admit I was tempted.

But I said, “Try the YWCA,” and pushed her out the door. Hoping Stege was long gone by now.

Before I shut the door she stuck her tongue out at me, and said, “Fuck you.” A strange combination of childishness and adultness. Or is that adultery?

Then I went back to the desk and sat. Looked at the federal wanted poster for Dillinger spread out there, where Stege had left it. His irony was a little heavy-handed, too. Looked at my watch. It was after one.

I called her anyway.

“Helen,” I said into the phone. “Did I wake you? Is that offer for me coming over tonight still open?”

“Yes,” Sally said.

22

The next afternoon, around three, I was sitting in my shirt sleeves having a bagel and a glass of cold milk in the deli-restaurant below my office. Milk was almost never my drink of choice, but coffee was out of the question — the day was steaming hot, so who the hell needed coffee?

I hadn’t been upstairs yet, having just got back from Sally’s. She’d been good to me last night — we didn’t talk at all; in fact, we didn’t do anything except sleep together — just sleep. And it was exactly what I needed.

What I didn’t need this afternoon was a reporter, but suddenly that’s exactly what I had: Hal Davis, of the Daily News, a little guy with a big head — by which I don’t mean he was conceited: he had a big head, literally, a size too big for his smallish frame. He stood grinning in front of me in shirt sleeves and bow tie and gray hat. He was one of those guys who would always seem to be about twenty-two years old. He was easily forty.

“I been looking for you,” he said.

“Sit down, Davis, you’re making me nervous.”

He sat. “You’re a hard man to find.”

“You seem to’ve found me.”

“Pretty wild carryings-on at the morgue last night.”

“I saw the papers.”

He told me about it anyway. “I don’t know how the word got out so fast, but there they were, before the body was even cold, swarming like flies. Couple thousand sweaty souls crow-din’ around the morgue like they were waiting for Sally Rand to go on.”

He meant nothing personal by that; Sally and I hadn’t made the gossip columns yet.

“And that son of a bitch Parker scooped us all,” he said, shaking his head with admiration.

He meant Dr. Charles D. Parker, one of numerous assistants to the coroner’s pathologist, J. J. Kearns. Parker, however, also happened to be a stringer for the Trib, covering hospitals and the morgue for ’em. Somehow Parker had got tipped to the shooting early enough on to be able to beat the body to the morgue, where he wheeled a receiving cart up to the door and waited for John Dillinger to arrive.

Soon the meat wagon delivered Dillinger — and exclusive Trib coverage of the morgue end of the story — to Parker.

“Got to hand it to that bastard,” Davis conceded. “Hell of a piece of work.”

I took a bite of bagel.

Davis cleared his throat. “I hear you were at the Biograph last night.”

“So were a lot of people.”

“Garage mechanics sitting on their stoop and old ladies hanging out their windows ’cause of the heat. Not trained observers like you, Heller. Your version of the shooting could be a corker.”

“Gee whiz, aw shucks. I’m real flattered, Davis. Now can I finish my bagel?”

“Hell, I’ll buy you another! How ’bout giving me your eyewitness account. For old times’ sake.”

“What old times are those? When you dredged up the Lingle case in your coverage of my part in the Nitti hit? Get fucked, Davis.”

He smiled. “A newsman knows he’s doing a good job when people resent him. You can’t hurt my feelings, Heller, don’t even bother trying.”

“You’re short.”

He stopped smiling. “You get fucked, Heller.”

I gulped my milk. “Every rag in town this morning, including yours, had a dozen eyewitness accounts of the Biograph shooting. This is old news. Why bother?”

Davis waved that off. “Dillinger dying’s gonna be front-page fodder for days, maybe weeks. Besides, the bozos we got eyewitness stories from came in after the show started; you were there for the whole picture, and the featured attractions to boot.”

“What’s in it for me?”

He shrugged facially, “How ’bout a double sawbuck.”

“I don’t think so, Davis.”

“What do you want?”

My curiosity got the better of me. “Were you at the inquest?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging, with his body this time.

“Anything interesting come out?”

“What’s interesting is what didn’t come out. Excuse me.” He went up to the deli counter and got a cup of coffee, and came back and told me about the inquest.

Coroner Walsh himself had presided, at the Cook County Morgue on Polk Street, and had gone first into the little formaldehyde-reeking basement room where the corpse was displayed on a tray draped with a towel, nude but for tags on his toes. The body, that is, not Walsh, who was a big man, sweating, beet-faced, posing stiffly with the stiff for press pictures. This was in the same room where, late last night, those thousands of “morbids” milling about the morgue had finally been allowed to file past their dead “hero.”

Then Walsh moved to the inquest room where the noon sun blazed through the wire mesh on the windows and made checkerboard patterns on the spectators and witnesses and officials who baked their way through the perfunctory proceedings.

“The odd thing,” Davis said, “is Melvin Purvis wasn’t there. By all accounts, it was his operation — some of the witnesses say he’s the one fired the shot — but instead his assistant Cowley takes the stand.”

I didn’t correct any of that, just nodded interestedly.

“And Cowley ducked the issue — when Walsh asked him who committed this ‘homicide,’ Cowley would only say that it was ‘a government agent, properly authorized.’ No names. And they never even broached the subject of who the informant was.”

“Is that right.”

“Do you know, Heller? Do you know who the ‘lady in red’ is? Or the other dame with Dillinger? What were you doing there, anyway?”

I sipped my milk; it was getting warm. “Did they introduce fingerprints into evidence?”

He shook his head. “Another government agent testified that the prints corresponded, is all. They didn’t enter comparisons of the prints or anything — this guy just said the prints compared. A botched acid job, I hear.”

Davis meant the corpse’s fingertips had been dipped in acid, back when he was alive, in the usual (unsuccessful) underworld attempt to obliterate prints.

“And,” he continued, “the pathologist, Kearns, read a summary of his autopsy. Four wounds, one of which caused death.” He got a notebook out of his back pocket and flipped through some pages; read aloud: “‘Medium developed white male, thirty-two years of age, five feet seven, one hundred and sixty pounds, eyes brown.’” He put the notebook away, shrugging again. “Pretty standard.”

“I see.”

He stirred his coffee absentmindedly. “Something else odd, though. The corpse only had seven dollars and eighty cents. Word was Dillinger always wore a money belt, with thousands of dollars. Think somebody stole it?”

“Maybe that money belt’s just a myth.”

“Yeah, maybe. But why would a guy like Dillinger, who might have to lam at any moment’s notice, go out with little more than movie and popcorn money?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“And another thing — why the hell’d he go out without a coat?”

“It was hot.”

“Very funny, Heller. It’s hot today, too. But where’d he tuck his gun, if he didn’t have a coat to hide it under?”

“Good question.”

“Did you see he had a gun at the scene?”

“There was a gun in his hand, by the time he was dead.”

He thought that over. “It wasn’t entered into the coroner’s docket at the inquest, this gun Dillinger supposedly drew on Purvis.”

I smiled. “Since when is a gun turning up in a dead suspect’s hand news in Chicago?”

He sat forward and pointed at me like Uncle Sam. “Look, if you really know some inside dope, I can get you some real money. If you know the lady in red’s name, for instance...”

“I’ll give you my story for fifty bucks, but you got to mention my business by name and give the address.”

“Done.”

I sipped my milk. “That way Baby Face Nelson and Van Meter and the rest will know where to find me.”

He grinned, then the grin faded. “You think Johnny’s buddies might really seek revenge?”

“No. I think they got better things to do.”

“Such as?”

“Such as read the writing on the wall. Such as rob a few more banks before going south. Things are closing in on them. The feds may be stupid, but they can cross state lines and carry guns. The Wild West show will be closing down soon — after one last bloody act.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Do, and I’ll crucify you in Marshall Field’s window. That sort of talk just might tempt the likes of Nelson into retaliating.”

“I hear he’s a fruitcake.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Okay, okay. So what’s your story, Heller?”

I told him my story. I told him that in the course of working in Uptown on a divorce case for a client, who would have to remain nameless, I’d stumbled upon a man who resembled John Dillinger. I’d reported this to Melvin Purvis and Samuel Cowley of the federal Division of Investigation. They had kept me informed as the inquiry developed, including the fact that two East Chicago, Indiana, police officers had corroborated my story through their own sources. For that reason, I’d been invited as an observer to the showdown at the Biograph.

I also gave him a detailed description of the way the stakeout had been conducted, and the manner in which the suspect had been taken down, though I did not mention that he’d been shoved to the pavement and shot in the back of the head. I said only that officers had swarmed toward him and shots had been fired.

No mention of Anna Sage, Polly Hamilton or Jimmy Lawrence.

I sipped my milk.

Frank Nitti would’ve been proud of me.

And Hal Davis gave me fifty bucks — two double sawbucks and two fins — and left.

I put the money in my pocket and walked outside. The heat was even worse today. I ought to go to the beach and find an umbrella to lie out under, and splash around in the lake when the shade got old.

Instead, I drove over to the morgue.

23

For a dreary-looking stone structure on a blistering hot July afternoon, the morgue was doing brisk business. About the only difference between it and the Biograph last night was the lack of a marquee, and the melodrama attracting the crowds was Chicago, not Manhattan.

The line to the front doors was a double one and, splitting off, extended well down the sidewalk in both directions; a steady stream was coming out the morgue doors, as well. Formal attire was not required, at this mortuary — the dressiest “mourners,” many carrying cameras, were men in shirt sleeves and women in summery dresses, and not a few females were in beach apparel, and many a male wore his undershirt. There were plenty of kids in the crowd, mostly boys with their thoughtful moms. The hot air was filled with hot air — a constant chatter not limited to the dead subject at hand added to the holiday mood. A guy in a big orange tie and orange cap was hawking orange juice a dime a cup out of a tray full of ice slung over his shoulder on a couple of straps, cigarette-girl style; the ice was melting quickly, but not as quickly as the paper cups of orange juice were going. Another guy, wearing a straw boater and no tie, was going around waving two handfuls of blood-stained swatches of white cloth, yelling, “Genuine guaranteed Dillinger’s blood!” More bloody swatches protruded from three of his four bulging pants pockets; apparently blood had been running down Lincoln Avenue like a flood, last night.

All this humanity, if you want to call it that, was being overseen by a handful of cops, uniformed guys still lacking their uniforms due to the heat wave, badges on their light blue blouses; but the caps and guns and nightsticks were still there. These were cops, no mistaking ’em.

I walked up to a burly Irish flatfoot in his forties, with red cheeks and light blue eyes; I didn’t know him, and hoped he didn’t know me — and would maybe take my reddish-brown hair as us having a bit of the Blarney in common.

“What’s the chance of getting in past this crowd?” I asked him.

He smiled and shook his head. “Slim and none.”

“What if I just wanted to talk to a morgue attendant and didn’t care about getting a view of the stiff?”

He scratched his head, still smiling. “Might be done. But they’re greedy lads, those boys.”

“Think you could pave the way for me?”

“Might be done.”

“Thanks,” I said, and shook his hand; mine had a buck in it. For a while.

He led me through the crowd, saying, “Make way, make way,” and introduced me to a pasty-faced, pencil-mustached, skinny fellow named Culhane. White-smocked Culhane had eyes like a gingerbread man and was about as animated. We were in a big reception area on the first floor, where the lines of people coming through the door turned into a mob, a vocal one, waiting to be let down the stairs by a police guard, who was only letting ten or so at a time go. There was no air conditioning and the place smelled stale and bad; body odor was on a rampage. Culhane curled a finger and led me to a corridor, where we were alone.

His voice was soft and oddly seductive. “I can take you downstairs and inside the cubicle with him.”

“Swell. How much?”

He pursed his lips and the tiny mustache went up at either end. “There’s a group down there right now that gave me fifty dollars.”

This wasn’t a morgue, it was a whorehouse.

I said, “How many in the group?”

That threw him momentarily; then he said, “Five.”

“Then I’ll give you ten.”

Being a man of science, he could hardly argue with my logic. But he was pouting as he led me back into the big reception area and through the noisy, pushing-and-shoving crowd, where at his nod the cop let us down the steps into the basement. We moved past and cut through a single line of curiosity seekers that extended down the corridor. Culhane led me through a door into a larger room, where the smell of formaldehyde sliced through the air and made me nostalgic for the body odor upstairs. The smell was so overpowering you didn’t notice at first that the room was refrigerated. Or that along the walls were rows of corpses, in open vaults, one atop the other. Most of the tenants — running to old folks and down-and-outers — had died of the heat; hell of a way to get into an air-conditioned room.

Culhane led me into a small adjacent chamber off the main room and there, with four men and a woman crowded around him, was the dead man, propped up at a forty-five-degree angle on the slab, his body partially covered with a sheet, his face completely covered by a damp white mass. The man applying the damp white mass, a heavyset brown-haired man about forty, wearing a towel like a bib, looked up nervously and said, “We’re from Northwestern University, officer. We got permission to do this.”

The other four, including the rather pretty girl, who had a cute brunette bob, were young, in their early twenties; they looked at me apprehensively.

“I’m not a cop,” I said, and Culhane whispered to me, “They’re making a death mask for the Northwestern Museum of Crime.”

I’d never heard of any such museum, but couldn’t have cared less.

“I need a look at him,” I said to the heavyset man, presumably the professor to these apparent students.

“Oh, but we can’t remove the moulage yet,” he said, still nervous.

“I don’t need to see his face,” I said. “I’ve seen his face.”

I lifted the sheet back. Glanced at the body; noted various scars. I had company: through a glass panel just a few feet away from me, the openmouthed spectators were slowly filing by, pointing fingers, taking pictures. Their jabbering was faintly audible through the heavy plate glass; it sounded like swarming insects.

Before I left, I looked at the heavyset man and said, “If you’re from Northwestern, why does your towel say Worsham College on it?”

He glanced down at the bib and swallowed. “We — we, uh, frequently exchange ideas with the Worsham faculty.”

“And towels?”

He swallowed again, and I pulled a confused-looking Culhane by the arm out into the larger room, where stacked stiffs seemed to eavesdrop as I said, “Worsham’s a trade school for morticians. Those people in there are having a little practice session at your expense.”

“Oh my...”

“Better clear ’em out. Letting somebody from Northwestern play footsie with your prize corpse isn’t going to get you in trouble; but some yo-yos from an embalming society using him to make practice death masks, that could lose you your job.”

He nodded gravely, and I followed him out into the hall, away from the formaldehyde smell and the cool air, and up the stairs into body-odor heaven. He found a spare cop, told him to evict the embalming students and their prof, and the cop went off to do so. Then Culhane turned and looked at me, with some irritation, his little mustache twitching over a puckered mouth.

“Are you still here?” he said. It wasn’t a question that wanted an answer.

“Least you could do is say thanks.”

“Thank you. You’ve had your ten dollars’ worth. Now go away. Shoo.”

I put my arm around his shoulder and walked him toward that private corridor; he pouted, but seemed to like it.

“Mr. Culhane,” I said, “I have another request. I also have another ten dollars. As a matter of fact, I have twenty dollars.”

He began nodding. His puckered lips smiled.

I removed my arm from around his shoulder; enough’s enough. I said, “I’d like a look at the autopsy report.”

He thought that over. Then he said, “Why?”

“Why not?”

He thought some more. “Who are you? A reporter?”

“I’m a guy with twenty dollars.”

He held out an open palm. “If you want it, it’ll cost a lot more. There’s only two carbons, you know.”

I put a sawbuck in the open palm. “I don’t want a copy. I won’t even make notes. I just want to look at it, for a couple minutes.”

He thought again, but not for long; closed his hand tight over the sawbuck, touched my sleeve with his free hand and said, “Don’t move from this spot.”

I didn’t, and soon he was back with three sheets of paper. Handed them to me.

It was a carbon copy of the coroner’s protocol, two pages of which were a form, the final page of which was a separate typed sheet, elaborating on the wounds and condition of the dead man’s organs. Fairly detailed, it took me five minutes to read and absorb, while Culhane stood there like a skinny stone. Then I handed it back to him, gave him the other sawbuck and walked ahead of him out into the reception area, pushing through the noisy, smelly crowd.

A fat blonde in a polka-dot dress was scrunched beside me, putting on her lipstick, looking in her compact’s mirror, as we moved through the sea of flesh; she managed to put the lipstick on without mishap, as well as make a comment.

“I’m disappointed,” she told me. “He didn’t look like his pictures in the paper. He looked like any other dead guy. But what the heck — I think I’ll get back in line and go through just once more.”

“Good idea,” I said, and we burst out through the door into the hot, fresh air. The guy in the orange cap and orange tie was back with a fresh tray of ice and juice. I couldn’t help myself: I bought a cup and swigged it down. It was cool and tasted good. Spending time in a morgue can make you appreciate the little things.

I was walking toward where my coupe was parked when a father, gesturing with one hand, the other on the shoulder of a weeping eleven-year-old boy, walked briskly by, saying, “Now I wanted you to see that as a moral lesson, Tim — it’s like Melvin Purvis says: Crime don’t pay, remember that!”

The father held one of the bloody swatches of handkerchief as he gestured.

I kept that in mind as I drove to the Banker’s Building, where I hoped Purvis and Cowley would both still be on hand.

24

They seemed almost glad to see me.

Cowley, in a brown baggy suit, was standing over by nattily dressed Purvis, seated behind his big glass-topped desk, and they looked toward me as I came in, followed me with their eyes as I approached them. There was no college boy in the receptionist’s slot this time to try to stop me — it was nearly six and most of the desks in the big office were empty, the windows half-open, letting in some warm but anyway fresh air and a glimpse of the day dying out there.

I stood across from Purvis and pushed my hat back on my head; I was still in shirt sleeves — sweaty ones, by now. I probably didn’t smell any better than the rest of the crowd at the morgue.

I said, “Looks like things have settled down around this joint.”

Cowley found an uneasy smile for me. “You should’ve seen it this morning. Real madhouse.”

Purvis mustered an unconvincing smile, and stood. “Nice of you to stop by, Mr. Heller,” he said in that faintly Southern drawl, as if he’d requested this visit. He gestured with an open hand back toward where I’d come in. “Let’s step into the conference room down the hall, for a chat...”

I didn’t see why not.

We sat, the three of us, with me in the middle, at one side of a long table for twelve in a big room that had a few smaller tables, apparently used for interrogation, along the wall by the windows. Through the windows I could see the Rookery just across the alley, looking enigmatically on. The Rookery was an early near-skyscraper, whose eleven stories had an oddly moorish ornamentation that made it stand out among its newer, taller, sleeker neighbors and its older, more staid, stodgy ones, too.

Speaking of staid and stodgy, Cowley started in. “I haven’t seen you quoted in the press as yet.”

“You will.”

Purvis, on the other side of me, spit out the words; his cordial pose hadn’t lasted long. “What have you said?”

I scooted my chair back so that I could look at both of them, undercutting the double-teaming routine they were trying to pull. I gave them a brief rundown on what I’d told Davis, and they seemed relieved, and relieved was what they should be: it was a whitewash, after all.

Purvis said, “You didn’t mention Anna Sage? Or Polly Hamilton?”

“No. But I did tell Stege their names, when he came to see me last night.”

Cowley looked momentarily glum, but said, “We know. We’ve dealt with that.”

“Oh really?”

Purvis said, “Stege was questioning Anna at the Sheffield Avenue Station this afternoon, but we sent our men to pick her up.” A thin smile flitted across thin lips. “We told ’em it was a federal job and squelched the interrogation. She’s in federal custody, now. Protective.”

“She’s in jail?”

“No,” Cowley said. “We’re just looking out for her.”

“What about Polly?”

“Her too,” Purvis said, nodding.

“I notice you’ve kept their names out of the papers. You think that’s going to last?”

Purvis smirked. “Not since you gave the women’s names to Stege. Once the Chicago cops have it, the papers soon will, too. Those louts would sell their grandmother for a cup of java.”

I couldn’t help smiling; when Purvis tried to talk tough, it was kind of pitiful. I said, “You shouldn’t worry. You boys are getting good press on this.”

Cowley was impassive, but Purvis had a smug, tight little smile.

I decided to wipe it off his face by saying, “You are aware by now that you killed the wrong man, aren’t you?”

Purvis threw his hands in the air and said, “Jesus! Not that again!” Cowley just sat shaking his head, like I was a promising student who continually disappointed him.

“I don’t plan to go to the papers with it,” I said. “I plan to stick to the version I gave Davis. I was just curious if you guys finally copped to what you’ve done — which is do Dillinger and Nitti a favor and kill some ringer for ’em, and get the heat off.”

Cowley brushed a comma of brown hair off his forehead, but it only fell back again. He said, “If you believe this to be true, why keep it to yourself? Why not go to the papers? You might make some tidy pocket change off it.”

Purvis glared at Cowley for having suggested that.

I said, “I’m keeping it to myself because Frank Nitti might not like it if I didn’t. And because whoever that poor shmuck in front of the Biograph is — or was — doesn’t much matter, at this point. He’s dead. I saw it coming, and would’ve liked to stop it from happening. But I wasn’t up to the job. So be it. Best of luck to all concerned.”

Purvis got up, paced for a moment, then went over to the open window and looked out at the Rookery, hands in pockets. “I don’t get you, Heller. You’re not a stupid man. Yet you seriously entertain such a stupid goddamn fantasy. We killed a ‘ringer’! Utter rubbish.” He turned and looked at me with a painfully earnest expression. “How in God’s name could that have been anyone else but John Dillinger last night?”

Without malice, I said, “You were so eager for it to be him, it didn’t have to be.”

He strode over to me, hands still in pockets; he seemed a little boy playing man. “What the hell’s your meaning?”

With malice, I said, “Listen to me the first time I say something, Little Mel — then you won’t have to ask me to repeat it four times.”

His marionette features took on a hurt, angry cast and he told me to go hell and walked briskly toward the door.

“I have a train to catch,” he said. “I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

He was opening the door when I said, “I can prove it wasn’t Dillinger, Melvin.”

That caught his attention.

“I really can, Mel,” I said. “But if you have a train to catch...”

He shut the door and walked back. Sat down next to Cowley. Both men looked at me with doubting, but troubled, expressions.

“I was just at the morgue,” I said. “I got a good look at the body, and a good look at the autopsy report.”

That angered Purvis. “How did you manage...”

I rubbed my thumb and fingers together, in the money gesture. Purvis fell silent and Cowley winced and nodded and I went on.

“The man Zarkovich and O’Neill shot was approximately Dillinger’s height and weight. He was a little shorter and a little heavier than the real McCoy, but within an inch and ten pounds, so what the hell. Facially he doesn’t resemble Dillinger much, but certain scars indicate a face-lift, so plastic surgery might explain that. But how do you explain the eyes?”

“The eyes?” Purvis said.

“Yeah — the eyes have it, you know. And the corpse has brown eyes. I saw it for myself, last night; and that’s what the autopsy report says, too. Brown eyes.”

“So?” Cowley said.

“Dillinger has gray eyes.”

Purvis said, “If the corpse has brown eyes, Dillinger has brown eyes, because that corpse is Dillinger. This is ridiculous. I really do have a train to catch.” He stood again. “You fill Cowley in on your fantasy, if you like, Heller — I have neither the stomach nor time for it.”

“Sit down, Melvin,” I said. “You’re going to hear this, or I’ll find somebody else to tell it to.”

He sat.

“There was also a birthmark, a mole, missing on the body — right between the eyes — and several scars from bullet wounds and a scar on the lip were also not there.”

“Plastic surgery,” Cowley offered.

Cockily, Purvis said, “We know for a fact that Dillinger had plastic surgery just within this past month or so. This afternoon agents from this office picked up two of the ring involved in Dillinger’s several face-lift operations — Louis Piquett’s personal private investigator, and the doctor who performed the operation. And this office will be making more arrests in the days to come.”

That sounded like a fucking press release. I said so.

“You’re an annoying man,” Purvis said, his Southern sense of manners apparently infringed.

“If Dillinger did have plastic surgery this past month or so,” I said, “how could he be completely healed so soon? The skin on his upper lip would at least look pink, for instance. Nothing looked pink about that stiff, believe me.”

Purvis was shaking his head, scowling. “Where are you getting your ‘facts’? Newspaper files? What description are you going by? What’s the basis of your comparison? Get serious, Heller.”

I took a folded-up piece of paper out of my front right pants pocket and spread it out on the table.

“Division of Investigation identification order number twelve-seventeen,” I said, pointing to the federal wanted poster for John Dillinger. “Given to me by my friend Captain John Stege as a souvenir of this little episode.”

Both Purvis and Cowley just stared blankly at the poster. Purvis was swallowing, like his mouth was suddenly dry.

I said, “And as you well know, the physical description of the fugitive on this ID order is detailed and exact. Notice the eye color listed: gray.”

Cowley gestured toward the paper, as if afraid to touch it. “This is what you compared the autopsy report to?”

“Yes, and if any reporter in town gets ahold of that report, and does the same thing, some very messy questions are likely to get asked.”

Purvis looked at the poster with wide, empty eyes; he too didn’t touch it. Just stared at it.

“You may be lucky,” I said. “The newshounds seem satisfied with the abbreviated report Kearns read into the record at the inquest. So far, apparently, nobody has thought to bribe a peek at the actual report — except me.”

Purvis started to say something dismissive, but I interrupted. “There’s more, gentlemen. Your corpse has some things Dillinger did not have — a tattoo on the right forearm; scars from bullet wounds in places Dillinger never got shot; black hair, not brown; thin, arching eyebrows instead of bushy straight ones; and a tooth — the top right incisor, to be exact.”

Purvis was shaking his head again, but slowly, now. “This is ridiculous. Sheerly ridiculous. You’re basing this on an autopsy conducted in a carnival atmosphere... and comparing that report to data gathered from hither and yon, over the years, on a fugitive.”

Cowley, bleakly, said, “Mel, much of the ID order description comes from Dillinger’s Navy records, remember?”

“Right,” I said. “And the Navy physical he got was surely pretty accurate.”

Defensive, Purvis said, “How can you know that? Were you there?”

“No I wasn’t, and maybe you’re right. Maybe the Navy doctor was drunk that day. But the coroner’s pathologist, Kearns, isn’t a drinking man. That autopsy was carefully handled, despite the ghoulish goings-on at the morgue. Kearns is a top doc; he’s done every major murder in Chicago from Bobby Franks to the Saint Valentine’s crowd. And he was assisted in this by another doctor, and a medical stenog was recording everything. This was not your typical Cook County foul-up.”

“Ridiculous,” Purvis said, softly.

“I’ll tell you something else the dead man had that Dillinger didn’t: a bum ticker.”

Cowley sat up straight. “What?”

“A bum ticker. The corpse had a rheumatic heart condition. He’d had it a long time, since he was a kid. How could he have passed the Navy physical with that? How could he have played baseball like he did? Not to mention certain other strenuous activities he’s been involved in this past year or so.”

Cowley finally picked up the wanted poster and glanced at it.

“Maybe,” he said, “his heart condition was something he knew about but kept to himself. Maybe it was what made him live the reckless way he did.”

“It won’t wash,” I said. “That’s some other guy on that slab down there at the morgue.”

“Who then?” Purvis demanded.

I shrugged. “Maybe he is a guy named Jimmy Lawrence. One of Anna Sage’s pimps from East Chicago or something. Most likely he’s a small-timer on the run who had some plastic surgery a while back and was hiding out, with the help of some friends. Or some people he thought were friends. When Frank Nitti needed a patsy to stand in for Dillinger, this poor shmuck got elected.”

Purvis stood again; paced with his hands in his pockets, checking his wristwatch now and again, nervously. He said, “Nitti. You see Nitti under every bed. I don’t see him even vaguely figuring in this. Not vaguely...”

I ticked the points off on my fingers. “Anna Sage is a madam and connected to the mob. Zarkovich has Capone ties going way back, and probably engineered the Crown Point escape for Dillinger. Even the Biograph theater has Nitti’s name on it — there’s been a bookie joint over the theater for years and, hell, Nitti’s got a lock on the movie projectionist’s union, so what better place to rub out the patsy?”

Cowley, his face ashen, his eyes haunted, said, “Why did you do it, Heller? Why’d you go to the morgue? Why are you stirring things up?”

“It’s something you two wouldn’t understand. It’s called being a detective.”

Purvis laughed humorlessly. “Very funny,” he said, and stopped to look out at the Rookery, then at his watch.

Cowley said, “You had this theory, and you just had to see if it was right. You just had to know.”

I shrugged, said, “Yeah, I suppose. I had to know.”

“Did you ever go to college?”

“For a while.”

“Did you take any science?”

What the hell was this about? “Some,” I said.

Cowley leaned forward, hands folded, and tried to look fatherly, wise. “Did you learn anything about what happens when a scientist goes looking for a certain answer, when he should just be looking?”

“You’re saying I was predisposed to finding out this guy wasn’t Dillinger.”

Cowley nodded.

“Hell, I wish the guy was Dillinger. I’d feel like less of a chump. It would mean a couple of corrupt East Chicago cops used me to help put public enemy number one on the spot, for the reward money. I wouldn’t be nuts about that either, but it’s better than helping set up some poor dope for a bullet or two so John Dillinger can drink tequila and lay Mexican broads into his old age in peace. No, Dillinger’s eyes are gray, the dead guy’s are brown. And so on. Better face up, boys.”

Purvis whirled and pointed a finger at me, like I was a suspect he was interrogating; he was trying for a dramatic moment, but it didn’t play. He said, “Suppose you’re right. Suppose there was some grain of truth in this nonsense you’re peddling. What do we do about it?”

I shrugged again. “Announce your mistake. It’d be embarrassing — the headlines are half ‘Dillinger Dead,’ half ‘Purvis Hero.’ It wouldn’t be easy. It’d be embarrassing as hell. Little Bohemia was a spring picnic compared to this.”

Purvis lifted his chin, looked down his nose at me. Small guys like to do that, sometimes, when you’re sitting and they’re standing. He said, “Why should I buck the tide? If the corpse has been identified as Dillinger, why should I think otherwise? The fingerprints match up, after all, and—”

“That does have me stumped,” I admitted. “But I noticed the prints didn’t get entered as evidence at the inquest. Some agent just testified they matched up, right? So who took em?”

“Uh, took what?” Purvis said.

“The prints, man! Which of your men took the prints?”

Purvis and Cowley exchanged looks; I couldn’t read the meaning.

Cowley said, “It was done by some Chicago police officer, at the morgue last night.”

“Chicago police officer?”

“Yes.”

“You mean, East Chicago?”

“No. Chicago.”

“Do you know the cop’s name?”

Both men shrugged.

“Let me get this straight — there’s been absolutely no Chicago police involvement in the case whatsoever up till this point, then suddenly it’s not one of your men, but a Chicago cop who takes the prints. A nameless Chicago cop, at that.”

This time only Cowley shrugged. “It was at the Cook County Morgue. What can I say?”

“Why don’t you go down and take another set of prints while you still can?”

“What for?” Purvis said, irritably.

Cowley shook his head. “I think it’s too late. I think Dillinger’s father has come from Indiana for the body. They’re supposed to’ve shut down that show at the morgue by now, and turned Dillinger over to—”

“Well, hell, go to Indiana, then. Catch up with Dillinger Senior before the burial. Save yourself exhumation expense. Check the prints.”

“Why bother?” Purvis said.

“Why bother? Because as somebody said — I think it was you, a couple of hundred times — the Chicago cops would sell their grandmother out for a cigar. Or words to that effect.”

Purvis looked at his watch. Then, suddenly civil again, he said, “I have to stop back at my apartment for my luggage, before I get that train. I’ll have to leave you gentlemen, now.” He walked to the door, turned and said, “See you in a few days, Sam. Mr. Heller, thanks for sharing your theories with us. Interesting if farfetched, but we do appreciate that you’re otherwise keeping them to yourself. Good evening.”

“Oh, Melvin,” I said.

He stopped momentarily, the door open.

I said, “You may catch your train, but you are definitely missing the boat.”

He snorted and went out.

Cowley and I just sat there awhile.

Then I asked, “Where’s he off to?”

“Washington, D.C.,” he said, quietly.

“Going to shake his boss’s hand, I take it.”

“Yes. He’ll be meeting with the director, and the attorney general as well.”

“Lots of publicity shots, I suppose.”

Cowley shrugged, then nodded.

I said, “Melvin Purvis is building a big reputation on this dead man’s back. I wonder how Little Mel’s going to sleep, over the next twenty or thirty years, knowing the man he’s supposed to have killed might turn up, any minute?”

Cowley said nothing.

I got up. “I wish you guys luck. At least I wish you luck, Cowley. You seem decent enough.”

He stood, shook my hand. “You’re all right yourself, Heller. I don’t really think there’s anything much to what you’ve said here today...” He didn’t sound quite convinced of that. “...but I do appreciate that you, out of some sense of civic duty or honor or whatever, chose to come to us with this.”

I laughed. “That’s a new one. I never had civic duty or honor laid on me before. By the way, I got a piece of that reward money coming, don’t I?”

Cowley seemed surprised by that. He said, “I would assume so.”

“Well, if this sweater don’t come unraveled in the next few days, and that stiff manages to get planted under a gravestone that says Dillinger, you know where to send the check.”

He nodded.

The check came in a few weeks. Five hundred dollars was all I got. Word was Anna Sage got five grand, though some said ten. Zarkovich got around five gees, too, word was. That’s what the government paid ‘em. Who knows how much they got from John Dillinger. And/or Nitti.

What followed, in the aftermath of the Biograph shooting, I viewed from the sidelines, reading the papers, listening to the radio, and hearing small talk in bars and such.

During the next day or so, more morbids thronged the small funeral home in Mooresville, Indiana, Dillinger’s hometown. The papers reported another five thousand people (one for every dollar the feds paid Anna Sage) viewed the corpse, laid out on a brocade spread in the visitation parlor. The papers reported that most of the people who had known Johnnie over the years had “difficulty” recognizing him, he’d changed so. This included the corpse’s sister Audrey, who’d all but raised him; she never did identify the body exactly — she only said, “There’s no question in my mind — just bury him.”

When Dillinger’s father had come to Chicago to pick up his son’s remains, the early interviews had the father bemoaning the lack of funds for burial; but by late the same afternoon, after a meeting with attorney Louis Piquett, a more cheerful elder Dillinger said it turned out there was money enough after all. Maybe he found somebody’s wallet on LaSalle Street.

Among the other interesting events of the days that followed was Anna Sage coming out in the open, for newspaper interviews and such, basking in her “lady in red” celebrity. Early stories circulated by Purvis and Cowley — complete falsehoods designed to shield Anna and Polly — were soon forgotten, and Anna held court with the press — until Cowley and Purvis sent her on a paid vacation.

A discovery the Chicago police made, at Anna’s apartment in the early days, was that somebody had been staying with her, rooming with her — a man. According to the papers, the cops believed Dillinger to have been that man. Nothing ever came out, though, as to what might or might not have been found in the fancy apartment near the lake, on Pine Grove Avenue.

On the Friday after the Biograph shooting, one James Probasco (the papers said) fell nineteen stories from a window in the Banker’s Building to the alley below; he splattered headfirst, getting some of himself on a passing pedestrian. He had fallen from that same interrogation room where Purvis and Cowley and I talked; he’d been left alone there, by Cowley and some other agents who’d been questioning him (Purvis was still picking up accolades in Washington at the time), and jumped to his death, reportedly. Cowley said the man had seemed “despondent”; nobody in the building across the way, the Rookery, saw the man leap. One of the reasons for Probasco’s despondency, besides a fear of his underworld associates thinking he may have “talked,” was a nerve infection called herpes, for which he was under medication.

Probasco, whom I’d heard of but never met, was said to be a “hot-money” fence, and his connections to both the mob and the likes of Dillinger were well known. He even had some political connections, being related by marriage to an old Cermak crony, former alderman Thomas J. Bowler, currently president of the Sanitary district.

A man in his mid-sixties who’d be facing at most a year or so in jail on harboring a fugitive and conspiracy charges, Probasco seemed an unlikely candidate for suicide. Something that didn’t get much coverage in the papers was the word among cops and crooks in town that the feds regularly hung suspects out the windows by the feet to try to make ’em talk. In Probasco’s case, they were probably trying to make him comply with the face-lift story they were trying to make float.

Probasco, a former veterinarian, apparently had, in addition to his fencing activities, been running a face-lift shop for some time — the feds found rubber gloves, ether, bandages, adhesive tape, iodine and guns in his apartment. He was, they said, part of a conspiracy that included Piquett’s personal investigator and two other doctors and Piquett himself, in giving Dillinger (and his pal Homer Van Meter) face-lifts.

Eventually the story did float (just as Probasco’s “suicide” did) and virtually everybody turned state’s evidence in return for probation, with only Piquett actually standing trial, and he was found not guilty, since the jury felt he was just an attorney trying to help a client, Dillinger.

Whoever it was that was murdered at the Biograph that hot Sunday night ended up being buried at Crown Hill Cemetery in Indianapolis on the Wednesday after. This time the crowd of morbids was chased away by God — a thunderstorm beat down on the graveside ceremony, lightning and thunderclaps overseeing the casket’s entry into ground that also held the remains of President Benjamin Harrison, several U.S. vice presidents, several Indiana governors, novelist Booth Tarkington, poet James Whitcomb Riley and the inventor of the machine gun, R. J. Gatling.

A few days later, the elder Dillinger, that dirt-poor farmer, paid to have the casket uncovered. Over the casket was poured concrete mixed with scrap metal; when that had set, some earth was shoveled in. Then four concrete slabs reinforced with chicken wire were buried, in staggered intervals, over the concrete-entombed casket.

Dillinger’s father did this, he said, to prevent “ghouls” from disturbing his son’s rest.

“If they want to get him out of there,” the father said, a smile cracking his weather-beaten face, “they’ll have to blast him out.”

The old man needn’t have worried.

Nobody wanted him out of there.