You Bet Your Life

9

O.K., I told myself. Assuming Servi does get Chico off the hook, you still have two questions. First, who killed Bistolfi, Morris Kelakowsky, and Canetta? The second problem was tied to the first-how to get the Chicago cops to unlist me as public enemy number three or four and moving up fast. The most obvious solution to problem one was that at least four people were involved in some scheme to cheat the mob and Nitti out of $120,000. The killer was determined not to split that money into smaller chunks. Maybe Killer was worried about my getting too close. That led to an obvious conclusion. Killer might want me dead now unless there wasn’t anyone left for me to get information from.

He might also realize, if he was a member of either Nitti’s or Capone’s group, that as soon as Servi cleared Chico, Nitti might start looking for him.

That got me just about nowhere, so I decided to solve problem number two. I got directions and headed South on Michigan Avenue. The wind knocked over an old lady in a black coat. She didn’t break her fall when the blast of iced air threw a block under her. The wind deserved a fifteen yard penalty for clipping. Instead, the old lady lost about three yeards. She got up, determined. The first and ten looked like it might be the Old Water Tower I passed on Chicago Avenue. I never found out. The old lady was still half a block back, struggling against the blast. I was a foreigner and more determined. Chicago had thrown its best flu at me, and I had made it through almost five days. I adjusted my ear muffs and leaned my way down Michigan, past book shops and fancy women’s stores with stiff-backed mannequins in their windows. In ten minutes, I made it past the Tribune Tower and across a bridge over the Chicago river. Ten minutes beyond that I was at City Hall on Clark. When I got to the one-block square lump, I kept my head down, pretending to fight the wind but really keeping my face covered from the cops who were walking in and out.

I headed for the mayor’s office, not that I expected to get in to the mayor, but because I needed information I could get there. A receptionist sat inside the door marked “Mayor.” She looked young, red-haired and Irish. Her teeth were small and her smile long gone for the likes of me.

“Yes sir,” she said.

“I’d like to see the mayor’s secretary,” I said.

“Do you have an appointment?” she said, looking past me for someone who was expected.

“No,” I said, “but I have only one question and I’m a busy man.” I looked at my watch. “If Chicago won’t help me, Detroit will.”

She was unimpressed, so I went on.

“I’m from Metro Goldwyn Mayer studio,” I whispered. “We’re thinking seriously of shooting a picture here next year about the Chicago Fire-a big thing, millions of dollars.”

She was suspicious, but she couldn’t afford to make the kind of mistake that might happen if she kicked me out.

“Did you see Mr.-”

“No,” I said with a patient smile. “I saw no one. This is to remain strictly confidential until I get some reassurances from the Mayor’s office directly.”

She could have asked why I was telling her, but she didn’t look that sharp. She wasn’t.

“Let me check, Mr.-”

“Pevsner,” I said. “Tobias Pevsner. If you’d like to call Mr. Mayer’s office, I’ll be glad to give you the number, Miss-”

“Kelly,” she said with a small smile.

I had discovered from the directory in City Hall that the Mayor’s name was Kelly, but I didn’t think it was the moment to note the coincidence.

“Kelly,” I mused. “A good name for a lovely young lady. You remind me very much of Vivien Leigh. Hey. Viv will be starring in the Chicago picture and she’ll have a younger sister. Ever done any acting?”

Her mouth dropped and closed.

“A little, in a school play, Arsenic and Old Lace. I played the girl.”

I pulled out my black expense book and gnawed pencil.

“Your first name?”

“Maureen, Maureen Kelly.”

I wrote an expense item for a fifty cent breakfast and closed the book. She left and I looked around the bare little office with a single window facing nothing. It was a dreary place, and the man Maureen Kelly led out to see me fit perfectly. He was a prune of a man, pinched in by what must have been an enormous, tight rubber band under his jacket. Bowel movements must have been torture for him. His words fit the image-brief, clipped darts of words that traveled straight and allowed no echo.

“Yes,” he said.

“Pevsner,” I said, not bothering to extend my hand. My plan was to one-up him on bad manners and efficiency before he could get the chance. “I haven’t much time so I’ll be brief. I want to know if the City of Chicago will cooperate in the making of A Song in the Fire. If not, we’ll shoot it on the lot and use Detroit for the exteriors.”

“I see,” said Prune, giving the evil eye to Maureen Kelly. “And what will this cost the city?”

“Cost?” I said, looking at him in disbelief. “Why should it cost? We’re prepared, in fact, to make certain guarantees for housing, publicity, food contracts, local talent, security.”

“I see,” said Prune, trying to smile and failing. “Well, perhaps I can arrange a short meeting with the Mayor.”

“Well,” I said. “It’s either now or not at all. I’m on a very tight schedule.”

“Well, give me just a few minutes to check,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“A few minutes is about all I can spare.”

The prune went through a door marked “Private” and Maureen Kelly smiled at me-a pale smile from a child of the city made anemic in the molehill of City Hall.

“Can I get you anything?” she said. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” I said. “Coffee.”

She went through a second door, and I moved quickly to the one Prune had gone through. I could hear him talking inside, but I couldn’t make out the words. I put one hand on the door and turned the handle slowly and gently till it was open a thin crack.

Prune’s voice came through clearly.

“Late thirties or early forties, hair greying at the temples, about my height, with a flat nose. No I don’t think he’s dangerous, and I don’t know how he got past Alex. No. Of course not. He’s in the reception room of the Mayor’s office. That’s right. No, I do not know what you’re waiting for. Get up here fast.”

As he put down the phone I closed the door and turned to find Maureen with a steaming cup in her hand. My grin was enormous.

“Hold that for me just one second,” I said. “I have to find the men’s room.”

I lowered my hands and moved leisurely but distinctly to the outer door, closing it behind me on the image of the slightly bewildered Maureen Kelly. There were a few people in the tile-floored hall. The sound of footsteps and the shaft of light from a single window made it feel like an old drugstore. I hurried to the stairway and went up half a flight. The footsteps from below were heavy and slower than they should have been. Leaning over the rail, I saw three blue uniformed cops come up and run down the hall toward the mayor’s office with guns drawn, ready to blow away intruders and complainers.

I went down behind them with one hand on the rail, going two steps at a time. When I hit the main floor I lifted my collar, regretted giving my scarf to the kid on the West Side, and walked to the nearest exit. A cop stood in the street looking toward me. I retreated back into the cool echoes of the hallway. The cop from outside came through the door. In the few seconds it took for his eyes to adjust to the grey electric light, I opened the nearest door, went in and closed it behind me.

I was in a small office with two men. A thin guy in a white shirt with a big Adam’s apple leaned over a guy at a desk who looked like a cop. The guy at the desk was short, stocky but not fat, with serious dark eyes. He was about my age, and wearing a neat, dark suit. His clothes reminded me of the uniforms Catholic kids had to wear in high school. His eyes met mine and I knew he was going over the description of the mad chopper killer. Instead of turning away and rushing into the possibility of a waiting cop outside the door, I smiled and stepped forward with my hand out.

“My name’s Derry, Charles Derry,” I said. “From Cleveland-Maple Heights, really. Looking into some investment possibilities. Contacting politicians, people around City Hall.”

The stocky man didn’t get up and he didn’t take my hand. Without taking his eyes from me he said to the thin man, “Thanks Ed.” Ed looked at me suspiciously and backed away from the desk. The stocky man said nothing until Ed had left the room.

“Ed’s a waiter at Henrici’s around the corner, brings food over for people when they can’t get away from the desk.” He nodded to the desk in front of him and I noticed a plate of food.

“The special,” he explained. “Fried scallops, julienne potatoes, cole slaw, rolls and pie and coffee for seventy-five cents. Not as good as eating at home but the next best thing.”

He opened his palm and pointed to a chair next to the desk. I sat down and watched him eat for about five minutes.

“My name’s Daley, Richard Daley,” he said, pushing a fruit cup toward me like a short college lineman giving a handoff. I took the fruit cup and a spoon. “I’m a state senator,” he went on, “and I didn’t shake your hand for a reason. You picked the wrong guy for a patsy, fella. So, eat your fruit cup and walk out of here.”

He spoke with what seemed a careful choice of words, almost rehearsed, but delivered with an accent that said he would never get rid of the old neighborhood where guys said duh instead of the and gunna instead of going to or even gonna.

“Your name’s not Derry,” he said, sitting back warily with his hands on the desk while I ate the fruit cup, almost choking on an unseen watermelon seed. “If your name’s Derry, you changed it from Nathan. You’re a Jew. And you’re no businessman looking for investments. Businessmen looking for investments aren’t jumping unannounced into City Hall offices. They’re downtown setting up lunches and having lunches set up for them. So, as soon as you finish choking, you can say goodbye before you pull whatever you were going to pull on me.”

“Hold it,” I said, drinking the juice from the fruit cup to stop my spasm. “O.K. I’m not a businessman. My real name’s Pevsner.”

He nodded with his eyes on me.

“I make my living knowing the difference between a Pole and a Rumanian and a businessman and a con man.”

“Democrat?” I guessed.

“Right,” he said soberly. “You?”

“Democrat,” I said.

“All right, fellow Democrat. Why don’t you tell your tale quickly while I digest my lunch?”

With nothing better to do while I hid from the cops and nothing much to lose, I told Senator Daley of Illinois my story. He was a damn good listener who threw in two or three questions to be sure I wasn’t making it up.

“I’m from a part of Chicago called Bridgeport,” he said when I had finished. “It’s a tough neighborhood, but it’s a good one. When you first came in, I thought you were someone I once knew in the Valentine Club from the neighborhood. We were taught not to kill people and not to cheat people. You might have to shake a few hands and a few heads and pull a few deals, but you do what you can in this town and it’s a good town. When the Republicans had Chicago with Thompson, people like Capone did what they wanted. Not just with the city but the whole state. The Democrats are changing that. It’s not going back the way it was.”

He had gradually gotten more and more excited by his little speech, which had started as an explanation to me and moved into a statement to himself and an unseen public. His face flushed and he gave me a lopsided Irish grin.

“The Nittis and Capones and Servis are through,” he said. “The gang killing is going to stop. Chicago and Illinois are going to be the best run city and state in-”

“I’m not even a voter,” I threw in.

He chuckled, which was better for his digestion than turning red and angry.

“A man who wants to get somewhere in politics has to know when to trust people,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “If he makes too many mistakes, he proves himself a poor judge of character and doesn’t deserve the trust and loyalty of others. That’s a small campaign speech, but I believe it. Sit still a few minutes and I’ll see what I can do.”

He left the room and I polished off the roll he had left while I waited. I wasn’t sure whether he had decided I was someone to trust or someone not to trust. If I was the latter, a couple of cops would be coming through the door. If I ran now, I might make it out of the building if no one was waiting for me, but I had the feeling that if Daley wanted me to stay he would have taken care to see that I didn’t try to run. When he came back in five minutes or so, Daley was smiling. He moved back behind the desk and pulled out his wallet. Before he sat down he handed me his card.

“This isn’t my office. I’m just using it for a few days. You can reach me at the number on that card. You’ve got twenty-four hours to take care of Mr. Marx’s troubles,” he said. He looked at his watch. “That means you turn yourself in by two o’clock tomorrow afternoon and do what you can to help the police find out who killed those men. The police won’t pick you up or bother you till then.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’d like to say I’ll pay you back some day, but I can’t even vote for you.”

“That’s all right,” he grinned. “If you know any Illinois voters, you might suggest that they stick with the Democrats. By the way, I trust you, but I also called a friend with the police department who had records on the case. They don’t really think you did it. Trust is one thing. Stupidity is something else. It’s a good idea to back up your trust with information.”

“Mind if I have that embroidered and hung on my wall?” I said, giving my best pleased grin.

“Be my guest,” he said, and added, “If things get a little out of hand and you need a good lawyer, I may be able to make a few suggestions. I’ve got a law degree from DePaul.”

He seemed particularly proud of the last statement, and since it was the only sign of vulnerability he had shown, I nodded in respect.

“One more thing,” I said, moving to the door.

“Yes,” he said, looking up from his work.

“How do I get to Henrici’s?”

“Out the door on Clark Street, north to Randolph and turn right. You can’t miss it.”

I went out to Clark Street and walked past the cop at the door who had obviously received the word on me. He looked me over to be sure I knew he was looking. I looked back and moved slowly up Clark Street with my hands in my pockets. I found Henrici’s. It looked a little fancy but Daley had assured me the special was seventy-five cents. He was right.

By the time I had downed a half dozen scallops, the restaurant was filled with Loop lunchers and I hadn’t worked out a better plan. I passed on the fruit cup and had a chunk of orange cake, but that didn’t help any thing either. I eyed an almost good-looking secretary downing a tuna on toast at the next table, but she didn’t look at me so I left a quarter tip and walked into the cold with my head up.

Two of my difficulties were taken care of. My stomach was full, and the cops and the crooks were giving me a little time.