You Bet Your Life

10

“You got friends in high places,” Kleinhans said.

“Yes, and in medium places too, I hope.”

I was calling from a Woolworth’s on State Street. In one hand, I had the phone, in the other, a hot dog sandwich. The hot dog was skinny with nothing on it but a little mustard. The phone had more mustard on it than the dog.

“What can I do for you, California?” he said.

“Two things. I’ve got a meeting set up tonight between Marx and Servi. That should clear Marx, but a thought struck me. What if Servi’s the one who’s been knocking off the multitudes? What if he pulled this caper on the mob to pick up a clean $120,000?”

“Then he’ll just identify Chico Marx as the Chico Marx who owes the mob a lot of money,” Kleinhans concluded.

“Right, and Marx either comes up with the money or they start playing games with him and me-games that end with the two of us in small, mailing-size boxes.”

“So, why doesn’t Marx just pay if it comes to that?”

“Hasn’t got the money,” I explained, putting the stale hot dog bun down in the phone booth ledge. “His brothers will give it to him, but he’s got his own principles. I think he might duck out on a debt or put off paying, but I don’t think he’ll pay for something he didn’t lose.”

“So,” sighed Kleinhans, “where do I come in?”

“You were assigned to work with me, right?”

“Right.”

“How about arranging for a little protection in case we have to make a fast exit?”

It seemed reasonable to him. I told him the time and the place of the meeting and suggested that he have a car with a big star parked right in front of the New Michigan Hotel.

“Don’t hide it,” I said.

A lady of about forty-five, with a white turban and a dead white mink around her neck peered in at me in the phone booth. She looked at her diamond-studded watch, under long black gloves. Then she looked at me. Her teeth were clenched in impatience. I offered her a bite of hot dog through the window. She turned her back on me.

“O.K.,” said Kleinhans. “You said there were two things I would do.”

“Right, the second is to tell me where in the Loop I can buy an egg. I’ve gone through four blocks without seeing anything that looked like a grocery.”

He asked where I was and told me how to get to a fancy grocery called Smithfield’s. He didn’t ask me why I needed an egg. I said goodbye to Kleinhans and said I’d turn myself in the next day, as I had promised Daley.

“Take care of yourself, Peters,” said Kleinhans, “and don’t do anything too stupid.”

“It’s in my blood,” I said. “My brother’s a cop.”

We both hung up, and the well-dressed lady shoved past me into the booth. I finished my hot dog and made my way to Smithfield’s, where I bought a half-dozen eggs. I was tempted to buy a can of quail eggs, too, just to keep on my shelf in L.A. to impress the social register when they dropped by, but my environment was a dead giveaway, and I didn’t want to actually eat quail eggs.

A little after four I went into, Kitty Kelly’s. Merle was at her table. She gave me a small smile and blew her nose.

“Look what you did,” she said, rolling the dice. Her dress was covered with spangles that glittered in the light from the bar. “I’m losing customers from this damned cold you gave me.”

She shook her head and kept the small ironic smile to show she didn’t mean it, but she did mean it a little, too.

I ordered a beer for myself and a glass of wine and orange juice for her. I did the bit Ian Fleming had pulled at the Fireside. My fingers didn’t have his flare. It was a kind of comic parody of what he had done, but it did get a small audience of late afternoon marginal businessmen, two Twenty-One girls and a bartender.

“Drink it,” I said. “Old California cure for the common cold.”

“You know what you can do with that?” she said.

“Yeah,” I answered, “but it wouldn’t cure anything that way. Take my word. I’ve been around doctors a lot recently.”

She said “What the hell,” downed the orange juice and egg and slugged the wine in two gulps.

“You’ll feel better in half an hour,” I predicted, and handed her the carton with five more eggs, telling her to use them every two hours.

I purposely lost a few bucks playing Twenty-One and mentioned that I might be getting near the end of my Chicago stay, one way or the other.

“You’ll come by and pick up your suitcase, I hope,” she said, sounding semitough. “I’m not mailing it to you.”

“I thought I’d be around at least through the night and you might put me up again.”

“I might reinfect you.”

“It’s worth the risk.”

Her smile this time was real, and I asked her how to get in touch with Ray Narducy, the versatile cab driver who had introduced us and did the world’s worst Charlie Chan impression. She gave me the number from a book she fished out of her purse, and said he usually went home at dinner time to save a half-buck or so.

“He’s a sardine freak,” she said. “Eats the stuff every day in sandwiches, salads. He’s a good kid, but for a few hours a day he smells like the lake on a hot day when the fish are dying.”

After another five minutes of equally intimate conversation, I squeezed her hand, told her I’d see her later, and made room for a partly plastered businessman who was going to make snappy conversation with a lovely lady while he tried to recover his bar bill.

Narducy was home.

“How’d you like to work for me tonight?” I said. He said he would, and I told him to pick me up in front of the Drake Hotel just before nine. “I’ll have the Marx Brothers with me as an added treat.”

“I do imitations of all three of them,” he said happily. “I even do a Zeppo, but most people don’t recognize it.”

“Maybe you could skip the impressions tonight. We’re going to have things on our mind. Now go back to your sardine sandwich.”

“How did you know I was eating sardines?”

“I’m a detective, remember?” I said. “Nine, in front of the Drake.”

My wallet told me I had about seventy bucks left. My memory told me I had nothing in the bank. In fact, with my bill from the LaSalle, I was almost minus. I still couldn’t take a chance on calling Hoff or Mayer and getting fired. If I held on and the case got wrapped up fast, I had enough to get back to L.A., submit my bill to Mayer, and have a few bucks for some gas and a bag of tacos.

Something resembling sleet pissed cold in my face as I walked in early evening darkness back toward the Drake. I stopped at a coffee shop for a tuna on toast and a Pepsi. I was the only customer. The place was shiny and clean with a steel counter that reflected me from its mirror surface. I tried to ignore myself, ate fast, left a reasonable tip to a waitress who was listening to Smiling Jack on the radio, and continued my journey back to the Drake.

The Marxes had already eaten when I got there. The card game had temporarily ceased, and they were debating the future. I just sat back in a comfortable chair with my hat over my eyes and waited for time to pass.

Every once in a while, I heard them arguing about doing a radio show. I wondered how Harpo would do a radio show, but I minded my own business. Groucho and Chico also argued about doing another movie. Groucho said the script about the department store was awful and couldn’t get better. Chico suggested that some things could be done with it.

“You know,” he said, “Harp pulls out the harp and gives them a little shit. I play the piano and smile. You push Margaret around and talk to the camera. It always works.”

“But it isn’t always good,” countered Groucho. “What we need is Thalberg back from the dead.”

Chico nodded agreement. Harpo said nothing.

“I could sure use the money,” sighed Chico.

“What a surprise,” Groucho responded.

Business talk went on for another hour. Then there was a pause for nostalgia, with memories of living out on Grand Avenue when they were in Chicago in the old days. They talked about former wives, assorted kids, aunts and uncles.

They spent about two hours talking, beating the extended record I had for conversation with my own brother. Once I had talked to Phil for almost fifteen minutes before he threw a telephone book at me. I’m not sure that time should count though because he was questioning me in his office about a murder.

A little after eight-thirty, I suggested that we get ready. Chico was especially prepared for the event. To meet the gangsters, he had put on a black suit, black shirt, and white tie. Both Groucho and Harpo wore heavy tweeds that looked as if they came off the same racks I used.

Narducy was waiting for us at the curb with his cab. His face was eager, and his neck was straining to look at the three brothers, who sat silently in the back seat. I got in front with Narducy.

Before we pulled away, Narducy turned and surveyed the trio of brothers, deciding which was which. Then, in an Italian accent out of Leo Carillo by way of Henry Armenta, he said: “Hey boss, the garbage mans a here.”

“Tell him we don’t want any,” Groucho shot back.

Then Narducy switched to his Groucho imitation. I elbowed him hard in the ribs before he got very far, but it didn’t slow him down.

“Now the next thing we’ve got in this contract,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “is a sanity clause. You know what a sanity clause is, don’t you?”

Chico shot back in his now Italian accent: “Take it out. You canta fool me. There’s no Sanity Klaus.”

Encouraged by the response, Narducy did a gookie toward Harpo that merited him donations for plastic surgery. Harpo returned the gookie.

“I like this guy,” said Groucho, nodding at Ray, “but then again, I like cold toilet seats.”

“You think we might get moving now?” I said. ”Half the underworld is waiting for us.”

“And if you do one more imitation of us,” added Groucho, “we’ll turn you over to these guys and tell them you’re Chico.”

Narducy started the car with a grin. He pushed his glasses up his nose, narrowly missed a new Nash as he pulled into traffic, turned his voice up to a near falsetto and did an imitation of Kenny Baker singing “Too Blind Love.”

Groucho moaned.

Narducy switched to his operatic tenor and tried Allen Jones singing “Alone.”

“I give up,” cried Groucho. “We’ll give you the $120,000 if you stop.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Chico said. “He always gets this way when he’s nervous.”

Groucho folded his arms and looked out the window.

As we turned at Michigan and Cermak, I saw the police car Kleinhans promised parked across from the Michigan entrance of the hotel. Narducy pulled his cab around the corner on Cermak and told us the street was named after the mayor who had been assassinated when he took a shot meant for FDR. Cermak, according to Narducy, was a much bigger target. I told him to move far enough down so the cop car couldn’t spot him and no one from inside the hotel would know we came in his cab. It might turn out to be safer for all of us.

There was an empty taxi stand a half block away with a little place near it-a shack where you could buy coffee. I told Narducy he could go in there and get a cup, but to be back out in ten minutes in case we had to move fast.

Then the brothers and I got out and walked to the New Michigan. None of them had anything to say. In the lobby they still had nothing to say. Costello was there, and a different night clerk. Some of the ladies who worked out of the place were taking an evening break in the lobby. Chico beamed at a blonde nearby. She beamed back. Groucho caught the exchange of beams and gave Chico a dirty look. Chico shrugged and smiled. Harpo said nothing and looked seriously at the approaching Costello. His arm was still in a sling. His eyes looked at us up and down and across.

“Lift ’em,” he said.

I lifted my arms and he frisked me.

“You three, too.”

When Costello was satisfied, which took him extra long because he had only one hand to work with and wanted to be sure he didn’t make the kind of mistake that had resulted in my getting away from him in Cicero, he nodded for us to go in the elevator.

Chico managed to say something to the blonde, who gave him a deep laugh, a laugh from just above her knees.

“Which one’s Chico?” Costello said in the swaying elevator.

“I am,” said Chico. Costello gave him a less than friendly look and went silent.

I’d been through this whole thing before. We got out at the same floor, went down the same hall, and found the same Chaney waiting and guarding the door.

“Swordfish,” said Groucho.

“Huh?” said Chaney.

“Swordfish,” repeated Groucho. “That’s the password to get us into this speakeasy. If you don’t know your business, you shouldn’t be on the door. Chico’s had more experience at it than you have.”

Chaney’s face was blank and confused.

“Never mind,” said Groucho. “Forget I said anything. I have a feeling you will anyway.”

“He’s being funny,” Costello explained.

“I don’t get it,” said Chaney.

It was my turn, and I asked if we could just go in. Chaney opened the door and led us into the same room I had been in before. Costello was behind us. The room had the same furniture, a card table with chairs, a sofa, an old worn easy chair and a picture on the wall of a horse. The big difference was the people. Nitti was in the same chair at the table as if he hadn’t moved in days. A heavy-set guy with greying curly hair and a familiar face sat in the easy chair. I figured him for Ralph Capone, but I never found out for sure. Two unfamiliar men stood on either side of the room, far back and silent. One was leaning against the wall, smoking and watching us. The other was just watching us. Their job may have been to hold up the wall, but I had the feeling they were there to back up the curly head in the soft chair. The one person missing from the picture was the one we’d come to see, Gino Servi.

“Who’re they?” Nitti said through his teeth, indicating the Marxes.

“Oh,” said Groucho stepping forward, “permit me to introduce ourselves. I am Mr. Hardy and this is my friend Mr. Laurel. The gentleman next to him is Edgar Kennedy.”

Nobody in the room cracked a smile or gave any indication that they realized Groucho was trying to be funny. Costello had some experience with Groucho and said, “He’s being funny, Frank. The talker is Groucho. The one next to him is Chico and the other one is Harpo.”

Nitti looked at Groucho, his eyes narrow, and whispered, “Don’t talk no more.”

Groucho opened his mouth and Nitti’s hands clenched, turning red-white.

“Grouch,” said Chico. “Don’t.”

Harpo put a hand on Groucho’s shoulder and Groucho shrugged, found a chair, put his elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand.

“Well,” said Chico, “Which one is Servi?”

“Not here yet,” said Costello. “Soon.”

“O.K.,” said Chico rubbing his hands together, “How about a couple hands of poker, or-”

I cleared my throat loudly and Groucho groaned. Harpo walked over to look at the picture of the horse.

We sat around for about fifteen minutes, looking at our watches. Chaney and Costello spent some of their time looking at me. The curly-haired guy lifted his hand, and one of the guys near the wall came to him. They whispered. The guy left the room and came back five minutes later with a dark drink with ice for the guy I was sure was Ralph Capone. Nitti looked at him.

“You bring those cops?” said the guy in the soft chair.

“Me?” I said pointing to my chest. “What cops?”

“The ones parked outside,” he said calmly, putting away half the liquid in the glass with two swallows. We all watched his Adam’s apple.

I didn’t say anything more. I didn’t know what he knew. Maybe their boys in blue had told them something. If they did, I could lie and get caught. I could tell the truth or say nothing. I kept my mouth shut, and the guy who must have been Capone didn’t push it. Ten minutes later he looked restless.

“Where’s Servi?” he asked Nitti.

“I don’t know. I told him nine. He knows better.”

“Can I say something?” said Groucho.

“No,” said Nitti.

“Yes,” said Capone.

Nitti’s head spun toward Capone, who started to get out of his chair. The two boys near the wall moved forward. Costello and Chaney put their hands in their coats. Harpo pretended to keep looking at the horse, which he had been examining steadily for twenty minutes.

Nitti’s eyes stayed on Capone and he spoke softly.

“Talk,” said Nitti, “but no smart-ass Jew talk.”

“This guy Servi’s not coming,” said Groucho. “He’s not coming because he can’t identify Chico. He’d walk into this room, look at the three of us and make a wrong guess, because I think this guy Servi helped set you up with a guy imitating my brother.”

“The guy who got killed on the West Side yesterday,” I threw in. “Old actor named Morris Kelakowsky. I think maybe Servi set it up for him to take you for $120,000. Then he tried to hold Chico up for it.”

Nitti rose, glaring from Groucho Marx to me. Chico just leaned back and watched.

“Sounds possible to me,” said Capone.

“Gino’s my cousin,” said Nitti.

Capone laughed.

“You never heard of a cousin doing in a cousin, or a brother a brother? They may be right, Frank. Gino set all this, got rid of Bistolfi, the Canetta kid and the Jew to keep them from talking.”

“Maybe,” said Nitti, rubbing his chin.

“If he did,” said Capone, “I want him. Bistolfi was working for me.”

Capone motioned to Chaney and told him to make some phone calls, to track down Gino. We sat while Chaney reached for the phone and started his calls. He got nervous and turned his eyes down. On the third call, to the Fireside, he got lucky, and kept saying, “Yeah, O.K.” He hung up and talked slowly to Nitti.

“Gino left there two hours ago, said he was coming right here. He ain’t been home or to any of the other places. You want me to check the hospitals?”

“No,” said Nitti.

Capone got up and nodded to the guys against the wall.

“Remember, Frank. I get him.”

“We talk to him first,” said Nitti.

“Sure,” said Capone, “you talk to him. Then I talk to him.”

It was my turn.

“Then we can go?”

“You can go back to the Drake and stay there till we find Gino,” and Nitti. “Then you get out of town fast if things don’t look good for him. We’ll let you know.”

Groucho was going to say something, but Harpo moved quickly to his side and touched his shoulder, shutting him up. Chico put five bucks on the table, reached down and cut the deck of cards in front of Nitti. Nitti smirked and looked up at him with something that might have been dyspepsia or grudging respect. Nitti cut the cards. Chico’s card was a five of clubs, Nitti’s a jack of hearts. Chico led the way out of the door with Costello and Chaney behind us.

When the door closed, we could hear the voices of Capone and Nitti, but couldn’t make out the words.

No one said anything on the way down. In the lobby, Chico suggested when he saw the blonde that he might be back at the Drake a little late. I suggested strongly that he do as Nitti said and just go to the hotel.

It had worked out, but not the way I expected. All I had left to do was stick around till the mob nailed Servi. In the morning, I’d tell Kleinhans that Servi was the triple killer. I didn’t think the cops would get to him first. Then I’d call Mayer and tell him the whole thing was wrapped up.

The cop car was across the street when we went through the door. Costello followed us out into the wind with his hands in his pockets. He moved his blue face close to me so that I’d be the only one to hear.

“When Frank gives you the word to go,” he said without moving his lips, “you got exactly two hours to be out of town and not come back, not ever. Got it?”

“I got it,” I said, and led the way around the corner to Narducy’s cab. The street was pretty well deserted. The area was mostly industrial. A couple of big factories stood in the sky, silhouetted against the moon. We got in, and Narducy asked how it had gone. The Marxes were quiet. I told Narducy everything looked fine.

We pulled away, and he made a U-turn to take us back to Michigan Avenue. Something bumped in the car and rattled. Narducy said he’d check it later and guessed it was a loose muffler.

We got back to the Drake in ten minutes, and the Marxes got out. I said goodnight and that I’d see them in the morning. Groucho leaned through the door and said “Thanks.” No gags, no smirk. No sour face. Harpo shook my hand and grinned, and Chico suggested that he never knew when he might need my help again. I closed the door, and Narducy pulled away singing “Lydia the Tattooed Lady” in his Groucho voice. I didn’t mind.

When he pulled in front of his apartment building, I paid him and marked the price and tip in my black book. He said he’d be on the street for a few more hours. I turned to head in and up to Merle while Narducy got out of the cab to check the loose muffler.

About twenty seconds later, he caught me going up the stairs. His eyes were wide and he had something to say, but words weren’t coming out, not even an impression of Cary Grant. I followed him back down the stairs and out to the cab.

“Muffler wasn’t loose,” he finally said, breathing fast in little gulps. “It was the trunk. Someone broke the lock.”

He pointed to the trunk and I went over to it. It was partly open. I opened it the rest of the way and found out what had happened to Gino Servi. Someone had put a bullet in his forehead and folded him into Narducy’s trunk. Narducy didn’t move around to where he could see the corpse again.

“Well?” he said as if he had to find a toilet fast.

“No, not well. Not well at all.”

A large caliber bullet had not only cancelled Gino Servi’s life but maybe the chance for Chico Marx to walk away clean and me to turn a killer over to the cops.

I was five squares back with nowhere to go, and I was tired, damned tired.

“You got two choices, Raymond,” I said, looking down the street to be sure no one was coming or looking. Whoever had given Narducy this present probably knew about me, Narducy, and Merle. Sooner or later he was going to find it easier to get rid of me than to keep sweeping witnesses out of my path. “You go to the cops and tell them you found this gentleman in your trunk, or you dump the body someplace. I suggest you avoid the questions and dump the body.”

“I never-” he started. “I can’t.”

“I have,” I said. “And I can. Get back in and tell me a good place to put our friend where the cops can find him.”

Ten minutes later, we left Gino sitting on a bench in Lincoln Park looking at a bunch of icebound pleasure boats in a harbor. Ten minutes after that Narducy had dropped me at the Ambassador Hotel. He was too nervous to tell if someone had followed us, and I was having too much trouble scheming to worry about it.

The doorman at the Ambassador was tall, black, and polite. He was also young and handsome in a blue uniform. We were a nice contrast on every point. I made my way to the desk walking on a carpet four feet thick. Just off the desk was a restaurant with a sign indicating it was “The Pump Room.” Someone opened the door of the Pump Room and I spotted a Negro waiter dressed like Punjab with a big turban. It looked like the kind of place where Ian Fleming would feel at home.

The desk clerk wore a modified tux and was too classy to even give me a suspicious look. He just called Fleming’s room and announced me, and Fleming, apparently, said I should come up.