You Bet Your Life

14

When I opened my eyes, I was looking at a nine-year-old kid with thick glasses and black hair that kept falling forward. He told me he was a doctor and I was in the emergency room of Cook County Hospital.

“How long have I been out?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Peters,” he said, patting my shoulder. “You’ve been shot-we don’t think seriously, but-”

“Get me a phone,” I said. Something like pain was knitting a sweater out of my insides.

His smile was tolerant but put-upon.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time for that-”

I made it up on one elbow and spoke as quietly and clearly as I could.

“You get me a phone or you don’t cut me open.”

“You can’t-”

“Get me a phone or I cut you open,” I tried.

“I’m here to help you,” he said, turning pale.

“Good, then help me by getting a phone or getting me to one.”

“I don’t see how-”

This time he was interrupted by a Negro woman in white who outweighed him by thirty pounds and probably outexperienced him by the same number of years.

“I think we should let him make the call, doctor,” the nurse said. “Arguing with him isn’t getting us anywhere. Now Mister,” she said to me, “who do you want to call?”

The child doctor looked like he was going to protest, but settled for throwing out his hairless jaw and muttering, “What the hell?” as he stalked away.

“Don’t mind him,” the nurse said to me, pushing the cart I was on to a corner. “He’s been working for twenty-four hours.”

“He doesn’t even need a shave,” I said.

“Who do you want to call?” she said.

“In my wallet pocket, there’s a card with the name Daley on it.”

I wasn’t wearing my suit, but she fished my bloody pants out of a metal locker and found the card. She called the number and asked for Daley.

“This is Mr. Peter’s secretary,” she said and handed me the phone.

“Daley?” I asked. “This is Peters.”

“Yes,” he said. “You turned yourself in?”

“I did,” I said.

“You sound strange,” he said. “Hurt?”

“I’m in the hospital. I’ll be all right. I got shot by a crooked cop named Kleinhans, Sergeant Charles Kleinhans, Maxwell Street Station. Got that?”

“I’ve got it,” he said.

“Kleinhans is dead. Shot by a mob gunman. Kleinhans put away the three guys in the paper this morning and that guy Servi they found in the park. Servi was paying him off, and they were in on a caper to get $120,000 from the mob. Have someone check his car, his house, and his bank account. You should find a machine gun and more money than a cop should have. Check his hand against the bullet in Servi.”

“Got it,” he said. “I’ll tell the right people.”

“See you around.”

“Need anything?” said Daley.

“A new body and some blood,” I said, fading away. “I hope you make it to the White House.”

“I hope you make it back to California,” he said. He hung up.

“I hope I make it to tomorrow,” I said to myself.

“Finished?” asked the nurse.

“I hope not,” I said, but I don’t think my words came all the way out. I faded into something between delirium and sleep, and stayed there for forty-eight hours. My dreams were great. Koko the Clown and I had a snowball fight in Cincinnati and won millions of chips for drinks at Kitty Kelly’s. Harpo and Koko danced. Chico and Al Capone had a nonsense debate, and Groucho ran for vice-president under Richard Daley. The snowball fight gave Merle G. a cold, and I had to visit her in the hospital.

I remember looking down at her and saying, “You really got yourself into one, didn’t you?”

My eyes opened and I realized the voice wasn’t mine. It was hers. I was the one in the hospital being looked at. She was the one talking.

“Hi,” she said. “My cold’s gone.”

“Great,” I said, my mouth cracked and dry. “How’s my bullet hole?”

“Coming along,” she said. “Doctor got the bullet out. He says you should be up and out in a day or two.”

“Hey, that’s great.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Everything’s great. The cops don’t want you anymore, and Nitti’s not looking for you. That’s what Ray says. He talked to the Marxes. They talked to the cops.”

“Great.”

“Great.”

Silence. In the hall a woman cried and said, “Te amore, madre.”

“You going back to L.A.?” Merle said.

“As soon as I can,” I said.

“I brought your suitcase.”

“I would have come to say goodbye,” I said. “Say, can you give me some water?”

She did and I thought.

“How’d you like to come to L.A.?” I said. “I could probably get you a job, and we-”

Her head was saying no, but she was smiling gently.

“Can’t go,” she said.

“The kid?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You never asked about her.”

“None of my business,” I said. “But I wanted to know.”

She considered telling me, looked out of the window at the falling snow, bit her lower lip, shuddered and said,

“No, maybe next time.”

“I’ll be back,” I said.

“Like hell you will,” she said and leaned over to kiss me. “Life is like a movie to you. One day you’ll get killed and won’t get another role. You’re no damn cartoon dog who comes back together after being cracked or flattened.” I tried to hold her, but I had no muscle for the effort. She pulled away.

“You’ve got the address and phone number if you feel like reality,” she said. “Take it easy.”

“I can’t,” I said.

She shrugged again.

“O.K., then, be careful,” and she was gone.

The room was just big enough for a bed, a metal closet, and a small window. I was alone, no ward. I sat up. It made me dizzy, but it didn’t hurt as much as I expected. I was bandaged tight and wearing a hospital gown. When my foot hit the floor, a guy who looked like a real goddamn doctor came in. He was tall, grey, tired, and wearing a suit. A stethoscope hung around his neck.

“Peters,” he said, pushing me back gently, “anyone ever tell you you were a medical wonder?”

“Yeah,” I said. “A kid doctor in L.A. named Parry.”

He listened to my heart, thumped my chest, took my blood pressure and talked.

“You have another gunshot wound no more than a year old,” he said. “Several wounds from sharp instruments, multiple scars and bruises, a skull that should be pickled for posterity, and a variety of broken bones which have healed remarkably well. Your septum is also badly deviated.”

“And I have the worst lower back in Southern California,” I added.

“You’re worthy of Grand Rounds, Peters,” he said, looking into my eyes for signs of further decay, “but we have an even more interesting case. Nineteen year old brought into emergency in a stupor, grand mal seizure and vomiting. He was sweating and lethargic with slight abdominal tenderness. Trouble breathing and respiratory infection. You’re a detective. You know what he had?”

“Homesickness?”

“No,” said the doctor, “One hundred and eighty little rubber bags filled with cocaine powder in his stomach. He was sneaking them in from Columbia, South America. Could have killed him.”

“I’m enlightened,” I said.

“You’re all right,” he said. “Bullet didn’t hit anything, lodged in a muscle. You lost blood and you’ll have to change that dressing in a few days, but if you’re up to it, you can leave tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I said. “By the way, I can’t pay cash for all this.”

He stuffed his stethoscope in his pocket, being sure that enough stuck out to identify him.

“All paid for,” he said, “by your physician, Dr. Hugo C. Hackenbush. I told him all about your case, and he agreed that you could leave, but suggested that you see him and his associates in Los Angeles.”

“I will,” I said. “Thanks, doc.”

He left with his back straight. Ten minutes later a nurse came in and helped me walk around the room. She was a little thing with Barnum muscles.

In the morning, I got a long-distance call and a pair of short-distance calls. The long-distance call was from the Marx Brothers.

“In my medical opinion,” said Groucho, “you’re cured. And we’ve decided to help your career by not telling Louis B. Mayer what you’ve done for us.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Your pleasure,” he said.

One of the other two calls was from an accented voice. I thought at first it was Chico Marx, but I changed my mind fast.

“You got one day to get out of the city,” the man said. “Twenty-four hours. You understand?”

I said I did and he hung up. I got out of bed and started walking around the room and through the halls. Then I got my second local call. It was from Ray Narducy. He wanted to know if I needed him or his cab.

“Tomorrow morning at nine be in front of Cook County Hospital.”

“Right,” he said, moving into a heavy British accent that might have been C. Aubrey Smith, Charles Laughton, or Cary Grant. “I’ll be out there with bells on.”

I spent the rest of the day walking and tallying my expenses in my black book. I listed the losses at the Fireside as “essential information paid for.” The figures filled six pages. I couldn’t read a few in the front because blood or ketchup had gotten to the pages.

My figures came to $867.14. I added forty bucks for my return trip to L.A. and twenty bucks for a suit to replace the one with the hole in it. Then I called Warren Hoff, collect. It was after six in Los Angeles, but he was in his office.

“Toby,” he said sadly. “It’s good to hear from you, but I’ve got bad news. Mr. Mayer says you’re fired. I tried to reach you two days ago at the LaSalle, but you’d checked out. He says you didn’t get results, and he won’t pay for the last two days.”

“Tell him I love him, too,” I said, “and that Chico Marx’s problem is taken care of.”

“I think he’ll have mixed feelings about that.”

My eyes wandered to the blackness of a late February afternoon in Chicago, and my rear end itched. I wanted to be on a plane.

“Warren, I’m submitting a bill for $907.14, and I have to be paid fast.”

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“I don’t want you to pay for it,” I said. “I want Mayer and MGM to pay for it.”

“Mr. Mayer will pay for it,” he said. “He pays for what he orders, even if he doesn’t like it. I just don’t think you’ll be on his favorite people list.”

“Well, I’m in good company,” I said. “See you in the sun.”

I didn’t sleep much, just listened to the same woman in the hall moaning “madre mia” and “amore”, the cars skidding in the night and ambulances screaming from unknown directions.

In the morning I put on my last remaining pants, a wrinkled shirt, and my coat. I said goodbye to no one and tried to find the moaning woman, but couldn’t. She could have been any one of three down the hall.

Narducy was waiting for me on a day almost as dark as the night. Rain was falling. Thunder was cracking, and the piles of filthy black snow were being eroded to make room for the next cycle.

“Supposed to go down to zero tonight,” said Narducy, taking my suitcase and helping me into the front seat of the cab. He put my bag in the back seat.

“Streets’ll be an ice pond from Summit to Evanston,” he said, getting in and looking at me. “Geez, you look like Halloween.”

I looked in his rear view mirror. I reminded me of a skeleton mask I had worn when I was a kid.

Narducy drove me to Midway airport and helped me in. He didn’t do any imitations. He bought me a seat to L.A. with a stopover in Denver for fueling. I had seven bucks left after I paid Narducy. I bought him a sandwich while we waited and invited him to visit me in Los Angeles. I didn’t know where I’d put him or what I’d do with him, but it seemed like the right thing to say. He said he’d think about it. He shoved his glasses back, downed an egg sandwich in three bites and his Coke in four gulps.

“Carramba,” he said, wiping an imaginary mustache. “That was good.”

His timing was bad. There were no Mexicans around.

There was a stand-up bar in a corner and I bought a glass of wine. I went back to the sandwich counter where I had left Narducy and paid extra for a glass of orange juice and a raw egg. That left me with three bucks.

I took the Fleming cold remedy over to Chaney, who was sitting at a bench with Costello, watching us. They weren’t trying to hide. I handed the drinks to Chaney, who was blowing his nose.

“On me,” I said. “It’s good for a cold.”

“Thanks,” he said and downed the drinks. ‘Doesn’t taste bad.”

I didn’t say goodbye.

The plane took off just before noon. From the window, I watched Chaney, Costello and Narducy get smaller and disappear in seconds. The rain was still coming down. Just before we hit the clouds, I took a last look at Chicago. It looked green.

A stewardess with a blue uniform and blue cap brought me sandwiches and asked if everything was all right.

A chubby guy with a big mouth and a briefcase sat next to me at the window. He had a Southern accent and talked about how much flying he did. When we were about half an hour out, he turned pale and said the engines had stopped. I couldn’t turn any more pale than I was. The engine hadn’t stopped, but what was left of my heart did.

About six hours later, I got off the plane in Los Angeles. The sky was filled with smog and the sun was grey and warm.