The Million-Dollar Wound (26 page)

“Okay,” I said. “But you better consider this. The killers themselves may have taken it. If it incriminated them, that’s quite likely.”

“I’ve considered that.”

“They may even have known about its existence, and its hiding place in the apartment may have been information they tortured out of her.”

“I’ve considered that as well.”

“That’s just dandy, ’cause finding Estelle’s killers, well—that’s something I don’t know if I’m up to. I’ll be frank. I’d like to find them. I’d like to blow their brains out. But Captain Drury is looking, too, and he’s much better equipped than I am. And he’s every bit the detective I am, and twice the cop. And there will be dozens of suspects in this thing. Estelle got around. So I’m not promising anything.”

He leaned over and touched my hand. I felt even more uncomfortable, now.

He said, quite earnestly, “Estelle had faith in you. I have faith in you, too.”

“Swell. I got faith in that thousand-buck retainer. You can make me out a check now, or send it over by messenger.”

He looked away, seeming disappointed in me, and in life and the world in general, said he’d send a messenger, and I got out and took the El.

I met Eliot for a late lunch at the Berghoff. Just because we were at war with Germany didn’t mean I couldn’t eat some Wienerschnitzel, if I felt like it. They were even still serving beer in steins, though the menu now described the cuisine as “Bavarian.” Also, my serving of schnitzel seemed postage-stamp size, hardly the Berghoff’s style. War is hell.

We sat in one corner of the busy open room, where waiters in black tails with long white aprons held trays of steaming food high on upturned palms as they wound swiftly around and through the scattered, clustered tables like acrobats with a mission. It was comforting being in this no-nonsense, wood-and-glass Protestant church of a restaurant, a true Chicago fixture dating back before anybody was alive, a bastion single-handedly stemming the tide of change, despite such minor setbacks as meat rationing and “Bavarian” euphemism. Here I felt at home. Here I felt like I was in the Chicago I remembered.

Also, it was the sort of noisy, bustling room, brimming with people, that provided cover for a private conversation.

“I made those calls first thing,” Eliot said, referring to his efforts to track down D’Angelo’s whereabouts. “No response yet. Will you be in your office all afternoon?”

“
I
plan to be.”

“If I get word, I’ll let you know.”

“I’d appreciate that. Sooner the better.” Drury, working from the letters signed with the initials “A.D.,” that photo and the San Diego referral address, would not be far behind me.

Eliot was eating pig’s knuckles and sauerkraut, a Berghoff specialty. Between bites, he said, “You were right about Dean, by the way.”

“What d’you mean?”

“He’s clammed up, all right. Whether Estelle Carey’s murder was a message somebody sent him or not, he sure took it that way.”

“So he won’t be testifying, then?”

Eliot smirked humorlessly. “Not as simple as that. He’ll testify. He’ll just have a…selective memory.”

“Well, you did say Dean was the last to cooperate.”

“That’s right, and he’s only gradually been revealing bits and pieces of this and that. He’s never mentioned Nitti or Ricca or Campagna or Capone by name, for instance.”

The Capone in question was Ralph “Bottles” Capone, the soft-drink bottler, one of Al’s brothers.

“But he has backed up Browne and Bioff’s admissions,” Eliot went on, “about the Hollywood shakedowns.”

“In other words, he’s trying to tell just enough to get his sentence reduced.”

“Without buying himself a cement overcoat when he finally gets sprung, yes. It’s unlikely he’ll retract anything he’s already admitted; he won’t go opening himself up to contempt or perjury or anything. But it’s clear he’s remembered all he’s going to remember.”

“What about Lum and Abner?”

He smiled, wryly. “Bioff and Browne? The effect has been quite different. If anything, the boys are going to spill even more, if that’s possible.” His expression darkened. “Both their wives got anonymous phone calls last night, telling ’em to tell their husbands to keep their mouths shut or ‘you’ll get
cut
—your kids, too.’ This morning, I understand, Willie was raving and ranting—‘We sit around in jail for those bastards and they go around killing our families. The hell with ’em.’ That sort of thing.”

“Those phone calls don’t necessarily mean Estelle’s murder was a mob hit, you know.”

He shook his head, smiled wearily. “You still can’t buy that as something Nitti would do.”

“No. It just isn’t in character. I keep thinking of the Cermak hit, and the lengths he went to, to have his revenge without stirring up the heat. This is a man who had the mayor of Chicago killed, Eliot, and got away with it.”

“That was ten years ago, Nate. This is a different time, and Nitti’s a different man.”

I drank some beer. “You may be right. We’ll see.”

“Are you looking into this Carey matter yourself?”

“Not officially. Let’s just say I’m on the outskirts.”

“Those are dangerous outs to skirt. Didn’t you tell me once that Nitti told you to stay out of his business? That was good advice. Drury’s a top-notch cop; let him handle it.”

I shrugged. “That’s good advice, too.”

“Take it, then.”

“What else do you have for me?”

He shook his head again, smiled with good-natured frustration. “Well, I can tell you that the FBI talked to Estelle a few weeks ago. I don’t know if they got anything out of her or not. But I do know they talked to her. So did the tax boys.”

“In reference to Dean’s missing million?”

“Mostly. And the grand jury investigation in general.”

“Would she have been called to testify?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Would she have talked?”

“I don’t know. Maybe somebody didn’t want to risk she might.” He sipped his beer, gave me a crafty look. “There’s also a theory that it was her that blew the whistle on Dean.”

I sat forward. “Hell, I heard she hid out with Nick, when he was ducking his indictment. That she dyed her hair black and moved into a cheap flat with him, in Cicero.”

“Yes, which is where Hoover’s finest picked him up,” Eliot said. “After somebody tipped them off as to where he was, that is.”

“Estelle?”

“That I didn’t find out. It’s an interesting wrinkle, though, isn’t it? Makes Nicky Dean himself a suspect, if it was a contract hit, that is.”

“Can’t you find out whether she fingered him or not?”

“That information’ll likely be given Drury, in good due course. Besides, I can only do so much sniffing around for you, you know. It’s got to seem casual, gossipy. If I poke too hard, somebody’ll poke back.”

“I know that, Eliot, and I appreciate it, what you’re doing.”

Pig knuckles put away, he used his napkin. Smiled again. “Enjoy me while you can, because tomorrow I’m out of here. It’s back to Cleveland.”

“To see the wife?”

“Yes, and to check in with the Defense Health regional office there. I’m on a swing where I’m spending a few days at each of our regional offices—there’s twelve of ’em, from Boston to San Francisco—giving this co-op workshop with the FBI.”

“Gee, do they have VD in Cleveland now? That place is really getting up to date.”

“Sure there’s VD. It takes the proper stamp out of your ration book to get it, however.”

“Which reminds me,” I said, standing, throwing my napkin down. “I got to walk over to the courthouse and get mine.”

“VD?”

“Ration book.”

He shrugged, stood, reached for the bill. “You’re fighting the battle of the home front, now, Nate.”

“Ain’t we all,” I said, and plucked the bill from his hands. “This is my treat. Consider it a payoff.”

“When in Rome.”

He walked out on the street with me; the snow had let up, but the wind was blowing it around, so it didn’t make much difference.

“You take care of yourself,” he told me.

“Sure, kid.”

He looked at me carefully. “Are you getting any sleep?”

“Some.”

“You look like hell.”

“You look like shit.”

“No wonder we can’t get laid,” he said, and walked off.

An hour later, ration book in my billfold, I sat in my office, and started making phone calls, working my way down a list of credit checks that Sapperstein had left on my desk. Gladys came in and asked me if I’d like some coffee. I said, sure—blonde and sweet. She said, huh? And I explained that was G.I. for sugar and cream, and now I was sipping it, between calls, slouched comfortably in my swivel chair, as the phone rang.

“A-1 Detective Agency,” I said, for the first time in some while.

“Heller?”

It was a hoarse, familiar voice, but I couldn’t place it.

“Speaking.”

“This is Louis Campagna.”

An old chill went up my spine. I sat up.

“Hello, Louie.”

“You did pretty good over there.”

“Where?”

“Over there with those Jap bastards. You did pretty good. Frank said to tell you he was proud of ya. We’re glad you’re back safe and sound and everything.”

“Well, uh, thank you, Louie.”

Silence.

Which he finally broke: “Safe and sound is a nice way to be.”

“It sure is.”

“You got in the papers your first day back, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. How ’bout that?”

“How did you manage that, Heller?”

“Just one of those things. Drury happened to be in my office when he got the Carey call. He was welcoming me back. We were on the pickpocket detail together, you know, in the old days.”

Silence.

“So I went along,” I said. “I knew Estelle, you know.”

“Yeah, we know. That was an awful thing that happened to her.”

I tried to find hidden meaning or menace in the voice; I couldn’t quite.

“Awful thing,” I agreed.

“You ought to stay out of that.”

“The investigation, you mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I have an interest in who killed Estelle, Louie. But I’ll leave that to Drury.”

“That’s smart.”

“I can’t seem to make myself buy that Frank had anything to do with it.”

Silence.

“It just wasn’t his style,” I said.

Silence.

Then he said: “Frank may want to see you.”

“That might not be a good idea. The federal prosecutor knows that Frank and I have met from time to time. I’m going to be questioned about it.”

Silence.

“But you might tell Frank that I have a little medical problem left over from the war. I got amnesia over there.”

“Meaning you forget things.”

“That’s exactly right, Louie.”

“That’s a healthy sickness to have. Frank will like hearing that. Keep us informed as to the G’s interest in you.” By G he meant government. “Get a pencil.”

I got a pencil.

He gave me a phone number.

“Is this a number I can reach you at?” I asked, trying to understand what this was about.

“The party at that number can reach me,” he said. “Reach them, and I’ll reach you.”

And a click in my ear said good-bye.

I should’ve been shaken by the call; instead, I felt oddly reassured. Like the Berghoff, Campagna hadn’t changed much. Another Chicago fixture, and—judging by the black-market talk in the papers, “meat-legging” in particular being attributed to the Nitti Outfit—one unaffected by rationing.

I sipped the sweet creamy coffee, made another credit-check call.

Shortly after three, somebody knocked at my door. A crisp, hard, single knock.

“It’s open,” I said.

A Marine sergeant stepped inside, shut the door behind him. He was about forty, wore pressed blue trousers, khaki shirt, necktie and campaign hat. The shine of his shoes reflected the overhead light. He stood board-straight, not at attention, not even at parade rest, but his bearing strictly military and intimidating as all hell, anyway.

“Private Heller?” he said, taking off the hat. He had something in his other hand, too; a small dark blue box.

“Yes,” I said, standing. He looked familiar. Who was this guy?

He marched over to the desk. “I tried to call before coming, but your line was busy.”

“Uh, yes, sorry. Use the phone a lot in my line of work…hey, I know you. You’re my recruiting sergeant. You’re my goddamn recruiting sergeant.”

I came around the desk and extended my hand; he accepted it, shifting the hat to the hand holding the little box. His smile was as tight as his grip.

“Welcome home, Private,” he said.

“What brings you here, Sergeant?”

He handed me the small square box, the corners of which were rounded off. “It is my honor to present you this, Private Heller.”

I opened the little box, half expecting to find a watch inside. Instead I found a medal. A ribboned star of bronze at the center of which a laurel wreath encircled a small silver star.

“That’s your Silver Star, Private. For gallantry in action. Congratulations.”

“I…well, thank you. I, uh…shit. I don’t know, Sergeant. I feel funny about this.”

“Funny?”

“I don’t feel I did anything worthy of a medal. I did what I had to and that’s all. Only medal I feel comfortable wearing is this.” I pointed with a thumb to the Ruptured Duck on my suitcoat lapel. “I did what I had to. But getting medals for killing people, I don’t know about.”

His mouth was a thin straight line that words miraculously squeezed out of: “Private, the Marine Corps is fucked up in many ways. But one way in which it ain’t fucked up is it don’t give out medals for killin’ people. It gives out medals for savin’ people, which is what you and Corporal Ross did over in that hellhole. So if I was you, I would not have nothing but pride for this here medal.”

I smiled at the tough old bird. Old? Three years older than me, probably. Not that that made him young. Had he served in the first war? He’d have been a kid. But then a lot of Marines were.

Anyway, I offered my hand for him to shake again; he did.

“Thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate your words.”

He gave me another tight smile and turned to go; he was at the door when I called out to him.

“Sergeant?”

“Private.”

“Would you happen to know if one of my buddies from B company is back in town? He was in that same hellhole I was.”

“Would you be referrin’ to Private D’Angelo?”

Another chill shot up my spine; a newer one than the Campagna variety.

“That’s right. Is he back?”

He nodded. “Yes he is. He’s a brave young man, too. I delivered a bronze star to him this morning.”

“I’d like to visit him.”

The sergeants mouth twitched; that was his shrug. “I can give you his address, if you like.”

D’Angelo was living with his aunt and uncle in Kensington, a tiny Italian community at the far south end of the city, right outside of Pullman, just west of Cottage Grove. I took the Illinois Central commuter line out there, passing the Pullman plant where my father had once worked, and Electromotive, both doing war work now, and among Eliot’s VD target areas. As the train passed 103rd Street I could see the smokestacks of steel mills against the sky. I sat on the train thinking about unions, thinking about what the unions had meant to my father, about what my father thought the union idea meant, and what sometimes that idea still meant, but how more often greedy bastards like Bioff and Browne and Dean and Nitti and Ricca and Campagna and various Capones and so many others perverted it into just another racket. Is that what we fought to preserve, D’Angelo and Barney and me?