True Detective (8 page)

As we walked, I was thinking about how my hotel didn't have a lobby, just a narrow stairway that hesitated at a check-in window at the right as you came in. But the Congress, now that was a hotel; the lobby was high-ceilinged, ornate, lots of red and gold with plush furniture to sink down into while you waited for some society girl. Or while you waited for somebody to pick somebody else's pocket, because that was the only reason
I'd
ever had for being in the Congress lobby before. Of course I'd also done some pickpocket duty in the corridor of fancy shops in the Congress, Peacock Alley. But this time I was going in to go up to a penthouse. Even though I hadn't been given much choice, it wouldn't be so bad, going first class for a change.

We went in the alley way.

And I don't mean Peacock. Just the alley; in the service entrance.

In a narrow vestibule, rubbing shoulders with some mops and buckets, hobnobbing with a couple of refuse cartons, I reached a hand out to push the button on the service elevator and Miller batted it away casually.

"Well walk," Miller said.

"Are you kidding? What floor is he on?"

"Three."

"Oh."

We walked the two flights; evidently it wasn't enough for the rich folks in the lobby not to see me. I was even persona non grata to the hired help who might ride the service elevator.

The exchange at the elevator, incidentally, was the extent of conversation between Miller and myself since leaving the blind pig. Miller seemed distant behind his Coke-bottle glasses; about as personable as a potted plant. He wasn't somebody I particularly wanted to know any better, so I didn't press it.

Miller knocked twice and the pale gold door opened and a detective I'd seen around but whose name I did not know answered with a gun in hand. He was a skinny guy with a pencil-line mustache and a dark brown suit that hung on him like it had been a good buy but they didn't have his size. His hat was off and his mouth hung open; he wasn't the brightest-looking sort I ever saw, and my guess was he was temporary Lang would be back as soon as the finger healed.

We went in. Miller first, and he pointed me to a sofa that looked, and was, about as plush and comfortable as the furniture in the Congress lobby. This was a sitting room or living room or whatever, with chairs and a couple of sofas, a fireplace and a glass chandelier, and various furniture that was probably named for some French king with numbers after his name. The only light on in the room was a standing lamp over in one corner, and it was consequently a little dark in there, like a cloudy day.

Across the room from me were windows looking out on Grant Park and Michigan Avenue; the south corner suite, this was. In front of me was a coffee table, a low marble-topped one, with a silver champagne bucket full of ice and brown bottles. Beer. The only thing between me and the view of the park was an empty chair, not a soft-looking, plush chair, but a wooden one with a curved shape to its back, like a captain's chair, or a throne. It was not a chair that had come with the room.

Miller parked himself over by the window, leaned against the sill, and looked out; he was miles away. The other guy, who introduced himself as Mulaney, sat as far away from me as he could and still be in the room, over on a sofa at left. He had put the gun away shortly after we entered. There was the faint sound of a radio playing Paul Whiteman from next door, off to the left, beyond Mulaney.

To my right, on either side of the fireplace, were doorways standing open; from the room beyond the door nearest me came the muffled sound of a flushing toilet.

His Honor, hitching up his trousers a bit, rolled into the room like a pushcart.

"Heller!" he said, beaming, like we were the oldest, bosomest of buddies, thrusting a hand forward; I stood and took it- it was a bit damp.

He gestured for me to sit and I did. He went to his chair across from me but did not sit. as yet; he just stood there studying me, with the friendliest of smiles and the coldest, hardest of eyes. Like Miller, he wore glasses with round lenses- but the frames were dark and thick and clumsy and rode his face uneasily, like the foreign object they were.

He was in his shirt sleeves and suspenders, but his tie wasn't loosened 'round his neck; he looked a bit like a participant in the Scopes trial, if cooler. It was, in truth, a bit warm in the room, and he bent down and pulled a bottle of beer from the champagne bucket and took an opener from somewhere and popped the cap and handed me the bottle. All the time smiling, almost apple-cheeked, a big man, barrel-chested, thick-bodied, broad-shouldered, larger than life, getting himself a beer now.

We sat there silently, each of us having a couple of swigs at his beer.

Finally I said, "This is good beer."

The smile turned into a grin, and the grin seemed more real. "It beats that piss Capone bottles and calls beer, by a hundert miles," he said.

"There's no label."

"It's Roger Touhy's beer. The beer he bottles isn't for sale. It's for friendship. The beer he sells, he sells by the barrel, to the roadhouses, saloons, and such. All outside of Chicago."

Roger Touhy was a bootlegger in the northwest suburbs; the sort of safe, minor-league gangster Cermak could control.

"Well, it's the best beer in or out of town." I said.

Cermak nodded, his smile gone, his expression thoughtful. "It's the water, you know."

"Pardon?"

"They got an artesian well near Roselle. The finest, purest water. That's Touhy's secret."

We sat and drank for a while. Periodically, Cermak would seem to wince or something; put a hand on his stomach.

"And how is your uncle Louis?" Cermak said, putting the half-empty bottle of Touhy beer on the marble-top. "I understand he had kidney stones."

"Why, uh, yes," I said, startled that Cermak had remembered me and my connection to my uncle, "that's right. But he's, uh, he's over it, I think."

Cermak shook his head gravely. "You never get over that. I had 'em, you know. Goddamn stones, if you pass 'em, it's like pissing glass."

I suddenly realized that Cermak didn't remember me, or that particular piece of patronage; he just had done his homework.

He offered me another beer and I turned it down: I'd already had three or four at Barney's, and I was feeling the effect. This guy was too cute, too cunning to deal with tipsy.

"I suppose I should get to the point." he said. "You're a busy man. I don't want to waste your time."

He said this quite ingenuously, as if he didn't sense the irony of the mayor of Chicago not wanting to waste one of his cop's time. One of his ex-cops, at that.

"I want you to take this back." he said, and he reached a hand out behind him and Miller came over and reached in an inside jacket pocket and withdrew something and filled Cermak's hand with it. Cermak showed me what it was. My badge.

"I can't do that" I said.

Cermak didn't hear that, apparently.

"What I have in mind." he said, putting the badge on the marble-top. "is you joining one of my hoodlum squads. We've got the world's fair coming up. you know, and I've got some promises to keep. And I keep my promises. Nate. Can I call you Nate?"

"Sure." I shrugged.

Cermak took a swig of the beer and said. "I'll have no truck with lawlessness. Nate. I promised Chicago I'd run these gangsters out of town, and by damn I'm going to do it. I won't have 'em working their shady sanies at the fair."

I nodded.

"Yesterday is an example of what we need to do, where these hoodlums are concerned. You- like Sergeants Miller and Lang, and some of my other top people- will be sworn in as a deputy coroner so you can go all over Cook County picking up these gangsters."

"Your Honor," I said, "I killed somebody yesterday. That isn't my idea of how to do
anything"

He rose; his face got very red. And then he exploded.

"It's a
war
! It's a goddamn
war
! Don't you know that? I'm giving you an opportunity that any cop in town,
every
cop in town, would give his left
ball
for, and you- you"

He touched his stomach with the flat of one hand; he squinted.

"Excuse me," he said, and left the room.

I could hear Paul Whiteman again, faintly. Over by the window, Miller, looking out at Grant Park, said, "You better listen to the mayor."

I didn't say anything.

There was another flush, and Cermak came back in; he didn't roll in this time. He seemed old. He was only in his late fifties, but he seemed old.

He sat. "I made some campaign promises. I said I'd salvage Chicago's reputation. I said I'd drive the gangsters out. I told important people in this town that the town would be safe for a world's fair. A fair that could restore Chicago's dignity. Her reputation."

"Do you really think Chicago's reputation was enhanced by what happened yesterday?" I said.

He seemed to think about that. "We were shown to be courageous."

"Some people say it was
real
police behind the guns at the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre, too. you know."

He glared at me; it was like an oven door opening and the heat hitting you in the face. "What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?"

"It simply means," I said, trying to drain all the smart-ass out of me, "that headline-making violence adds to the city's bloody reputation no matter
who
is pulling the triggers."

He touched his hands together lightly, prayerlike. "Suppose yesterday had gone differently. Suppose that young man had not been in the window. Suppose the only person to die in that room had been Frank Nitti. A message would've been sent. To the gangsters. To the public. That this administration is not fooling around."

"Somebody did die. and it wasn't Frank Nitti. That's the bad part, isn't it. Your Honor. The public sees a shoot-out involving police, and several people are shot but the big fish gets away. Oh. Nitti took a fall, all right- only he's going to set up again. Nitti's going to live."

Cermak nodded, suddenly lost in thought. "Yes." he said. "I believe you're right…" There was a pause the word "unfortunately" might have filled."… and while the world would be a better place without Mr. Nitti. we're not murderers, after all. He did shoot Sergeant Lang, and Sergeant Lang returned fire, and that's the end of it."

I glanced over at Miller. He didn't seem to be listening; he was still looking out at the park.

"Could we speak in private, Your Honor?" I asked.

Without turning, Cermak said, "Sergeant Miller… you and Mulaney go and have a smoke in the hall."

Miller shambled by, without looking at me; Mulaney followed him out, or anyway the oversize suit he was wearing did, taking him along.

When the door had closed behind them, I said, "Are you really aware of what happened at the Wacker-LaSalle Building yesterday?"

"Suppose you tell me, Nate."

I did.

He listened with a rather glassy, frozen smile, and when I finished, he said. "It's a funny tiling. Nate. You can have a dozen witnesses to an event, to an accident, a crime, and you can end up with a dozen damn versions of it. It's human nature. Take the Lingle case." And here he paused and broadened his smile momentarily, as if to say.
You remember the Lingle case, don't you, Nate
? Then he picked my badge up from the marble-top. looked at it, tossed it on the sofa next to me. "You'll be a sergeant for a while, and a lieutenant by next year this time. Sergeant's pay is twenty-nine hundred dollars, but you'll get deputy coroner's pay. which is three thousand sixty. Lieutenant's is thirty-two hundred. That's a thousand-dollar raise for you. isn't it, Nate?"

Cermak talked about that extra grand like he wasn't a millionaire, like it meant something to him; or maybe that's why he was a millionaire: because a grand did mean something to him. Like it did to me.

"And the salary isn't everything," he continued, with an offhand gesture, a little smile, a shrug. "There are extras. I don't have to be specific, do I, Nate?"

"You don't have to be specific," I said.

He sat and stared at me and smiled at me and it was like having a shotgun smile at you and I finally had to look away.

When I did, he said, "I think the boys have had time enough for their smoke now, don't you?"

Sure.

He got up and went to the door and called Miller and Mulaney back in; then, his upper lip pulled back over his teeth, a hand clutching his stomach, he excused himself and left the room again.

"Does he do that often?" I said.

Miller, who had resumed his post by the window, said. "He has to take a shit now and then. Don't you. Heller?"

"Not every five minutes."

Cermak came back in. sat down, seemed embarrassed, smiling, gesturing awkwardly. "Sorry about the interruptions. I got the trots to beat the band today. It's my goddamn stomach. Ulcer or something. Colitis, gastritis, the docs call it. About as bad as goddamn kidney stones."

"Your Honor…"

"Yes, Nate?"

I held the badge out toward him. "I can't take this back."

He didn't understand for a second: it was as if he thought I were fooling. Then his smile fell like a cake. and his eyes could've turned Medusa to stone.

When I could see he wasn't going to take the badge, I put it on the table, next to the bucket of ice and beer.

And now Cermak softened his gaze, like somebody fine-tuning a radio.

"Mr. Heller," he began (not "Nate"), "what is it you want?"

"Out. That's all. I don't like killing people. I don't like being used. By you. by your people. By anybody. Just because I helped you people cover up that fucking Lingle case, that doesn't mean that every time there's a dirt)' goddamn job to do. you go pull Heller in off the street."

Cermak folded his hands across his troubled stomach. His expression was neutral. "I don't know what you're referring to," he said. "The Lingle case was prior to my administration, and it's
my
understanding that the murderer was convicted and is serving his sentence right now."

"Yeah. Right. Look. All I want to do is quit the force. That's all I'm after."