You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) (17 page)

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.