You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) (21 page)

“Some people get too clever, Toby,” he whispered. “Knew a guy who shot his brother in the eyes when he was sleeping. Small caliber gun. Then he closed the eyes and said he died in his sleep. Coroner almost didn’t open the eyes. It was a busy day, and he was ready to accept the family doctor’s statement of heart attack. I found the holes when I looked.”

“Very interesting,” I said, fighting back the taste of blood.

“Another time,” he said softly, “I went to a funeral. Suicide. Something to do with the Genna Brothers, back when I was in uniform. Bullet right in the head. You know what was funny? The corpse was wearing gloves. I pulled off the gloves and found bullet holes through both palms. He’d put up his hands when someone shot him. Someone was his wife. You see where I’m taking you, Peters?”

“Yeah,” I gasped. “Keep it simple.”

“Right,” he said, giving me a pat on the shoulder. I could feel the barrel of the pistol being pushed against my chest as he moved close to me and turned me away from the street.

I shoved the bloody hot dog bun in his face, let myself fall backward on the sidewalk, knocked over a pair of young winos, and rolled under a cart. My face scraped the street bricks, and my hand touched something soft. I kept rolling onto the street.

Kleinhans had turned in the doorway. He leveled the gun at me. A guy selling shoes in the cart saw the gun, muttered “shit” and pushed his fat female customer away. I was on my knees, my back against a Dodge stuck in traffic. A woman screamed. Someone shouted something in a language I had never heard before.

“You shouldn’t have tried that,” shouted Kleinhans. His second shot would have hit me in the chest if the guy in the Dodge hadn’t panicked when saw Kleinhans. He lurched forward, stripping gears, and sent me spinning ten feet down the street.

I made it to my feet and looked back. The street was crowded with people running out of the way and into each other. He might have hit one of them instead of me. I doubted if he cared, but I also doubted that he’d want to have to explain.

My side felt hot, but I knew I had something left for running. I also knew from our chase on the West Side that I was at least a little faster than Kleinhans. I knew I wasn’t faster than his gun, but I might find someplace to hide or a cop to give myself up to before he caught me.

I hit a cart full of sweet corn and crashed into a street sign that said I had hit the corner of Maxwell and Halstead. People scattered like the Red Sea when they saw me staggering down the sidewalk. They opened further when they saw Kleinhans behind me with his gun. A man in front of a store selling chickens must have been deaf and near blind. He grabbed my arm and said something about two live chickens for the price of one. He shoved two live kicking chickens in my face. I pulled away from him and lost a little distance between Kleinhans and me. I was also losing blood.

Over my shoulder, I could see Kleinhans shrugging off the blind chicken salesman. I pushed past a woman who looked like a gypsy and fell on my ass into a store, hoping I had lost Kleinhans. From the floor, I could see I was surrounded by cheap chalk statues of Christ on the cross. They hovered over me, shining and long. Chalk madonnas stood between them, looking past me with smiling baby Jesus’s in their arms. I inched back toward the walls, looking for shadow or cover. My head hit the feet of a big plaster Jesus crucified on the wall.

There was a heavy counter to my right. I scurried behind it like a de-winged beetle just as the door of the shop opened and closed. I could hear Kleinhans’ heavy breathing and see his body distorted through the counter glass.

“You left a trail of blood, Toby,” he said aloud.

I knew the trail led down the counter and around to me. I didn’t have the strength or the room to run. I got to my knees, trying not to breathe, when he came to the front of the counter. The next step would be for him to lean over and blow a hole in my head. My hand touched something smooth and waxy. I turned and saw a three-foot high wax candle of Our Lady of Guadalupe. There were four just like her in a row. As Kleinhans’ hand shook the counter to balance himself, I stood up with one of the wax candles in both hands and swung at his leaning head with everything I had. A bullet shattered the counter. The candle statue’s head flew across the room and Kleinhans, stunned, fell back against a display table.

What I needed next was enough strength to hit him again with something hard that would put him out. I threw the rest of the candle at him, but it missed. He was on one knee when the door opened. Kleinhans turned toward it with his gun up, but Costello was ready. From his pocket, he put three bullets in the cop.

“Where the hell were you?” I said, watching him go out of focus.

“You said Maxwell Street,” Costello said. “You didn’t say where on Maxwell Street.”

“Terrific,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, going right back out the door. He didn’t even wave his slinged arm as he pushed through the crowd. No one tried to stop him.

Kleinhans was sprawled with one knee out and his dead, surprised eyes examining a spot of blood on the floor. People crowded to the floor of the shop, faces pressed to the glass of the window. A few hundred eyes were looking at me and fogging the glass. I was getting smaller and smaller, turning into a trained flea in a bottle everyone was looking at. I had no tricks for them. The door was open, but none of them came in.

I think I remember a cop in blue pushing the door open and pointing a gun at me. I think I remember a guy from the crowd coming over to me and talking about the A & P basketball team.

“We’ve got to play on hardwood floors,” the guy groaned, telling me to sit down.

“I can’t sit down,” I said. “I’ve been shot.”

“I don’t know if we can play on hardwood floors,” the guy said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’ll be all right.”

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.”