You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) (5 page)

“And maybe elephants piss nickels,” sighed Kleinhans, wrinkling his brow for a massive belch that never came.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re lying,” he said, finishing his coffee. “You don’t have a chopper and you’d be one fool to kill a guy in your hotel room and call the cops. It smells like a gang job with you in the middle, but I don’t see how or why. I’ve seen a lot of them put away like Leonardo. Thompson submachine gun bootlegged from a crooked Army supply sergeant somewhere or stolen by a mob kid who spent a few years in the army. Bullets are easy to get. Standard forty-five in ACP rimless cartridges, basic U.S. Army pistol round since 1900. The ammunition is held in a circular drum. Fifty rounds. Our expert at the LaSalle didn’t need more than ten or twelve. He had a pro finger. Those things kick, but they’re nice and easy to work. Just pull back the bolt, push the trigger, the bolt comes forward, throws a round into the magazine and pushes it into the chamber. The round pops into the chamber, drops in place. The firing pin on the bolt crushes the cap, and the bullet flies. The bolt kicks back from the shot, and another slug falls in the chamber. Two or three spit out every second. Takes a soft touch and strong hand to handle a chopper without making a mess.”

“He was a mess,” I said.

Kleinhans shook his head no.

“The St. Valentine’s Day party was a mess. I was on the cleanup. I moved Frank Guzenberg. That was a mess. You want another coffee?”

“No,” I said. “What are you going to do?”

“Have some coffee, Toby my friend. Were I you, I’d get the hell out of here. But I’m not you. I’m going to do nothing much except turn this over to some homicide boys. The hotel is in their district, and happy I am of it. Now I’m going to the can and getting some more coffee. Then you can go back to looking for your gangsters, but I’ve got a feeling one of them has already found you.”

He left the room closing the door behind him. The phone on the desk gave me an idea. Kleinhans wasn’t worried about the mob death of a bodyguard, but I had a lot of reasons for caring. One was that it must have had something to do with the Chico Marx business. The other was that death was too close to me. I blew my nose, took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

“Desk,” came a tired voice.

“Get me Indianapolis Central Police Headquarters and move it fast. If you’re too tired to move, we can get you out on the street.”

The guy on the desk put the call through fast. He didn’t want to be out on the streets of Chicago in the winter. I watched the door and waited. A voice came through the phone, a little tinny, but clear.

“Tashlin.”

“This is Detective Peters in Chicago. You got a pencil?”

“Yeah.”

“Write this number.” I gave him the number on the phone. “Now check on a blotter report for last night. Kid in an orange shirt had his nose broken at the train station.”

“Probably a local,” Tashlin said through his teeth.

“Hey,” I snarled. “You just find it. Don’t guess. The mayor here wants it and he’s on my ass. I don’t know why he wants it or what’s going on, but if he doesn’t get it, I serve you on a platter, Tashlin. When our mayor gets mad, he knows how to use the phone and he’s got your mayor’s number. Got it?”

All he had to do was ask me who the mayor of Chicago was and the game was over, but he took the easy way out, which I figured he would. If he hadn’t, nothing was lost.

“You want to call me back?” I said.

“No,” he said. “Hang on.”

I hung on and Kleinhans came back with his coffee. With my hand over the mouthpiece I explained.

“Local call. MGM office. I need some more cash and the name of a lawyer in case I need one.”

“Next time you ask first.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll pay the nickel.”

“Here’s an address for you,” said Kleinhans, pulling out his pencil and writing it on the torn end of a ratty blotter. “You may find Nitti there or you can leave a message. There’s no phone.”

“Is it far?”

“You can almost walk it from here. It’s over on twenty-second. We’re on twelfth. Ten blocks almost straight.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Your funeral, California,” he grinned.

Tashlin came back on the line.

“Got it,” he said anxious to please. “Kid named Canetta, Carl ‘Bitter’ Canetta. Small time record in Chicago, Atlanta, Miami, Jacksonville. Said some guy tried to hype his suitcase. Ran off with it. A woman with a kid backed him up. You want her name?”

“No thanks,” I said, smiling at Kleinhans. “You have an address for our friend, someplace I can reach him?”

“Canetta?”

“Right.”

“Fourteen ten Ainslie in Chicago, but that’s old. Said he was living at the Y in Indianapolis, but hadn’t checked in yet.”

“Thanks,” I said. I hung up.

“Got what you want?” said Kleinhans.

“Not as much as I wanted,” I said, looking at the address on the piece of blotter.

“Better stay away from your room for a few hours. I don’t think they’ll need to lock it up. There won’t be any prints worth looking for. The homicide and coroner’s crew give up easy on these, shove them under—grab the first guy handy or give it up. The papers don’t even care much anymore.”

“You can do something for me,” I said.

“My goal in life,” he answered.

“See if you have a recent address for a small timer named Carl Canetta.”

“I’ll check,” he said, yawning.

I told him that was comforting, blew my nose, promised to call, and stepped out of the office. I wondered if that new medicine Leonardo had told me they were using on Capone was any good for a cold. I stopped in the toilet, stole a roll of paper for my nose, chewed my last Bromo tablet, and went out on State Street looking for a cab to take me to Frank Nitti.

3

The cab driver’s name was Raymond Narducy, according to the name plate and picture. He was a little guy with glasses and a wooly blue scarf over most of his face. The heater in the cab wasn’t working.

We headed south on the red bricks at State Street past dark-windowed bars and sprawling auto parts shops crushing two-story frame houses between them. In the window of one of the houses I spotted a little kid with her face pressed into, and distorted by, a cold glass pane.

“That’s Colisimo’s,” Narducy said through his scarf. I looked. There was a sign saying
Colisimo’s.
Without Narducy’s warning I would have missed it. It was a three-floor brick building, nothing special.

“Big Jim Colisimo used to be the boss around here,” Narducy said. “Johnny Torrio gunned him and took over. Then he gave it all to Big Al. Big Al died in Alcatraz.”

“That a fact?” I said. “Why you telling me? I look like a historian?”

“Naw,” said Narducy, making a left turn on Twenty-second Street. “You look like a cop. Wanna know how I knew you were a cop?”

“Yeah.”

“One,” he said, holding up a holey glove and extending a finger, “you came out of the police station. Now you could have been a criminal, but with that new coat and hat, if you were a criminal, you’d have a car. If you were a lawyer you’d have a car. If you were a bail bondsman, I’d know you. You look too tough to be a victim. You want more?”

“Sure,” I said. He had pulled to a stop on the curb across from the place I was looking for, the New Michigan Hotel.

“Two,” said Narducy, holding up a second finger, “you aren’t a local cop. A local cop would have a car, too. Wouldn’t take a cab. You’re on an expense account of some kind. I saw you write something down in that little notebook. Three, you’re from someplace warm—California. You’re wearing a lightweight summer pants. Couldn’t be Florida because you don’t sound it. I know accents. For instance, you can always tell Canadians. They say
aboot
for about. I study human nature. Shit, I got nothing else to do except freeze and read detective stories. So,” he said, holding up his whole hand, “I put all this together about you and with a few guesses, and the fact that you wanted to go to the New Michigan where I’ve delivered some unsavory ones, I come up with the following: You’re a California cop tracking down some guy. You asked the Chicago cops for help and they didn’t give you much so you’re on your own.”

“That gets you a quarter tip, Philo, and if you want to sit here with the meter off, I’ll be back out in a little while.”

“Suits me just plumb to death,” he said in a fake Western accent. “You don’t come out in an hour you want me to call the sheriff to send in a posse?”

“No,” I said. “It’d be too late. By the way—Capone ain’t dead. He’s alive and not very well in Miami.”

“I never claimed to be good on facts,” said Narducy, looking at me in the mirror over his glasses. “It’s deduction that’s my forte.”

“Goodbye,” I said, turning to cross the street.

“Around here it’s
arrivederci,
” replied Narducy, wrapping his arms around himself and slouching for warmth.

The lobby of the hotel didn’t look big time. Like the neighborhood, it had dropped from what had once apparently been near-respectability. It was almost noon. A couple of well-upholstered painted ladies sat on stuffed chairs. It was too early and too cold to go out and work. The hotel lobby had the musty smell of mildewed carpet. It was still a few years from being an out-and-out dive, but it was clearly a losing battle. As I walked to the desk, I spotted a mean looking guy shaped like an egg giving me the eye. He was sitting, but by the time I reached the desk he had put down his comic book and was heading toward me.

The dark young desk clerk sat with his chin in his hands and his elbows on the counter. He wore a suit, a tie, a cut on his chin from shaving, and the look of someone who had taken something to keep as much distance as possible between what he saw in his head and what his eyes told him was out there.

“I want to get a message to Frank Nitti,” I whispered to the clerk. The tough looking little fat guy listened. The clerk heard my voice from somewhere and looked in my general direction, trying to focus. He was probably the day talent. It didn’t look like many people checked into the New Michigan during the day.

“What makes you think Mr. Nitti’s here?” The fat little guy’s voice was the croak of a frog through a tunnel of sandpaper.

I looked at the desk clerk who was just turning toward the gravel voice. I knew when I spoke he’d start to turn back to me and he’d forever be a beat behind whoever was talking. He must have felt like someone watching a movie out of sync. From the gentle grin, I gathered he liked it that way.

“A cop told me,” I said, still looking at the desk clerk. The fat guy cut the distance between us to almost nothing and breathed garlic up at me. He must have been eating the stuff for breakfast.

“I’ve got a message for Nitti from Big Al,” I said, fascinated by the desk clerk’s underwater movement. “I got in from Miami last night.”

“Who are you?” he croaked.

“My name’s Peters, Toby Peters. Big Al said Nitti would help me with something. Said he was a good guy.”

From the corner of my eye I could see the fat face nod in agreement about Nitti being a good guy. From what I knew about Nitti, he had been Capone’s enforcer, the top killer. With Capone gone, he might be on top instead of Ralph Capone or Guzik. I didn’t know. I thought I’d ask Kleinhans the next time I saw him.

“Wait here,” said the fat man. He walked away and around a corner.

“Large weather we’re having,” I said to the desk clerk, who nodded in agreement.

The ladies of the afternoon looked me over, gave me their best show of teeth, ankle, thigh and breast. I shrugged sadly, pointed upstairs and said, “Business.” They went back to their conversation.

I blew my nose two or three times, passed my hand in front of the clerk’s face to be sure he wasn’t blind, and waited. The fat guy came back in about five minutes and waved a ham hand at me to follow. I followed. We got on an elevator just big enough for the fat guy and me, or four normal people. I listened to him breathe hard over the clank of the box we were in. There wasn’t enough room to blow my nose.

We got out on five and went down a very narrow corridor. I knew which room we were going to. A guy in a dark suit who looked like Lon Chaney in. one of his better disguises stood in front of a door with his arms folded. He gave me a sneer, opened the door behind him, and stepped in. The fat guy stood behind me.

The room smelled like fried chicken left overnight. It probably was fried chicken. The New Michigan was full of nostalgic smells. Two men sat at a table. One had a dark mustache and was clearly a villain. All he needed was a bowl of ice cream he would eat with his fingers. The second man looked like a bartender. His jacket was off. He wore suspenders, and his dark hair was plastered down and parted almost in the middle. He had the face of a dried apple.

“I’m Nitti,” he said with a distinct Italian accent. “Talk. Three minutes and then you get out.”

I talked fast—about Chico Marx, my friendship with Snorky, the help I needed—but something was wrong. Nitti probably always showed suspicion, but his eyes narrowed to near closing. I took a chance.

“Last and not least,” I said, “a guy I met in Miami with Big Al, a guy named Leonardo Bistolfi, got chopped down in my hotel room this morning when I was out.”