You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) (6 page)

Nitti eased back. His eyes opened a bit.

“It’s good you told about Leonardo,” he said. “We knew. We still got a few people who tell us things like that.”

He looked about as friendly as he probably could look, so I pushed on.

“The cops think maybe you did it,” I said, shaking my head as if the very idea was absurd.

Nitti’s hands balled into fists and turned from red to white.

“We didn’t do it. We don’t know who did. We ain’t gonna be happy when we find out. Things ain’t like when Big Al was here, or Torrio. Johnny kept—” The bad guy with the mustache moved a little and Nitti saw. He cut off his conversation.

“You had your three minutes,” said Nitti. “Find your way out.”

“But what about help? What about finding Gino?” I said.

Nitti pointed his finger at me and started to get up. The villain with the mustache muttered a calming “Frank,” and Nitti sat back and spoke.

“Gino says Marx owes $120,000. He owes it. Big Al asks me to help. I help. Marx has a week to deliver. Understand? I don’t like this Chico Marx. Little Jew making fun of Italians. He owes. He pays. Get out. I got other problems.”

I was going to say something, but the villain with the mustache turned toward me and shook his head no. I looked at the short fat guy, Lon Chaney, and Nitti, and went.

The fat guy and I went down in the elevator.

“How’s Big Al?” he said.

“Nuttier than a fruitcake,” I said.

“Yeah,” said the fat guy.

Raymond Narducy peered at me over his glasses when I got back into the car.

“You did all right,” he said. “You came back with your hair still on.”

I let out a King Kong of a sneeze and sat trying to think of what to do next.

“I’m looking for a guy named Gino,” I said. “Might be in a place called Cicero. He’s got something to do with gambling. Any ideas?”

“Maybe,” Narducy mumbled through his scarf. “There’s a bar on Wabash, Kitty Kelly’s. Guys go there. Drifters, small timers, some cops and robbers. They got a couple of 21 tables. Used to bet money. Now it’s for drinks. A woman who lives in my building works there. Name’s Merle Gordon. She might be able to give you a lead.”

“Thanks,” I said. We headed up west on Twenty-second and I did some nasal talking. “I’m a private investigator, not a cop, but you had the rest right. A guy got knocked off in my hotel room. The cops were talking to me about it just before I got in your cab.”

Narducy’s eyes danced behind his glasses. I went on.

“I’m working for the Marx Brothers. Chico got in some trouble with the mob and—”

“A diabolical concatenation of circumstances,” Narducy cried.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s from a mystery story. I said it because I just heard on the radio that Chico Marx is in a hospital in Los Vegas.”

I slumped back, imagining a fingerless Chico Marx. I’m sure I shuddered, but I wasn’t sure whether it was from the cold or my imagination.

“I need ten bucks in change and a telephone,” I said.

“Right,” said Narducy taking a sudden left. He pulled up to a drug store, yanked a leather pouch from under his seat and opened it. It was full of change. He counted out ten bucks. We made the exchange and I ran in the store. There was a wooden phone booth in the back and it was empty.

It took me two minutes to get information and ask for any Las Vegas radio station. I got the station and asked for the newsroom. The news room turned out to be one man named Almendarez. Almendarez had a nice deep voice. Almendarez told me what hospital Marx was in when I told him I was doing a book on the Marx Brothers and would certainly mention his crucial role in it. My pile of coins was going down, but I had enough left to do plenty. I got the Las Vegas information operator and asked for the right hospital. At the hospital, I said I was Leonard Marx’s brother Herbert and that I wanted to talk to my brother.

“Just get his room or whoever is there,” I said. “Tell them it’s Gummo.”

The nurse was undecided, but I said, “Please hurry” and coughed a real cough. She put me through.

Someone picked up the phone, and the nurse said the caller was Gummo Marx and should she put it through. The person on the other end said, “Yes” and it was my turn.

“Hello,” I said.

“If you’re Gummo,” replied the familiar voice of Groucho Marx, “then I’m Andy Hardy. On second thought maybe you’re Andy Hardy and I’m Gummo. Whoever you are put the phone down and take a cold bath. I know it does wonders for my dog or my son Arthur. I can’t remember which.”

I knew he was going to hang up so I shouted, “Wait. My name’s Peters. I’m a private detective. Your brother Chico knows me. If he could talk—”

“If he could talk?” chuckled Groucho. “Diamond Jim Marx won’t stop talking.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece and I could hear him saying something. Then another voice came through. It was Chico Marx. I had spoken to him before, but each time I was thrown off by the accent he didn’t have. It was so much a part of what I thought Chico Marx was, that I had trouble believing this man with a slight lower East Side accent was the same comic Italian.

“Yeah Peters. What’s up?”

“What did they do to you?”

“They? Who?”

“You’re in the hospital.”

“Nobody did anything to me. I had a heart attack.”

“You don’t sound like it.”

“It wasn’t a real heart attack. I’m losing more than I make working in Las Vegas. I checked in here to resist temptation and avoid a few people. Grouch and Harp heard on the radio I was sick and flew here. Harp and me are playing pinochle. I’m losing, but slower than at the tables. Where are you? What did you find out?”

“I’m in Chicago.”

“We used to live there. You hear that?” he said to his brothers. “He’s in Chicago.”

“You stay in that hospital, Chico,” I said, dropping another six nickels in the slot to keep from getting cut off by the operator. “The gentlemen here still say you owe them the money, and someone is playing rough. A cheap hood named Leonardo got machine gunned in my hotel room.”

Groucho must have had his head to the phone listening because he shouted to me.

“Listen to me, Peters. Don’t let them add it onto your bill. You didn’t order a dead hoodlum and you shouldn’t have to pay for one. You should insist that they throw extras like that in free.”

Chico took the phone.

“Don’t mind him,” he said. “He thinks you’re one of my friends pulling a gag.”

“Well tell him it’s no gag. I’ve got to find Gino. You just stay where you are. I may have to ask you to come to Chicago when I find him. Maybe if he’s in the same room with you he’ll realize he’s got the wrong man.”

“And what if he lies and says I’m the right man?” asked Chico.

“Then we break him down, talk a mean streak, or run like hell.” I coughed. “I’ve got no other ideas right now.”

“Take care of that cold,” said Chico. “Where you staying?”

“The LaSalle,” I coughed.

“Harpo says you should gargle with Listerine.”

“Tell him thanks, and please stay there till you hear from me.” I hung up. Through the window of the phone booth I could see that Narducy had wandered into the drug store. His scarf was off his face. It was a very young face. He waved at me, and I waved back as I got the operator and gave her the number of MGM in Culver City. I told the MGM operator who I was and asked for Louis B. Mayer. She checked and said he was busy, but that Mr. Hoff was to take any calls from me. They put me through.

“Hello, Toby,” came the voice I recognized. He was a minor vice president at MGM who I had recently helped keep his job—a job he hated.

“Warren,” I said, “why is God ducking me?”

“Chico Marx is in the hospital,” he said. “Mr. Mayer thinks it may be because you didn’t do what you were paid to do.”

“Chico Marx is in a Las Vegas hospital with a fake heart attack,” I said truthfully. Then I added not so truthfully, “I told him to go there until I straightened this out. I’m protecting MGM’s investment.” Post nasal drip got me and I began to cough about ten cents’ worth of time.

“Where are you, Toby?”

“Chicago. What’s the weather like in L.A.? Wait—don’t tell me. Just send me three hundred bucks at the LaSalle Hotel in Chicago and do it fast. I’ll itemize it.”

“I know,” said Warren. “I’ll call our district manager in Chicago and have him send the money over in cash. And Toby, the Marxes are talking about quitting the movie business. If they do before you wrap this up, I can give you odds that Mr. Mayer is going to fire you with a penny postcard. He’s not going to pay to protect an actor who doesn’t work for him.”

“I guess it makes sense,” I coughed.

“Why don’t you take some Bromo cold tablets for that cold?” Warren volunteered.

I thanked him for the advice, the money, and the support, and hung up. I marked the cost of the calls in my little book and joined Narducy at the lunch counter.

“I’ll buy you lunch, kid,” I said with a sneeze. “I’m on top of the world.”

“Man on pinnacle has nowhere to step but off,” replied Narducy in the most embarrassingly loud Charlie Chan imitation I had ever heard. It was even more embarrassing since we were sitting in a drug store in Chicago’s Chinatown and everyone in the place was Chinese but us.

4

Narducy kept telling the plump Chinese waitress in a yellow uniform that his three burgers were terrific. He asked if they were made with soy sauce. She thought he was funny. I was sick. I drank a bowl of the special soup of the day, tomato, right out of the Heinz can. I also had a large glass of orange juice.

While Narducy considered a fourth burger, I went to the Chinese pharmacist and told him part of my tale—the part about having a bad cold. I hoped he’d come up with an ancient recipe that would cure me. He suggested Bromo Quinine cold tablets. I bought a box of Kleenex instead and gathered up Narducy who, so help me, was amusing the waitress with his Charlie Chan imitation.

“Where to?” he said happily, back in the cab.

“What time’s your friend start working at that place you mentioned?”

“Four to midnight. We’ve got a couple of hours to kill. You want me to spend part of it getting rid of the two guys following us?”

I was proud of myself. I resisted the impulse to turn and look around. I kept my eyes on the back of Narducy’s neck, and he kept looking up at the rear view mirror without lifting his head.

“What do they look like?”

“The Phantom of the Opera and Lou Costello. You know ’em?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We met at the New Michigan.”

“They’ve got a nice car,” said Narducy with sincere admiration. “Big black Caddy.”

“That figures,” I said. “Lose them, but try not to let them know you’re doing it.”

He pulled away and made a gentle right down a residential street past a grade school. Then he made another right and headed back toward what I thought was downtown. His scarf was back over his face and glasses were pushed back on the bridge of his nose indicating, I gathered, that Narducy meant business and business was driving. He went back to Michigan Avenue and headed north, moving just fast enough to pass a few cars in about eight blocks and put four cars between us and them by the time we hit what looked like downtown traffic.

“That’s the Art Institute,” he said. There were two big green metal lions guarding the stairway of the place. Narducy told me that a few months ago the temperature had dropped below zero, and a kid with a wet hand had stuck to one of the lions. The kid got away with a peeled palm. While he was telling the tale, he increased the distance between us and the comedy team by two more car lengths. After a glance in the mirror, he did a sudden right turn into the open door of a hotel parking garage.

As soon as we were far enough in to be covered by shadow, we both turned to see if we had been spotted. The black car with The Phantom and Costello went by. Narducy did a quick turn and waved away the approaching attendant. With swinging arms and determined inching, Narducy got us back in the direction we had come.

“We’re safe,” he said proudly.

“Not for long,” I said. “All they have to do is call six or seven other guys out on the street to look for your cab. Your big 191 is easy to spot.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I can catch the details—it’s the obvious things that elude me. Well, I guess we say goodbye.”

He pulled over and gave me Kitty Kelly’s address. It was, he said, about six blocks from where I was standing.

“With a few exceptions, all the streets are straight,” he explained. “Each block is a hundred numbers. The streets go by hundreds north and south of Madison Street and west of State. They go east, too, but until you get to the South Side there’s not much east. The lake cuts it off. So if the address is 5500 North Western, that means fifty-five blocks north of Madison on Western.”

It seemed easy enough. I gave him the meter price and a two buck tip and entered it in my book.

“See you around,” he said. “Say hello to Merle for me.”