Finally he said, “They can subpoena you. I’ll tell them that you know plenty.”
“Then I’ll lie through my teeth, and save my ass.”
He gave me a long, withering look. “You did that once before.”
That was a low blow. I knew exactly what he was referring to. When I was a young uniformed cop, I had lied on the witness stand as part of a Capone mob cover-up. My father was an old union guy with a leftist bookstore on the West Side, and I knew if he didn’t get an influx of money, and soon, he’d go under. So I lied on the stand, and got the money, and was promoted to detective, and Pop shot himself through the head with my nine millimeter Browning automatic at his kitchen table in the living quarters back of the bookshop. It was still the gun I carried, when I carried a gun, which I wasn’t right now. That gun was the only conscience I had.
“When it’s safe,” I said, calmly, gesturing to the Revere machines on the scarred table, “haul this stuff out of here. Take the recorders, and any other A-1 property you’ve checked out, back to the office.”
He shrugged, nodded. “All right.”
“And Bill? You’re fired.”
Of course, he knew that already; he said nothing else as I found my way out. I paid the janitor his second fin, and walked around the front of the building. I was going to lay a twenty on the doorman, to make sure he forgot my visit.
I was in the process of giving him the bill when Joey Fischetti came out through the lobby and recognized me.
Grinning, Joey Fischetti—having just exited the elevator—trotted across the narrow, modern lobby of Barry Apartments, with its ferns, mirrors, and luxurious furnishings; his footsteps echoed like gunshots off the marble black-and-white tile floor, the first few making me flinch. About five-eight, slender, darkly tanned and immaculately groomed, Joey wore the kind of “casual” outfit it took half an hour to select from a well-stocked closet: a brown- with-white patterned sports jacket, a blue-on-white tattersall vest, gray slacks, a red-and-blue patterned tie, and a sporty charcoal hat with a fuzzy red feather that looked like a fisherman’s fly.
At forty, Joey was the baby of the Fischetti triumvirate, the only one not actively involved in criminal capitalism, with a blank arrest record to prove it; he was generally considered the best-looking of the brothers (though Charley might have taken issue), and the dumbest (no likely challengers on that point).
The latter quality was what I was counting on.
“Nate Heller!” he said, joining the doorman and myself in the crisp fall afternoon air. He was an animated guy drenched with show biz sincerity. His voice had a husky, high-pitched enthusiasm, and his eyes were as bright as he wasn’t. “Goddamn. Do you believe it? What a coincidence!”
“Isn’t it, though? Good to see you, Joey. Frank sends his best.”
Sinatra and Joey Fischetti were bosom buddies.
He grinned—big glistening white teeth that were either caps or choppers—and shook his head. “You believe that? That’s the second coincidence!”
I still didn’t know what the first coincidence was.
Now his eyes narrowed, in an approximation of thought. “What are you doin’ around these shabby digs, Nate?”
The Barry Apartments were anything but shabby: this was as fashionable as Chicago neighborhoods got, and the Fischetti clan’s luxurious triplex penthouse had once been occupied by Mayor Thompson and Mayor Cermak… one at a time, of course.
I gave him half a smile and said, “I was just bribing your doorman to see if I could come up and see you, without an appointment.”
The doorman’s eyes widened with alarm.
But Joey waved off my remark. “Ah, you don’t need to waste your money on that! Don’t take his money, George.”
George swallowed and said, “No, sir,” and handed the twenty back.
As I was returning the bill to my pocket, Joey slipped his arm around my shoulder and walked me a few steps down the sidewalk, for a little privacy; the baby Fischetti smelled like a Vitalis and Old Spice cocktail. “My brother’s been wanting to talk to you.”
“Rocky or Charley?”
“Charley. Rock’ll probably be in on it, though. See, I was supposed to call you, but I got busy making arrangements for Frank. That’s where I was headed, right now—paving the way for the Voice with Dave Halper, at the Chez Paree.”
Dave Halper was one of the new owners of the club, which Mike Fritzel and Joe Jacobsen—the longtime hosts of a venue that had provided first breaks to the likes of Danny Kaye, Betty Hutton, and Danny Thomas—had sold to him last year. The Fischettis had an interest in this, the city’s biggest, biggest-time nitery: they owned the Gold Key Club, the Chez Paree’s backroom casino.
“See, I kind of had to talk Dave into booking Frank,” Joey said.
“Yeah, the kid’s career’s in a tailspin.”
“Naw, Nate, it’s just a bump in the road.”
I wasn’t going to argue the point. “Well, don’t let me keep you, Joey. I’ll be on my way, and you call my office, and we’ll—”
But, oh fuck, now he was walking me back toward the apartment house. “Don’t be silly,” he was saying, squeezing my shoulder. “Seeing Halper can wait. Frank don’t open till Friday. Let’s go up and see Charley.”
George got the door for us—I didn’t tip him—and Joey and I clip-clopped across the lavish lobby.
