“Well, Christ, Nate, just how do your interests need protecting exactly?”
“Just do it, Fred. Play it by ear.”
“Were you there when it went down?”
“I don’t know yet. That’s one of the things I gotta find out.”
“Oh, brother.” He paused. “You know, you don’t sound so good. Are you all right?”
“I’m on top of the world. Call Cohen.”
I hung up.
I sat down in the booth, my butt inside it, my feet hanging out onto the cinder parking area of the diner. Nobody tried to use the phone, or if they did, saw me sitting there and said the hell with it.
My teeth were chattering, and my head was burning. What was this, a fucking malaria flare-up? Hell of a time. Why wouldn’t my forehead stop bleeding? I didn’t feel so good.
The phone rang.
“This is Heller.”
“This is Mick. What the fuck happened?”
I told him.
“Fuck a duck! You nailed all
“That’s right. So what’s the score? Do I go to the cops, Mick, or do you just clean up after me?”
“Nobody saw it happen? Not a soul?”
“Not a living one.”
“I got to talk to somebody.”
“Who? Dragna?”
“What you don’t know won’t hurt you, pal.”
Where had I heard that before?
The phone clicked dead.
I hung up, sat down and waited some more. I still felt punk; feverish. Was I in shock? Did I have a concussion? Did I still have a screw loose that triggered some kind of ersatz malaria flare-up after a “combat” situation? Totally sane people don’t get mustered out on a Section Eight, after all.
The phone rang.
“You was never there.”
“Never where, Mick?”
“Anywheres. Not at Siegel’s house or the beach, neither. In fact, nothing happened at the beach.”
“If you say so.”
“What was you usin’?”
“A.38 I got from Chick, at Siegel’s house.”
“You’re calling from where, exactly?”
“I don’t know. I’m not exactly a native. Somewhere near Malibu, I suppose.”
I read off the name of the diner and the gas station.
“Toss the piece in the drink,” Cohen advised, meaning the.38.
“Just that easy, huh? Then head back to L.A.?”
“No. Keep driving. Before long you’ll see a motor court. El Camino Motel. Don’t even check in. You’ll find unit seven unlocked.”
“I could use some rest,” I admitted. “But I want to get out of here soon as I can. I got a flight out Sunday morning.”
“Good, ’cause with that wound of yours, you got to duck the cops.”
“But, Mick, I was seen with Ben at that restaurant.”
“Right. So they’re gonna want to talk to you. Fine. Just get out of town before they have a chance.”
“Maybe I ought to just drive back to the city and check in with the cops…”
“You just killed three guys. You left the scene of a shooting. Two shootings. You was with Bugsy Siegel when he was hit. Any of this sound like anything you wanna be tied up with in court? In the papers? Any of this sound good for business?”
“No,” I said.
“No is right. Meantime, we’ll get a doctor for you.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I said, blinking blood out of my left eye.
“Jack says you got to have a doctor. We got our own guy who don’t report gunshot wounds, you know?”
“It’s just a graze,” I said, but my legs were wobbly.
“Better safe than sorry. Now do it.”
“Okay,” I said, and hung up.
I walked back to the car, feeling shaky, wondering if my judgment was worth a fuck. Was this a set-up? Was I a loose end they were going to tie off?
No. That wasn’t like Cohen at all. He was a straight shooter, and he hated the Capone crowd like poison-and this hit had obviously gone down from the Chicago end, either at the request, or with the complicity of, the east coast Combination.
As I mulled this over, behind the wheel of the Ford, I realized I was feeling better. The gash at the edge of my forehead had clotted over; no more blood in my eye.
I drove easily, but my thoughts were racing. Cohen and Dragna were Ben’s partners. I’d play it their way. If I got tied up with another mob killing this major, I’d never shake the “mob guy” reputation. That was not what A-1 needed right now. That was not what Nate Heller needed, either. I was going to have another mouth to feed, soon.
The motor court was on the right of the highway, with a view of the beach, a dozen stucco cottages lorded over by a neon sign incorporating a clock with the cursive neon letters, el camino motel. I parked in front of unit seven, found it unlocked and went on into the small, clean room with its plaster walls and ranch style furniture. It had a phone, a radio, a shower. This much civilization under one little red-tile roof was comforting to me, about now.
I stripped to my T-shirt and went in the john and threw cold water on my face, looked at my head, where it was grazed, which was scabbing over. I sat on the edge of the bed, still feeling shaken, but better. Better. What had happened on that beach, perhaps forty minutes ago, seemed distant. Unreal.
The lamp by my bedside had a three-way switch; I turned it to its lowest setting and sacked out on the bed, on top of the nubby spread. I felt bone tired but couldn’t seem to doze. I wished I could call Peggy, the nearby phone tempting me; but I didn’t dare. It was two hours later back there, anyway.
I hadn’t even faced yet whether this was something I would tell her about; of course, she’d be glad to hear the men who shot her uncle-two of the three involved, anyway-were gone. I’d probably be a hero to her. Nice to get
Finally I did doze, but the knock at my door ended that.
I sat up, tasting the film in my mouth, and took the gun off the nightstand and answered the knock.
“I’m the doctor,” the man standing there said. “I presume you’re the patient.”
He was a thin, dryly tan man in his forties, wearing thick-lensed glasses, a yellow short-sleeved sportshirt and tan slacks, and carrying a black medical bag in one hand. He might have stepped off a golf course, but for that bag, and a drowsy air of having been rudely awakened for a house call.
“I’m the patient,” I said, narrowing my eyes, studying him, making way for him as he came in.
I knew him. I knew this guy.
“Why, you’re Nate Heller,” he said, pointing at me, smiling. “Well, small world.” He extended his free hand and I shook it, moving the.38 over into my left hand.
“Dr. Snaden,” I said, gun back in my right hand again. “I’d forgotten you were heading out to California.”
“Gave up my Miami practice, yes. Isn’t this the most amazing coincidence,” he said, shaking his head, heading for the bed, where he opened the medical bag.
“An amazing coincidence,” I said. “I haven’t seen you since Meyer House. Since Jim Ragen died.”
He was sticking a hypodermic into a small bottle, filling it up with clear fluid. “Jim was a fine man. That was a rough one to lose.”
“You know, frankly, Doc, I think you’re wasting your time. I feel fine. It’s just a graze. I’m not bleeding. Why
