You Bet Your Life

A big billboard thermometer said it was twelve degrees above zero. I hurried past a white piece of cake called the Wrigley Building and across a bridge. I wandered in the general direction of where Kitty Kelly’s must be. I looked in windows and at theater marquees. It was slightly warmer under the marquees, and there were lots of theaters. A place called the Apollo had Fantasia. The Chicago had Western Union and Jane Froman on stage. The Roosevelt had High Sierra. I had seen some of the shooting of that and would have liked to see it, but it was a little after four. I went straight to Kitty Kelly’s.

It was a tavern-a little bigger, warmer and darker than most. There were a couple of guys at the bar, and a sign over it saying, “We Only Hire College Girls.” A few feet from the bar, a college girl sat on a stool with a little table in front of her. The table was covered in felt, and she was rolling a pile of dice out of a cylinder box.

I walked over to her. She looked up without smiling. I was a dashing figure with my heavy coat turned up at the collar, my hat, ear muffs, red nose, and hand full of toilet paper. She was instantly charmed.

“Twenty-One,” she said. “You go under, the drink’s free. You go over, you pay double. Care to roll?”

“What college you go to?” I said, leaning forward.

“Stanford,” she said without blinking. She was a cute little thing with a serious mouth and short dark hair.

“What did you study?”

“Human Nay-cha,” she said in fake Brooklyneese.

I laughed and got caught up in a coughing fit.

“You should do something about that, fella,” she said. “Like turning your head away when you get going. I’ve got a living to make and I don’t work on my back.”

“That’s too bad,” I said, recovering enough to talk.

“Hey,” she whispered. “You seem like a decent guy. I just got on here and I’ve got eight hours to go. Don’t make this the start of a hard night.”

“I won’t,” I said. “Let’s say I lost. What’s a beer cost?”

“Twenty-five,” she said. “Drop four bits and you’re J.P. Morgan.”

I dropped fifty cents. She called for a beer from the bartender and asked if I’d carry the beer and my cold to a dark corner.

“You Merle Gordon?” I said, reaching for the beer.

She looked up into my eyes for the first time. Hers were moist and brown and deep.

“Your eyes are like good beer,” I said.

“You’re a charmer. How’d you know my name?”

“Kid named Ray Narducy gave it to me. Said you might be able to help me.”

“Do what?” she said suspiciously.

A few more customers came in and moved to the bar. Someone dropped a nickel in the juke box and Dinah Shore sang “I Hear a Rhapsody.”

I was a little tired of telling my tale, but I enjoyed leaning toward her and watching her serious face. I went through Capone, the body in the closet, Nitti, and the Marxes.

“You know how many Ginos there must be in and around Chicago?” she said, shaking her head.

“Well,” I offered, “we can narrow it down. How many are working for the gangs in gambling?”

“Who knows? Fifteen or twenty. One even comes in here. Gino Amalfitano, but he’s not your man. He’s in numbers and small. Works the South Side. I’ll ask around for you and let you know. Where you staying?”

“The LaSalle,” I coughed. “Call me anytime or leave a message.”

“You should get in bed alone and take something for that,” she sighed with a shake of her head.

I finished off my beer just as Benny Goodman started to play “There’ll Be Some Changes Made.” I was tired, foot-weary, and out of ideas.

“Hey, wait,” she said.

I came back.

“There’s a Gino I’ve heard about who might be your man. Works at a place in Cicero. Private. Gambling. Gino-Gino Servi. It’s called the Fireside. And there’s-”

“Thanks,” I said sincerely and lovingly. “I’ll try Servi.”

Leonardo Bistolfi’s key chain had a disc with “Fireside” enameled on it. It was a possible connection. Even if it fell through, I’d have a good excuse to see Merle Gordon again.

“Tell them Kitty Kelly sent you,” she said, throwing the dice again. I bundled up and went back onto Wabash. Above my head the elevated trains made their way around the Loop. I was onto a lead and in love again. All I needed was a new respiratory system.

I walked back to the LaSalle Hotel. It was about five blocks. When I got there, I wasn’t in a bad mood. I wasn’t in any mood at all. I was weak-kneed and aching.

As soon as I hit the lobby, the desk clerk from the night before recognized me. I had my key in my pocket. I headed for the elevator, but the desk clerk stopped me. I half expected him to wring his hands. He sputtered and stuttered and said Mr. Kotrba, the manager, would like to see me. I said all right and followed him back to the desk. Mr. Kotrba was two hundred pounds of grey, plump pomp and circumstance. He had an extra chin and an angry superiority. He was ready with the wrath of the Lord. I had met dozens of him before. He thought he was Hell on a half shell, but he was a pancake. I started in before he could speak.

“Ah, Mr. Kotrba, I was planning to speak to you. Glad I caught you. My company, MGM, called me today and asked me what happened here, suggested I get out of a hotel that allowed murders in the rooms. One of our attorneys, Mr. Leib, even suggested that it would be a good idea to pass the word to people in the other studios to stay away from the LaSalle when they came to Chicago. He even suggested the possibility of a lawsuit because of the emotional distress this has caused me.”

Mr. Kotrba’s mouth dropped open. I had him backing up and looking for a defense when his original idea had probably been to tell me to get my ass out of his hotel and stop dropping bodies and messing his walls. Kotrba had no flexibility. He was a pushover.

“Don’t worry,” I said with the best smile I could muster, knowing it would look sardonic. “I talked them out of it, told them the LaSalle was normally a quiet, reasonable place to do business.”

“We appreciate that,” said Kotrba, patting down wisps of white hair. The desk clerk standing behind him looked mildly amused. He shot me a look of conspiracy which I refused. Whatever his problems with Kotrba, I didn’t need a partner.

Before Kotrba could say “But-” I added, “I’m waiting for a special letter from the studio on how I should handle this. Has it arrived?”

The desk clerk stepped forward after pulling something white from the room rack behind him. He handed me an envelope clearly marked with an MGM in the corner. It was, I knew, the $300 Hoff had arranged for.

“Thank you Mr.-”

“Katz,” said the clerk, preening. His small mustache glistened. “Curtis Katz.”

I opened the envelope without showing its contents. The bills were there. I turned my back on Kotrba whose face now looked white, cold, and a bit dusty like Chicago snow. My sigh was suitable. I pocketed the envelope and turned again.

“They suggest I remain, and the matter be forgotten unless something else happens.” I looked straight at Kotrba. This was the moment of truth in which I’d either be in the snow with the beginning of pneumonia or I’d be in a warm room in a few minutes. I could go to another hotel, but that would take time and a bunch of phone calls to tell people what had happened.

“We’re very pleased to hear that,” Kotrba sighed with relief.

“Good,” I said. “Send a boy up to my room in five minutes for my suit. I want it cleaned and pressed, fast.”

“Of course,” said Kotrba, “and if there’s anything we can do, please let Mr. Katz know.”

I went up the elevator and into my room. With the door open, I checked the bathroom, under the bed and in the closet. There were no bullies or bodies. I locked and double bolted the door, took off my suit, hung it on a hanger, and started running a hot bath while I made a few calls.

First I called Kleinhans. It was after six, and he was out getting a sandwich. Then I called my office in Los Angeles. It was just after four there, and Shelly Minck should still be in. He was.