“Did you see anyone go in, Mr. Heller? Did you see that bastard Miller?”
“I didn’t.” I hadn’t reported to him yet. “Mr. Vinicky, I spent four days watching Miller, and he always went to the track-that’s why I came here. I don’t believe he was seeing your wife.”
But Vinicky was shaking his head, emphatically. “He did it. I know he did it. You people have to
Cullen said, “We’re already on that, Mr. Vinicky.”
I asked the captain, “Do you need his address? He’s in a residential hotel over on-”
“We know. We sent a detective over there, already-next-door neighbor says this guy Miller used to hang around here a lot. Only now Miller’s nowhere to be seen-his flop is empty. Ran out on a week’s rent.”
Vinicky slammed a fist on the table. “I told you! I told you!”
Mullaney said, “We need you to calm down, sir, and tell us about your day.”
“My day! Tell you about, what…
Neither cop was nasty enough to mention that the bedroom dick this weeping husband had hired was sitting at the table with them.
Vinicky’s story was unremarkable: he’d got up around eight, dressed for the court appearance, stopped at the office first (where he was seen by various employees) and then took breakfast at a restaurant on Halsted. From there he’d gone to the post office, picked up a parcel, and headd downtown by car to Municipal Court. He had littered the South Side and the Loop alike with witnesses who could support his alibi.
“You’re being sued, we understand,” Mullaney said.
“Yeah-but that’s nothing. Kind of standard with us. Rose is…was…a hardnosed businesswoman, God love her. She insisted on a full day’s work for a full day’s pay.”
Mullaney was making notes again. “Did Miller ever complain about getting shorted?”
“Yeah. That’s probably why he was…so friendly with Rose. Trying to get on her good side. Sweet-talk her into giving him the benefit of the doubt on his hours. I was a son of a bitch to ever suspect-”
Cullen asked, “Could you give us a list of employees who’ve made these complaints, over the last two years?”
“Sure. No problem. I can give you some off the top of my head, then check the records at the office tomorrow for any I missed.”
Mullaney wrote down the names.
When that was done, I asked, “Did your wife have a wedding ring?”
“Yes. Of course. Why-wasn’t it on her…
“No rings.”
Vinicky thought about that. “She might’ve taken it off to do housework. Was it on her dresser? There’s a tray on her dresser…”
“No. What was the ring worth?”
“It was a nice-size diamond-three hundred bucks, I paid. Did the bastard steal it?”
Mullaney said, “Apparently. The money in her wallet was missing, too.”
“Hell you say! That was a small fortune-Rose was going to buy train tickets with that, and cover hotel and other expenses. She was treating her sister to a trip to California, and Sally was going along…. It was robbery, then?”
“We’re exploring that,” Mullaney said.
Vinicky’s eyes tightened to slits. “One of these S.O.B.’s who claimed they were shorted, you think?”
The inspector closed his notebook. “We’re exploring that, too. This list should be very helpful, Mr. Vinicky.”
I gave Mullaney the eye, nodding toward the back door, and he and stepped out there for a word away from both the husband and Captain Cullen.
“How long will you boys be here?” I asked.
“Another hour, maybe. Why, Nate?”
“I have a hunch to play.”
“You want company?”
“No. But I should be back before you’ve wrapped up, here.”
I tooled the Buick over to 63rd Street, a lively commercial district with all the charm of a junkyard. Not far from here, Englewood’s big claim to fame-the multiple murderer H.H Holmes-had set up his so- called Murder Castle in the late 1880s. The Vinicky case could never hope to compete, so maybe I could make it go away quickly.
In the four days I’d kept an eye on Rich Miller, I’d learned a handful of useful things about the guy, including that when he wasn’t betting at Washington Park, he was doing so with a guy in a back booth at a bar called the Lucky Horseshoe (whose only distinction was its lack of a neon horseshoe in the window).
The joint was dim and dreary even for a South Side gin mill, and business was slow, mid-afternoon. But I still had to wait for a couple of customers to finish up with the friendly bookie in the back booth before I could slide in across from him.
“Do I know you?” he asked, not in a threatening way. He was a small sharp-eyed, sharp-nosed, sharp- chinned sharpie wearing a derby and a bow tie but no jacket-it was warm in the Horseshoe. He was smoking a cigarillo and his sleeves were rolled up, like he was preparing to deal cards. But no cards were laid out on the booth’s table.
I laid mine out, anyway: “My name is Heller, Nate Heller. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”
The mouth smiled enough to reveal a glint of gold tooth; the dark blue eyes weren’t smiling, though.
“I’m gonna take a wild stab,” I said, “and guess they call you Goldie.”
“Some do. You the…‘Frank Nitti’ Heller?”
By that he meant, was I the mobbed-up private eye who had been tight with Capone’s late heir, and remained tight with certain of the Outfit hierarchy.
“Yes.”
“You wanna place a bet, Nate? My bet is…not.”
“Your bet is right. I’m not here to muscle you. I’m here to do you a favor.”
“What favor would that be?”
“There’s a murder a few blocks away-Inspector Mullaney’s on it.”
“Oh. Shit.”
And by that he meant, imagine the luck: one of the
“But, Nate,” he said, and I got the full benefit of a suspiciously white smile interrupted by that gold eyetooth, “why would Goldie give a damn? I have nothin’ to do with murder.
“You help people play the horses.”
The tiny shrug conveyed big self-confidence. “It’s a noble sport, both the racing and the betting.”
I leaned toward him. “One of your clients is shaping up as a chief suspect. The favor I’m doing you is:
Eyelids fluttered. “Ah. Well, I do appreciate that. What’s the client’s name?”
“Rich Miller.”
The upper lipped peeled back and again showed gold, but th bet as no smile. “That fucking fourflusher. He’s into me for five C’s!”
“Really. And he’s made no move to pay you off? Today, maybe?”
His laughter cut like a blade. “Are you kidding? One of my…associates…went around to his flop. Miller pulled outa there, owin’ a week’s back rent.”
Which, of course, I already knew.
Goldie was shaking his head, his tone turning philosophical. “You never can tell about people, can you? Miller always paid up on time, before this, whereas that pal of his, who I wouldn’t trust far as I could throw him,
“What pal of Miller’s?”
He gave me a name, but it meant nothing to me. I wondered if it might be the guy Miller had met at
