I fired a few shots over the roadster—I couldn’t make myself fire at Nelson, and to this day I can’t tell you why—but it was enough of a distraction to make him pull the Thompson and fire into the street, and that gave Cowley the split second he needed. He dove in the alley, and ducked in a recessed doorway, and the roadster did a screeching U-turn on two wheels and raced back toward Adams, disappearing around the corner.
Then they were gone—both the Hudson and the backup.
And there was nothing left but some startled pedestrians and shaken-up motorists, and two special agents whose suits and faces were dirty and rumpled from rolling around on the pavement.
Cowley came around the corner; the tommy gun was pointing down now, but smoke was still curling out its barrel. He’d gone through both magazines. He looked tired, washed out. Purvis was just standing there, gun in hand, like a kid who just ran out of imaginary Indians to shoot.
I was still standing there holding the glass door open with one hand, the automatic in the other. Nelson and the others hadn’t got a look at me—at least not enough of one to recognize me, I didn’t think. That was a break.
Hoover was plastered against the wall, within the vestibule. Shaking. Eyes open wide. He really seemed terrified.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I said.
He swallowed. “What?”
“Being afraid in a situation like this.”
His eyes flared; he stepped away from the wall. “What’s your name, mister?”
“My name’s Heller.”
“If you prize your job, you’d better watch your tongue.”
He thought I was one of theirs; a fed. That was a laugh.
“And I’ve never seen such pathetic shooting,” he said. “You seemed to aim deliberately high—”
“Mr. Hoover?”
“What?”
“Fuck you.”
I went out onto the street and joined Cowley.
Who said, “How’s the director doing?”
Purvis was over talking to a couple of the motorists whose cars were up on the sidewalk, calming them down. A crowd was gathering; not a large one.
“A change of diaper, and he’ll be a new man.”
Cowley ignored that. “What’s this about, Heller? How’d you happen onto this?”
“I didn’t. I been undercover looking for a runaway daughter. I fell in with a nest of thieves, you might say. I just shook loose from ’em this afternoon, and was on my way here to warn you, when I saw it was coming down early.”
Cowley brushed a comma of brown hair back in place, and gave me a tight, one-sided smile. “Thanks, Heller. I’m glad you were here.”
“It’s swell to be wanted.”
Two beat cops, pulled away from their supper at a nearby restaurant no doubt, came running up.
“What happened here?” one of them said.
“We’re not sure just yet, officer,” Cowley said. “Possibly a kidnap attempt. There was some shooting—no one hurt on this end. I winged one of them. One car cut down Quincy, here, a Hudson dressed up like a state attorney’s car; the other, a black roadster, headed west on Adams. Three men in the Hudson, two dressed as cops. Two in the roadster. Several are public enemies. My associate, Agent Purvis, has the license plate numbers. Could one of you call that in to your radio cars? And the other maybe help us see if any of these citizens were injured?”
The two cops nodded.
Hoover came out of the building; his shakes were gone. He moved like a little Napoleon.
He came up to me and demanded my resignation.
I laughed in his face, as Cowley said, “He doesn’t work for the division, sir. He’s a private detective who happened upon this situation while undercover. You may owe him your life, Mr. Hoover. At the very least he prevented your kidnapping.”
You might think that would’ve embarrassed him. Or that he’d be grateful. Or respond in some human manner.
But he just gave me a cold fish look and then said to Cowley, “Are we pursuing them?”
“We don’t have any men on hand, sir,” Cowley said. “Police radio cars have got it by now.”
“Damn,” Hoover said. “Who were they?”
Cowley let some air out. “Sir, just about everybody we’d like for breakfast. Pretty Boy Floyd and Creepy Karpis…”
Hoover’s dark pupils lit up in the yolks of his eyes. “Do you know what we could make of that? If we could score a grand slam like that?”
“I sure do,” Cowley said, wearily. “And wasn’t that Baby Face Nelson hanging out of the roadster?”
