I went on. “Only this trip Anna happened to tell you a story, and it interested you. A story about a man one of her girls has been seeing.”
He nodded.
“What Anna told you was she thinks the man might be somebody famous,” I said.
He nodded.
“Now I wonder who that somebody famous might be. The Dionne Quints? Charlie McCarthy? John Dillinger?”
He had big hands; he clasped them together and then cracked his knuckles. It sounded like the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre.
He said, “Your remarks don’t amuse me, Heller.”
“They were for my own benefit. It’s my office, after all. What the hell.”
“This is a serious business, you know.”
“No. Do tell.”
“You’re just a penny-ante private cop who used to be a penny-ante Chicago cop, Heller. You’re nothing special. You were on the take like everybody else.”
“You’re repeating yourself. You already said I was a Chicago cop.”
“Funny. Just don’t be so high and mighty. Some graft comes my way, all right? I don’t deny it. That doesn’t make me a bad cop. If times weren’t so hard, I—”
“Wouldn’t be wearing a hundred-dollar suit and a ten-dollar tie? I don’t care if you’re a grifter, Zarkovich. If you weren’t, you’d be unnatural, a saint or something. And I wouldn’t feel comfortable around you.”
“You feel comfortable around me, do you?”
“Yeah. I’m at home. I know where you’ve been and where you’re going.”
“I could say the same thing about you. Mind if I smoke?”
“I don’t care if you burn.”
Zarkovich gave me a little twitch of a smile and took out a silver cigarette case, selected a cigarette and inserted it in a black holder, and lit up.
“How did your meeting with Purvis go?” he asked.
If that was supposed to throw me, well, I felt steady enough. I didn’t like the idea that I’d been tailed and hadn’t picked up on it; but I didn’t bust out crying.
I said, “I told him I might have seen Dillinger. But I didn’t go any further than that.”
He nodded, the cigarette holder at a jaunty, FDR angle. “Wise. Waiting to talk to Cowley?”
“Yeah. Maybe. If I talk to anybody.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe there’s nothing to talk about; Jimmy Lawrence takes an awful lot of taxicabs for a Board of Trade clerk, but that isn’t illegal.”
“You have your doubts he’s Dillinger?”
“Hell yes. If this guy is Dillinger, he’s the brazenest, coolest lad I’ve ever come across. He goes to public places all over the city, day and night; he bumps into cops without blinking; wears snappy clothes—this is a whole new way of lyin’ low. And he’s apparently unarmed…he doesn’t even look like Dillinger, exactly.”
Zarkovich nodded knowingly, smiled the same way. “Plastic surgery. Good enough to give him a sense of confidence. To go out in public and be an everyday joe. But it’s a false sense of security. Anna recognized him, for one.”
“So she says.”
“So does he. He admitted to her last night he was Dillinger.”
“What?”
“Call her,” he said, pointing to my phone. “Ask her yourself.”
“Why would he admit that?”
“He trusts Anna. She can be warm and motherly, you know.”
“I bet.”
“She’s been nice to him and, as a madam, she seems trustworthy from his point of view…fellow underworld denizen and such like. And Anna’s been known to, uh…rent space out to fellas on the run.”
“I see. And now Anna wants to sell Mr. Dillinger out.”
“What’s to sell out? He isn’t one of her roomers; he’s got his own place, doesn’t he? On Pine Grove Avenue?”
I nodded.
“Is it Anna’s fault the guy confided in her?”
“Zarkovich, what’s this got to do with me?”
