Facing the white door, the bell louder here (but I was used to it by now—in fact, I couldn’t remember a time when that bell wasn’t ringing), I decided to see if I could speak.
“Who?” I said. It didn’t hurt much to talk. I didn’t have a headache; the aspirin had done that much for me.
“Inspector Cowley, Mr. Heller. Sam Cowley. Could I speak to you?”
There was a night-latch, which I left in place, as I cracked the door open.
“Mr. Heller? Could I come in?” His round, somber, earnest face under the gray hat was damp with sweat.
“Another hot day?” I asked.
A tiny smile creased his face. “Hottest yet.”
“Another good reason for me to stay inside.”
“Could I come in?”
“That putz Purvis with you?”
“No. Nobody’s with me. Nobody knows I’m here.”
“I know you’re here.”
“Nobody at the office.”
I let him in.
The pain turned general again. A neck-to-toe ache. It felt like a cross between the flu and having fallen off a building.
Cowley took off his hat; he had on the same gray suit as before, and the same gray complexion. He wiped his face with a hanky, put it away, looked me over and shook his head slowly.
“My God,” he said. “You took a hell of a beating, didn’t you?”
“They wouldn’t serve me at a lunch counter down South, would they?”
“Your friend Mr. Ross told me you took a beating, but I didn’t imagine…”
“That’s how you found me? Through Barney?”
He nodded. “When I couldn’t reach you at your office this morning, I called around. Ross wouldn’t tell me where you were on the phone. So I went and saw him in person and he finally consented.”
“He’s a good judge of character.”
“Does that mean you don’t mind seeing me?”
“No. I don’t mind. I wanted to talk to you anyway, and it’s better for my health if you come to me. There are people who wouldn’t appreciate my going to see you.”
“The people who did this to you?”
“Among others. Could we sit down? Or would you prefer to wait till I collapse?”
Looking genuinely concerned, he said, “Oh, hell, I’m sorry—you need some help?”
“No. Just let me take it at my own pace. Let’s sit in the kitchen. It’s through there….”
In the small white modern kitchen, there was coffee on the stove. Bless Sally’s heart. She’d be doing her matinee about now. Dancing with a bubble.
I sat at the table while Cowley, at my direction, poured us some coffee. He put a cup in front of me and sat and sipped his own.
With a disgusted look, he said, “I know the aftermath of a rubber-hose session when I see one.”
“Well, you’re a cop. You’ve probably administered a few.”
He didn’t take offense; he didn’t even deny it. “Never to an innocent man.”
I laughed, and it hurt. “I been called a lot of things, but innocent?”
Cowley’s laugh was short and gruff, like he didn’t do it much. “More or less innocent, then. Was it cops?”
“Yeah. East Chicago boys, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Zarkovich and O’Neill?”
“Not personally. Zarkovich was behind it, I’m sure. Did he bring any men to town with him?”
The disgusted expression returned as he nodded. “A contingency of four, not counting him and his captain.”
“I didn’t get a very good look at the bastards who did this to me, but with that small a field to choose from, I might get lucky.”
“What was this about, Heller?”
I sighed. It hurt. “They wanted me out of commission. They weren’t trying to kill me or anything. Just hurt me bad enough to put me on the sidelines for a few days. Take me out of the action.” I sipped the coffee. It was hot, black, bitter; I liked it. “I’d served my purpose.”
“Which was?”
