“I wouldn’t know.”
“And another thing—why the hell’d he go out without a coat?”
“It was hot.”
“Very funny, Heller. It’s hot today, too. But where’d he tuck his gun, if he didn’t have a coat to hide it under?”
“Good question.”
“Did you see he had a gun at the scene?”
“There was a gun in his hand, by the time he was dead.”
He thought that over. “It wasn’t entered into the coroner’s docket at the inquest, this gun Dillinger supposedly drew on Purvis.”
I smiled. “Since when is a gun turning up in a dead suspect’s hand news in Chicago?”
He sat forward and pointed at me like Uncle Sam. “Look, if you really know some inside dope, I can get you some
“I’ll give you my story for fifty bucks, but you got to mention my business by name and give the address.”
“Done.”
I sipped my milk. “That way Baby Face Nelson and Van Meter and the rest will know where to find me.”
He grinned, then the grin faded. “You think Johnny’s buddies might really seek revenge?”
“No. I think they got better things to do.”
“Such as?”
“Such as read the writing on the wall. Such as rob a few more banks before going south. Things are closing in on them. The feds may be stupid, but they can cross state lines and carry guns. The Wild West show will be closing down soon—after one last bloody act.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
“Do, and I’ll crucify you in Marshall Field’s window. That sort of talk just
“I hear he’s a fruitcake.”
“Can I quote
“Okay, okay. So what’s your story, Heller?”
I told him my story. I told him that in the course of working in Uptown on a divorce case for a client, who would have to remain nameless, I’d stumbled upon a man who resembled John Dillinger. I’d reported this to Melvin Purvis and Samuel Cowley of the federal Division of Investigation. They had kept me informed as the inquiry developed, including the fact that two East Chicago, Indiana, police officers had corroborated my story through their own sources. For that reason, I’d been invited as an observer to the showdown at the Biograph.
I also gave him a detailed description of the way the stakeout had been conducted, and the manner in which the suspect had been taken down, though I did not mention that he’d been shoved to the pavement and shot in the back of the head. I said only that officers had swarmed toward him and shots had been fired.
No mention of Anna Sage, Polly Hamilton or Jimmy Lawrence.
I sipped my milk.
Frank Nitti would’ve been proud of me.
And Hal Davis gave me fifty bucks—two double sawbucks and two fins—and left.
I put the money in my pocket and walked outside. The heat was even worse today. I ought to go to the beach and find an umbrella to lie out under, and splash around in the lake when the shade got old.
Instead, I drove over to the morgue.
23
For a dreary-looking stone structure on a blistering hot July afternoon, the morgue was doing brisk business. About the only difference between it and the Biograph last night was the lack of a marquee, and the melodrama attracting the crowds was Chicago, not Manhattan.
The line to the front doors was a double one and, splitting off, extended well down the sidewalk in both directions; a steady stream was coming out the morgue doors, as well. Formal attire was not required, at this mortuary—the dressiest “mourners,” many carrying cameras, were men in shirt sleeves and women in summery dresses, and not a few females were in beach apparel, and many a male wore his undershirt. There were plenty of kids in the crowd, mostly boys with their thoughtful moms. The hot air was filled with hot air—a constant chatter not limited to the dead subject at hand added to the holiday mood. A guy in a big orange tie and orange cap was hawking orange juice a dime a cup out of a tray full of ice slung over his shoulder on a couple of straps, cigarette- girl style; the ice was melting quickly, but not as quickly as the paper cups of orange juice were going. Another guy, wearing a straw boater and no tie, was going around waving two handfuls of blood-stained swatches of white cloth, yelling, “Genuine guaranteed Dillinger’s blood!” More bloody swatches protruded from three of his four bulging pants pockets; apparently blood had been running down Lincoln Avenue like a flood, last night.
All this humanity, if you want to call it that, was being overseen by a handful of cops, uniformed guys still lacking their uniforms due to the heat wave, badges on their light blue blouses; but the caps and guns and nightsticks were still there. These were cops, no mistaking ’em.
I walked up to a burly Irish flatfoot in his forties, with red cheeks and light blue eyes; I didn’t know him, and hoped he didn’t know me—and would maybe take my reddish-brown hair as us having a bit of the Blarney in common.
“What’s the chance of getting in past this crowd?” I asked him.
He smiled and shook his head. “Slim and none.”
