I left it at that.
At the end of the hallway was a little vestibule; the door within the vestibule said 737, with a little gold plaque that said
“Wish I could find a suit like that,” I said. “I can’t find one a gun won’t bulge under.”
He said, “You couldn’t afford my tailor.”
I shrugged. “Probably not.”
It occurred to me then that he hadn’t patted me down for a gun; he could tell just looking at me I wasn’t armed—the suit I had on wasn’t tailored well enough to conceal one. Grooming hints from the underworld.
The door opened and a fat little man with wire-frame glasses, a loud tie and a black silk suit came out, smiling, calling back behind him, “Always a pleasure, Frank!”
Campagna reached over and shut the door for the fat little man, who put his hat on and was going past me when I said, “How you doing, Willie?”
Willie Bioff squinted behind his wire-frames, then said, “Heller?”
“That’s right.”
He smirked. “How’s it feel to be an ex-cop?”
“How’s it feel to be an ex-pimp?”
The smirk shifted to a sneer. “Once a smart-ass always a smart-ass.”
“Once a pimp always a pimp.”
Bioff thought about doing something about my mouth. I knew he wouldn’t. He was a former union slugger, but known for doing his slugging with a blackjack from behind. And in his pimp days he was famous for slapping his whores around. I’d arrested him, back in my plainclothes days, for that very act. Right before I was assigned to the pickpocket detail, I’d accompanied one of Chicago’s honest detectives, William Shoemaker, “Old Shoes” himself, on a brothel raid. We’d caught Willie going down the back stairs with a tally sheet, and when we hauled him back upstairs and one of his girls admitted Willie was her pimp, he’d hauled off and slugged her. We got a six-month conviction on the little bastard, but he never served it. Chicago.
Bioff was still standing there, trying to decide if he should get tough—maybe thinking Campagna would back him up. But then Bioff had no way of knowing why I was present; maybe I was on Nitti’s team, too, and he better not risk messing with me. He was nothing if not a coward.
Bioff said, “We should let bygones be bygones,” and waddled quickly off.
“I hate that little pimp,” I said.
Campagna looked at me impassively, then his tight mouth turned up at one corner. I took that to be a sign of agreement, and a possible softening of the tension between us. Still, if Nitti ever wanted me dead, Campagna would probably push to the front of the line to get the job.
For now he pointed one of his shotgun-barrel fingers at me and said, “Wait here—I’ll see how Frank’s doing.”
I waited; it was just a matter of seconds and Campagna was back, saying, “Frank wants to know if your business is private.”
“Pardon?”
Campagna looked faintly disgusted again. “Can you talk in front of anybody, or is it for Frank’s ears only?”
“Frank’s ears only,” I said.
Campagna nodded and went back in, came right out, said, “It’ll be just a few minutes. Frank’s getting a haircut.”
“Oh,” I said.
We stood there for a while, on either side of the door.
Suddenly Campagna said, “Me, too.”
“What?”
“I hate that little pimp, too. Bioff. You want a cigar?”
“Uh, no thanks.”
Campagna took out a cigar as thick as one of his fingers and lit it. It smelled pretty good, as cigars go. There were guys all over town who’d give their soul for a job that paid per day what that cigar cost.
Not that I blamed Campagna for enjoying himself; in his business, life was sometimes short—why not enjoy it while you had it? And I was grateful for the gesture he’d made—some human contact between me and him, however slight, might be good for my health. At least now I didn’t figure he’d be wanting to be first in line to bump me off.
The door opened suddenly and a white-smocked, skinny, swarthy man with a pencil-thin mustache and slick hair came rushing out, saying “’Cusa, ’cusa,” and shutting the door quickly behind him. Something smashed against that door—something glass, shattering.
The man, a barber apparently, seemed frightened but Campagna stopped him before he could run away and gave him a fin, saying, “You’re lucky to get it.”
The barber nodded, his eyes wide, terrified, and scurried off down the hall.
Campagna, his mouth turned up at either corner, genuinely amused now, pointed a thumb at the door and said,
