True Crime

fingertips when we get back. You’ll see.”

I knew what I’d see. I’d never seen a fingerprint job that had taken; in every case I knew of, the telltale whorls stubbornly returned, forming patterns still discernible, if streaked with scar tissue.

“He’s got a big mouth, too, the doc. Comes in town and boozes and chases the local gash. Of course he knows better than to even look at one of our women.” He gave me a sideways glance that let me know that was a warning partially directed at me. “But Verle and Mildred got a nice thing going, usin’ the farmhouse as a cooling-off joint and all, so we got to be careful around the locals. Don’t need no drunken sawbones spillin’ his guts to every hunk of quiff he meets.”

“Why do the Barkers put up with him?”

The wind blowing as we sped along put Nelson’s cigar out; he relit it, shrugging. “Like the old bastard himself said, he’s useful. He did do some face-lifts that turned out, well…okay. Like on O.C.”

“O.C.?”

“Old Creepy. Karpis. Oh, yeah, you ain’t met him yet. He went to town with Mildred and her boys. Dolores is his broad. Hell of a guy. He’s from Chicago, too, from the back o’ the yards, like me. Hell, you’re from Chicago. Maybe you met him?”

“I only been in Chicago a year or so.”

“Oh yeah—you’re from out East.”

Was he trying to be cute, fishing like that? Or just making conversation? Maybe Nelson was more complex—and more intelligent—than I’d first given him credit for.

I said, “So Moran gave Karpis a face-lift?”

“Yeah—a pretty good one. O.C. didn’t have no earlobes, and that’s the kind of thing that sticks out on a wanted circular. And Moran did manage to fix him up with something that’s more or less like lobes. And O.C. had a busted nose since he was a kid and Moran straightened that. And tightened his face up. But his face is real scarred along his cheek by his ear. Both cheeks, I mean.”

“But it served its purpose, the face-lift.”

Nelson shrugged again. “I guess. I think O.C.’s changed his looks more from combing his hair straight back and wearing glasses than from what Moran done, but he seems satisfied. Enough that Walker wanted a face-lift, too. Big sacrifice for a ladies’ man like Walker to let that doc carve on his puss.” He laughed again, one short guttural laugh, but still high-pitched. “Well, he’s a ladies’ man in hell, now.”

We were coming up on Beaver Falls, now. Maple trees and two-story clapboards.

“I still don’t get it,” I said. “Why does Moran act like he’s so invaluable? There’s plenty of underworld docs around, doing first-rate face-lifts.” I took a hand off the wheel to gesture alongside my right ear. “See any scars on my face?”

“No,” Nelson admitted. “But Moran’s been valuable to the Barkers and Karpis in a lot of ways. I shouldn’t have to tell you he’s connected to the Chicago Boys, which can come in handy. And other ways.”

“Such as?”

Another shrug, another cocky puff of the cigar. “He was fencing hot money for ’em. He handled the Bremer ransom.”

“I thought that was Boss McLaughlin’s piece of work.”

“Him and Moran.”

“But the feds got McLaughlin, didn’t they?”

Like that other hot-money fence, James Probasco, ward-heeler McLaughlin had been hung by his heels from the Banker’s Building by the feds, seeking a third-degree confession; he hadn’t talked, but he was facing five years in Leavenworth anyway. He was still better off than Probasco, who as you may recall when similarly dangled did a dive into the cement court of the Rookery Building nineteen stories below.

Nelson continued. “The feds got McLaughlin, yeah—but he didn’t talk. And Moran still has fencing connections. Plus, like he’s always remindin’ us—he knows where the bodies are buried.”

“I see.”

“Pull in there,” Nelson said, motioning to a parking place in front of a store called Hubbell’s.

We left the Auburn at the curb and Nelson, his coat buttoned over his waistband, where the .45 was tucked, smiled and tipped his hat at a fat farm housewife with a faded brownish-blond marcel and a pretty little girl with corn-yellow hair in tow. The fat farm housewife and the little girl both smiled and the housewife said, “You’re Verle’s relation, aren’t you?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“We could all use some rain for the corn.”

“We surely could, ma’am.”

The mother and daughter walked on by, and we went into Hubbell’s, whose store window was a display of fishing rods, and the narrow, yellow-painted interior proved to be a hardware store of sorts in front—hammers and nails, fishing rods, a wall display of jackknives—and a bar in back, with three side booths.

“This is where Verle picks up his messages,” Nelson said, sotto voce, behind a hand.

“Interesting place.”

Nelson smirked. “Half hardware store, half bar. Ever seen the like?”

“Nothing better, if you’re in the mood for a claw hammer and a shot of whiskey.”

Moran was down at the far end of the bar, bending over a bottle of bourbon and a tall glass, giving what was