True Crime

beef. Ah—farm country. A rest in the country is just what I’ve needed, of late. By the way, what does bring you into the company of such notables as our friend Baby Face Nelson? An appellation, I might add, one might best refrain from using to the little weasel’s face.”

“Actually, Doctor,” I said, “I’m here to see you.”

“Me? Why, I’m honored, Mr. Lawrence. What brings you here to see me?”

“Frank Nitti.”

He swallowed, and he didn’t have a mouthful of liquor, either. The blood drained out of his face.

“He’d like you to come back to Chicago,” I said.

“Young man, I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m in the process of…relocating.”

“I heard you were well-connected.”

“Perhaps you’re aware of my dealings with one ‘Boss’ McLaughlin?”

“Just vaguely.”

“He suggested I dispose of certain funds—certain warm funds—by doling it out, a few dollars at time, to some of my patrons…if you follow me.”

“You mean, some of Nitti’s people were passed hot money?”

“Indelicately put, but true. In small amounts, Mr. McLaughlin thought the bills would cause little trouble. For his efforts he’s facing a penitentiary term. As for me, well…an emissary from Mr. Nitti passed me an envelope, shortly before I left the city. Do you know what was in that envelope, Mr. Lawrence?”

I said I didn’t.

“Nothing much,” he said, sipping his tall glass of bourbon. “Simply a single unfired round. A bullet. Do you understand that? Do you derive a meaning from that?”

It was a death sentence.

I said, “Perhaps Nitti would like to work it out with you.”

“Did he say as much?”

“Not really. He just said to tell you that he wanted you to come back to Chicago. He had work for you.”

“I see. Then I hardly understand why he bothered sending you—he’d know I wouldn’t return with so little assurance of my safety.” He looked at me as if he hadn’t looked at me before. “Unless, of course, you’re here to… but you don’t look like a gunman. Then looks at times deceive. Take, for example, the childlike countenance of the gentleman approaching…”

I turned and saw Nelson swaggering toward us, a big grin riding his face. He scooted in on my side of the booth.

“I made a couple calls,” he said to me. “You’re okay, Lawrence.” He put his hand out. “No hard feelins for the hard time I give you at the house?”

I shook the hand, said, “None.”

“Good.” He looked across at Moran. “I talked to some of your pals in Chicago. I talked to Slim Gray, for one.”

“Alias Russell Gibson. I know him well. And how is Slim?”

“He says Frank Nitti wants you back in Chicago.”

“People in hell want ice water,” Moran said, and gulped the bourbon.

“Maybe you can serve it to ’em,” Nelson said.

“You don’t scare me, little man.”

Nelson smiled at him; the muscle on his jaw was jumping. “That’s fine. Finish your drink—time to go home.”

“I’ll return in my own good time. I have my own transportation.”

“Fine. Drive your own car. But finish your drink, and do it now.”

The blood flowed back into Moran’s face till it was crimson. He half-stood in the booth, leaned forward and waved the glass, the bourbon sloshing around in it, all but shouting as he said, “Don’t threaten me, Baby Face. Who do you think you’re crowding? Think I’m afraid of you—or any of that mob?” He stretched his free hand out and held it palm open, cupped. “I have you—all of your crowd—in the hollow of my hand. Right here! In the hollow of my hand.”

Back behind the bar, the plump strawberry blonde looked scared; her father, Kurt, was standing near her, expressionless, but looking our way.

Moran sat back down. “One word from me, Baby Face—and your goose is cooked. Understand? Cooked.”

Nelson, jaw muscle throbbing, leaned forward and patted Moran on the arm, soothingly, while the doctor stared into the blackness of the bourbon.

“There, there, Doc,” Nelson said, “don’t talk that way about your pals. We’re on your side. Aren’t we, Jimmy?”