me, by the window the blond sat next to. I stayed on my own side of the car: I had a gun in my hand, too, but with the car between me and Campagna, that wasn't readily apparent. Above me the fat gunman was watching.
'Jesus.' Campagna said, looking in. 'He looks dead.'
'Could be,' I said. 'He was gut-shot.'
'Whaddya doin' bringin' him here for. ya stupid bastard?'
'He had a gun. Stumbled in my office, bleeding, and said he was shot and wanted me to drive him. I did what I was told. You do know him. don't you?'
'Yeah. I know him. I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it, though. Get him outa here.'
'Fuck you, jack. He's your dead meat.'
Campagna glared at me.
I tried to look apologetic. 'Come on, take him off my hands. Look, it's
'All right. Shit. Fatso!'
Fatso came trundling down the steps. As he reached the bottom, I stayed where I was while Campagna stepped away from the car, and he and Fatso faced each other within the tight dark alleyway.
Campagna tucked his gun in his belt. 'Go someplace and flick yourself. Heller,' he said, dismissing me.
barely glancing back at me.
Fatso put his gun away, too. and asked Campagna what it was all about, and I shut the engine off and stepped out from around the side of the car and laid the silenced gun across the back of Campagna's head, and he went down like so much kindling. Fatso's mouth dropped and his hand moved toward his waistband, but then he saw the look on my face- it was a sort of smile- and thought better of it.
Campagna was down there with red on the back of his head and on one ear; he looked out. He was out.
Holding the silenced gun on Fatso, I bent down and yanked Campagna's revolver out of his belt and emptied the cylinder of its bullets onto the brick alleyway, tossed the gun down the alley, where it fell a good distance with a dull clunk. Fatso had his hands in the air and I got his revolver out of his waistband and repeated the procedure.
Then, in a stage whisper, I said to Fatso, 'Use his tie to tie his hands behind him.'
He did what I told him. Huffed and puffed a bit, but he did it.
'Who's up there?' I said, still whispering.
'What do you mean?' he said, glancing back at me as he bent over working, picking up on the sotto voce. The single eyebrow across his forehead was raised almost to his hairline.
I put the silenced gun's snout near his. 'Guess what I mean.'
'Just Nitti.'
'No other bodyguards?'
'A guy in the apartment over the pharmacy. He just stays there, sort of on call.'
'Nobody else?'
'Two men in the apartment above; they're the day shift. Asleep, now.'
'And?'
'Most of the people in the building are family or friends. Dr. Ronga owns the building. But no more bodyguards.'
'Where's Ronga now?'
'At Jefferson Park. The hospital.'
'When'll he get back?'
'Not till morning. He's on duty all night.'
'Nitti's wife? Ronga's?'
'Mrs. Nitti and her mother are in Florida.'
'Is that the truth?'
'Yeah. Yeah, it's the truth!'
'If it isn't, I'll blow your guts all over this alley.'
'If you live that long.'
'Take that chance if you like.'
'I'm tellin' the truth. Heller. There? Is that good enough?'
Campagna's hands were bound tight with the tie; he was breathing heavy, but was still dead to the world.
'Haul him over under the steps and put him behind the garbage cans. Get him out of sight.'
He dragged Campagna like a sack of something and put him down the same way, as he moved the cans out a bit to make room. Then he heaved Campagna back there.
