True Detective

were brewing suds in their apartments to make a few extra depression dollars.

'Yeah.' Cermak was saying, rather grandly, 'they're fitting me for a bulletproof vest. I think that's going too far, but I suppose there is some small danger…'

What was he trying for now? My sympathy? Maybe I was supposed to admire him; or maybe this was a role he liked to play just for himself.

'I better be going, Your Honor,' I said, getting up.

He stood, too; put a hand on my arm. I could smell his breath: it smelled like Touhy's beer, not surprisingly. But his expression was sober, somber. 'What will you be saying at the inquest tomorrow?'

'The truth. I suppose.'

'Truth is relative. Even off the force, I can be of a little help to you, you know. Have you decided what line you'll be going in?'

J WW

I shrugged. 'I only have one trade.'

Cermak looked surprised; he took his hand off my arm. 'What do you mean?'

'I'm a cop. a detective. I'm going private, that's all.'

'Who with? Pinkerton's? You got something lined up?'

'My own little agency.'

'I see.' He was smiling again; I didn't like that. 'When were you planning to get started?'

'Right away.'

He shook his head sadly, continuing to smile. 'That's a shame, really it is.'

'What do you mean?'

'Oh. the paperwork on these matters. A goddamn shame. The red tape. Sometimes an application for a license can be turned down for, oh, the most trivial of reasons. For no reason at all, actually.'

'So that's how it is.'

He pointed a finger at me like a gun. Til tell you how it is. You go out of the department under a cloud- you tie yourself up in a police scandal, where month upon month goes by. trial upon trial drags on, and you're not going to get a private detective's license, not till it's over, maybe not till never. I won't have to pull any strings to make that happen. You'll have made it happen.'

I thought it over.

'You know I'm right' he said

I nodded. 'Suppose I agree to corroborate Lang and Miller's story.'

'You'll have a license tomorrow.'

I thought some more. 'When the trial comes up, suppose I double-cross you. Suppose I tell a different story. Like maybe the real one.'

Cermak beamed. 'You wouldn't do that. You're not a stupid man. Licenses can get revoked for no good reason, too, you know. The Lord giveth and He taketh the hell away, too, Heller.'

For the first time, I realized, Miller was looking at me; his body was still turned toward the window, but his head was turned my way, casually.

'I'll do it.' I said. 'Goddamnit.'

'Good.' He took his gaze off me. I felt he'd forgotten all about me already. He didn't look at me as he said. 'I think you know the way out,' and. with a faint grimace and with a hand on his stomach, went in the other room.

Miller took me back down the way we'd come in; you know- the scenic route between my hotel and Cermak's: the alley. It was okay if you liked fire escapes, bricks and cement, and garbage. And Miller.

Who delivered me to the front door of the Adams and, hands in his topcoat pockets, eyes unfathomable behind the glasses, said, 'So you ain't as dumb as you look.'

I was getting fed up, and was beer-brave. I said, 'Neither are you, and that's no compliment. Why don't you flap your ears and take a flying fuck, lardass?'

His head tilted back; it was just the slightest movement, really, but it seemed sinister, somehow, coming from him. He said, 'You ought to be on the radio, Heller. Cross us, and maybe you will be.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Cross us and see, wise guy.'

I hit him in the stomach. With every fucking thing I had.

And he went down. It was like seeing a building fall under a demolition ball. It was beautiful.

When he was on the pavement, I reached inside his jacket, and tugged his.45 revolver, the same one he carried into Nitti's office, out of his shoulder holster, and stuffed the barrel in his fat gut. I stayed in close to him, right on top of him, not letting the gun show, just in case somebody going by on foot or in a car or something might take notice and stop. Not that that would happen: Harrison wasn't particularly busy this time of night (it was about eleven); it was also Chicago, and not a great place to go wading into something that looked dangerous.

'What the hell are you doing, Heller?' he said. His monotone voice was breathy; there was fear in it. I liked that.