'It's Heller, if you don't mind,' I said, but did what he said, as he did likewise. As did Miller.
'We got a warrant?' I said.
'Shut up.' Miller said, without looking at me.
'What the hell am I supposed to do?' I said.
'I just told you.' Miller said, and this time he did look at me. 'Shut up.'
The blank eyes behind the Coke-bottle glasses were round black balls; funny how eyes so inexpressive could say so much.
Lang interceded. 'Back us up. Heller. There may be some shooting.'
They walked. Their footsteps- and mine, following- echoed down the hall like hollow words.
They stopped at a door that had no name on its pebbled glass- just a number. 554.
It wasn't locked.
Miller went in first, a.45 revolver in his fist; Lang followed, with a.38 with a four-inch barrel. I brought up the rear, thoroughly confused, but leaving the snubnose Lang gave me in my topcoat pocket: I carried a nine-millimeter automatic, a Browning- unusual for a cop, since automatics can jam on you, but I liked automatics. As much as I could like any gun, that is.
It was an outer office; a desk faced us as we entered, but there was no secretary or receptionist behind it- There were, however, two guys in two of half a dozen chairs lining the left wall two more brown suits, topcoats in their laps, sitting there like some more furniture in the room.
Both were in their late twenties, dark hair, pale blank faces, average builds. One of them, with an oft-broken nose, was reading a pulp magazine,
Neither went for a gun or otherwise made any move. They just sat there surprised- not at seeing cops, but at seeing cops with guns in their hands.
In the corner to the left of the door we'd just come in was a coatrack with four topcoats and three hats; the right wall had another half dozen chairs, empty. Just behind and to the left of the desk was a water cooler and, in the midst of the pebbled-glass-and-wood wall, a closed door.
Then it opened.
Standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, was a man who was unmistakably Frank Nitti. I'd never met him, though he'd been pointed out to me a few times: but once having seen him, you couldn't miss him: handsome, in a battered way, fighter's nose, thin inverted-V mustache, faint scar on his lower lip: impeccably groomed, former barber that he was, slick black hair parted neatly at the left; impeccably dressed, in a gray pinstripe suit with vest, and wide black tie with a gray-and-white pattern. He was smaller than Frank Nitti was supposed to be, but he was an imposing figure just the same.
He closed the door behind him.
There was a look on his face, upon seeing the two Harrys, that reminded me of the look on that uniformed cop's face. He seemed irritated and bored with them, and the fact that guns were in their hands didn't seem to concern him in the least.
A raid was an annoyance; it meant getting booked, making bail, then business as usual. But a few token raids now and then were necessary for public relations. Only for Nitti to be involved was an indignity. He'd only been out of Leavenworth a few months, since serving a tax rap; and now he was acting as his cousin Capone's proxy, the Big Fellow having left for the Atlanta big house in May.
'Where's Campagna?' Lang said. He was standing with Miller in front of him. partially blocked by him. Like Miller was a rock he was hiding behind.
'Is he in town?' Nitti said. Flatly.
'We heard you were siccing him on Tony,' Miller said.
Tony was the mayor: Anton J. Cermak. alias 'Ten Percent Tony.'
Nitti shrugged. 'I heard your bohunk boss is sleeping with Newberry,' he said.
Ted Newberry was a Capone competitor on the North Side, running what was left of the old 'Bugs' Moran operation.
Silence hung in the room like the smell of wet paint.
Then Lang said to me, 'Frisk the help.'
The two hoods stood; I patted them down with one hand. They were unarmed. If this was a handbook and wire-room setup, as I suspected, their being unarmed made sense; they were serving as runners, not guns. Lang and Miller taking their time about getting into the next room also made sense: most raids were conducted only for show, and this was giving the boys inside time to destroy the evidence.
'Let's see if Campagna's in there.' Lang said finally, nodding toward the closed door.
'Who?' Nitti said, with a faint smile.
Then he opened the door and went in, followed by his runners, then by Miller, Lang, and me.
The inner room was larger, but nothing elaborate: just a room with a table running from left to right, taking up a lot of the space. At right, against the wall, was a cage, and a guy in shirt sleeves wearing a green accountant's shade was sitting in there with a bunch of money on the counter; he hadn't bothered putting it away. Perhaps it wouldn't all fit in the drawer. At left a young guy stood at a wire machine with a ticker tape in his hand, only this wasn't the Board of Trade by a long shot. Two more sat at the table: another one in shirt sleeves, his back to us, suitcoat slung over the chair behind him, four phones on the table in front of him; and across from him, a hook- nosed hood wearing a pearl hat with a black band at a Capone tilt. There were no pads or paper of any kind on the
