“You looking for quality, or punctuality?”
“Actually, I was looking for both.”
“Heller, you’re turning into an old man. You don’t remember what it was like to be young. I had a hot date last night.” He was over behind his desk, now, dialing his phone.
“That better be a credit check,” I said.
“Sugar?” he said into the phone. “It’s Frankie.” He covered the phone, waved us off. “Do you mind? Little privacy.”
I went over to the phone and took it from his hand. I said, “Hi, sugar. Frankie just called to say he was unemployed.” I handed the phone back to him.
“Talk to ya later, sugar,” he said into it, and hung up. He grinned. “Just testing the waters, boss. Mind if I get started on these credit checks now?”
“Go right ahead. This is my friend Barney Ross, by the way.”
“Listen,” he said to Barney, by way of greeting. “There’s dough in a comeback. It don’t have to be Armstrong. Hey, Canzoneri’s still fighting; a third Ross-Canzoneri fight’d make some tidy dough. We should talk.” He glanced at me and smiled on one side of his face. “After business hours of course.”
I nodded to both Frankie and Lou and we went out.
Barney said, “That kid’s cocky, but I bet he’s bright.”
“Safe bet. I’ll get him straightened out. Much as possible, anyway.”
“What’s his background?”
“He was fired off the force in his first year for rubbing Tubbo Gilbert the wrong way.”
Captain Daniel “Tubbo” Gilbert was, even in Chicago terms, a notoriously corrupt cop. A notoriously powerful corrupt cop, at that.
“Aw,” Barney said. “No wonder you like the kid. You see yourself in the little son of a bitch.”
“Hey,” I said. “I see admirable qualities in a lot of sons of bitches. I’ve even been known to hang around with washed-up ex-pugs.”
Barney’s expression turned suddenly thoughtful. “You’re liable to lose that kid to the draft, you know.”
I shook my head. “It’ll never come.”
We were standing just outside my office now.
“I think it’s going to
“
“I might go whether they ask me or not.”
“Don’t be foolish,” I said.
“Don’t you know there’s a war on?”
“In Europe. We been snookered into fighting their battles before-never again.”
“You really believe that?”
“Sure.”
“But, Nate, you’re a Jew…”
“I’m not a Jew. That doesn’t mean I don’t sympathize with what’s happening to the Jews in Germany. I don’t like the idea of military seizure of property happening anywhere to anybody. But I don’t feel it has anything special to do with me.”
“You’re a Jew, Nate.”
“My pa was a Jew, my ma was Irish Catholic, and me, I’m just another mutt from Chicago, Barney.”
“Maybe so. But as far as Mr. Hitler’s concerned, you’re just another Jew.”
Well, he hadn’t scored a knockout punch, by any means, but Barney had made his point. It wasn’t the first time, and was hardly the last.
So without even trying to crack wise, I sent him on his way, while I went in to get to work. I made several calls on an insurance matter before I noticed the morning was nearly gone.
Then Gladys stuck her pretty, impersonal puss in my office and said, “Your eleven o’clock appointment is here.”
I’d almost forgotten.
Which considering the stature of the client-potential client, as we hadn’t talked, he’d merely called for an appointment-was stupid of me.
“Send Mr. O’Hare in,” I said, straightening my tie and my posture.
But Mr. O’Hare wasn’t the first person in. A striking-looking woman was, a rather tall, dark woman who strolled in as if out of an Arabian dream (or was it a Sicilian nightmare?), regal in her camel-hair swagger topcoat with padded shoulders, open to reveal a mannish, pinstripe suit beneath. Beneath the suit, any good detective could deduce, was not a mannish body, the lapels of
O’Hare, shorter than her, was on her heels, helping her with her coat, like she was the queen and he was her foot servant.
Which was ridiculous, whoever she was, because Edward J. O’Hare-a small but powerful-looking man in his own natty pinstripe suit, a diamond stick pin in his red, spotted-black tie, a black topcoat over his arm, black fedora in his hand-was a big man in this city, a millionaire with connections in both city hall and the underworld. Especially the underworld. His face was handsome in a lumpy way, dark bushy black eyebrows hanging over piercing dark blue eyes, a sharp, prominent nose, strong features undercut by a small chin riding a saddle of flesh.
He hung her coat up, and his own, and smiled at me, the smile of the professional glad-hander. “Mr. Heller, 1 hope you don’t mind my bringing my secretary. Miss Cavaretta, along…to take some notes during our visit. It’s my practice at business meetings.”
I was standing, gesturing to the chairs along the nearby wall. “Not at all,” I said. “Such charming company is always welcome.”
She smiled, tightly, holding something back, her eyes alive with things she knew I didn’t, and she sat down and crossed slender, shapely legs, getting a steno pad and a pen from her purse.
O’Hare was standing across from me, offering his hand, still smiling like a politician. I shook the hand, smiled back, wondering why he was so eager to please. This was an important man. I was nobody in particular. Did he always come on this strong?
“It’s a real pleasure Mr. Heller,” he said. “I’ve heard good things about you.’
“Who from, Mr. O’Hare? Frank Nitti, possibly?”
His smile disappeared; I shouldn’t have said that-it just blurted out.
He sat. “My associations with that crowd are exaggerated, Mr. Heller. Besides, you can make money through such associations and run no risk if you keep it on a business basis, and are forthright in your dealings. Keep it business, and there is nothing to fear.”
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself, not me.
I said, “I didn’t mean to be rude, Mr. O’Hare.”
“Call me Eddie,” he said, getting out a silver cigarette case. He offered one of the cigarettes to Miss Cavaretta; she took it. He offered me one and I politely refused, though I eased an ashtray toward Miss Cavaretta. Our eyes met. She smiled at me with them. She had long legs. They were smiling at me, too.
“We’ve just closed the season out at Sportsman’s Park,” Edward J. O’Hare said, lighting Miss Cavaretta’s cigarette with a silver lighter shaped like a small horse’s head. He put the cigarettes and lighter away without lighting one up himself.
I said, “You’ve had a good year, I understand.”
Sportsman’s Park, of which O’Hare was the president, was a 12,000-seat, half-mile racetrack, converted from dogs to nags back in ’32. It was in Stickney, very near Cicero. In other words, right smack in the middle of mob country.
“Yes. But we have had a few problems.”
