he was, that is.”
“Estelle?”
“That I didn’t find out. It’s an interesting wrinkle, though, isn’t it? Makes Nicky Dean himself a suspect, if it was a contract hit, that is.”
“Can’t you find out whether she fingered him or not?”
“That information’ll likely be given Drury, in good due course. Besides, I can only do so much sniffing around for you, you know. It’s got to seem casual, gossipy. If I poke too hard, somebody’ll poke back.”
“I know that, Eliot, and I appreciate it, what you’re doing.”
Pig knuckles put away, he used his napkin. Smiled again. “Enjoy me while you can, because tomorrow I’m out of here. It’s back to Cleveland.”
“To see the wife?”
“Yes, and to check in with the Defense Health regional office there. I’m on a swing where I’m spending a few days at each of our regional offices-there’s twelve of ’em, from Boston to San Francisco-giving this co-op workshop with the FBI.”
“Gee, do they have VD in Cleveland now? That place is really getting up to date.”
“Sure there’s VD. It takes the proper stamp out of your ration book to get it, however.”
“Which reminds me,” I said, standing, throwing my napkin down. “I got to walk over to the courthouse and get mine.”
“VD?”
“Ration book.”
He shrugged, stood, reached for the bill. “You’re fighting the battle of the home front, now, Nate.”
“Ain’t we all,” I said, and plucked the bill from his hands. “This is my treat. Consider it a payoff.”
“When in Rome.”
He walked out on the street with me; the snow had let up, but the wind was blowing it around, so it didn’t make much difference.
“You take care of yourself,” he told me.
“Sure, kid.”
He looked at me carefully. “Are you getting any sleep?”
“Some.”
“You look like hell.”
“You look like shit.”
“No wonder we can’t get laid,” he said, and walked off.
An hour later, ration book in my billfold, I sat in my office, and started making phone calls, working my way down a list of credit checks that Sapperstein had left on my desk. Gladys came in and asked me if I’d like some coffee. I said, sure-blonde and sweet. She said, huh? And I explained that was G.I. for sugar and cream, and now I was sipping it, between calls, slouched comfortably in my swivel chair, as the phone rang.
“A-1 Detective Agency,” I said, for the first time in some while.
“Heller?”
It was a hoarse, familiar voice, but I couldn’t place it.
“Speaking.”
“This is Louis Campagna.”
An old chill went up my spine. I sat up.
“Hello, Louie.”
“You did pretty good over there.”
“Where?”
“Over there with those Jap bastards. You did pretty good. Frank said to tell you he was proud of ya. We’re glad you’re back safe and sound and everything.”
“Well, uh, thank you, Louie.”
Silence.
Which he finally broke: “Safe and sound is a nice way to be.”
“It sure is.”
“You got in the papers your first day back, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. How ’bout that?”
“How did you manage that, Heller?”
“Just one of those things. Drury happened to be in my office when he got the Carey call. He was welcoming me back. We were on the pickpocket detail together, you know, in the old days.”
Silence.
“So I went along,” I said. “I knew Estelle, you know.”
“Yeah, we know. That was an awful thing that happened to her.”
I tried to find hidden meaning or menace in the voice; I couldn’t quite.
“Awful thing,” I agreed.
“You ought to stay out of that.”
“The investigation, you mean.”
“Yeah.”
“I have an interest in who killed Estelle, Louie. But I’ll leave that to Drury.”
“That’s smart.”
“I can’t seem to make myself buy that Frank had anything to do with it.”
Silence.
“It just wasn’t his style,” I said.
Silence.
Then he said: “Frank may want to see you.”
“That might not be a good idea. The federal prosecutor knows that Frank and I have met from time to time. I’m going to be questioned about it.”
Silence.
“But you might tell Frank that I have a little medical problem left over from the war. I got amnesia over there.”
“Meaning you forget things.”
“That’s exactly right, Louie.”
“That’s a healthy sickness to have. Frank will like hearing that. Keep us informed as to the G’s interest in you.” By G he meant government. “Get a pencil.”
I got a pencil.
He gave me a phone number.
“Is this a number I can reach you at?” I asked, trying to understand what this was about.
“The party at that number can reach me,” he said. “Reach them, and I’ll reach you.”
And a click in my ear said good-bye.
I should’ve been shaken by the call; instead, I felt oddly reassured. Like the Berghoff, Campagna hadn’t changed much. Another Chicago fixture, and-judging by the black-market talk in the papers, “meat-legging” in particular being attributed to the Nitti Outfit-one unaffected by rationing.
I sipped the sweet creamy coffee, made another credit-check call.
Shortly after three, somebody knocked at my door. A crisp, hard, single knock.
“It’s open,” I said.
A Marine sergeant stepped inside, shut the door behind him. He was about forty, wore pressed blue trousers, khaki shirt, necktie and campaign hat. The shine of his shoes reflected the overhead light. He stood board-straight, not at attention, not even at parade rest, but his bearing strictly military and intimidating as all hell, anyway.
“Private Heller?” he said, taking off the hat. He had something in his other hand, too; a small dark blue box.
“Yes,” I said, standing. He looked familiar. Who was this guy?
He marched over to the desk. “I tried to call before coming, but your line was busy.”
“Uh, yes, sorry. Use the phone a lot in my line of work…hey, I know you. You’re my recruiting sergeant.
