Neon Mirage

At one-thirty in the morning, the plush, high-ceilinged lobby of the Morrison Hotel tended to be about dead as its marble floor. A few clusters of out-of-town businessmen were getting in from their evening’s entertainment in the big city, talking a little loud, a little drunk; a well-dressed older man in a tux and a good-looking dame in a clingy gown were moving arm-in-arm onto an elevator; the overweight, alcoholic house dick, Matthews, was sitting on a divan almost as overstuffed as he was, next to a palm that was also potted. That was about it.

The night man lurking behind the marble-and-bronze check-in counter-skinny, pockmarked, Gable-mustached Williams, who had been assistant manager for going on ten years now, all the while maintaining the supercilious attitude of one rising fast in his chosen trade-was not glad to see me. He didn’t push it, however, because I lived here and took no shit at all off him.

“Messages?” I asked.

He smiled and nodded-which was unusual. I had expected the normal long-suffering sigh of one forced to endure the indignity of the superior doing the bidding of the inferior; instead he rather cheerfully turned to his wall of boxes and came back with a stack of note sheets.

“Reporters,” he said, looking down his nose, mustache twitching, as he smiled thinly so we could share his contempt for such lower life forms.

I shuffled through the messages; Davis of the News had called every hour. This was typical of the aftermath of an episode like this afternoon’s-not that today had been an average day in the life of Nathan S. Heller. If it were, I’d have been dead of old age at twenty-five. Still, I’d been pulled in off the sidelines into the middle of mob activity often enough to know the reporters would swarm in the wake.

“Hold all calls?” Williams asked, almost civilly.

“Yeah, except from Lou Sapperstein. And I guess Lt. Drury; no other cops-if they call, I’m out. Throw these away, would you?”

I pushed the stack of messages his way and he accepted them dutifully if not graciously.

I took an elevator up to the twenty-third floor, which was in the nineteen-story tower atop the Morrison’s central twenty-one stories (all of which made it the city’s tallest hotel), to “suite” 2317, one rather large room with a kitchenette and a smaller bedroom. Not unlike Tendlar’s place, just bigger and nicer.

And, I thought as I worked the key in the door, there was another nice difference: nobody would be handcuffed to a chair waiting for a rubber hose workout from yours truly.

But as the door barely cracked open, I realized somebody had to be waiting in there for me: the light was on, and I hadn’t left it on.

I had one bad moment, hand drifting toward my nine millimeter under my shoulder.

Then I smiled to myself, thinking Peggy, and went on in.

Where, smack in the middle of my floor, face down, kissing the carpet, as if he’d fallen off the nearby couch, was a guy in a lightweight, light brown summer suit. A big guy-not as big as a house, but if he were a garage he’d be the two-car variety. He also had a bloody head, or anyway a bloody back of the head, which otherwise was covered in dark brown, well-greased hair. Around and about his upper torso were the shattered pieces of a porcelain vase and some paper flowers; said vase had once resided on the RCA Victor console radio to the left of the door as you come in.

By this time, I was shutting the door behind me and getting my nine millimeter out, after all. It looked like this ungodly goddamn day wasn’t over yet….

I was bending over the guy, hand on his throat, seeing if he was alive or not, when I heard her.

“Nate…did I kill him?”

She was standing in the doorway to my bedroom. She was still wearing the dark blue dress with the floral pattern, but neither it nor she looked as crisp as at the hospital earlier. Her eyes were as violet as ever but also wider than ever. She had a.45 Colt automatic in her dainty hand. That hand, which was dwarfed by the gun, was trembling. So was the rest of her, but the hand more so.

“He’s alive,” I said, rising, going to her, taking the gun from her, tucking my own away, taking her into my arms. “What the hell happened here?”

“I was waiting for you,” she said, looking into my eyes apologetically. “I wanted to be with you tonight. I just didn’t want to be alone, after what happened to Uncle Jim and you…”

“You wouldn’t have a key if you weren’t always welcome,” I said. “Now, what about Kilroy, there? It was you who busted him over the head with my Aunt Minnie’s vase?”

“I didn’t even know you had an Aunt Minnie!”

“I don’t. It’s the hotel’s vase. I was just trying to keep things light.”

Her eyes and nostrils flared. “Light? Light? I’ve been waiting here with what I thought was a dead body for hours, waiting for you, thinking maybe I killed him, wondering what I should do…Nate… Nate, I’m frightened.”

I held her close, glanced back at the guy. “He showed up hours ago?”

She drew away just a little and nodded. “Don’t know how long, exactly. I let myself in about eleven and he was already here-after I closed the door behind me, he came out of the bedroom with that gun.” She meant the.45 that was now in my hand. “He told me to relax-we were going to wait for my ‘boyfriend.’ That’s you.”

“No kidding. So how did you arrange to smack him with the vase?”

“I was just nice to him for about fifteen minutes-smiling, chatting about the weather, just making an inane commentary-he didn’t tell me to shut up, either. He was smiling at me. He didn’t say much, but when he did, he called me ‘cutie.’” She cringed. “And then I asked him if I could turn on the radio. I said I’d be more comfortable with some music playing. He thought that was a good idea.”

“And he was sitting on the couch, there, with his back mostly to you, and you clobbered him.”

“But good. He fell over like a ton of bricks. Then I got his gun so when he woke up I’d be ready for him-only he never woke up.”

I glanced over toward our sleeping guest. “He’s hurt pretty bad. I better get some medical help for him, or maybe we will have a corpse on our hands.”

“I don’t understand…all I did was hit him with a vase.”

“This isn’t the movies, honey. A blow like that to the head’ll kill you, as often as not.”

“Well, he started it.”

I checked his wallet. According to his driver’s license, his name was Louis J. Fusco and his address was 7240 South Luella Avenue.

“I know this address,” I said, studying the license. “Where do I know it from?”

She raised her heavy dark eyebrows in a facial shrug, as she gazed down innocently at me and my pal Fusco.

“Of course,” I said, smiling, standing. “That’s Guzik’s address!”

Now her eyes narrowed. “Jake Guzik? That Greasy Thumb character that had Uncle Jim shot?” She kicked Fusco; not very hard. “I wish I had killed you,” she told the slumbering thug. “If that’s who you work for.”

“Guzik lives in an apartment house at this address,” I said. “He owns the place. This guy is probably one of his personal bodyguards, with an apartment in the same building. I should’ve known right away.”

“Why?”

“Guzik sent for me earlier. A man of his-that same clown that accosted us on the street, outside of Berghoff’s last year- was waiting in my office building. Guzik mentioned he’d sent a guy here, too. I figured they would’ve remembered to call him off, once they picked me up. They obviously didn’t.”

She cocked her head, looking at me like I was the eighth wonder. “You saw Guzik tonight?”

“I’ll tell you all about it. Let me make a couple of calls first.”

I phoned down to the front desk and Williams answered. “This is Heller. Send Matthews up.”

“Why, certainly, Mr. Heller.”

“How much did he pay you?”

“Pardon me?”

“How much did this mug who’s out cold on my carpet pay you for letting him in with a pass key?”

He gulped. “How can you even suggest…”