with Ralph Capone-an interview. Have any idea how I might do it?”
“What’s your first name, Peters?”
“Tobias,” I said. “Why?”
“Who’s the city editor on the
“Tavalario,” I said instantly. “New man. Old friend.”
O’Brien laughed at the other end.
“O.K. Peters. Is the
“Evening,” I guessed.
“What are the deadlines?”
“Ten, two and four,” I said quickly.
I didn’t like his laugh.
“You don’t work for the
“I didn’t think they’d get to the papers with me.”
“I’m a police reporter,” he said. “I read all about you on the blotter last night.”
Groucho had gone back to his paper. Harpo held a card up high, hesitating to throw it. Chico looked at the card, leered, and nodded his head, daring Harpo to drop the card.
Harpo let out a gookie, the puff-cheeked, crosseyed idiot face from his movies. I had never really related the little man playing cards with the wild-haired idiot on the screen. The look startled me. Chico burst out laughing and Groucho smiled.
“That’s been sure fire since he was a kid,” Groucho explained. “When in doubt, pull a gookie. It always cracks Chico and Gummo.”
“Peters, what the hell is going on there?” It was O’Brien’s voice over the phone.
“I was thinking,” I said. “You win. Why are you talking to me?”
“Maybe a story,” O’Brien said. I could hear the sound of voices behind him, somebody yelling, typewriters clacking.
“I checked you out with a couple of calls to L.A. I’m going to have a hell of a time explaining the expense if I don’t come up with something. My source says you’re straight-well, maybe a little bent-but you’re not likely to start a machine gun spree.”
“You never know,” I said.
“I really don’t give a shit,” said O’Brien. “I’ll give you a Capone phone number if you give me the story.”
“Some things I can’t talk about,” I said, looking at the Marx Brothers. “I’ve got a client. I’ll tell you what I will give you-a first person account about how I found the bodies.”
“Is it bloody?” said O’Brien.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’ll love it.”
“O.K., Peters, but I tell you in advance, it’ll be fugitive gives his version of gangland style murders in exclusive interview with the
“What the hell,” I sighed. Then I told him about Finding Bistolfi in the LaSalle and Canetta and Morris Kelakowsky in the West Side apartment. When I looked up, Harpo and Chico had stopped their game and were staring at me. Groucho’s eyes had become narrow and serious.
“O.K.,” said O’Brien. “It’s good.” He gave me a number, Independence 1349, and told me to call again if I had anything to trade.
I hung up. Six Marx eyes were on me as I got the desk and asked the operator to get me the number O’Brien had told me. In a few seconds it was ringing.
“Yeah?” said a voice.
“My name’s Peters,” I said. “Al Capone said I should look up his brother Ralph.”
“Who’re you?” The voice was that of a man who took his time, and yours, absorbing information. I told him who I was and repeated that Al Capone had told me to call. Then there was silence.
“Hello,” a male voice said. This second voice was high but raspy, as if someone had cut it in two and pasted it back together but did a bad job.
I repeated my tale about Al Capone, even mentioned Giuseppe Verdi, and asked if the guy on the other end was Ralph.
“What you want?” he replied.
“Nitti’s men are after me. The cops are after me. I’m trying to save my client, Chico Marx, from getting cut down for a debt he doesn’t owe, and Nitti won’t listen.”
The voice told me to keep talking, so I did.
“I need to get Marx and a guy named Gino Servi together to prove Marx isn’t the guy who owes him. Nitti’s going to have to stop trying to kill me and Marx long enough to listen.”
“I think Chico Marx is funny,” said the voice soberly.
I put my hand over the receiver and told Chico the guy at the other end thought he was funny. He shrugged his shoulders.
“I like the one doesn’t talk, too,” he said. “The other one talks too fast.”
“Nitti doesn’t think Chico’s funny,” I said.
“He has a right,” said the voice reasonably. “I’ll see what I can do about Nitti. I can’t do anything about the cops. There was a time a few years back when I could. Understand?”
I said I did.
“I give you no promise,” said the raspy voice. “Nitti might say no. And I’m going to check you out with Al. If he didn’t give you the O.K., I’ll be looking for you. You’re Peters, right?”
“Right. And you’re Capone, right?”
“Where do we reach you?” he said, avoiding an answer.
I suggested that I call back, but he wasn’t having any.
“Page a Mr. Pevsner in the lobby of the Drake,” I said. “I’ll have someone answer it and get the message to me.”
“Right,” he said and hung up.
“That was very nice,” said Groucho. “Very tricky. Who’s going to pick up the message?”
“I will,” I said. “There’s no problem.”
I proved there was no problem by looking at my watch and leaning back in my chair with a false yawn. There was a very good chance that Al Capone wouldn’t remember who the hell I was, and the only other guy who could confirm the Miami meeting was Bistolfi, who had been permanently punctuated at the LaSalle. The chances were good to even that Capone or Nitti’s men would soon be in that lobby ready to break the arm of whoever picked up their message, and would keep breaking it into smaller pieces till they were led to me. I figured I’d save them the trouble and one of the Marxes a broken arm. The odds were bad if you were betting your life, but I had the feeling Chico, with his lousy gambling instinct, would have thought they were reasonable.
“Well,” sighed Groucho. “I’m going upstairs to sit in on a regional convention here-the American Psychiatrist’s Association.”
“You got the right,” said Chico, examining his cards and rubbing his chin pensively. “You played a horse doctor.”
Groucho stood up, put on his jacket, combed back his hair, and tightened his mouth into a serious and painted grimace. He looked like a bored doctor.
“It’s about time someone spoke up about Freud and his disciples,” he said, moving to the door. His brothers ignored him, and Groucho went on. “I’m sick of that nonsense. ‘Parents are responsible for all their children who turn out wrong. They hated their mother, father, or both. Show people had especially unhappy childhoods and made up for it by going into acting.’”
“I know,” said Chico, still not looking up, but knowing what was coming. “You loved our mother and father.”
“Our parents were wonderful people,” Groucho went on. Harpo nodded in agreement and played a card, which Chico snapped up with a
“Our parents were terrific,” said Groucho. “We had great times. We didn’t go into show business to escape our home. We went into show business because my mother’s brother was Al Shean, who was pulling down $250 a
