“We’ve got to play on hardwood floors,” the guy groaned, telling me to sit down.
“I can’t sit down,” I said. “I’ve been shot.”
“I don’t know if we can play on hardwood floors,” the guy said.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’ll be all right.”
14
When I opened my eyes, I was looking at a nine-year-old kid with thick glasses and black hair that kept falling forward. He told me he was a doctor and I was in the emergency room of Cook County Hospital.
“How long have I been out?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Peters,” he said, patting my shoulder. “You’ve been shot-we don’t think seriously, but-”
“Get me a phone,” I said. Something like pain was knitting a sweater out of my insides.
His smile was tolerant but put-upon.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “There’ll be plenty of time for that-”
I made it up on one elbow and spoke as quietly and clearly as I could.
“You get me a phone or you don’t cut me open.”
“You can’t-”
“Get me a phone or I cut you open,” I tried.
“I’m here to help you,” he said, turning pale.
“Good, then help me by getting a phone or getting me to one.”
“I don’t see how-”
This time he was interrupted by a Negro woman in white who outweighed him by thirty pounds and probably outexperienced him by the same number of years.
“I think we should let him make the call, doctor,” the nurse said. “Arguing with him isn’t getting us anywhere. Now Mister,” she said to me, “who do you want to call?”
The child doctor looked like he was going to protest, but settled for throwing out his hairless jaw and muttering, “What the hell?” as he stalked away.
“Don’t mind him,” the nurse said to me, pushing the cart I was on to a corner. “He’s been working for twenty-four hours.”
“He doesn’t even need a shave,” I said.
“Who do you want to call?” she said.
“In my wallet pocket, there’s a card with the name Daley on it.”
I wasn’t wearing my suit, but she fished my bloody pants out of a metal locker and found the card. She called the number and asked for Daley.
“This is Mr. Peter’s secretary,” she said and handed me the phone.
“Daley?” I asked. “This is Peters.”
“Yes,” he said. “You turned yourself in?”
“I did,” I said.
“You sound strange,” he said. “Hurt?”
“I’m in the hospital. I’ll be all right. I got shot by a crooked cop named Kleinhans, Sergeant Charles Kleinhans, Maxwell Street Station. Got that?”
“I’ve got it,” he said.
“Kleinhans is dead. Shot by a mob gunman. Kleinhans put away the three guys in the paper this morning and that guy Servi they found in the park. Servi was paying him off, and they were in on a caper to get $120,000 from the mob. Have someone check his car, his house, and his bank account. You should find a machine gun and more money than a cop should have. Check his hand against the bullet in Servi.”
“Got it,” he said. “I’ll tell the right people.”
“See you around.”
“Need anything?” said Daley.
“A new body and some blood,” I said, fading away. “I hope you make it to the White House.”
“I hope you make it back to California,” he said. He hung up.
“I hope I make it to tomorrow,” I said to myself.
“Finished?” asked the nurse.
“I hope not,” I said, but I don’t think my words came all the way out. I faded into something between delirium and sleep, and stayed there for forty-eight hours. My dreams were great. Koko the Clown and I had a snowball fight in Cincinnati and won millions of chips for drinks at Kitty Kelly’s. Harpo and Koko danced. Chico and Al Capone had a nonsense debate, and Groucho ran for vice-president under Richard Daley. The snowball fight gave Merle G. a cold, and I had to visit her in the hospital.
I remember looking down at her and saying, “You really got yourself into one, didn’t you?”
My eyes opened and I realized the voice wasn’t mine. It was hers. I was the one in the hospital being looked at. She was the one talking.
“Hi,” she said. “My cold’s gone.”
“Great,” I said, my mouth cracked and dry. “How’s my bullet hole?”
“Coming along,” she said. “Doctor got the bullet out. He says you should be up and out in a day or two.”
“Hey, that’s great.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Everything’s great. The cops don’t want you anymore, and Nitti’s not looking for you. That’s what Ray says. He talked to the Marxes. They talked to the cops.”
“Great.”
“Great.”
Silence. In the hall a woman cried and said, “Te amore, madre.”
“You going back to L.A.?” Merle said.
“As soon as I can,” I said.
“I brought your suitcase.”
“I would have come to say goodbye,” I said. “Say, can you give me some water?”
She did and I thought.
“How’d you like to come to L.A.?” I said. “I could probably get you a job, and we-”
Her head was saying no, but she was smiling gently.
“Can’t go,” she said.
“The kid?”
“Yeah,” she said. “You never asked about her.”
“None of my business,” I said. “But I wanted to know.”
She considered telling me, looked out of the window at the falling snow, bit her lower lip, shuddered and said,
“No, maybe next time.”
“I’ll be back,” I said.
“Like hell you will,” she said and leaned over to kiss me. “Life is like a movie to you. One day you’ll get killed and won’t get another role. You’re no damn cartoon dog who comes back together after being cracked or flattened.” I tried to hold her, but I had no muscle for the effort. She pulled away.
“You’ve got the address and phone number if you feel like reality,” she said. “Take it easy.”
“I can’t,” I said.
She shrugged again.
“O.K., then, be careful,” and she was gone.
The room was just big enough for a bed, a metal closet, and a small window. I was alone, no ward. I sat up. It made me dizzy, but it didn’t hurt as much as I expected. I was bandaged tight and wearing a hospital gown. When my foot hit the floor, a guy who looked like a real goddamn doctor came in. He was tall, grey, tired, and wearing a suit. A stethoscope hung around his neck.
