You Bet Your Life

straight.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Your funeral, California,” he grinned.

Tashlin came back on the line.

“Got it,” he said anxious to please. “Kid named Canetta, Carl ‘Bitter’ Canetta. Small time record in Chicago, Atlanta, Miami, Jacksonville. Said some guy tried to hype his suitcase. Ran off with it. A woman with a kid backed him up. You want her name?”

“No thanks,” I said, smiling at Kleinhans. “You have an address for our friend, someplace I can reach him?”

“Canetta?”

“Right.”

“Fourteen ten Ainslie in Chicago, but that’s old. Said he was living at the Y in Indianapolis, but hadn’t checked in yet.”

“Thanks,” I said. I hung up.

“Got what you want?” said Kleinhans.

“Not as much as I wanted,” I said, looking at the address on the piece of blotter.

“Better stay away from your room for a few hours. I don’t think they’ll need to lock it up. There won’t be any prints worth looking for. The homicide and coroner’s crew give up easy on these, shove them under-grab the first guy handy or give it up. The papers don’t even care much anymore.”

“You can do something for me,” I said.

“My goal in life,” he answered.

“See if you have a recent address for a small timer named Carl Canetta.”

“I’ll check,” he said, yawning.

I told him that was comforting, blew my nose, promised to call, and stepped out of the office. I wondered if that new medicine Leonardo had told me they were using on Capone was any good for a cold. I stopped in the toilet, stole a roll of paper for my nose, chewed my last Bromo tablet, and went out on State Street looking for a cab to take me to Frank Nitti.

3

The cab driver’s name was Raymond Narducy, according to the name plate and picture. He was a little guy with glasses and a wooly blue scarf over most of his face. The heater in the cab wasn’t working.

We headed south on the red bricks at State Street past dark-windowed bars and sprawling auto parts shops crushing two-story frame houses between them. In the window of one of the houses I spotted a little kid with her face pressed into, and distorted by, a cold glass pane.

“That’s Colisimo’s,” Narducy said through his scarf. I looked. There was a sign saying Colisimo’s. Without Narducy’s warning I would have missed it. It was a three-floor brick building, nothing special.

“Big Jim Colisimo used to be the boss around here,” Narducy said. “Johnny Torrio gunned him and took over. Then he gave it all to Big Al. Big Al died in Alcatraz.”

“That a fact?” I said. “Why you telling me? I look like a historian?”

“Naw,” said Narducy, making a left turn on Twenty-second Street. “You look like a cop. Wanna know how I knew you were a cop?”

“Yeah.”

“One,” he said, holding up a holey glove and extending a finger, “you came out of the police station. Now you could have been a criminal, but with that new coat and hat, if you were a criminal, you’d have a car. If you were a lawyer you’d have a car. If you were a bail bondsman, I’d know you. You look too tough to be a victim. You want more?”

“Sure,” I said. He had pulled to a stop on the curb across from the place I was looking for, the New Michigan Hotel.

“Two,” said Narducy, holding up a second finger, “you aren’t a local cop. A local cop would have a car, too. Wouldn’t take a cab. You’re on an expense account of some kind. I saw you write something down in that little notebook. Three, you’re from someplace warm-California. You’re wearing a lightweight summer pants. Couldn’t be Florida because you don’t sound it. I know accents. For instance, you can always tell Canadians. They say aboot for about. I study human nature. Shit, I got nothing else to do except freeze and read detective stories. So,” he said, holding up his whole hand, “I put all this together about you and with a few guesses, and the fact that you wanted to go to the New Michigan where I’ve delivered some unsavory ones, I come up with the following: You’re a California cop tracking down some guy. You asked the Chicago cops for help and they didn’t give you much so you’re on your own.”

“That gets you a quarter tip, Philo, and if you want to sit here with the meter off, I’ll be back out in a little while.”

“Suits me just plumb to death,” he said in a fake Western accent. “You don’t come out in an hour you want me to call the sheriff to send in a posse?”

“No,” I said. “It’d be too late. By the way-Capone ain’t dead. He’s alive and not very well in Miami.”

“I never claimed to be good on facts,” said Narducy, looking at me in the mirror over his glasses. “It’s deduction that’s my forte.”

“Goodbye,” I said, turning to cross the street.

“Around here it’s arrivederci,” replied Narducy, wrapping his arms around himself and slouching for warmth.

The lobby of the hotel didn’t look big time. Like the neighborhood, it had dropped from what had once apparently been near-respectability. It was almost noon. A couple of well-upholstered painted ladies sat on stuffed chairs. It was too early and too cold to go out and work. The hotel lobby had the musty smell of mildewed carpet. It was still a few years from being an out-and-out dive, but it was clearly a losing battle. As I walked to the desk, I spotted a mean looking guy shaped like an egg giving me the eye. He was sitting, but by the time I reached the desk he had put down his comic book and was heading toward me.

The dark young desk clerk sat with his chin in his hands and his elbows on the counter. He wore a suit, a tie, a cut on his chin from shaving, and the look of someone who had taken something to keep as much distance as possible between what he saw in his head and what his eyes told him was out there.

“I want to get a message to Frank Nitti,” I whispered to the clerk. The tough looking little fat guy listened. The clerk heard my voice from somewhere and looked in my general direction, trying to focus. He was probably the day talent. It didn’t look like many people checked into the New Michigan during the day.

“What makes you think Mr. Nitti’s here?” The fat little guy’s voice was the croak of a frog through a tunnel of sandpaper.

I looked at the desk clerk who was just turning toward the gravel voice. I knew when I spoke he’d start to turn back to me and he’d forever be a beat behind whoever was talking. He must have felt like someone watching a movie out of sync. From the gentle grin, I gathered he liked it that way.

“A cop told me,” I said, still looking at the desk clerk. The fat guy cut the distance between us to almost nothing and breathed garlic up at me. He must have been eating the stuff for breakfast.

“I’ve got a message for Nitti from Big Al,” I said, fascinated by the desk clerk’s underwater movement. “I got in from Miami last night.”

“Who are you?” he croaked.

“My name’s Peters, Toby Peters. Big Al said Nitti would help me with something. Said he was a good guy.”

From the corner of my eye I could see the fat face nod in agreement about Nitti being a good guy. From what I knew about Nitti, he had been Capone’s enforcer, the top killer. With Capone gone, he might be on top instead of Ralph Capone or Guzik. I didn’t know. I thought I’d ask Kleinhans the next time I saw him.

“Wait here,” said the fat man. He walked away and around a corner.