“Large weather we’re having,” I said to the desk clerk, who nodded in agreement.
The ladies of the afternoon looked me over, gave me their best show of teeth, ankle, thigh and breast. I shrugged sadly, pointed upstairs and said, “Business.” They went back to their conversation.
I blew my nose two or three times, passed my hand in front of the clerk’s face to be sure he wasn’t blind, and waited. The fat guy came back in about five minutes and waved a ham hand at me to follow. I followed. We got on an elevator just big enough for the fat guy and me, or four normal people. I listened to him breathe hard over the clank of the box we were in. There wasn’t enough room to blow my nose.
We got out on five and went down a very narrow corridor. I knew which room we were going to. A guy in a dark suit who looked like Lon Chaney in. one of his better disguises stood in front of a door with his arms folded. He gave me a sneer, opened the door behind him, and stepped in. The fat guy stood behind me.
The room smelled like fried chicken left overnight. It probably was fried chicken. The New Michigan was full of nostalgic smells. Two men sat at a table. One had a dark mustache and was clearly a villain. All he needed was a bowl of ice cream he would eat with his fingers. The second man looked like a bartender. His jacket was off. He wore suspenders, and his dark hair was plastered down and parted almost in the middle. He had the face of a dried apple.
“I’m Nitti,” he said with a distinct Italian accent. “Talk. Three minutes and then you get out.”
I talked fast-about Chico Marx, my friendship with Snorky, the help I needed-but something was wrong. Nitti probably always showed suspicion, but his eyes narrowed to near closing. I took a chance.
“Last and not least,” I said, “a guy I met in Miami with Big Al, a guy named Leonardo Bistolfi, got chopped down in my hotel room this morning when I was out.”
Nitti eased back. His eyes opened a bit.
“It’s good you told about Leonardo,” he said. “We knew. We still got a few people who tell us things like that.”
He looked about as friendly as he probably could look, so I pushed on.
“The cops think maybe you did it,” I said, shaking my head as if the very idea was absurd.
Nitti’s hands balled into fists and turned from red to white.
“We didn’t do it. We don’t know who did. We ain’t gonna be happy when we find out. Things ain’t like when Big Al was here, or Torrio. Johnny kept-” The bad guy with the mustache moved a little and Nitti saw. He cut off his conversation.
“You had your three minutes,” said Nitti. “Find your way out.”
“But what about help? What about finding Gino?” I said.
Nitti pointed his finger at me and started to get up. The villain with the mustache muttered a calming “Frank,” and Nitti sat back and spoke.
“Gino says Marx owes $120,000. He owes it. Big Al asks me to help. I help. Marx has a week to deliver. Understand? I don’t like this Chico Marx. Little Jew making fun of Italians. He owes. He pays. Get out. I got other problems.”
I was going to say something, but the villain with the mustache turned toward me and shook his head no. I looked at the short fat guy, Lon Chaney, and Nitti, and went.
The fat guy and I went down in the elevator.
“How’s Big Al?” he said.
“Nuttier than a fruitcake,” I said.
“Yeah,” said the fat guy.
Raymond Narducy peered at me over his glasses when I got back into the car.
“You did all right,” he said. “You came back with your hair still on.”
I let out a King Kong of a sneeze and sat trying to think of what to do next.
“I’m looking for a guy named Gino,” I said. “Might be in a place called Cicero. He’s got something to do with gambling. Any ideas?”
“Maybe,” Narducy mumbled through his scarf. “There’s a bar on Wabash, Kitty Kelly’s. Guys go there. Drifters, small timers, some cops and robbers. They got a couple of 21 tables. Used to bet money. Now it’s for drinks. A woman who lives in my building works there. Name’s Merle Gordon. She might be able to give you a lead.”
“Thanks,” I said. We headed up west on Twenty-second and I did some nasal talking. “I’m a private investigator, not a cop, but you had the rest right. A guy got knocked off in my hotel room. The cops were talking to me about it just before I got in your cab.”
Narducy’s eyes danced behind his glasses. I went on.
“I’m working for the Marx Brothers. Chico got in some trouble with the mob and-”
“A diabolical concatenation of circumstances,” Narducy cried.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s from a mystery story. I said it because I just heard on the radio that Chico Marx is in a hospital in Los Vegas.”
I slumped back, imagining a fingerless Chico Marx. I’m sure I shuddered, but I wasn’t sure whether it was from the cold or my imagination.
“I need ten bucks in change and a telephone,” I said.
“Right,” said Narducy taking a sudden left. He pulled up to a drug store, yanked a leather pouch from under his seat and opened it. It was full of change. He counted out ten bucks. We made the exchange and I ran in the store. There was a wooden phone booth in the back and it was empty.
It took me two minutes to get information and ask for any Las Vegas radio station. I got the station and asked for the newsroom. The news room turned out to be one man named Almendarez. Almendarez had a nice deep voice. Almendarez told me what hospital Marx was in when I told him I was doing a book on the Marx Brothers and would certainly mention his crucial role in it. My pile of coins was going down, but I had enough left to do plenty. I got the Las Vegas information operator and asked for the right hospital. At the hospital, I said I was Leonard Marx’s brother Herbert and that I wanted to talk to my brother.
“Just get his room or whoever is there,” I said. “Tell them it’s Gummo.”
The nurse was undecided, but I said, “Please hurry” and coughed a real cough. She put me through.
Someone picked up the phone, and the nurse said the caller was Gummo Marx and should she put it through. The person on the other end said, “Yes” and it was my turn.
“Hello,” I said.
“If you’re Gummo,” replied the familiar voice of Groucho Marx, “then I’m Andy Hardy. On second thought maybe you’re Andy Hardy and I’m Gummo. Whoever you are put the phone down and take a cold bath. I know it does wonders for my dog or my son Arthur. I can’t remember which.”
I knew he was going to hang up so I shouted, “Wait. My name’s Peters. I’m a private detective. Your brother Chico knows me. If he could talk-”
“If he could talk?” chuckled Groucho. “Diamond Jim Marx won’t stop talking.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece and I could hear him saying something. Then another voice came through. It was Chico Marx. I had spoken to him before, but each time I was thrown off by the accent he didn’t have. It was so much a part of what I thought Chico Marx was, that I had trouble believing this man with a slight lower East Side accent was the same comic Italian.
“Yeah Peters. What’s up?”
“What did they do to you?”
“They? Who?”
“You’re in the hospital.”
“Nobody did anything to me. I had a heart attack.”
“You don’t sound like it.”
“It wasn’t a real heart attack. I’m losing more than I make working in Las Vegas. I checked in here to resist temptation and avoid a few people. Grouch and Harp heard on the radio I was sick and flew here. Harp and me are playing pinochle. I’m losing, but slower than at the tables. Where are you? What did you find out?”
“I’m in Chicago.”
“We used to live there. You hear that?” he said to his brothers. “He’s in Chicago.”
“You stay in that hospital, Chico,” I said, dropping another six nickels in the slot to keep from getting cut off
