Then he came over and took me by the arm and walked me out of ear shot, up against the front window of St. Hubert’s.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Drury said, edgily.
“Guzik sent for me, by way of armed messenger. I decided to go willingly-I’d already been in a shoot-out today.”
Drury shook his head. “I didn’t know you were in there, Nate-I wouldn’t want to put you on the spot. I’d have waited till you came out.”
“Thanks, but you’re the one putting yourself on the spot. You just had to bust Guzik personally, didn’t you?”
Drury grinned. “Hell, it’s no secret my pal Jake holds court at St. Hubert’s. He just didn’t think any cop would have the balls to beard him in his den.”
“You’re crazier than Ragen,” I said, shaking my head.
“We found your green truck, by the way. Over on 43rd Place and Union Avenue. It was built up with quarter-inch steel plates all ’round.”
“No wonder I never got a piece of them. Anybody seen ditching it?”
He nodded. “Witness saw two white men in white sportshirts get out of it. That’s the extent of the description. It was after dark.”
“Great.”
“Here’s something you’re going to like even less: that shotgun of yours? The one you said jammed?”
“What do you mean that I said jammed? And it wasn’t my shotgun…”
“Whoever’s it was, it’s working now. Sgt. Blaine tested it out this evening, over at the third district station. It fired first time out.”
“What? Somebody pulled a switch, Bill! That sawed-off was rigged against me.”
“Well, so is this, apparently. It’s not going to make you look good. And if the papers get wind of you meeting with Jake tonight…”
“The hell with that. Witnesses saw me charge that truck with a gun in my hand, shooting. Nobody can say I was bought off on this one.”
“People say a lot of things in Chicago.”
“People can go fuck themselves.”
He smiled sympathetically. “Where those colored witnesses are concerned, I got Two-Gun Pete on the job. He’ll come up with something. Hey-you look beat. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”
I sighed. “Not a bad idea.”
And I walked back toward the office, while Drury joined his “pal” Jake in the unmarked car. I would have loved to take Drury up on his advice, and head for my warm bed in the Morrison. Only I wasn’t ready to sleep just yet.
I still had a trip to make, over to the Northwest Side.
Had to see a man about a shotgun.
It was nearly midnight by the time I got to the Polish neighborhood near Wicker Park where Bill Tendlar’s flat was. I drove my blue ’41 Buick straight up Milwaukee, leaving the Loop behind, ending up on this narrow, dirty side street just south of Division, in the shadow of a huge, ornate Catholic church. God had it great in this neighborhood, but the residents in these sagging two-and three-story frame buildings sure as hell didn’t.
I parked behind a tipped-over trash barrel and locked up the Buick and stood on the sidewalk, the street as quiet as death, the breeze as soothing as the thought of an afterlife. But the paint-peeling dreariness of the gray three-story building before me was a puzzler. I paid my ops a good wage-there was a housing shortage, yes, but Tendlar should’ve been able to afford better than this. Not a lot better, maybe, but better.
The building was dark but for a window on the third floor, light peeking out between the sides of and cracks in the green shade. Tendlar’s room. Worn wooden steps, half-heartedly bordered by a leaning, rusted iron rail, led me to a heavy, paint-curling, unlocked door. The hall, which seemed more narrow than it was, thanks to walls painted a dirty-chocolate brown, was stuffy, and barely lit by a forty-watt bulb in a corroded copper fixture above an old wooden wall-mounted hatrack that in another part of town might’ve sold as an antique. I checked the mailboxes on the opposite wall and saw Tendlar’s name on 3-A. At the end of the hall, between twin rows of closed doors, stairs rose into darkness. That was okay. I had a rubber hose in my hand, not to mention a loaded automatic under my arm.
I went up to the third floor and another poorly lit, dreary hall, to a gray-painted door next to the metallic 3-A hammered into the nearby woodwork. I rapped once.
Lou Sapperstein let me in. He smiled tightly. He had the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, his red and blue striped tie loose around his neck. He was sweating, face beaded, loops of sweat on his shirt under his arms. His glasses had slid down some on his considerable nose.
“I was getting worried,” Lou said, quietly, stepping out into the hall, closing the door partway behind him.
“Guzik sent for me,” I said. “I had to drop by St. Hubert’s for a chat.”
“Gosh, I wish I could’ve been there; sounds like a swell way to cap off your day. What did that fat little monster want, anyway?”
I told him; told him about Drury busting Guzik, too. And about the sawed-off that had fired when the cops tested it out.
“What do you figure-they switched guns?” Lou asked.
“That, or unjammed it, then fired it. Either way, it’s an obvious attempt to make me look dirty.”
“Well, it won’t take.”
“Maybe. What’s been going on?”
Lou shrugged. “I kept it friendly for a while. I found Bill in bed. He’s got a bad cold.”
“I know. He’s been passing it around the office. But this is the first day he’s gone home sick.”
“Right. We just talked for a while. Then after I gave your girl that message, out in the hall pay phone, I came back in and had Bill sit up at his little kitchen table and have a beer with me. Then I pulled his arms behind him and handcuffed him, and he got pissed off, strangely enough. Really chewed me out, for a while there. For the last hour he’s been less indignant and more solicitous.”
“Well, let’s see what he has to say to his boss.”
“His boss,” Lou snorted. “Hell, I was working suspects over with a rubber hose when you were in diapers.”
“Maybe so, but Tendlar didn’t give you a fucked-with sawed-off and send you into battle.”
“Good point.”
We went in. Tendlar, a medium-size guy in his mid-thirties, was sitting, barefooted, in his gray and white striped pajamas on a wooden chair that Sapperstein had pulled out into the middle of the small room; he looked a little like a convict strapped in the electric chair. His hands cuffed behind him, he was otherwise in no discomfort, except psychological. His baby face was made incongruous by a heavy beard-his five o’clock shadow was midnight black at this point-and his eyes were small and dark blue. Bloodshot dark blue at the moment.
“Heller,” Tendlar said; his medium-pitched voice was hoarse from pleading with Sapperstein for several hours. “You can’t believe I’d sell you out.”
“Bill,” I said, pleasantly. “You used to be a cop. How can you expect me to trust you?”
I glanced around the small, shabby room. You could play a game of poker in here, if you didn’t invite more than five players. A cloth-covered brown couch and a cloth-covered brown (but not matching) easy chair and a couple of wobbly end tables were all the furniture in the room. Under my feet was a green Wilton carpet with about as much nap as Sapperstein’s skull. Between a closet door and a Murphy bed was an alcove archway, through which a dingy kitchenette could be seen, with the small table from which Sapperstein got the chair Tendlar was trapped in.
“You want a beer, Nate?” Sapperstein asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“He’s had three of my beers,” Tendlar said, almost pouting. “Hasn’t let me have a one. It’s warm in here.”
The room’s window was open, but the cracked green shade was drawn. He was right. It was warm in here. I took off my suitcoat. His eyes widened at the sight of the shoulder-holstered nine millimeter. Tendlar knew I didn’t carry it often.
“Sapperstein’s a hard man,” I said with mock sympathy, loosening my tie. “I don’t know how you’ve held up under this torture.”