“Dago Mangano’s lucky he’s dead,” I said, “or you’d have a warrant out on him, too.”
“I considered it,” Drury said, arching an eyebrow.
“Those guys are just going to love getting hauled in for questioning.”
“Not as much as I’m going to love questioning ’em.”
Bill hated the Outfit boys. It had started back in the early thirties, when he first came on the job; unlike most cops in Chicago, Drury had pulled no political strings to get on the force-no Outfit-beholden ward committeeman, alderman or judge had played a role in his appointment. He’d made it by scoring record high marks on the police entrance exams; and his reputation as a Golden Gloves boxer hadn’t hurt, either. Also, his brother John was a reporter on the Daily News-and the department courted good publicity. So Bill had been allowed on.
Naively, Bill had in his early days treated some of the town’s top Outfit guys like gangsters; imagine. Whenever he met ’em, even if they were dining with their wives and kids, he would make them assume the position against the nearest wall and pat them down like common criminals (as opposed to uncommon criminals). Those Outfit guys began to wonder what they were paying good money to Bill’s superiors for, and soon Bill was forbidden to leave the station house on his tour of duty.
So he’d made a crusade out of it. On his off-duty hours he would stroll Rush Street and Division and various Loop thoroughfares. The time he rousted Guzik himself just outside Marshall Field’s on State Street at high noon, before a jeering crowd, was the capper: Guzik had blown a gasket, screaming, cursing, as Drury coolly frisked him, saying: “Two more words out of you, Jake, and I’ll put the cuffs on you. Two more sentences and I’ll call the Black Maria and get you fitted for a straitjacket.”
Shortly after, Guzik headed for the county building and soon a judge had placed Drury under a peace bond, to prevent future molestation of good citizen Greasy Thumb.
Ever since, Bill had had a hard-on where the Outfit was concerned, in general, and where Guzik was concerned, in particular.
“Did you see who did it, Nate?”
“They were just shapes behind shotguns. Wearing white shirts. Sportshirts, I think-I remember seeing their bare arms holding the shotguns. Aren’t you glad a trained detective was on the scene to pick up on all these details?”
Drury smiled faintly. “I’ve sent a colored cop down to question the eye witnesses.”
“Good idea. Who?”
“Two-Gun Pete.”
“Christ, he won’t question ’em, he’ll kill ’em.”
Drury laughed shortly. “Well, they won’t hide any information from him, that’s for sure. We’re going to nail Guzik’s hide on this one, Nate. I can feel it. I can smell it.”
“That’s disinfectant, Bill.”
“If that tough little bastard pulls through in there,” Drury said, grinning, nodding back at the double doors, “we’ll have Guzik cold.”
“Why, you think Jim’ll cooperate with you?”
“Sure as hell do. He already gave the State’s Attorney’s office a detailed statement.”
“The hell you say-when the fuck was this?”
Drury shrugged. “Last May. Or late April. Right after that car chased him to the Morgan Park police station.”
“He never said a word about it to me! What’s in this statement?”
“Quite a bit. It runs almost a hundred pages in transcript. It’s mostly about Capone.”
“Capone! Capone is ancient history. Capone has the mind of a twelve-year-old kid-and the twelve-year-old kid wants it back.”
“Well, frankly, very little of the statement is anything that can be used. He talks a lot about the ‘Capone mob.’ Not quite naming names. It mostly indicates how pissed off Ragen was that they made an attempt to hit him.”
“In other words, it was a message he was sending to the Outfit. That if they tried it again, he’d really talk.”
Drury nodded. “That’s about how I see it. He gave the statement to State’s Attorney Crowley, after all.”
“Ha. Was he ever sending ’em a message. Jesus.”
Crowley was a close personal pal of George Brieber, Guzik’s attorney.
“He warned ’em not to try it again,” Drury said, matter of factly, “but they tried it again, anyway, didn’t they? And failed.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Jim was shot up pretty bad.”
“You said it was his arm, mostly.”
“His chest was bleeding, too. Don’t forget, he’s not a kid, either.”
The surgery’s double doors swung open and a doctor in a blood-spotted smock appeared; he lowered his mask like a bandit surrendering and said, “Which of you gentlemen represents Mr. Ragen’s family?”
“I guess I do,” I said. “I’m in his employ. I called his wife- she’ll be here soon, if she’s not downstairs already.”
The doctor sighed. He was obviously tired. He said, “We haven’t done much yet, except stop the bleeding. He’s had several transfusions already, and we’re just getting started. He may lose that arm. And his collarbone is shattered. He’ll be crippled for life. No doubt of that.”
“But he will live, doctor?” Drury asked.
“These are nasty wounds, gentlemen,” the doctor said.
“But there’s no foreseeable reason why they should prove fatal.”
The doctor excused himself and moved down the corridor, disappearing around a corner.
Drury looked at me, grinning.
“Your concern for Ragen’s health has me all choked up,” I said.
Drury was laughing softly.
“Now the fun begins,” he said.
Ragen was in surgery for over two hours. Drury left early on, but said he’d be sending up several more boys in blue to help stand guard-and he’d do his best to hand pick ’em. I sent Walt home and kept watch myself. A little after eight-thirty, Drury’s extra cops showed up; he’d actually told the trio to check in with me for deployment. That meant finding places for them to stand. I kept two of them with me at the double doors, and sent the other one outside, to maintain a patrol, particularly the side alleys.
Not long after that I was approached by the hospital’s medical director, Dr. Herman Siskin, a well-fed middle-aged doctor with salt-and-pepper hair and matching mustache. He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit and shades-of-blue striped silk tie-no hospital whites for this boy.
“Mr. Heller,” he said, offering his hand, which I shook. “I understand you’re in charge of Mr. Ragen’s security.”
“That’s right.”
“The facts are these. Mr. Ragen’s wounds are extensive. He’s had five blood transfusions thus far, and penicillin has been administered. Whether or not his right arm can be saved, we don’t yet know. His age, the loss of blood, and the resultant shock condition…well, let’s just say he’s not in for a short stay here at Michael Reese.”
“I see.”
“We have a private room ready for Mr. Ragen,” he said, pointing down the hallway, “and we’re prepared to accommodate his and your needs.”
“Thanks. But let’s start by getting him on a higher floor than the second.”
“Why’s that?”
“You can throw a bomb through a second-floor window.”
That opened his eyes. “Perhaps he’d be better off outside the main building.” Then, as if to assure us both his concern wasn’t for his facility, he added, “Somewhere not as easily accessible to the general public.”
“How about a private wing, where we could maintain tighter security?”
He nodded down the hallway to the left. “I’d suggest the Meyer House-which a patient of Mr. Ragen’s means might prefer, anyway. It’s connected by an enclosed walkway between buildings. You’d have a stairway and an elevator to watch-and the connecting corridor. That’s all.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s have a look.”
Drury’s coppers stayed on duty and I let Dr. Siskin walk me down the hall, through an archway into the connecting corridor to the Meyer House, where we took the elevator to the third floor. Siskin led me down a well-lit, vaulted corridor and showed me to a spacious, warmly appointed room-maple furnishings, a lounge chair upholstered in flowery chintz, wall mounted electric fan, writing desk, chest of drawers, private bath with tub; it was fancy enough to make you sick, or anyway wish you were sick. From the window I saw a wrought-iron-fence-enclosed lawn, beyond which was Lake Park Avenue and the I.C. tracks. It seemed okay, from a security standpoint. The only drawback was a standing fire escape down the hall on the south end wall, maybe thirty feet from Ragen’s door.