For an ex-prohibition agent-an understated way of describing him indeed-Eliot Ness could really put the beer away. He would have preferred scotch, just as I would have preferred rum. But there was a war on.
“She really brought the house down,” Eliot said, latest beer in hand.
“She always does.”
“How long’s it been since she played Chicago?”
“Last time I know of was in ’41. She may have played here while I was away, though.”
“Probably not,” he said, taking a sip. “The billing said, ‘Triumphant Return’-that sounds like it’s been a while. You’d think she could play Chicago any time she wanted.”
“She could,” I said, “if she was willing to play the burlesque houses. But she only plays nightclubs and other classy…what is the word she uses? Venues.”
“Ha. Uh, how well do you know her, anyway?”
“Not well, anymore. I haven’t talked to her in years.”
“You knew her well once?”
“I knew a lot of women once. Damn few twice.”
He smiled. “You always feel sorry for yourself when you drink.”
I smiled. “Fuck you.”
A young lady at the table next to us spilled her wine; her older beau glared at me. Both were in evening dress. Both should have been less easily shocked for people who’d bribed a maitre d’ for the front-row seat at a strip show.
Eliot said, “You’re going to have to watch that mouth.”
“Out with soap?” I drank my beer. “Yeah, I know. I’m not fit for the real world, yet. Could you do me a favor?”
“Try to.”
“I’d like to track down a service buddy of mine.”
He shrugged. “Shouldn’t be any problem. In my capacity, I work hand in hand with the military brass, every day.”
“You mean, as the guy safeguarding the health and morals of the armed forces.”
“That’s morale, but yes. I’m well connected.”
“You should’ve shown some of your movies to Capone.”
Eliot smirked. “Al and I are fighting syphilis each in his own way.”
The young lady spilled her wine again; I waved and smiled as her beau glared.
“Of course,” he said, “if your friend is still overseas, it could take a while to track him.”
“He should be stateside by now. He was pretty badly wounded. He was one of the guys in that shell hole with Barney and me.”
His eyes narrowed. “Oh. You figure he was hospitalized over here.”
“Yeah. He might even be out by now. The kind of wound I had, they keep you inside longer.”
“What’s his name?”
“D’Angelo. B Company, 2nd Battalion, 8th Regiment, 2nd Marine Division.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He dug inside his suitcoat and came back with a little notebook and a pen. He had me repeat the information.
“What’s his first name?”
“Anthony, I think.”
“You think?”
“We weren’t much on first names.”
He put the notebook and pen away, smiled tightly. “Get right on it, first thing tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in the office.”
“This sounds pressing.”
“It is. Somebody else will be looking for him, and I want to get there first.”
Eliot thought about that for a moment, then smiled again and said, “It’s your business. You asked a favor, and it’s yours, no questions asked. I don’t expect an explanation.”
“I know you don’t. And I’m not going to give you one, either.”
He laughed and finished the beer. Waved at a waitress, cute as candy in her skimpy black and white lacy outfit, who came over and brought him a new bottle. Manhattan brand; the Capone mob’s label, forced upon the local niteries by union pressure. I was still working on my previous bottle of Nitti nectar.
“This afternoon sounds like it was pretty rough,” he said, pouring the bottle’s contents into his glass, meaning Estelle.
“Rough enough. That’s something else you could do for me.”
“Oh?”
“Keep me posted, Eliot. Now that Estelle’s been murdered, the shit’s gonna hit the federal fan.”
The young lady got up and threw her napkin down and the beau went rushing after her.
“You mean, specifically,” he said, “you’re interested in how this event affects Nicky Dean and his willingness to testify.”
“Precisely, my dear Watson. And my prediction is he zips his lip.”
“Do you agree with Drury that it’s a mob hit, or not?”
“Why, did Drury fill you in on his views?”
Eliot nodded.
I said, “It could well be. But it sure isn’t Nitti’s style.”
He nodded again. “I tend to agree. On the other hand, a million dollars is a lot of money.”
“So you know about that? The Stagehands ‘income-tax’ fund.”
“Yes. And that’s a conservative estimate. I’ve heard as high as two million, and the most frequent figure is one point five mil.”
“Your point being?”
He lifted his eyebrows and set them back down. “A torture killing is hardly Nitti’s style, granted. Estelle Carey was enough of a celebrity in this town to guarantee her murder attracting headlines. Knowing that, Nitti would seem more likely either to have arranged an ‘accident’ or at the very least brought in out-of-town torpedoes to neatly do the deed. Estelle was running with Eddie McGrath, you know.”
“No, I didn’t. And who the hell is Eddie McGrath?”
“A New York crumb. Very high ranking in the Joe Adonis/Frank Costello circle. She’d been seeing him down in Miami Beach.”
“In other words, if Nitti wanted her dead, he could bring in out-of-town talent and the blame easily be placed on New York.”
“Right. He’s done it before.”
“E. J. O’Hare,” I said. “Tommy Maloy.”
“Certainly. And others. So I agree that using what appears to be local talent on a torture killing doesn’t fit Nitti’s pattern. But there are rumors, Nate, that Nitti’s slipping.”
“Nitti slipping? How?”
He shrugged. “Mentally. Physically. Some say Ricca’s more powerful than Nitti, now. Or anyway coming up fast. You yourself mentioned Accardo and Giancana, so you had to have noticed it starting even before you left town, last year.”
I shook my head no. “I don’t buy it. Nitti slipping? No way. Never.”
“He’s not a god, Nate. Or some kind of satan, either. He’s a crafty, intelligent, amoral human being. But he is a human being. His wife Anna died a year and a half ago, you know.”
“I did see that in the papers…”
He gestured with two open hands. “He was devoted to her. His family is all to him, they say.”
I remembered him showing me the photo of his little boy.
“He’s had some financial setbacks,” Eliot went on. “He’s got this federal grand jury breathing down his neck, and the income-tax boys are after him again. He’s been in and out of the hospital for his ulcers and back pain. It’s closing in on him.”
“And this, you think, might lead to him condoning what happened to Estelle Carey today?”
“Possibly. That money she supposedly had hidden away for Dean was something Nitti might well have instructed his killers to find out the whereabouts of, by whatever means necessary, before finishing the job. A million bucks, Nate! Or possibly even two. Sure it’s possible.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t want to think so.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not stupid. But I think you, well… Nate, you look up to the guy, somehow. Admire him.”
“Bullshit.”
“You just can’t remember when this wasn’t his town. You just can’t accept change.”