Cowley said nothing; his face looked like it was made out of gray putty.
“Don’t stir up the heat, that’s Nitti’s motto. He learned the lesson early on that Capone learned too late — he learned how nervous the public gets when you go around having massacres on Saint Valentine’s Day. So let a would-be presidential assassin ‘miss’ and shoot ‘Ten Percent’ Tony Cermak instead. So let Melvin Purvis, G-man, courageously blow off John Dillinger’s head and make the kind of headlines the public’ll eat up.”
“You’ve made your point.”
“Not to mention how Dillinger’s outlaw cronies might react to one of their own being murdered by the mob; who needs a bloody shooting war breaking out with the likes of Baby Face Nelson and the Barker boys? That’s a battle Nitti could obviously win, but at a high cost — lives of his men, bad publicity — why bother risking it?”
“Enough, Heller.”
“Face it, Cowley. You’re being used.”
“Stop it.”
“Well, actually, it’s Purvis they’re using. He’s dependable. After all, Capone and Nitti used him to put Roger Touhy in Joliet, already.”
“Touhy was guilty.”
“Of a lot of things, but not the kidnapping you guys prosecuted him for.”
“I disagree.”
“It’s a free country, Cowley. You’re like the rest of us — operating of your own free will. It’s not like you’re a puppet or anything.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I know. But the way the Syndicate manipulates you feds is pretty funny. Do you really think Jelly Nash was ‘accidentally’ shot at the Kansas City Massacre? Sure — him and Mayor Cermak. Innocent victims.”
“You’re full of crap on a lot of this, Heller. You really are.”
“Maybe. But not on Dillinger. I’m on the money, there.”
Cowley’s coffee cup was empty; he held it by the china handle and tapped it nervously on the table. “Maybe you are. But it doesn’t make any difference.”
“It doesn’t?”
Cowley shook his head slowly. “Dillinger is public enemy number one. He has to be stopped. And where the information comes from that helps us stop him — whoever it is behind the scenes helping us get him — doesn’t matter. What matters, when you’re going after someone like Dillinger, is getting him. Nothing else.”
“I see. You don’t mind owing a debt of gratitude to Frank Nitti.”
“I don’t know that I do.”
“You heard what I said...”
Cowley grimaced. “Yes, and it makes a lot of sense. It just might be true. But it doesn’t matter.”
“Because Dillinger has caused your Division of Investigation so much grief, given you so much embarrassment, that you have to get him, whatever it costs.”
Cowley, with sadness in his eyes, said, “That’s exactly right.”
That’s when I decided not to give him Jimmy Lawrence’s address. That’s when I decided not to play, anymore. To do what Nitti wanted me to. To do what the East Chicago boys wanted me to. Stay home. Stay in bed.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Cowley said. He rose. “I’ll find my way out.”
He went out into the living room but then, suddenly, he was back in the doorway. With a small smile as inscrutable as a Chinaman’s, he said, “You just may be surprised how this turns out.”
“Why’s that, Cowley?”
“Purvis won’t be alone. I’ll be there, too, when we get Dillinger. And I’m not trigger-happy. And I’m also not inclined to keep deals with crooked cops who insist on me shooting the man they finger for me.
I smiled. It hurt. “You think you can take Dillinger alive?”
“I’m going to try. If Frank Nitti wants him dead, then Mr. Dillinger’s a man who may have some things I’d like to hear.”
He tipped his hat and was gone.
I wondered if I should have given him Lawrence’s address after all. Why bother? I’d been paid one hundred dollars by Frank Nitti to go to bed; and two East Chicago cops had given me some rubber-hose incentive to do just that. Cowley was on his way to meet with Anna Sage. She could tell him Lawrence’s address. She could get her blood money, and her free pass with the immigration department. Let her do it.
I had other things to do.
Like hurt.
16
I opened my eyes, one at a time. Sun was filtering in through sheer curtains. I was under the covers in Sally Rand’s bed in her air-cooled apartment; Sally was on top of the covers next to me, in white lounging pajamas, a pillow propped behind her as she smoked and read a magazine. Vanity Fair. This was, if memory served, Sunday; and she didn’t do a matinee on Sunday; local bluenoses wouldn’t let her get away with it.
I sat up in bed, slowly.
“Good morning,” Sally said, with a sideways glance and a wry little smile.
“Is that what it is? Morning, I mean?”
“For the next few minutes.”
“It’s almost noon?”
“Almost noon. How do you feel?”
“Different than yesterday.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Today my head hurts too.”
Her smile was a smart-aleck curve. “You shouldn’t have drunk all that rum last night.”
“It was your idea.”
“No, it wasn’t. You sent me out for it.”
“I did?”
“Yes — I merely suggested alcohol as an anesthetic. And you were too fussy to settle for something civilized, like gin. You made me go out and get rum.”
“I’m a sick boy. I deserve to be pampered.”
“And you deserve that hangover, too.” She put the cigarette out in the tray on her nightstand, flopped the magazine on her lap. “How else do you feel?”
I rotated my shoulders; lifted my legs. “About the same. Maybe a little better.”
She threw back the sheets.
“Well,” she said, “you seem to be changing color. For what it’s worth.”
The black-and-blue splotches on my legs had turned purple, with patches of yellow spreading within them. My skin looked like a suit in poor taste.
“Why don’t you go take a shower?” she said. “I’ll get some brunch going...”
I took her advice; cold first, then hot. I did feel better. I still ached, but it didn’t hurt just to breathe. Except for my head. Maybe that was it — maybe the hangover was distraction enough to make me forget the other aches. I got out of the shower and toweled off — and it didn’t hurt any worse than having somebody tear off one of my fingernails — and found a little can of tooth powder on the counter by the sink with a brand-new toothbrush. Brushing my teeth made me feel vaguely human again, and I wrapped a fresh towel around my middle and plodded back into the bedroom.
The new suit I’d bought with Nitti’s money was laid out there for me; also a shirt I’d bought, a hat, and socks and underwear, not new, but clean. I hadn’t brought any of this with me, so it looked like my friends had been taking care of me. I got into the underwear and pants and shirt and went to the kitchen, where she was making brunch. Scrambled eggs again, or actually an omelet with some diced vegetables and cheese. It reminded me a little of the side dish at Pete’s Steaks and I felt my stomach go queasy. But then I was all right, and I wouldn’t have said anything to her even if I wasn’t.
I took a seat at the table and she glanced over with a maternal smile. “Barney brought some of your things over,” she said.
“I don’t have many friends,” I said, “but I got the right friends.”