The male secretary, seeing me, motioned toward a wall where all the chairs were already taken.
I said, "I'm Heller."
The secretary looked up from his paper work as if goosed, then pointed to a door to his right; I went in.
It was an anteroom, smaller than the previous one, but filled with aldermen, ward heelers, bail bondsmen, even a few ranking cops including my lieutenant, who when he saw me motioned and whispered, "Get in there."
I went in. There were four reporters in chairs in front of the commissioner's desk; the room was gray, trimmed in dark wood: the commissioner was gray. Hair, eyes, complexion, suit; his tie was blue, however.
He was referring to daily reports on his desk, and some Teletype tape, but what the subject was I couldn't say, because when he saw me, the commissioner stopped in midsentence.
"Gentlemen," he said to the reporters, their backs to me, none yet noticing my presence. "I'm going to have to cut this short… My Board of Strategy is about to convene."
The Board of Strategy was a "kitchen cabinet" made up of police personnel who gathered in advisory session. I wasn't it, though I had a feeling the commissioner and I were about to convene.
Shrugging, the reporters got up. The first one who turned toward me was Davis, with the News, who'd talked to me more than once on the Lingle case.
"Well," he grinned, "it's the hero." He was a short guy with a head too big for his body. He wore a brown suit and a gray hat that didn't go together and he didn't give a shit. "When you going to brag to the press, Heller?"
"I'm waiting for Ben Hecht to come back to Chicago," I said. "It's been downhill for local journalism ever since he left."
Davis smirked; the others didn't know me by sight, but Davis saying my name had clued them in. But then when Davis wandered out without pursuing it, they followed. I had a feeling they'd be waiting for me when I left, though; Davis, anyway.
I stood in front of the commissioner's desk. He didn't rise. He did smile, though, and gestured toward one of the four vacated chairs; his smile was like plaster cracking.
"We're proud of you, Officer Heller," he said. "His Honor and I. The department. The city."
"Swell." I put my badge on his desk.
He ignored it. "You will receive an official commendation; there will be a ceremony at His Honor's office tomorrow morning. Can you attend?"
"I got nothing planned."
He smiled some more; it was a smile that had nothing to do with pleasure or happiness or even courtesy. He folded his hands on the desk and it was like he was praying and strangling something simultaneously.
"Now," he said slowly, carefully, looking at the badge on his desk out of the corner of an eye. "What's this nonsense about you… leaving us."
"I'm not leaving," I said. "I'm quitting."
"That is quite ridiculous. You're a hero, Officer Heller. The department is granting you and Sergeants
Lang and Miller extra compensation for meritorious service. The city council, today, voted you three the city's thanks as heroes. The mayor has hailed you publicly for helping score a major victory in the war on crime."
"Yeah, it was a great show, all right. But two things flicked it up."
He squirmed visibly at having the word "fuck" said in his office, and by a subordinate; this was 1932 and school children weren't using the word at the dinner table yet. so it still had mild shock value.
"Which are?" he said, struggling for dignity'.
"First, I killed somebody, and I wasn't planning to kill anybody yesterday afternoon. Let alone a kid. Nobody seems too concerned about him. though. Nitti's boys say he has no relatives in the city. Claim he's from the old country, an orphan. But that's all they claim: they aren't claiming the body. That goes into potter's field. Just another punk. Only I put him there. And I don't like it."
The smile was gone now: a straight line took its place, a pursed straight line. "I understand." the commissioner said, "you weren't so self-righteous one other time."
"That's right. I helped cover something up, and it got me some money and a promotion. I'm from Chicago, all right. But awhile back I decided there's a line I don't go over anymore. And Miller and Lang forced me over that line yesterday."
"You said two things."
'What?
"You said two things got… gummed up. What's the second?"
"Oh." I smiled. "Nitti. We went up there to kill him yesterday. I didn't know that, but that's what we were up there for. And he fooled all of us. He didn't die. He's in the hospital right now. and it's beginning to look like he's going to pull through."
Nitti had been taken to the hospital at Bridewell Prison, but his father-in-law. Dr. Gaetano Ronga, had him transferred to Jefferson Park Hospital, where Ronga was a staff physician. Ronga had already issued statements to the effect that Nitti would live, barring unforeseen complications.
The commissioner stood: he wasn't very tall. "Your allegations are unfounded. The address at the Wacker-LaSalle Building was believed to be the headquarters for the old Capone gang, now under Frank Nitti's leadership."
"It was a handbook and wire room."
"An illegal gambling den. yes, and in the course of your raid. Frank Nitti pulled a gun."
I shrugged Got myself up. "That's the story," I said.
"Keep that in mind," the commissioner said There was a tremor in his voice; anger? Fear.
'I will." I said.
I turned and headed out.
"You've forgotten something."
I glanced back; the commissioner was pointing to my badge, where I'd laid it on his desk.
"No I didn't," I said and left.
"So what's bothering you?" Barney said. "Killing some innocent kid?"
I sipped at my third beer. "Who's to say he was innocent? That isn't the point. Look. I held on to this goddamn thing"- I patted under my arm, where the automatic was- "because my father blew his brains out with it. Anytime I take it out of its harness, somewhere in my brain I keep the thought of that. So that I won't take using it lightly. Only I did use it, didn't I?"
"Yeah." He patted my drinking ami. "But you ain't takin' it lightly."
I found a smile. "I guess not."
"So where do you go from here?"
"To all one rooms of my apartment. Where else?"
"No, I mean, what kind of trade you gonna take up?"
"I only got one trade. Cop. For what it's worth."
We'd talked about it plenty of times. Barney and me. That one day I'd quit the department and open my own agency. I'd talked about it with my friend Eliot, too; he'd encouraged me to do it. said he'd help line some business up. But it had always been a pipe dream.
Barney stood up and got a funny little smile going, a little kid smile, and motioned with a curling forefinger. "Come with me," he said.
I just sat there with half a beer in my hand, giving him a "what the______" look.
He grabbed me by the coat sleeve and tugged till I got up and followed him, back through the deli and out onto the street, where the snow had stopped and the city had got quiet, for a change. There was a door between the blind pig and the pawnshop next door. Barney searched for keys, found some, and unlocked the door. I followed him up a flight of narrow stairs to a landing, and then did that two more times, and we were on the fourth floor of his building, which ran mostly to small businesses, import/ export, a few low-rent doctors and lawyers and one dentist. Nothing fancy, certainly. Wood floors, glass-and-wood office walls, pebbled glass doors.
At the end of the hall the floor dead-ended in an office that bore no name. Barney fished for keys again and opened the door.