"You think you're pretty funny."
"No, I think you're pretty fanny. Now excuse me." I put my suitcoat on. and my hat, slung my topcoat over my arm, ready to leave; he held a palm out, in a stop gesture- but he didn't touch me.
"Look," he said. "Maybe we should get off each other's backs. We're in this together, right?"
I said, "Three peas in a pod, that's us. At the trial. But till then, keep your fucking distance, okay?"
He shrugged, almost embarrassed. "Okay," he said.
Eliot was in a booth in the sandwich shop, sipping coffee; he gave me a weary little smile as I joined him.
"Just saw a friend of mine," I said.
"Who's that?"
"Lang."
"No kidding. You boys keep it friendly?"
"Sure. We're pals."
"He must be looking after Cermak." Eliot pointed upward with a thumb. "That bungalow's something. I hear. Steinway in the living room. Three master bedrooms. Library. Kitchen, dining room, the works."
"Must pay to be a servant of the public."
Eliot laughed humorlessly. "So they tell me."
"What's the word from the streets, on the Nitti hit?"
Eliot shrugged. "People seem to think Nitti was going to use Little New York Campagna as a triggerman, to bump Cermak, and Cermak got wind. Newberry, either at Cermak's suggestion or to be a good team player, offered fifteen thousand dollars to have Nitti hit first. Box score: Nitti's alive. Newberry's dead. Cermak's hiding upstairs."
"Think he's in danger?"
"I hear he bought a bulletproof vest. But. no, I don't think so. Too much publicity. Frank Nitti isn't stupid enough to shoot down the mayor of Chicago."
"He was planning to."
"He could've got away with it. before the shit hit the fan. The Cermak hit could've been pinned on any number of gangs, not just the Capone faction. But after all that's happened, no… I'd say Cermak's safe. Nitti's too smart for that."
I nodded. A pretty waitress with blond hair in a pink-aproned outfit came over. She gave me a nice smile and I asked for coffee. I watched her leave.
"I think I'm in love." I said.
"Maybe you should call Janey."
I turned back to him. "No. That's over."
"If you say so. Look, about last Saturday…"
"What?"
"Taking you along on the Newberry ID. I'm sorry if I sounded like I was lecturing you or something."
"Hey. It could have been worse. I could've been taken for a ride by Nitti. not Ness."
He let go a rueful smile. "I suppose. Say. uh… were you out of town or something?"
"Yeah. For a couple of days."
"Where'd you 20?"
"Out of town. Business."
"I don't mean to snoop."
"I know. Eliot, but you just can't help yourself."
"Say. did you pick up any work from Retail Credit?"
"Yeah. I did. Anderson's giving me some insurance claims to investigate. I appreciate the lead, and the recommendation, Eliot."
"Oh, that's okay, Nate."
"But I'm still not going to tell you where I was yesterday."
"If you don't want to…"
"Okay, I went to Atlanta and took on Capone as a client."
He smirked. "You don't have to be a smart-ass."
I shrugged. "Let's just say I'm working for an attorney and it makes the case more or less privileged information."
"That might be stretching a legal point, but I'll accept it. Besides, it isn't my business. I'm just curious, that's all."
"It's okay."
"What attorney?"
"Jesus. Eliot! Louis Piquett."
He didn't like that: he didn't say so, he just looked into his coffee with Norwegian gloom.
"I'm not thick with him, Eliot. Fact, I haven't even met him."
"Maybe you did go see Capone in Atlanta."
"Yeah," I said good-naturedly, pretending to kid him. "Maybe I did."
"Piquett's connected to Capone, they say."
"I've heard that."
"He was Jake Lingle's killer's lawyer, too."
So there it was: out on the table, between us. Jake Lingle.
"That assumes the guy they sent up really did kill Lingle." I said.
Eliot looked at me. "Oh. I'm sure he was the killer. There were reliable witnesses."
I said nothing; the sarcasm in Eliot's voice had been so faint I could've been imagining it.
"There's something I've wanted to tell you for a long time." Eliot said. "We never talked about the Lingle matter. That happened before we happened. But you seem to be in the thick of it again, in regard to the Capone gang… through no fault of your own." He pointed his thumb Cermak-ward again. "And. well… I can't help but be concerned."
"I appreciate your concern. Eliot. I really do. But…"
"But keep out of it. Fair enough. Only let me tell you this thing I've wanted to tell you. It isn't commonly known. Frank Wilson and I knew about Lingle… we knew he was close to Capone. and could be a major witness, as to the kind of dough Capone spent, to help us build a tax-evasion case. We called Colonel McCormick at the Trib. He knew of Lingle, but didn't know him personally. We didn't tell the Colonel why we wanted to see Lingle- if we had, the Colonel wouldn't have made such a sap out of himself, in the press, defending the fallen hero. But we asked the Colonel to set up an appointment with Lingle for us, at the Tribune Tower. He agreed. We were to meet with Lingle at eleven o'clock the morning of June tenth." He paused melodramatically, and this time it worked, "I don't have to tell you what happened June ninth."
Jake Lingle was murdered.
"No," I said, "you don't."
"It's always bothered me. circumstantial as hell though it is, that Piquett, with his Capone connections, a pal of Lingle himself, himself a witness at the trial for having seen Lingle shortly before the murder, that this very man Piquett should defend the guy who supposedly shot Lingle."
"I can see how that would bother you," I said.
"There've been a lot of theories about who was behind the Lingle killing. Who hired it. Some feel Capone was back of it, many feel otherwise. But I don't have any doubt that it was anyone but Capone."
"Neither do I, Eliot."
"Well," he said gravely, "we won't say anything more about the Lingle matter. But I thought you should know about the appointment at Tribune Tower that Lingle didn't get to keep."
"It's not a bad thing to know. Thanks, Eliot."
The waitress came back and we both had another coffee.
"Listen," Eliot said, "I wanted to see you this morning, not just to pry into your affairs. I wanted to give you some news."
Oh?
"I'm putting in for a transfer."
"Out of Chicago?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"The show's over, here. I'm a lame duck. Chief prohibition agent in a city that'll be selling beer legal 'fore you know it, and everything else, soon as FDR gets 'round to it. I want a real job again."
"Eliot, you always used Prohibition as a weapon against the gangs; an excuse to go after them. Why not keep using that excuse as long as you can get away with it?"
He shook his head. "No. It's over." He looked at me and his eyes were tired: he looked older than twenty-nine. "You know something, Nate. Sometimes I think getting Capone was just… public relations. They brought me in, they sicced me on him, and we did the job, and now he's gone, but hail, hail… the gang's still here. And with Prohibition gone, they'll be less vulnerable. More underground. But here. Still here. And I'm not sure anybody cares."
I didn't say anything for a while.
Then said. "Eliot- surely you knew how much the Capone conviction was a PR effort, from word go. Nobody was better at getting in the papers than you."
He smiled sadly, shook his head some more. "That's a nice way of saying I'm a glory-hound. Nate. I guess maybe I am. Maybe I like my picture in the papers, my name in headlines. But did it ever occur to you that the only clout I had, the only way I could build public support, the only way I could show the concerned citizens and the politicians who brought me in to do the job that I was doing that job was to get in the goddamn papers?"