I stood, his gun in my hand, and looked around. The only sound was the muffled roar of the fair; otherwise, the night was as silent and empty as the dead man's mind. Even the breeze had died. Nobody had seen this. Nobody had heard it- not with the blond's silenced gun as the instrument of death.
His car, the engine running, was only a few steps away; I dragged him to it, and hauled him up over the running board into the seat on the rider's side. I made him sit up straight, though his chin was on his chest; his belly was bright blood-red, and spreading. I shut the door and got in on the driver's side.
I flashed my ID to the attendants as we drove past and they smiled and nodded. I laughed to myself, remembering whose concession parking was.
I stopped at an all-night drugstore on Michigan Avenue and bought a bandage for my ami and used a phone book. Ronga was listed. I didn't have to jot the address down; I could remember it. It was only ten or fifteen minutes away, too. Good.
I went back to the car and the blond was still sitting there. Where was he going to go?
Me. I was going to call on the man who sent him: his boss.
I told him so, not starting the car back up yet. getting out of my coat and bandaging the nick on my arm.
"I'm taking you to Nitti, pal," I said.
But he made no comment; in fact he slumped over to the right and rested his head against the window as if bored- the glaze on his barely open eyes seemed to confirm that. I was sitting up nice and straight, in fact leaning forward; I was a little crazy, as a matter of fact.
"What good's your opinion, anyway?" I said to the blond, pulling out onto Michigan Avenue. "You're dead."
As dead as Lingle.
As dead as Cermak.
"As dead as Nitti," I said to my rider, stopping at a light.
Then it turned green and I went.
Dr. Ronga lived on West Lexington, on the near West Side. I caught Harrison, took it over to Racine, and when I reached the corner of Lexington and Racine, I knew I was a stone's throw from the address I was looking for. On the corner was a sandy-colored brick pharmacy, MacAlister's, with an apartment jutting out above- a perfect spot for a lookout post. But I didn't see anybody in the window.
We were in the midst of Little Italy, my silent blond passenger and I. but this was a remarkably nice neighborhood for the area- and a sleeping one: it was approaching midnight, with no one on the street. no other cars at the moment, nobody but the blond and me. Down at the end of the long block was Our Lady of Pompeü Church, with an open bell tower that could also be used as a lookout, if Nitti was feeling especially threatened.
In fact, the location seemed designed to be easily defensible. The Ronga apartment was in the middle of the block, a massive three-story graystone that came right up to the sidewalk; this was unusual, as other buildings in the neighborhood were set back from the walk, with a little yard and stairs going up a story to an entrance. Across the street were more apartment buildings, also three stories, where men could be posted on rooftops, if necessary.
I drove past; the next block over, on the left, there was a little cul-de-sac park. Lexington otherwise seemed to be fancy two-flats, row houses, small mansions, all set back with modest fenced front yards. A ritzy neighborhood, for Little Italy. Cabrini Hospital and Notre Dame Church were nearby; maybe that explained it.
I turned right at the church and cut down an alley behind it. taking a jog over to another alley that would take us directly behind Ronga's graystone. It was more a glorified gangway than an alley, and it was tricky, weaving around garbage cans; my passenger leaned from one side to the other as we went. Another alley intersected and I glanced down to my left, past my inattentive companion, and saw an old-fashioned lamp over the side door. Ronga's side door.
I continued down the gangway-style alley, stopping behind the building, but not killing the motor. A series of three open porches, one stacked atop the other, joined by one open staircase, ran up the back wall. Underneath the porches was a row of garbage cans, tucked away there. I sat and let the motor run and waited for something to happen.
Two figures appeared on the middle porch; two men in shirts with rolled-up sleeves and ties loose around their necks and no coats or hats. Two men with guns in their hands. One revolver each. They leaned over the porch and assessed the situation.
The motor still running but cutting the lights, I opened the door, stood out on my running board; if I'd opened my door wide, it would've smacked into the wall of the adjacent building- the alley was that narrow.
"Any of you guys know me? I'm Heller."
The two guys looked at each other. One of them was starting to look familiar, a small, dark man with a cigarette in his slack lips, its amber eye looking down at me.
Louis "Little New York" Campagna said, "What the hell ya doin' here. Heller?"
"This isn't my idea." I said. "This guy said I should bring him here."
Campagna exchanged glances with the other man, who was fat, dark, with eyebrows that joined in one thick line over beady black eyes. Campagna and his cigarette and his gun looked down at me. "What guy?"
"I don't know his name. He's wounded. He says he works for Nitti and made me bring him here."
"Get the hell outa here," Campagna said.
"He's got a gun." I said.
Campagna and the fat guy backed away, but they were still up there looking down.
"I think he's passed out," I said. "Give me a break! Handle this."
Campagna came clomping down the wooden steps; he didn't move fast. He looked at me with more distrust than one person should be able to muster and, revolver at the ready, squeezed past the car on the opposite side of me, by the window the blond sat next to. I stayed on my own side of the car: I had a gun in my hand, too, but with the car between me and Campagna, that wasn't readily apparent. Above me the fat gunman was watching.
"Jesus." Campagna said, looking in. "He looks dead."
"Could be," I said. "He was gut-shot."
"Whaddya doin' bringin' him here for. ya stupid bastard?"
"He had a gun. Stumbled in my office, bleeding, and said he was shot and wanted me to drive him. I did what I was told. You do know him. don't you?"
"Yeah. I know him. I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it, though. Get him outa here."
"Fuck you, jack. He's your dead meat."
Campagna glared at me.
I tried to look apologetic. "Come on, take him off my hands. Look, it's his car- you can dump it someplace. I'll catch a cab."
"All right. Shit. Fatso!"
Fatso came trundling down the steps. As he reached the bottom, I stayed where I was while Campagna stepped away from the car, and he and Fatso faced each other within the tight dark alleyway.
Campagna tucked his gun in his belt. "Go someplace and flick yourself. Heller," he said, dismissing me.
barely glancing back at me.
Fatso put his gun away, too. and asked Campagna what it was all about, and I shut the engine off and stepped out from around the side of the car and laid the silenced gun across the back of Campagna's head, and he went down like so much kindling. Fatso's mouth dropped and his hand moved toward his waistband, but then he saw the look on my face- it was a sort of smile- and thought better of it.
Campagna was down there with red on the back of his head and on one ear; he looked out. He was out.
Holding the silenced gun on Fatso, I bent down and yanked Campagna's revolver out of his belt and emptied the cylinder of its bullets onto the brick alleyway, tossed the gun down the alley, where it fell a good distance with a dull clunk. Fatso had his hands in the air and I got his revolver out of his waistband and repeated the procedure.