Then, in a stage whisper, I said to Fatso, "Use his tie to tie his hands behind him."
He did what I told him. Huffed and puffed a bit, but he did it.
"Who's up there?" I said, still whispering.
"What do you mean?" he said, glancing back at me as he bent over working, picking up on the sotto voce. The single eyebrow across his forehead was raised almost to his hairline.
I put the silenced gun's snout near his. "Guess what I mean."
"Just Nitti."
"No other bodyguards?"
"A guy in the apartment over the pharmacy. He just stays there, sort of on call."
"Nobody else?"
"Two men in the apartment above; they're the day shift. Asleep, now."
"And?"
"Most of the people in the building are family or friends. Dr. Ronga owns the building. But no more bodyguards."
"Where's Ronga now?"
"At Jefferson Park. The hospital."
"When'll he get back?"
"Not till morning. He's on duty all night."
"Nitti's wife? Ronga's?"
"Mrs. Nitti and her mother are in Florida."
"Is that the truth?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it's the truth!"
"If it isn't, I'll blow your guts all over this alley."
"If you live that long."
"Take that chance if you like."
"I'm tellin' the truth. Heller. There? Is that good enough?"
Campagna's hands were bound tight with the tie; he was breathing heavy, but was still dead to the world.
"Haul him over under the steps and put him behind the garbage cans. Get him out of sight."
He dragged Campagna like a sack of something and put him down the same way, as he moved the cans out a bit to make room. Then he heaved Campagna back there.
"Now what?" he asked.
"Now turn around," I said.
He sighed and shook his head and did. I laid the barrel of the ami across the back of his head.
He landed in the garbage cans and made a clatter. I just stood there looking up, the gun in my hand, waiting for someone to stick his head over the porch and look down. Just fucking waiting.
Nobody did.
I used Fatso's tie to tie his hands behind him. I rummaged around in one of the garbage cans looking for some paper or cloth; I found a nice dirty dish towel that had got burned, along the bottom, and discarded. I ripped it in half, wadded each piece, and shoved it in either unconscious man's mouth. Then I tied each man's shoelaces together, before laying the fat man on top of Campagna. That stood more likely to kill "Little New York" than my slugging him.
Kid games, I said to myself silently, thinking about the shoelaces. I'm playing kid games. I looked over at the car; the blond was visible behind the windscreen, tilted to one side, his eyes still open a bit. Not really, he seemed to be saying.
Somewhere, way down the alley, a tomcat let go a yowl; then the night went silent again. It was cool for late June, but I felt hot; well, I'd been working.
I went up the stairs. Onto the first landing: the lights were off in the flat on this level. I went on up to the next. Ronga's apartment. I could see a light on in there, past a second, enclosed porch.
There was a heavy door with a lock, standing open, from when Campagna and Fatso had come out to check up on the car that had stopped in the alley, and a screen door that was shut, but not locked. I peeked in. A figure was moving in the white room beyond; the room was a kitchen. The man seemed to be Nitti.
I didn't like the way the silenced gun felt in my hand; the automatic was still under my shoulder, but I supposed I should use this bulky- goddamn gun. since it belonged to the blond, and the portion of my brain that was still rational said it was a good idea to use the other man's gun for what I was about to do.
So I went in through the screen door, with a killer's silenced gun in my hand; I went in to shoot and kill Frank Nitti.
Who was in his pajama bottoms, at the oak ice chest across the kitchen from me. with his back to me, as he bent down, rummaging around in the icebox. His back was slimly muscular and tan, the latter from his naturally swarthy complexion and Florida; there was a nasty fresh red scar on his lower back, where Lang had shot him. In his right hand was a bottle of milk. His left hand was in there picking at stuff in the icebox.
He heard me come in but didn't turn.
"What's the commotion, Louie? A couple of kids in a car losin' their cherries, or what?"
"Well there's going to be blood spilled," I said. "You're that far right."
Nitti didn't move; the muscles in his back tensed, but he kept his pose. Then, slowly, he glanced back at me. I couldn't see much of his face, but I could see the confusion.
"Heller?" he said.
"Surprised?"
"Where's Louie and Fatso?"
"In the garbage."
"Are you feelin' okay, kid?"
"Take your hand out of the icebox. Frank. Nice and slow."
"What, you think I got a gun in the icebox? You fall off your rocker or something Heller?"
"I fell off something higher. Just take the hand out and turn around slow."
He did. There was another small but nasty red scar on his chest; and one more on his neck, where he'd also been shot by Lang. It looked like an ugly birthmark. He still had the milk bottle in one hand, nothing in the other.
"I was just raidin' the icebox, kid." he said, keeping it casual, but his narrowed eyes were anything but. "There's some leftover roast lamb in there. You wouldn't want to help me finish it. would you?"
The kitchen was white and modern; cozy, with a table in the midst. There were some cards on the table, from where Campagna and Fatso had been sitting, I supposed.
"Anybody else in the apartment, Frank?"
"No."
-
"Show me around."
He shrugged. Walking slowly, he led me through the place, going down a hallway that had several rooms off either side, bedrooms, a sitting room, a study. At the end of the hall was a big living room. The rooms were large, well-furnished; the walls were decorated here and there with Catholic icons. Nobody but Nitti was home.
In the kitchen again, I let him sit at the table, with his back to the door I'd come in. I sat with my back to the sink, so I could see the back door at my right and the hallway at my left. Nitti was studying me. He'd grown out his inverted-V mustache, I noticed; it was thicker, now. He looked older; skinny; small. While he hardly looked like a man on death's door, he was clearly not the man he'd been before Lang shot him.
"Kid. Mind if I take a swig of this milk?"
"Go ahead."
He took two gulps, right from the bottle, and for a moment a milk mustache mingled with Iris own, till he wiped it off with the back of one hand.
"Ulcers." he said. "All I do these days is drink milk."
"My heart bleeds."
"Yeah, well so do my ulcers, you little punk bastard. What the goddamn hell's this about? You're committin' goddamn suicide, you know."
"There's a dead man downstairs."
He sat up. "Louie? If you killed Louie, so help me I'll"
"Campagna's all right. He won't know his name for a couple hours, but he's all right. So's Fatso."
"Then, who…?"
"A blond guy. I don't know his name. But I've seen him around."
Nitti raised his chin and looked at me from slitted eyes.
"Last time I saw him," I said, "was at Bayfront Park, when you sent him to help kill Cermak. The time before that I saw him running down Randolph Street; that was when Capone sent him to kill Jake Lingle. And tonight, tonight you sent him to kill Nathan Heller. And he didn't get the job done, did he?"
Nitti was shaking his head. "You're wrong. Wrong."
"Tell me about it. Tell me you sent that son of a bitch to Florida just to catch some sun."
He pointed a finger at me, like my gun pointed at him. "I didn't say I didn't send him to Florida. What I do say is I didn't send him to kill you."