“This isn’t my office. I’m just using it for a few days. You can reach me at the number on that card. You’ve got twenty-four hours to take care of Mr. Marx’s troubles,” he said. He looked at his watch. “That means you turn yourself in by two o’clock tomorrow afternoon and do what you can to help the police find out who killed those men. The police won’t pick you up or bother you till then.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’d like to say I’ll pay you back some day, but I can’t even vote for you.”
“That’s all right,” he grinned. “If you know any Illinois voters, you might suggest that they stick with the Democrats. By the way, I trust you, but I also called a friend with the police department who had records on the case. They don’t really think you did it. Trust is one thing. Stupidity is something else. It’s a good idea to back up your trust with information.”
“Mind if I have that embroidered and hung on my wall?” I said, giving my best pleased grin.
“Be my guest,” he said, and added, “If things get a little out of hand and you need a good lawyer, I may be able to make a few suggestions. I’ve got a law degree from DePaul.”
He seemed particularly proud of the last statement, and since it was the only sign of vulnerability he had shown, I nodded in respect.
“One more thing,” I said, moving to the door.
“Yes,” he said, looking up from his work.
“How do I get to Henrici’s?”
“Out the door on Clark Street, north to Randolph and turn right. You can’t miss it.”
I went out to Clark Street and walked past the cop at the door who had obviously received the word on me. He looked me over to be sure I knew he was looking. I looked back and moved slowly up Clark Street with my hands in my pockets. I found Henrici’s. It looked a little fancy but Daley had assured me the special was seventy-five cents. He was right.
By the time I had downed a half dozen scallops, the restaurant was filled with Loop lunchers and I hadn’t worked out a better plan. I passed on the fruit cup and had a chunk of orange cake, but that didn’t help any thing either. I eyed an almost good-looking secretary downing a tuna on toast at the next table, but she didn’t look at me so I left a quarter tip and walked into the cold with my head up.
Two of my difficulties were taken care of. My stomach was full, and the cops and the crooks were giving me a little time.
10
“You got friends in high places,” Kleinhans said.
“Yes, and in medium places too, I hope.”
I was calling from a Woolworth’s on State Street. In one hand, I had the phone, in the other, a hot dog sandwich. The hot dog was skinny with nothing on it but a little mustard. The phone had more mustard on it than the dog.
“What can I do for you, California?” he said.
“Two things. I’ve got a meeting set up tonight between Marx and Servi. That should clear Marx, but a thought struck me. What if Servi’s the one who’s been knocking off the multitudes? What if he pulled this caper on the mob to pick up a clean $120,000?”
“Then he’ll just identify Chico Marx as the Chico Marx who owes the mob a lot of money,” Kleinhans concluded.
“Right, and Marx either comes up with the money or they start playing games with him and me-games that end with the two of us in small, mailing-size boxes.”
“So, why doesn’t Marx just pay if it comes to that?”
“Hasn’t got the money,” I explained, putting the stale hot dog bun down in the phone booth ledge. “His brothers will give it to him, but he’s got his own principles. I think he might duck out on a debt or put off paying, but I don’t think he’ll pay for something he didn’t lose.”
“So,” sighed Kleinhans, “where do I come in?”
“You were assigned to work with me, right?”
“Right.”
“How about arranging for a little protection in case we have to make a fast exit?”
It seemed reasonable to him. I told him the time and the place of the meeting and suggested that he have a car with a big star parked right in front of the New Michigan Hotel.
“Don’t hide it,” I said.
A lady of about forty-five, with a white turban and a dead white mink around her neck peered in at me in the phone booth. She looked at her diamond-studded watch, under long black gloves. Then she looked at me. Her teeth were clenched in impatience. I offered her a bite of hot dog through the window. She turned her back on me.
“O.K.,” said Kleinhans. “You said there were two things I would do.”
“Right, the second is to tell me where in the Loop I can buy an egg. I’ve gone through four blocks without seeing anything that looked like a grocery.”
He asked where I was and told me how to get to a fancy grocery called Smithfield’s. He didn’t ask me why I needed an egg. I said goodbye to Kleinhans and said I’d turn myself in the next day, as I had promised Daley.
“Take care of yourself, Peters,” said Kleinhans, “and don’t do anything too stupid.”
“It’s in my blood,” I said. “My brother’s a cop.”
We both hung up, and the well-dressed lady shoved past me into the booth. I finished my hot dog and made my way to Smithfield’s, where I bought a half-dozen eggs. I was tempted to buy a can of quail eggs, too, just to keep on my shelf in L.A. to impress the social register when they dropped by, but my environment was a dead giveaway, and I didn’t want to actually eat quail eggs.
A little after four I went into, Kitty Kelly’s. Merle was at her table. She gave me a small smile and blew her nose.
“Look what you did,” she said, rolling the dice. Her dress was covered with spangles that glittered in the light from the bar. “I’m losing customers from this damned cold you gave me.”
She shook her head and kept the small ironic smile to show she didn’t mean it, but she did mean it a little, too.
I ordered a beer for myself and a glass of wine and orange juice for her. I did the bit Ian Fleming had pulled at the Fireside. My fingers didn’t have his flare. It was a kind of comic parody of what he had done, but it did get a small audience of late afternoon marginal businessmen, two Twenty-One girls and a bartender.
“Drink it,” I said. “Old California cure for the common cold.”
“You know what you can do with that?” she said.
“Yeah,” I answered, “but it wouldn’t cure anything that way. Take my word. I’ve been around doctors a lot recently.”
She said “What the hell,” downed the orange juice and egg and slugged the wine in two gulps.
“You’ll feel better in half an hour,” I predicted, and handed her the carton with five more eggs, telling her to use them every two hours.
I purposely lost a few bucks playing Twenty-One and mentioned that I might be getting near the end of my Chicago stay, one way or the other.
“You’ll come by and pick up your suitcase, I hope,” she said, sounding semitough. “I’m not mailing it to you.”
“I thought I’d be around at least through the night and you might put me up again.”
“I might reinfect you.”
“It’s worth the risk.”
Her smile this time was real, and I asked her how to get in touch with Ray Narducy, the versatile cab driver who had introduced us and did the world’s worst Charlie Chan impression. She gave me the number from a book she fished out of her purse, and said he usually went home at dinner time to save a half-buck or so.
“He’s a sardine freak,” she said. “Eats the stuff every day in sandwiches, salads. He’s a good kid, but for a few hours a day he smells like the lake on a hot day when the fish are dying.”