After another five minutes of equally intimate conversation, I squeezed her hand, told her I’d see her later, and made room for a partly plastered businessman who was going to make snappy conversation with a lovely lady while he tried to recover his bar bill.
Narducy was home.
“How’d you like to work for me tonight?” I said. He said he would, and I told him to pick me up in front of the Drake Hotel just before nine. “I’ll have the Marx Brothers with me as an added treat.”
“I do imitations of all three of them,” he said happily. “I even do a Zeppo, but most people don’t recognize it.”
“Maybe you could skip the impressions tonight. We’re going to have things on our mind. Now go back to your sardine sandwich.”
“How did you know I was eating sardines?”
“I’m a detective, remember?” I said. “Nine, in front of the Drake.”
My wallet told me I had about seventy bucks left. My memory told me I had nothing in the bank. In fact, with my bill from the LaSalle, I was almost minus. I still couldn’t take a chance on calling Hoff or Mayer and getting fired. If I held on and the case got wrapped up fast, I had enough to get back to L.A., submit my bill to Mayer, and have a few bucks for some gas and a bag of tacos.
Something resembling sleet pissed cold in my face as I walked in early evening darkness back toward the Drake. I stopped at a coffee shop for a tuna on toast and a Pepsi. I was the only customer. The place was shiny and clean with a steel counter that reflected me from its mirror surface. I tried to ignore myself, ate fast, left a reasonable tip to a waitress who was listening to Smiling Jack on the radio, and continued my journey back to the Drake.
The Marxes had already eaten when I got there. The card game had temporarily ceased, and they were debating the future. I just sat back in a comfortable chair with my hat over my eyes and waited for time to pass.
Every once in a while, I heard them arguing about doing a radio show. I wondered how Harpo would do a radio show, but I minded my own business. Groucho and Chico also argued about doing another movie. Groucho said the script about the department store was awful and couldn’t get better. Chico suggested that some things could be done with it.
“You know,” he said, “Harp pulls out the harp and gives them a little shit. I play the piano and smile. You push Margaret around and talk to the camera. It always works.”
“But it isn’t always good,” countered Groucho. “What we need is Thalberg back from the dead.”
Chico nodded agreement. Harpo said nothing.
“I could sure use the money,” sighed Chico.
“What a surprise,” Groucho responded.
Business talk went on for another hour. Then there was a pause for nostalgia, with memories of living out on Grand Avenue when they were in Chicago in the old days. They talked about former wives, assorted kids, aunts and uncles.
They spent about two hours talking, beating the extended record I had for conversation with my own brother. Once I had talked to Phil for almost fifteen minutes before he threw a telephone book at me. I’m not sure that time should count though because he was questioning me in his office about a murder.
A little after eight-thirty, I suggested that we get ready. Chico was especially prepared for the event. To meet the gangsters, he had put on a black suit, black shirt, and white tie. Both Groucho and Harpo wore heavy tweeds that looked as if they came off the same racks I used.
Narducy was waiting for us at the curb with his cab. His face was eager, and his neck was straining to look at the three brothers, who sat silently in the back seat. I got in front with Narducy.
Before we pulled away, Narducy turned and surveyed the trio of brothers, deciding which was which. Then, in an Italian accent out of Leo Carillo by way of Henry Armenta, he said: “Hey boss, the garbage mans a here.”
“Tell him we don’t want any,” Groucho shot back.
Then Narducy switched to his Groucho imitation. I elbowed him hard in the ribs before he got very far, but it didn’t slow him down.
“Now the next thing we’ve got in this contract,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “is a sanity clause. You know what a sanity clause is, don’t you?”
Chico shot back in his now Italian accent: “Take it out. You canta fool me. There’s no Sanity Klaus.”
Encouraged by the response, Narducy did a gookie toward Harpo that merited him donations for plastic surgery. Harpo returned the gookie.
“I like this guy,” said Groucho, nodding at Ray, “but then again, I like cold toilet seats.”
“You think we might get moving now?” I said. ”Half the underworld is waiting for us.”
“And if you do one more imitation of us,” added Groucho, “we’ll turn you over to these guys and tell them you’re Chico.”
Narducy started the car with a grin. He pushed his glasses up his nose, narrowly missed a new Nash as he pulled into traffic, turned his voice up to a near falsetto and did an imitation of Kenny Baker singing “Too Blind Love.”
Groucho moaned.
Narducy switched to his operatic tenor and tried Allen Jones singing “Alone.”
“I give up,” cried Groucho. “We’ll give you the $120,000 if you stop.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Chico said. “He always gets this way when he’s nervous.”
Groucho folded his arms and looked out the window.
As we turned at Michigan and Cermak, I saw the police car Kleinhans promised parked across from the Michigan entrance of the hotel. Narducy pulled his cab around the corner on Cermak and told us the street was named after the mayor who had been assassinated when he took a shot meant for FDR. Cermak, according to Narducy, was a much bigger target. I told him to move far enough down so the cop car couldn’t spot him and no one from inside the hotel would know we came in his cab. It might turn out to be safer for all of us.
There was an empty taxi stand a half block away with a little place near it-a shack where you could buy coffee. I told Narducy he could go in there and get a cup, but to be back out in ten minutes in case we had to move fast.
Then the brothers and I got out and walked to the New Michigan. None of them had anything to say. In the lobby they still had nothing to say. Costello was there, and a different night clerk. Some of the ladies who worked out of the place were taking an evening break in the lobby. Chico beamed at a blonde nearby. She beamed back. Groucho caught the exchange of beams and gave Chico a dirty look. Chico shrugged and smiled. Harpo said nothing and looked seriously at the approaching Costello. His arm was still in a sling. His eyes looked at us up and down and across.
“Lift ’em,” he said.
I lifted my arms and he frisked me.
“You three, too.”
When Costello was satisfied, which took him extra long because he had only one hand to work with and wanted to be sure he didn’t make the kind of mistake that had resulted in my getting away from him in Cicero, he nodded for us to go in the elevator.
Chico managed to say something to the blonde, who gave him a deep laugh, a laugh from just above her knees.
“Which one’s Chico?” Costello said in the swaying elevator.
“I am,” said Chico. Costello gave him a less than friendly look and went silent.
I’d been through this whole thing before. We got out at the same floor, went down the same hall, and found the same Chaney waiting and guarding the door.
“Swordfish,” said Groucho.
“Huh?” said Chaney.
“Swordfish,” repeated Groucho. “That’s the password to get us into this speakeasy. If you don’t know your business, you shouldn’t be on the door. Chico’s had more experience at it than you have.”
Chaney’s face was blank and confused.
“Never mind,” said Groucho. “Forget I said anything. I have a feeling you will anyway.”
“He’s being funny,” Costello explained.
“I don’t get it,” said Chaney.