“I think I know who killed Servi and the others,” I said.
He nodded and kept eating.
“At least,” I went on, “I know who killed Servi and I have a pretty good idea who killed the others.”
“Who?” he said, chomping down the last bit of his sandwich. “I think I’ll get another one. You want a second?”
“Not through with my first,” I said, “but it is the best dog I ever ate. Don’t you want to know who the killer is?”
“I said, ‘Who?’, didn’t I?” he said, cleaning his Fingers with the napkin and throwing it toward the sidewalk where it hit a Mexican woman walking by.
“You,” I said, pausing on my way to indigestion.
Kleinhans looked at me and shook his head.
“No,” I said. “I mean it. Harpo Marx gave me the idea. I should have figured it out, but I kept putting the idea away. Too much coincidence. Then I asked myself whether it was coincidence.”
“I don’t get it,” said Kleinhans.
“When you met me at the station the day I arrived,” I explained, “you said your boss had sent you to work with me. I figured your boss was a cop who had a call from the Miami police, possibly an overly-conscientious county cop named Simmons. Otherwise who could have called your boss? I called Simmons this morning. He didn’t call anyone in Chicago about my coming. He checked around and none of his people called. The way I figure it, Bistolfi called someone in Chicago, probably Servi, to say I was on my way. Then Servi got in touch with you and told you to stick with me. Should I keep going or you want to give me some help?”
Kleinhans kept smiling. “Go on,” he said.
“I talked to one of Nitti’s boys this morning and asked if he knew a cop named Kleinhans. He didn’t say, but he got quiet fast. The way I figure it, you were in on this with Servi, working for him, giving him protection. Then he got the idea of taking Nitti and the mob for a bundle and letting you in on it. He needed you to keep any investigation from starting. If Nitti smelled something, Servi would suggest that you look into it. Since you were already part of the deal, you’d find nothing or a fall guy. Everything looked good. Morris won a bundle.”
“Won and lost,” corrected Kleinhans. “He played five different places on Chico Marx’s tab. He lost 120 grand and almost won 100 grand. He took the $100,000 in cash from the places he won and left markers for the $120,000 he lost.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Kleinhans shrugged.
“What the hell. You gotta take risks sometimes to make a buck.”
“Bistolfi figured out what was going on and wanted a piece of it?” I guessed. Kleinhans nodded.
“But there wasn’t enough yet to make splitting worthwhile,” he said. “And Bistolfi had ties to Capone. It wasn’t worth the risk.”
“So you gunned him in my room?”
Kleinhans nodded yes.
“We thought a stiff might send you back to California.”
“Why didn’t you just put some holes in me?” I said.
“Besides the fact that I liked you,” he said, looking out and waving at a pair of old men who walked by, “it wouldn’t have done much good. Whoever paid you could have paid another private cop who might be even smarter than you. No. Servi figured the way to go was to get rid of anyone who could lead you to us.”
“Makes sense,” I agreed.
Kleinhans chuckled deep.
“Almost made a mistake with you, though,” he said, blowing his nose. “I sent you to Canetta’s place on the West Side and came damn near not beating you there. I got called in to identify a guy after I called you. Had to really move my ass to get there ahead of you. You almost made it a tie.”
“You took a shot at me.”
He laughed.
“If I wanted to hit you, I would have done it you came in the door. We didn’t want you dead if we could help it. We just wanted you tied up as a suspect.”
“Canetta tried to tell me you shot him. He said ‘cop.’ I think he was trying to tell me a cop or cops shot him. I thought he wanted me to get the cops.”
“See what I mean about a smarter private eye?” said Kleinhans.
“Yeah, I wasn’t very smart about Servi,” I said. “I told you I had the meeting set up with Servi and Marx. You knew Servi couldn’t bluff his way through it. If Servi went down, you’d go down, so you waited for Servi at the New Michigan-”
“No,” he said. “I picked him up at the Fireside and drove him to the New Michigan. I pulled up behind your cab. The kid wasn’t in it. I put one between Gino’s eyes, pried open the cab trunk, dumped him in, and followed you to the Ambassador.”
We didn’t say anything else for a minute or so. It looked as if everything had been said.
“You know what a cop’s home is like in Chicago?” he said.
“You’re not looking for sympathy, are you, Kleinhans?”
“Hell no,” he said. “I’m explaining. You know what it’s like to have a kid brother who’s up to his ass in money from business deals while you don’t make enough to pay the milkman? Ever been offered a second rate job by your own brother? I’ve had blood on my suit and had to scrape it off and douse it in cold water because I couldn’t pay the cleaning bill. I’ve got four kids. One in college. One who’s deaf. You know what all that costs?”
“Enough to make you kill four people?”
“Those weren’t people, Peters. They were garbage. Bistolfi was a cheap triggerman. Servi was covered in other people’s blood. Canetta was a knife who picked pockets. He got in the way. When Bistolfi told us you were on the train, I called Canetta in Jacksonville, where he was running an errand for Servi. He wanted to put a knife in you on the train.”
I remember being asleep next to Canetta on the train. Now I knew he had been dreaming of putting a blade through my only suit.
“What about Morris Kelakowsky?” I said. “He a killer, too?”
Kleinhans shrugged.
“He knew what he was getting into.”
“I doubt it,” I said.
“I’ve got a couple for you, Peters. What the hell did you go to the mayor’s for?”
“Something a smarter private cop wouldn’t have done. I wanted to put some pressure on City Hall with promises from Hollywood. I figured a right word would get you and the Chicago cops off my back while I saved Chico. It was dumb. Not the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, though. My ex-wife thinks I do things like that because I like to live dangerously. Makes me feel alive. That’s why she left me. Or one reason, anyway.”
“Maybe she’s right,” Kleinhans suggested. “Look what you just did. You walked right into my doorway. You could have gone to your local police station or to one of the guys who pulled the strings to get you time yesterday.”
“I’d rather think she’s right than I’m stupid.”
“I said I had a couple of things,” Kleinhans said, looking toward the street. “You want the other one?”
“Shoot,” I said. And he did.
The bullet ripped through the last piece of sandwich in my hand and hit me in the side. The sound wasn’t too loud. A few people looked toward us, but Kleinhans reached over and held me up like we were old pals. I was looking down at a bloody hot dog and a dark wet hole in my jacket.
“Some people get too clever, Toby,” he whispered. “Knew a guy who shot his brother in the eyes when he was sleeping. Small caliber gun. Then he closed the eyes and said he died in his sleep. Coroner almost didn’t open the eyes. It was a busy day, and he was ready to accept the family doctor’s statement of heart attack. I found the holes when I looked.”
“Very interesting,” I said, fighting back the taste of blood.
“Another time,” he said softly, “I went to a funeral. Suicide. Something to do with the Genna Brothers, back when I was in uniform. Bullet right in the head. You know what was funny? The corpse was wearing gloves. I pulled off the gloves and found bullet holes through both palms. He’d put up his hands when someone shot him. Someone was his wife. You see where I’m taking you, Peters?”
“Yeah,” I gasped. “Keep it simple.”
“Right,” he said, giving me a pat on the shoulder. I could feel the barrel of the pistol being pushed against my chest as he moved close to me and turned me away from the street.