overflowing, which he then filed in a pigeonhole behind the desk.
The male secretary, seeing me, motioned toward a wall where all the chairs were already taken.
I said, "I'm Heller."
The secretary looked up from his paper work as if goosed, then pointed to a door to his right; I went in.
It was an anteroom, smaller than the previous one, but filled with aldermen, ward heelers, bail bondsmen, even a few ranking cops including my lieutenant, who when he saw me motioned and whispered, "Get in there."
I went in. There were four reporters in chairs in front of the commissioner's desk; the room was gray, trimmed in dark wood: the commissioner was gray. Hair, eyes, complexion, suit; his tie was blue, however.
He was referring to daily reports on his desk, and some Teletype tape, but what the subject was I couldn't say, because when he saw me, the commissioner stopped in midsentence.
"Gentlemen," he said to the reporters, their backs to me, none yet noticing my presence. "I'm going to have to cut this short… My Board of Strategy is about to convene."
The Board of Strategy was a "kitchen cabinet" made up of police personnel who gathered in advisory session. I wasn't it, though I had a feeling the commissioner and I were about to convene.
Shrugging, the reporters got up. The first one who turned toward me was Davis, with the
News
, who'd talked to me more than once on the Lingle case.
"Well," he grinned, "it's the hero." He was a short guy with a head too big for his body. He wore a brown suit and a gray hat that didn't go together and he didn't give a shit. "When you going to brag to the press, Heller?"
"I'm waiting for Ben Hecht to come back to Chicago," I said. "It's been downhill for local journalism ever since he left."
Davis smirked; the others didn't know me by sight, but Davis saying my name had clued them in. But then when Davis wandered out without pursuing it, they followed. I had a feeling they'd be waiting for me when I left, though; Davis, anyway.
I stood in front of the commissioner's desk. He didn't rise. He did smile, though, and gestured toward one of the four vacated chairs; his smile was like plaster cracking.
"We're proud of you, Officer Heller," he said. "His Honor and I. The department. The city."
"Swell." I put my badge on his desk.
He ignored it. "You will receive an official commendation; there will be a ceremony at His Honor's office tomorrow morning. Can you attend?"
"I got nothing planned."
He smiled some more; it was a smile that had nothing to do with pleasure or happiness or even courtesy. He folded his hands on the desk and it was like he was praying and strangling something simultaneously.
"Now," he said slowly, carefully, looking at the badge on his desk out of the corner of an eye. "What's this nonsense about you… leaving us."
"I'm not leaving," I said. "I'm quitting."
"That is quite ridiculous. You're a hero, Officer Heller. The department is granting you and Sergeants
Lang and Miller extra compensation for meritorious service. The city council, today, voted you three the city's
thanks
as heroes. The mayor has hailed you publicly for helping score a major victory in the war on crime."
"Yeah, it was a great show, all right. But two things flicked it up."
He squirmed visibly at having the word "fuck" said in his office, and by a subordinate; this was 1932 and school children weren't using the word at the dinner table yet. so it still had mild shock value.
"Which are?" he said, struggling for dignity'.
"First, I killed somebody, and I wasn't planning to kill anybody yesterday afternoon. Let alone a kid. Nobody seems too concerned about him. though. Nitti's boys say he has no relatives in the city. Claim he's from the old country, an orphan. But that's
all
they claim: they aren't claiming the body. That goes into potter's field. Just another punk. Only I put him there. And I don't like it."
The smile was gone now: a straight line took its place, a pursed straight line. "I
The male secretary, seeing me, motioned toward a wall where all the chairs were already taken.
I said, "I'm Heller."
The secretary looked up from his paper work as if goosed, then pointed to a door to his right; I went in.
It was an anteroom, smaller than the previous one, but filled with aldermen, ward heelers, bail bondsmen, even a few ranking cops including my lieutenant, who when he saw me motioned and whispered, "Get in there."
I went in. There were four reporters in chairs in front of the commissioner's desk; the room was gray, trimmed in dark wood: the commissioner was gray. Hair, eyes, complexion, suit; his tie was blue, however.
He was referring to daily reports on his desk, and some Teletype tape, but what the subject was I couldn't say, because when he saw me, the commissioner stopped in midsentence.
"Gentlemen," he said to the reporters, their backs to me, none yet noticing my presence. "I'm going to have to cut this short… My Board of Strategy is about to convene."
The Board of Strategy was a "kitchen cabinet" made up of police personnel who gathered in advisory session. I wasn't it, though I had a feeling the commissioner and I were about to convene.
Shrugging, the reporters got up. The first one who turned toward me was Davis, with the
News
, who'd talked to me more than once on the Lingle case.
"Well," he grinned, "it's the hero." He was a short guy with a head too big for his body. He wore a brown suit and a gray hat that didn't go together and he didn't give a shit. "When you going to brag to the press, Heller?"
"I'm waiting for Ben Hecht to come back to Chicago," I said. "It's been downhill for local journalism ever since he left."
Davis smirked; the others didn't know me by sight, but Davis saying my name had clued them in. But then when Davis wandered out without pursuing it, they followed. I had a feeling they'd be waiting for me when I left, though; Davis, anyway.
I stood in front of the commissioner's desk. He didn't rise. He did smile, though, and gestured toward one of the four vacated chairs; his smile was like plaster cracking.
"We're proud of you, Officer Heller," he said. "His Honor and I. The department. The city."
"Swell." I put my badge on his desk.
He ignored it. "You will receive an official commendation; there will be a ceremony at His Honor's office tomorrow morning. Can you attend?"
"I got nothing planned."
He smiled some more; it was a smile that had nothing to do with pleasure or happiness or even courtesy. He folded his hands on the desk and it was like he was praying and strangling something simultaneously.
"Now," he said slowly, carefully, looking at the badge on his desk out of the corner of an eye. "What's this nonsense about you… leaving us."
"I'm not leaving," I said. "I'm quitting."
"That is quite ridiculous. You're a hero, Officer Heller. The department is granting you and Sergeants
Lang and Miller extra compensation for meritorious service. The city council, today, voted you three the city's
thanks
as heroes. The mayor has hailed you publicly for helping score a major victory in the war on crime."
"Yeah, it was a great show, all right. But two things flicked it up."
He squirmed visibly at having the word "fuck" said in his office, and by a subordinate; this was 1932 and school children weren't using the word at the dinner table yet. so it still had mild shock value.
"Which are?" he said, struggling for dignity'.
"First, I killed somebody, and I wasn't planning to kill anybody yesterday afternoon. Let alone a kid. Nobody seems too concerned about him. though. Nitti's boys say he has no relatives in the city. Claim he's from the old country, an orphan. But that's
all
they claim: they aren't claiming the body. That goes into potter's field. Just another punk. Only I put him there. And I don't like it."
The smile was gone now: a straight line took its place, a pursed straight line. "I
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