understand." the commissioner said, "you weren't so self-righteous one other time."
"That's right. I helped cover something up, and it got me some money and a promotion. I'm from Chicago, all right. But awhile back I decided there's a line I don't go over anymore. And Miller and Lang forced me over that line yesterday."
"You said two things."
'What?
"You said two things got… gummed up. What's the second?"
"Oh." I smiled. "Nitti. We went up there to kill him yesterday. I didn't know that, but that's what we were up there for. And he fooled all of us. He didn't die. He's in the hospital right now. and it's beginning to look like he's going to pull through."
Nitti had been taken to the hospital at Bridewell Prison, but his father-in-law. Dr. Gaetano Ronga, had him transferred to Jefferson Park Hospital, where Ronga was a staff physician. Ronga had already issued statements to the effect that Nitti would live, barring unforeseen complications.
The commissioner stood: he wasn't very tall. "Your allegations are unfounded. The address at the Wacker-LaSalle Building was believed to be the headquarters for the old Capone gang, now under Frank Nitti's leadership."
"It was a handbook and wire room."
"An illegal gambling den. yes, and in the course of your raid. Frank Nitti pulled a gun."
I shrugged Got myself up. "That's the story," I said.
"Keep that in mind," the commissioner said There was a tremor in his voice; anger? Fear.
'I will." I said.
I turned and headed out.
"You've forgotten something."
I glanced back; the commissioner was pointing to my badge, where I'd laid it on his desk.
"No I didn't," I said and left.
"So what's bothering you?" Barney said. "Killing some innocent kid?"
I sipped at my third beer. "Who's to say he was innocent? That isn't the point. Look. I held on to this goddamn thing"- I patted under my arm, where the automatic was- "because my father blew his brains out with it. Anytime I take it out of its harness, somewhere in my brain I keep the thought of that. So that I won't take using it lightly. Only I
did
use it, didn't I?"
"Yeah." He patted my drinking ami. "But you ain't takin' it lightly."
I found a smile. "I guess not."
"So where do you go from here?"
"To all one rooms of my apartment. Where else?"
"No, I mean, what kind of trade you gonna take up?"
"I only got one trade. Cop. For what it's worth."
We'd talked about it plenty of times. Barney and me. That one day I'd quit the department and open my own agency. I'd talked about it with my friend Eliot, too; he'd encouraged me to do it. said he'd help line some business up. But it had always been a pipe dream.
Barney stood up and got a funny little smile going, a little kid smile, and motioned with a curling forefinger. "Come with me," he said.
I just sat there with half a beer in my hand, giving him a "what the______" look.
He grabbed me by the coat sleeve and tugged till I got up and followed him, back through the deli and out onto the street, where the snow had stopped and the city had got quiet, for a change. There was a door between the blind pig and the pawnshop next door. Barney searched for keys, found some, and unlocked the door. I followed him up a flight of narrow stairs to a landing, and then did that two more times, and we were on the fourth floor of his building, which ran mostly to small businesses, import/ export, a few low-rent doctors and lawyers and one dentist. Nothing fancy, certainly. Wood floors, glass-and-wood office walls, pebbled glass doors.
At the end of the hall the floor dead-ended in an office that bore no name. Barney fished for keys again and opened the door.
I followed him in.
It was a good-size office, cream-color plaster walls with some wood trim, sparsely furnished: a scarred oak desk with its back to the wall that had windows, a brown leather couch with some tears repaired by brown tape, a few straight-back chairs, one in front of the desk, a slightly more comfortable, partially padded
"That's right. I helped cover something up, and it got me some money and a promotion. I'm from Chicago, all right. But awhile back I decided there's a line I don't go over anymore. And Miller and Lang forced me over that line yesterday."
"You said two things."
'What?
"You said two things got… gummed up. What's the second?"
"Oh." I smiled. "Nitti. We went up there to kill him yesterday. I didn't know that, but that's what we were up there for. And he fooled all of us. He didn't die. He's in the hospital right now. and it's beginning to look like he's going to pull through."
Nitti had been taken to the hospital at Bridewell Prison, but his father-in-law. Dr. Gaetano Ronga, had him transferred to Jefferson Park Hospital, where Ronga was a staff physician. Ronga had already issued statements to the effect that Nitti would live, barring unforeseen complications.
The commissioner stood: he wasn't very tall. "Your allegations are unfounded. The address at the Wacker-LaSalle Building was believed to be the headquarters for the old Capone gang, now under Frank Nitti's leadership."
"It was a handbook and wire room."
"An illegal gambling den. yes, and in the course of your raid. Frank Nitti pulled a gun."
I shrugged Got myself up. "That's the story," I said.
"Keep that in mind," the commissioner said There was a tremor in his voice; anger? Fear.
'I will." I said.
I turned and headed out.
"You've forgotten something."
I glanced back; the commissioner was pointing to my badge, where I'd laid it on his desk.
"No I didn't," I said and left.
"So what's bothering you?" Barney said. "Killing some innocent kid?"
I sipped at my third beer. "Who's to say he was innocent? That isn't the point. Look. I held on to this goddamn thing"- I patted under my arm, where the automatic was- "because my father blew his brains out with it. Anytime I take it out of its harness, somewhere in my brain I keep the thought of that. So that I won't take using it lightly. Only I
did
use it, didn't I?"
"Yeah." He patted my drinking ami. "But you ain't takin' it lightly."
I found a smile. "I guess not."
"So where do you go from here?"
"To all one rooms of my apartment. Where else?"
"No, I mean, what kind of trade you gonna take up?"
"I only got one trade. Cop. For what it's worth."
We'd talked about it plenty of times. Barney and me. That one day I'd quit the department and open my own agency. I'd talked about it with my friend Eliot, too; he'd encouraged me to do it. said he'd help line some business up. But it had always been a pipe dream.
Barney stood up and got a funny little smile going, a little kid smile, and motioned with a curling forefinger. "Come with me," he said.
I just sat there with half a beer in my hand, giving him a "what the______" look.
He grabbed me by the coat sleeve and tugged till I got up and followed him, back through the deli and out onto the street, where the snow had stopped and the city had got quiet, for a change. There was a door between the blind pig and the pawnshop next door. Barney searched for keys, found some, and unlocked the door. I followed him up a flight of narrow stairs to a landing, and then did that two more times, and we were on the fourth floor of his building, which ran mostly to small businesses, import/ export, a few low-rent doctors and lawyers and one dentist. Nothing fancy, certainly. Wood floors, glass-and-wood office walls, pebbled glass doors.
At the end of the hall the floor dead-ended in an office that bore no name. Barney fished for keys again and opened the door.
I followed him in.
It was a good-size office, cream-color plaster walls with some wood trim, sparsely furnished: a scarred oak desk with its back to the wall that had windows, a brown leather couch with some tears repaired by brown tape, a few straight-back chairs, one in front of the desk, a slightly more comfortable, partially padded
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