You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

it getting rid of the two guys following us?”
    I was proud of myself. I resisted the impulse to turn and look around. I kept my eyes on the back of Narducy’s neck, and he kept looking up at the rear view mirror without lifting his head.
    “What do they look like?”
    “The Phantom of the Opera and Lou Costello. You know ’em?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “We met at the New Michigan.”
    “They’ve got a nice car,” said Narducy with sincere admiration. “Big black Caddy.”
    “That figures,” I said. “Lose them, but try not to let them know you’re doing it.”
    He pulled away and made a gentle right down a residential street past a grade school. Then he made another right and headed back toward what I thought was downtown. His scarf was back over his face and glasses were pushed back on the bridge of his nose indicating, I gathered, that Narducy meant business and business was driving. He went back to Michigan Avenue and headed north, moving just fast enough to pass a few cars in about eight blocks and put four cars between us and them by the time we hit what looked like downtown traffic.
    “That’s the Art Institute,” he said. There were two big green metal lions guarding the stairway of the place. Narducy told me that a few months ago the temperature had dropped below zero, and a kid with a wet hand had stuck to one of the lions. The kid got away with a peeled palm. While he was telling the tale, he increased the distance between us and the comedy team by two more car lengths. After a glance in the mirror, he did a sudden right turn into the open door of a hotel parking garage.
    As soon as we were far enough in to be covered by shadow, we both turned to see if we had been spotted. The black car with The Phantom and Costello went by. Narducy did a quick turn and waved away the approaching attendant. With swinging arms and determined inching, Narducy got us back in the direction we had come.
    “We’re safe,” he said proudly.
    “Not for long,” I said. “All they have to do is call six or seven other guys out on the street to look for your cab. Your big 191 is easy to spot.”
    “Yeah,” he said. “I can catch the details—it’s the obvious things that elude me. Well, I guess we say goodbye.”
    He pulled over and gave me Kitty Kelly’s address. It was, he said, about six blocks from where I was standing.
    “With a few exceptions, all the streets are straight,” he explained. “Each block is a hundred numbers. The streets go by hundreds north and south of Madison Street and west of State. They go east, too, but until you get to the South Side there’s not much east. The lake cuts it off. So if the address is 5500 North Western, that means fifty-five blocks north of Madison on Western.”
    It seemed easy enough. I gave him the meter price and a two buck tip and entered it in my book.
    “See you around,” he said. “Say hello to Merle for me.”
    I walked four blocks, bought a Tribune, and went to a coffee shop. I sipped coffee, nursed my cold, and read slowly, checking the clock. The news hadn’t changed much. A Chrysler ad asked me “Why shift gears?” and suggested I get Fluid Drive. Tony Zale the middleweight champ from Gary was going to fight Steve Mamakos in a few hours. Seats were a buck. I wondered if I could risk two or three hours of Chico Marx’s and my time and decided I couldn’t.
    At 3:30 I was getting pushy looks from the waiter. A coffee break crowd was coming in, and I was taking up a table. I paid and went back outside.
    A big billboard thermometer said it was twelve degrees above zero. I hurried past a white piece of cake called the Wrigley Building and across a bridge. I wandered in the general direction of where Kitty Kelly’s must be. I looked in windows and at theater marquees. It was slightly warmer under the marquees, and there were lots of theaters. A place called the Apollo had Fantasia. The Chicago had Western Union and Jane Froman on stage. The Roosevelt had