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

High Sierra. I had seen some of the shooting of that and would have liked to see it, but it was a little after four. I went straight to Kitty Kelly’s.
    It was a tavern—a little bigger, warmer and darker than most. There were a couple of guys at the bar, and a sign over it saying, “We Only Hire College Girls.” A few feet from the bar, a college girl sat on a stool with a little table in front of her. The table was covered in felt, and she was rolling a pile of dice out of a cylinder box.
    I walked over to her. She looked up without smiling. I was a dashing figure with my heavy coat turned up at the collar, my hat, ear muffs, red nose, and hand full of toilet paper. She was instantly charmed.
    “Twenty-One,” she said. “You go under, the drink’s free. You go over, you pay double. Care to roll?”
    “What college you go to?” I said, leaning forward.
    “Stanford,” she said without blinking. She was a cute little thing with a serious mouth and short dark hair.
    “What did you study?”
    “Human Nay-cha,” she said in fake Brooklyneese.
    I laughed and got caught up in a coughing fit.
    “You should do something about that, fella,” she said. “Like turning your head away when you get going. I’ve got a living to make and I don’t work on my back.”
    “That’s too bad,” I said, recovering enough to talk.
    “Hey,” she whispered. “You seem like a decent guy. I just got on here and I’ve got eight hours to go. Don’t make this the start of a hard night.”
    “I won’t,” I said. “Let’s say I lost. What’s a beer cost?”
    “Twenty-five,” she said. “Drop four bits and you’re J.P. Morgan.”
    I dropped fifty cents. She called for a beer from the bartender and asked if I’d carry the beer and my cold to a dark corner.
    “You Merle Gordon?” I said, reaching for the beer.
    She looked up into my eyes for the first time. Hers were moist and brown and deep.
    “Your eyes are like good beer,” I said.
    “You’re a charmer. How’d you know my name?”
    “Kid named Ray Narducy gave it to me. Said you might be able to help me.”
    “Do what?” she said suspiciously.
    A few more customers came in and moved to the bar. Someone dropped a nickel in the juke box and Dinah Shore sang “I Hear a Rhapsody.”
    I was a little tired of telling my tale, but I enjoyed leaning toward her and watching her serious face. I went through Capone, the body in the closet, Nitti, and the Marxes.
    “You know how many Ginos there must be in and around Chicago?” she said, shaking her head.
    “Well,” I offered, “we can narrow it down. How many are working for the gangs in gambling?”
    “Who knows? Fifteen or twenty. One even comes in here. Gino Amalfitano, but he’s not your man. He’s in numbers and small. Works the South Side. I’ll ask around for you and let you know. Where you staying?”
    “The LaSalle,” I coughed. “Call me anytime or leave a message.”
    “You should get in bed alone and take something for that,” she sighed with a shake of her head.
    I finished off my beer just as Benny Goodman started to play “There’ll Be Some Changes Made.” I was tired, foot-weary, and out of ideas.
    “Hey, wait,” she said.
    I came back.
    “There’s a Gino I’ve heard about who might be your man. Works at a place in Cicero. Private. Gambling. Gino—Gino Servi. It’s called the Fireside. And there’s—”
    “Thanks,” I said sincerely and lovingly. “I’ll try Servi.”
    Leonardo Bistolfi’s key chain had a disc with “Fireside” enameled on it. It was a possible connection. Even if it fell through, I’d have a good excuse to see Merle Gordon again.
    “Tell them Kitty Kelly sent you,” she said, throwing the dice again. I bundled up and went back onto Wabash. Above my head the elevated trains made their way around the Loop. I was onto a lead and in love again. All I needed was a new respiratory system.
    I walked back to the LaSalle Hotel. It was about five blocks. When I