Stuart Kaminsky - You Bet Your Life

“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 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 got there, I wasn’t in a bad mood. I wasn’t in any mood at all. I was weak-kneed and aching.