Stuart Kaminsky - You Bet Your Life

“Goodbye,” I said, turning to cross the street.

“Around here it’s arrivederci, ” replied Narducy, wrapping his arms around himself and slouching for warmth.

The lobby of the hotel didn’t look big time. Like the neighborhood, it had dropped from what had once apparently been near-respectability. It was almost noon. A couple of well-upholstered painted ladies sat on stuffed chairs. It was too early and too cold to go out and work. The hotel lobby had the musty smell of mildewed carpet. It was still a few years from being an out-and-out dive, but it was clearly a losing battle. As I walked to the desk, I spotted a mean looking guy shaped like an egg giving me the eye. He was sitting, but by the time I reached the desk he had put down his comic book and was heading toward me.

The dark young desk clerk sat with his chin in his hands and his elbows on the counter. He wore a suit, a tie, a cut on his chin from shaving, and the look of someone who had taken something to keep as much distance as possible between what he saw in his head and what his eyes told him was out there.

“I want to get a message to Frank Nitti,” I whispered to the clerk. The tough looking little fat guy listened. The clerk heard my voice from somewhere and looked in my general direction, trying to focus. He was probably the day talent. It didn’t look like many people checked into the New Michigan during the day.

“What makes you think Mr. Nitti’s here?” The fat little guy’s voice was the croak of a frog through a tunnel of sandpaper.

I looked at the desk clerk who was just turning toward the gravel voice. I knew when I spoke he’d start to turn back to me and he’d forever be a beat behind whoever was talking. He must have felt like someone watching a movie out of sync. From the gentle grin, I gathered he liked it that way.

“A cop told me,” I said, still looking at the desk clerk. The fat guy cut the distance between us to almost nothing and breathed garlic up at me. He must have been eating the stuff for breakfast.

“I’ve got a message for Nitti from Big Al,” I said, fascinated by the desk clerk’s underwater movement. “I got in from Miami last night.”

“Who are you?” he croaked.

“My name’s Peters, Toby Peters. Big Al said Nitti would help me with something. Said he was a good guy.”

From the corner of my eye I could see the fat face nod in agreement about Nitti being a good guy. From what I knew about Nitti, he had been Capone’s enforcer, the top killer. With Capone gone, he might be on top instead of Ralph Capone or Guzik. I didn’t know. I thought I’d ask Kleinhans the next time I saw him.

“Wait here,” said the fat man. He walked away and around a corner.

“Large weather we’re having,” I said to the desk clerk, who nodded in agreement.

The ladies of the afternoon looked me over, gave me their best show of teeth, ankle, thigh and breast. I shrugged sadly, pointed upstairs and said, “Business.” They went back to their conversation.

I blew my nose two or three times, passed my hand in front of the clerk’s face to be sure he wasn’t blind, and waited. The fat guy came back in about five minutes and waved a ham hand at me to follow. I followed. We got on an elevator just big enough for the fat guy and me, or four normal people. I listened to him breathe hard over the clank of the box we were in. There wasn’t enough room to blow my nose.

We got out on five and went down a very narrow corridor. I knew which room we were going to. A guy in a dark suit who looked like Lon Chaney in. one of his better disguises stood in front of a door with his arms folded. He gave me a sneer, opened the door behind him, and stepped in. The fat guy stood behind me.

The room smelled like fried chicken left overnight. It probably was fried chicken. The New Michigan was full of nostalgic smells. Two men sat at a table. One had a dark mustache and was clearly a villain. All he needed was a bowl of ice cream he would eat with his fingers. The second man looked like a bartender. His jacket was off. He wore suspenders, and his dark hair was plastered down and parted almost in the middle. He had the face of a dried apple.

“I’m Nitti,” he said with a distinct Italian accent. “Talk. Three minutes and then you get out.”

I talked fast-about Chico Marx, my friendship with Snorky, the help I needed-but something was wrong. Nitti probably always showed suspicion, but his eyes narrowed to near closing. I took a chance.

“Last and not least,” I said, “a guy I met in Miami with Big Al, a guy named Leonardo Bistolfi, got chopped down in my hotel room this morning when I was out.”

Nitti eased back. His eyes opened a bit.

“It’s good you told about Leonardo,” he said. “We knew. We still got a few people who tell us things like that.”

He looked about as friendly as he probably could look, so I pushed on.

“The cops think maybe you did it,” I said, shaking my head as if the very idea was absurd.

Nitti’s hands balled into fists and turned from red to white.

“We didn’t do it. We don’t know who did. We ain’t gonna be happy when we find out. Things ain’t like when Big Al was here, or Torrio. Johnny kept-” The bad guy with the mustache moved a little and Nitti saw. He cut off his conversation.

“You had your three minutes,” said Nitti. “Find your way out.”

“But what about help? What about finding Gino?” I said.

Nitti pointed his finger at me and started to get up. The villain with the mustache muttered a calming “Frank,” and Nitti sat back and spoke.

“Gino says Marx owes $120,000. He owes it. Big Al asks me to help. I help. Marx has a week to deliver. Understand? I don’t like this Chico Marx. Little Jew making fun of Italians. He owes. He pays. Get out. I got other problems.”

I was going to say something, but the villain with the mustache turned toward me and shook his head no. I looked at the short fat guy, Lon Chaney, and Nitti, and went.

The fat guy and I went down in the elevator.

“How’s Big Al?” he said.

“Nuttier than a fruitcake,” I said.

“Yeah,” said the fat guy.

Raymond Narducy peered at me over his glasses when I got back into the car.

“You did all right,” he said. “You came back with your hair still on.”

I let out a King Kong of a sneeze and sat trying to think of what to do next.

“I’m looking for a guy named Gino,” I said. “Might be in a place called Cicero. He’s got something to do with gambling. Any ideas?”

“Maybe,” Narducy mumbled through his scarf. “There’s a bar on Wabash, Kitty Kelly’s. Guys go there. Drifters, small timers, some cops and robbers. They got a couple of 21 tables. Used to bet money. Now it’s for drinks. A woman who lives in my building works there. Name’s Merle Gordon. She might be able to give you a lead.”

“Thanks,” I said. We headed up west on Twenty-second and I did some nasal talking. “I’m a private investigator, not a cop, but you had the rest right. A guy got knocked off in my hotel room. The cops were talking to me about it just before I got in your cab.”

Narducy’s eyes danced behind his glasses. I went on.

“I’m working for the Marx Brothers. Chico got in some trouble with the mob and-”

“A diabolical concatenation of circumstances,” Narducy cried.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s from a mystery story. I said it because I just heard on the radio that Chico Marx is in a hospital in Los Vegas.”

I slumped back, imagining a fingerless Chico Marx. I’m sure I shuddered, but I wasn’t sure whether it was from the cold or my imagination.

“I need ten bucks in change and a telephone,” I said.