Max Collins - Chicago Lightning

“Never bothered wondering. But I guess it is a little unusual.”

“Yeah. He ain’t famous. He ain’t on the radio.”

“Not with that material.”

Nitti blew a smoke ring; an eyebrow arched. “Oh, you remember that? How blue he works.”

I shrugged. “It was kind of a gimmick, Frank-clean-cut kid, looks like a matinee idol. Kind of a funny, startling contrast with his off-color material.”

“Well, that’s what I want you to talk to him about.”

“Afraid I don’t follow, Frank….”

“He’s workin’ too blue. Too goddamn fuckin’ filthy.”

I winced. Part of it was the sun reflecting off the surface of the pool; most of it was confusion. Why the hell did Frank Nitti give a damn if some two-bit comic was telling dirty jokes?

“That foulmouth is attracting the wrong kind of attention,” Nitti was saying. “The blue noses are gettin’ up in arms. Ministers are givin’ sermons, columnists are frownin’ in print. There’s this ‘Citizens Committee for Clean Entertainment.’ Puttin’ political pressure on. Jesus Christ! The place’ll get raided-shut down.”

I hadn’t been to Chez Clifton yet, though I assumed it was running gambling, wide-open, and was already on the cops’ no-raid list. But if anti-smut reformers made an issue out of Clifton’s immoral monologues, the boys in blue would have to raid the joint-and the gambling baby would go out the window with the dirty bathwater.

“What’s your interest in this, Frank?”

Nitti’s smile was mostly a sneer. “Clifton’s got a club ’cause he’s got a silent partner.”

“You mean… you , Frank? I thought the Outfit kept out of the Florida rackets….”

It was understood that Nitti, Capone and other Chicago mobsters with homes in Miami Beach would not infringe on the hometown gambling syndicate. This was said to be part of the agreement with local politicos to allow the Chicago Outfit to make Miami Beach their home away from home.

“That’s why I called you down here, Nate. I need somebody to talk to the kid who won’t attract no attention. Who ain’t directly connected to me. You’re just an old friend of Clifton’s from outa town.”

“And what do you want me to do, exactly?”

“Tell him to clean up his fuckin’ act.”

So now I was in the audience, sipping my rum and Coke, the walls ringing with laughter, as Pete Clifton made such deft witticisms as the following: “Hear about the doll who found a tramp under her bed? She got so upset, her stomach was on the bum all night.”

Finally, to much applause, Clifton turned the entertainment over to the orchestra, and couples filled the dancefloor to the strains of “Nice Work if You Can Get It.” Soon the comic had filtered his way through the admiring crowd to join me at my table.

“You look good, you rat bastard,” Clifton said, flashing his boyish smile, extending his hand, which I took and shook. “Getting any since I left Chicago?”

“I wet the wick on occasion,” I said, sitting as he settled in across from me. All around us patrons were sneaking peeks at the star performer who had deigned to come down among them.

“I didn’t figure you’d ever get laid again, once I moved on,” he said, straightening his black tie. “How long you down here for?”

“Couple days.”

He snapped his fingers, pointed at me and winked. “Tell you what, you’re goin’ boating with me tomorrow afternoon. These two cute skirts down the street from where I live, they’re both hot for me-you can take one of ’em offa my hands.”

Smiling, shaking my head, I said, “I thought maybe you’d have found a new hobby, by now, Pete.”

“Not me.” He fired up a Lucky Strike, sucked in smoke, exhaled it like dragon breath from his nostrils. “I never found a sweeter pasttime than doin’ the dirty deed.”

“Doing dames ain’t the only dirty deed you been doing lately, Pete.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Your act.” I gestured with my rum-and-Coke. “I’ve seen cleaner material on outhouse walls.”

He grinned toothily. “You offended? Getting prudish in your old age, Heller? Yeah, I’ve upped the ante, some. Look at this crowd, weeknight, off season. They love it. See, it’s my magic formula: everybody loves sex; and everybody loves a good dirty joke.”

“Not everybody.”

The grin eased off and his forehead tightened. “Wait a minute…. This isn’t a social call, is it?”

“No. It’s nice seeing you again, Pete…but no. You think you know who sent me-and you’re right. And he wants you to back off the smut.”

“You kidding?” Clifton smirked and waved dismissively. “I found a way to mint money, here. And it’s making me a star.”

“You think you can do that material on the radio, or in the movies? Get serious.”

“Hey, everybody needs an angle, a trademark, and I found mine.”

“Pete, I’m not here to discuss it. Just to pass the word along. You can ignore it if you like.” I sipped my drink, shrugged. “Take your dick out and conduct the orchestra with it, far as I’m concerned.”

Clifton leaned across the table. “Nate, you heard those laughs. You see the way every dame in this audience is lookin’ at me? There isn’t a quiff in this room that wouldn’t get on her back for me, or down on her damn knees.”

“Like I said, ignore it if you like. But my guess is, if you do keep working blue-and the Chez Clifton gets shut down-your silent partner’ll get no.”

The comic thought about that, drawing nervously on the Lucky. In his tux, he looked like he fell off a wedding cake. Then he said, “What would you do, Nate?”

“Get some new material. Keep some of the risque stuff, sure-but don’t be so Johnny One-note.”

Some of the cockiness had drained out of him; frustration colored his voice, even self-pity. “It’s what I do, Nate. Why not tell Joe E. Lewis not to do drunk jokes. Why not tell Eddie Cantor not to pop his eyes out?”

“’Cause somebody’ll pop your eyes out, Pete. I say this as a friend, and as somebody who knows how certain parties operate. Back off.”

He sighed, sat back. I didn’t say anything. The orchestra was playing “I’ll Never Smile Again,” now.

“Tell Nitti I’ll…tone it down.”

I saluted him with my nearly empty rum-and-Coke glass. “Good choice.”

And that was it. I had delivered my message. He had another show to do, and I didn’t see him again till the next afternoon, when-as promised-he took me out on his speedboat, a sleek mahogany nineteen-foot Gar Wood runabout whose tail was emblazoned Screwball .

And, as promised, we were in the company of two “cute skirts,” although that’s not what they were wearing. Peggy Simmons, a slender pretty pugnose blonde, and Janet Windom, a cow-eyed bosomy brunette, were in white shorts that showed off their nice, nicely tanned legs. Janet, who Pete had claimed, wore a candy-striped top; Peggy, who had deposited herself next to me on the leather seat, wore a pink longsleeve angora sweater.

“Aren’t you warm in that?” I asked her, sipping a bottle of Pabst. I was in a shortsleeve sportshirt and chinos, my straw fedora at my feet, away from the wind.

“Not really. I get chilled in the spray.” She had a high-pitched voice that seemed younger than her twenty-two years, though the lines around her sky-blue eyes made her seem older. Peggy laughed and smiled a lot, but those eyes were sad, somehow.

I had been introduced to Peggy as a theatrical agent from Chicago. She was a model and dancer, and apparently Clifton figured this lie would help me get laid; this irritated me-being burdened with a fiction of someone else’s creation, and the notion I needed help in that regard. But I hadn’t corrected it.