Max Collins - Chicago Lightning

“Maybe. Can we sit down over there?” I gestured to the living room-white walls, white carpet, glass tables, white chairs and couch, a white fireplace with a big mirror with flamingos etched in it.

I took an easy chair across from the couch, where she sat, arms folded, legs crossed-nice legs, muscular, supple, tan against the pink chiffon. She seemed to be studying me, trying likt a bead on me.

“I’d like to hear your side of it.”

Her chin titled. “You really think you can make a positive identification, based just on my voice?”

“Ask Bruno Hauptmann. He went to the chair on less.”

She laughed but it wasn’t very convincing. “You didn’t see me.”

“Do you have an alibi? Is your husband in on it?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Your side of it. Let’s have it.”

She looked at the floor. “Your…friend…was a terrible man.”

“I noticed.”

That surprised her. Looking right at me, she asked, “You did?”

“Pete used women like playthings. They weren’t people to him. Is that what he did to you?”

She nodded; her full mouth was quivering-if this was an act, it was a good one.

Almost embarrassed, she said, “I thought he was charming. He was good-looking, clever and…sexy, I guess.”

“You’ve been having an affair with him.”

One nod.

Well, that didn’t surprise me. Just because McGraw was his business partner, and a hood at that, wouldn’t stop Pete Clifton from going after a good-looking doll like Mrs. McGraw.

“Can I smoke?” she asked. She indicated her purse on the coffee table. I checked inside it, found no gun, plucked out the pack of Luckies-Pete’s brand-and tossed it to her. Also her lighter.

“Thanks,” she said, firing up. “It was just…a fling. Stupid goddamn fling. Eddie was neglecting me, and…it’s an old story. Anyway, I wanted to stop it, but…Pete wanted more. Not because…he loved me or anything. Just because…do you know what he said to me?”

“I can imagine.”

“He said, ‘Baby, you’re one sweet piece of ass. You don’t have to like me to satisfy me.’”

I frowned at her. “I don’t know if I’m following this. If you wanted to break it off, how could he-”

“He blackmailed me.”

“With what? He couldn’t tell your husband about the affair without getting himself in a jam.”

She heaved a sigh. “No…but Pete coulda turned my husband in for…for something he had on him.”

And now I knew.

Clifton had loaned McGraw the Screwball for disposal of the body of Leo Massey, the rival dope smuggler, which put Clifton in a position to finger McGraw.

“Okay,” I said, and stood.

She gazed up at me, astounded. “What ean…‘okay’?”

“Okay, I understand why you killed him.”

I walked to the door, and she followed, the sound of her slippers whispering through the thick carpet.

She stopped me at the door, a hand on my arm; she was very close to me, and smelled good, like lilacs. Those brown eyes were big enough to dive into.

Her throaty purr tickled the air between us. “You’re not going to turn me in?”

“Why should I? I just wanted to know if there were any ramifications for my client or me, in this thing, and I don’t see any.”

“I thought Pete was your friend.”

“Hell, he was your lover, and look what you thought of him.”

Her eyes tightened. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing. You had a good reason to do it. I heard you warn him.”

“You’re very kind….” She squeezed my arm, moved closer, to where her breasts were pressed gently against me. “My husband won’t be home for a while…we could go to my bedroom and-”

I drew away. “Jesus, lady! Isn’t screwin’ around what got you into trouble in the first place?”

And I got the hell out of there.

I said just enough at the inquest to get it over with quick, and was back in Chicago by Wednesday night.

I don’t know whether Frank Nitti and Eddie McGraw wound up doing business together. I do know the Chez Clifton closed down and re-opened under another name, the Beach Club. But Nitti put his Di Lido Island estate up for sale and sold it, shortly after that. So maybe he just got out while the getting was good.

Mrs. McGraw-whose first name I never knew-was never charged with Pete Clifton’s murder, which remains unsolved on the Miami Beach P.D.’s books. The investigation into the Clifton killing, however, did lead the State Attorney’s Office to nailing McGraw on the Massey slaying; McGraw got ninety-nine years, which is a little much, considering all he did was kill another dope smuggler. The two party girls, Peggy and Janet, were charged with harboring narcotics, which was dropped in exchange for their cooperation in the McGraw/Massey inquiry.

Pete Clifton really was a prick, but I always thought of him, over the ensuing years, when so many dirty-mouthed comics-from Lenny Bruce to George Carlin-made it big.

Maybe Clifton got the last laugh, after all.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This work of fiction is based on a real case, but certain liberties have been taken, and some names have been changed. George Hagenauer uncovered this little-known incident in the life of Frank Nitti.

When the cute high school girl, screaming bloody murder, came running down the steps from the porch of the brown-brick two-story, I was sitting in a parked Buick reading The Racing News.

At ten after eleven in the a.m., Chicago neighborhoods didn’t get much quieter than Englewood, and South Elizabeth Street on this sunny day in May, 1945, ran to bird chirps, muffled radio programs and El rattle. A banshee teenager was enough to attract the attention of just about anybody, even a drowsy detective who was supposed to be watching the very house in question.

A guy in tee-shirt and suspenders, mowing the lawn next-door, got to her just before me.

“Sally, honey, calm down,” the guy said.

“Bob, Bob, Bob,” she said to her neighbor.

His name, apparently, was Bob. Like I said, I’m a detective.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked the girl.

She was probably sixteen. Blonde hair bounced off her shoulders, and with those blue eyes and that heart-shaped face, she would have been a knockout if she hadn’t been devoid of make-up and wearing a navy jumper that stopped midcalf, abetted by a white blouse buttoned to her throat.

“It’s…it’s Mother ,” she said, and in slow motion she turned toward the narrow front of the brick house and pointed, like the Ghost of Christmas Future indicating Scrooge’s gravestone.

“Look at me,” I said, and she did, mouth and eyes twitching. “I’m a policeman. Tell me what happened.”

“Something…something terrible .”

Then she pushed past me, and sat on the curb and buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

Bob, who was bald and round-faced and about forty, said, “You’re a cop?”

“Actually, private. Is that kid named Vinicky?”

“Yes. Sally Vinicky-she goes to Visitation High. Probably home for lunch.”

That explained the prim get-up: Visitation was a Catholic all-girl’s school.

Another neighbor was wandering up, a housewife in an apron, hair in a net, eyes wide; she had flecks of soap suds on her red hands. I brought her into my little group.

“My name is Heller,” I said. “I’m an investigator doing a job for that girl’s father. I need one of you to look after Sally…ma’am? Would you?”

The woman nodded, then asked, “Why, what’s wrong?”

“I’m going in that house and find out. Bob, call the Englewood Station and ask them to send a man over.”