Макс Коллинз - True Crime

“Did you buy that?”

“Well, he had plastic surgery scars, behind his ears. So I figured he was a small-time con Anna was keeping on ice for the Boys.”

“The Outfit, you mean.”

“I guess. I don’t know much about that sort of thing.”

“But Anna does.”

“Sure. She’s a madam, right?”

“You’re asking me?”

The blue eyes flared. “Does needling me make you feel like a big shot, Heller? Is that why you do it?”

“Sorry. Please continue.”

She drew on the cigarette again. “There’s not much more to say. He was a good dresser, clean and neat. He had a nice smile.”

“So keeping him happy for Anna wasn’t much of a chore.”

“That’s the hell of it. I got to like him, I really did. I was crazy about him, Heller. He had this terrific personality — he was kind and good to me. But he couldn’t have really been kind and good, and been John Dillinger, too, could he?”

“I’d say not.”

“I didn’t count on that. Liking him. You know, there was one song he was crazy about, from a Joan Crawford picture we saw at the Marbro.” She started to sing, in a pleasant little Betty Boop soprano: “‘All I do is dream of you the whole night through...’” Her lip was quivering. Another tear rolled down her cheek.

“Did he have a good voice?”

“He could carry a tune. You know, he was crazy about the movies. Couldn’t get enough.”

“Till tonight. You really did like him, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“You didn’t know they were going to hit him tonight?”

“No.”

“But you knew he was going to get hit sooner or later.”

“No! And I didn’t know he was Dillinger!”

“Why’d you come see me, Polly?”

“I knew you were following me and Jimmy — or Dillinger — around, before. Anna told me you would be.”

“Did she? Did she say why?”

“No. She just said if I noticed you following me, not to mention it to Jimmy.”

“Did she explain any of this?”

She shook her head. “No she didn’t.”

“Yours was not to reason why.”

“Mine was to do what I was paid to.”

“At least you’re honest about that much.”

“Nate, I’ve been telling you the truth. You got to believe me.”

“Then tell me why you’re here.”

She cleared her throat. “I wanted you to understand that I’m innocent in this.”

I almost fell out of my chair. “Innocent?”

“I didn’t know they’d kill him. I’m no — no finger man.”

“You’re no man, I’ll grant you that. Why tell me?”

“I just wanted you to know. That night we were together, it was special, Nate.”

“Bullshit! I was just another john. A drunk one, at that.”

She leaned forward, stabbed out the cigarette, reached her soft warm hands out and touched the hand I was resting on the desk. She had a pretty smile. Part of me wanted to pitch a tent in those blue eyes, and stay there.

“You were nice to me,” she said. “I liked you.”

“Like you liked Jimmy Lawrence.”

She drew back, pulled her hands away from mine, as if burned.

“You’re a nasty man,” she said.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’m also a live one, and hanging around with you probably wouldn’t do much toward my staying that way.”

“You bastard—”

“My parents were married, lady. I don’t know which side of the sheets you come from, and I don’t care. I do know why you came here, more or less... you’re trying to make yourself look ‘innocent’ in my eyes, so that when I tell my story to the cops and/or the papers you won’t look like Judas in a dress.”

“You son of a bitch!”

I stood. “Wrong again. My mother was kind and good. Like Jimmy Lawrence. Now, get the hell out of here.”

She stood. “You fucker!”

“You finally got one right. But not tonight, and not with you. Get out.”

Steaming, she turned to go and I followed her, to let her out. Just as we were approaching the door, a shape loomed behind the frosted glass and a loud knock accompanied it. I pushed her into the bathroom, at our immediate right, and raised a finger to my lips in a “shush” gesture, and she looked at me startled and scared, and I shut her in there.

Then I went to my desk, got my gun out and walked carefully to the door. Stood sideways against a wood portion of the wood-and-glass wall next to it. I didn’t know if my shape would show through the frosted glass, but I couldn’t see taking the chance.

Then somebody said, harshly, “Open up, Heller, or we’ll bust it down.”

I thought I recognized the male, gravelly, mid-pitched voice; I hoped I was wrong.

“Then don’t open it! Give me an excuse to kick it in!”

I wasn’t wrong.

I went back to the desk and put the gun away and glanced at the bathroom door and thought, Oh, boy , as I unlocked and opened my office door and a short stocky man with dark-rimmed glasses and white hair was standing there, fanning himself with his hat. That was the only sign the heat was getting to him, however: he wore a suit and tie and looked comfortable, not a bead of sweat on him. A heavy-set, taller man, also in a suit, sweating like sin, stood behind him in the hall against the wall, like a man in a line-up.

The stocky little man pushed by me and shut the door behind him, leaving his backup out in the hall.

“Make yourself at home, Captain Stege,” I said.

Stege went over and sat in the chair, which was probably still warm from Polly Hamilton. I didn’t turn on the overhead light; the desk lamp would be plenty. Stege found me distasteful enough to prefer the dark and, what the hell, looking at him did nothing for me, either.

He sniffed the air. Glanced at the smoldering lipstick-ringed cigarette butt in the ashtray. “Been entertaining a woman up here, Heller? I smell perfume amidst the tobacco fumes — and of course you don’t smoke.”

“I also don’t wear lipstick, but I’m flattered you know so much about me, Captain.”

He grunted. “Don’t be. It’s my business to know the enemy.”

“I’m not the enemy, Captain.”

He looked around the office. “Is that—”

“A Murphy bed? Yes.”

He nodded. “You work and live here. Business must not be good.”

“My business isn’t any of yours.”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“You’re here by my good leave, Captain. I didn’t see a warrant.”

He held out two small but powerful-looking hands, palms up; his fingers looked like thick sausages. “Am I searching the place?”

“Not yet.”

“And I won’t. This is a... friendly visit.” He almost choked on the word “friendly.”

“Your opinion of me is all wet, Captain. You think I’m a dirty cop, and—”

He pointed one of the thick sausages at me, blinked at me like a bird behind his round dark-rimmed glasses lenses. “I think you’re an ex -dirty cop. Let’s not get careless with our facts.”

I sighed. I should’ve felt nervous, what with Polly Hamilton in the bathroom across the room; but mostly I was annoyed — and weary. I still ached — and not just from the recent physical beating. There was a man who had died tonight and I’d been part of it. And I’d tipped to what was going on and still hadn’t been able to stop it.

And now here was pious Capt. John Stege, a Chicago cop so honest he made Eliot Ness look like Long John Silver. I needed this dose of conscience like Jimmy Lawrence needed a hole in the head.