Max Collins - True Detective

I considered calling Nitti and using up that favor he said he owed me. It was pretty well known that Cooney, through Skidmore, had done occasional work for the Capone/Nitti crowd; he was that good a dip, the kind you could send on a specific assignment, to pick a key out of somebody’s vest pocket, or slip something incriminating into somebody’s wallet.

But I couldn’t risk it: Nitti seemed a dangerous last resort, as his loyalty to Cooney might outweigh any sense of obligation he felt to me; and besides, he was in Florida, on his estate, resting up, still recuperating.

I did go to two of Cooney’s favorite hunting grounds: the Aragon Ballroom on the North Side, where Wayne King the Waltz King foisted watered-down Chicago jazz on his public between rounds of Viennese schmaltz in a mock Moorish setting; and the College Inn, where the Old Maestro Ben Bernie and his Lads performed in front of a dance floor that resembled a big backgammon board, while couples danced in the dimmed lights of a room where radium-painted fish glowed off pastel walls, turning the room into a sort of aquarium. But my fish hadn’t shown, the bouncers told me, when I showed them his picture, promising anybody a fin who called me if Cooney swam in.

And now it was weeks later, and Ben Bernie was playing at the Pabst Casino — which was run by the College Inn management — and none of my efforts to turn Cooney up had done a bit of good. Still, the fair had opened today; he’d show. He’d show.

Or so I thought. May turned into June, and I found myself several days a week, supposedly as a function of my role as pickpocket adviser, haunting the fair. My pith-helmeted pupils would nod to me as I’d pass, and whenever I’d remind them about that specific pickpocket I was looking for, I’d get a shrug, and a “Can I see that picture again?”

At the same time, my relationship with Mary Ann was getting a little strained; I was on the verge of telling her to hire another detective — but the part of me that wanted to stay with her, to sleep with her, to maybe God-help-me marry her, was afraid to say so.

She didn’t go to Barney’s big fight, June 23. I wanted her to, but she pretended she didn’t want to see my friend Barney get hurt, which was horseshit, because she didn’t give a damn about Barney. I’d introduced them months ago, and Barney had loved her on first sight (“What a terrific girl you lucked on to, Nate!” he’d told me, later); but Mary Ann, I’m afraid, was jealous of Barney, not so much because he and I were close — but because he was somebody I knew who was more famous than she was.

So Eliot and I went, and sat in the third-row seats Barney had provided us, in the same Chicago Stadium where FDR got nominated and Cermak got eulogized. We were watching the second prelim, in which one light heavyweight was knocking the stuffing out of another. I was watching, but I wasn’t really seeing. This was Barney’s big night, his big fight, and I was nervous for him. Somebody had to be — the cocky little bastard was cool as a cuke at his speak this afternoon, or pretending to be, and the butterflies in my stomach were in full flight.

Barney couldn’t have had a better, more beautiful starry summer night for it, and the turnout should have been terrific — Barney was, as the sports page put it, “the most popular fistic figure to develop in these parts in years” — but the stadium was only half-full. The massive floor of the arena was spectator-covered, but only the first few rows of stands were filled, and I wondered if the fair had hurt tonight’s attendance, or maybe it was just the price of a ticket in times like these, for a fight you could hear on the radio free.

Whatever the reason, it wasn’t because Barney was a shoo-in. In fact, it was almost the opposite: the odds favored the champ, Canzoneri, to hold on to his title. But by no means was Canzoneri a shoo in, either (the odds were 6 to 5 in his favor), and the mostly male crowd here tonight, the stadium air turned into a hazy fog of cigarette and cigar smoke caught in bright white lights, seemed confident the fighters would fan the smoke to flames. Christ, I was nervous. Eliot picked up on it.

“How much dough you got on this fight?” he grinned.

“A C-note,” I said.

“On Barney?”

“On Seabiscuit, you jerk. What do you think?”

“I think you’re going to take some money home. Relax.”

“Does it show?”

“You’re damn near shaking, son. Ease up.”

“I just want this for him, that’s all. He deserves this one.”

Eliot shook his head, smiled. “That isn’t the way it works. He’s going to have to earn that title, in that ring, in just a few minutes... but I think he can do it.”

“Is that who I think it is?” I said, pointing discreetly.

“Your old buddy Nitti? Sure. Who else? Canzoneri’s got a big following in the Italian community.”

“Nitti’s Sicilian.”

“Don’t get technical. The mob guys are big Canzoneri boosters.”

“Do they own him?”

Eliot shrugged. “Not that I know of. Just ethnic pride.”

“I thought Nitti was in Florida.”

“He’s pretty much living down there right now, yeah. But he had another matter in court to attend to, so he’s back for a few weeks.”

“That’s Dr. Ronga, his father-in-law, next to him, you know.”

“He’s staying with Ronga, I hear. It’s nice to have a doctor around the house, when you’re recovering from bullet wounds. Did you see who’s over on the other side?”

“Who?”

“Mayor Kelly and his boss Nash and bunch of other big political muckety-mucks.”

“I’m so impressed I could shit.”

“Well, they’re here rooting for Barney, no doubt. Kelly called him ‘Chicago’s pride and joy’ the other day.”

“Yeah, well, I guess it’s all right for ’em to stick around, then.”

The bell sounded and the last of the prelims was over; there had been no knockout, but one of the fighters was battered and bloodied. From the way my stomach was jumping, you’d think I was the one climbing in that ring next.

And a few minutes later the ring announcer was yelling into his microphone: “In this corner, ladies and gentlemen, Tony Canzoneri, world’s lightweight champion.”

Canzoneri, dark, moonfaced, neck and shoulder muscles bull-like, grinned at the audience, clasping his hands over his head in a prediction of victory; he got a good hand. Nitti, Ronga, and a brace of bodyguards did their share.

“In that corner, Barney Ross, his worthy opponent—”

And the thousands of friends Barney had in the arena — myself included — went berserk. Maybe the house was only half-full, but it sounded packed when Barney’s cheer went up; he waved at the crowd, grinning shyly, looking almost embarrassed. He caught my eye and grinned a little more naturally and nodded at me. I smiled, nodded back.

“Barney’s faster than Canzoneri,” Eliot said. “That’s going to make the difference.”

“Could,” I said. “But pound for pound, Canzoneri’s the hardest-hitting puncher in boxing. I hope Barney can take it.”

Eliot nodded; we both knew that Barney, despite a hard-fought, impressive record, which had earned him this shot, had never had an opponent in the champ’s league.

When the bell sounded, Canzoneri, wanting to get it over with quick, rushed out to meet the cool, cautious Barney mid-ring, and swung a wild right, then another one, both of which Barney ducked so easily it was as if Canzoneri had done it on purpose, to prove Barney was, as reputed, one of the hardest fighters to land a glove on in the business.

Then Barney tore into him, not playing it at all safe, as if to prove he didn’t believe Canzoneri’s reputation as a killer-puncher; suddenly it was like Barney was champ, and wanted to put this pretender away as fast as possible.