Стивен Хантер - G-Man

“I think you would, Sheriff,” said the man, turning to face him, displaying a taut, intelligent face, exquisitely shaven, though a blue-steel blur of shadow highlighted his dark eyes, set off by a white inch of scar across the knobby cheekbone. His personality was like his wardrobe: spotless, perfectly fitted, regal, yet fluid and creamy. “I hear you’re the best shot in the Division, and they brought you in from the South to go gun to gun with Johnny and his pals. I think I spot a suspicious bulge under your jacket. Heavy iron, serious iron.”

“Okay, I’m here. This is the meet. What’s the play? Who are you?”

“No names. But you’re no hick. You know how it works and who’s doing what. You know that in most circumstances, you and the people I represent work on opposite sides of the street.”

“I get that.”

“But our interests momentarily converge. What you want, what we want. This crap has to end, for everybody’s sake, so we look at the options and we chose you as our vessel. You come highly recommended, because I know you’re not so rigid, you can’t deal with reality in an adult manner. Not like most of these kids in the Division, all full of Ohio State boola-boola, who don’t really get how it can work and want to throw everybody in the hoosegow.”

Charles finished his last bit of Eskimo Pie, wiped his lips and fingers with a napkin, and got out his makings and began to assemble a tailor-made. Getting it together deftly, he put it to his lips and fired it up with a Zippo he carried, snapped the lighter shut with a power-thumbed clack, and looked across the boulevard choked with humanity parading by.

“I’m here to listen, so you’d best make your pitch.”

“Good man, all business. Okay, here it is. I am here to talk about Johnny, Homer, Pretty Boy, and that king of all screwballs, Baby Face Nelson. You know who Roger Touhy is?”

“May have heard the name.”

“West Chicago. Tough guy, bootlegger, all-around bad citizen. Here’s the joke: Baby Face Nelson was such a nutcake that Roger Touhy kicked him out of his outfit! He was too crazy for Roger Touhy, who’s as crazy as a burning duck!”

“If I get him in my sights, I will finish that issue for good,” said Charles.

“I want to put him in your sights. That’s what this is about. We hear things. We get information from cribs, brothels, clubs, truckers, safe houses, people on jobs or on the grift. We knew two days early about South Bend, from the guy who owns the tavern they worked out of. So here’s the deal. When I have something, someone will call your office and tell you Uncle Phil wants to talk. You go across the street to a phone booth, right down on State, outside of the Maurice Rothschild main entrance. Pretend to talk on the phone, but hold the cradle lever down. When it rings, let the lever up and I’ll give you the latest.”

“Not so fast. You guys can be slippery. How do I know this isn’t some kind of deal to screw us up so bad, the Division gets closed down? I need assurances, guarantees. I’m not just rushing in with twenty agents and machine guns because some guy with whorehouse cologne tells me to.”

“Fair enough. You have to be protected. Okay, I’m going to give you info on a meet Baby Face has set up next week in Mount Prospect, in the northwestern suburbs. He needs to get going on something quick because he didn’t make the score he thought he’d make in South Bend and he needs the dough to get through the winter. He’s meeting with some pals late on a country road. Off the main stretch. You’ll get a map tomorrow. You check it out. You’ll see I’m dealing aces.”

“Okay, next question: why? What’s in it for you? These guys take a lot of heat, but nobody notices or talks about you. You’re not interesting compared to machine guns on Main Street.”

“Hey, Sheriff, none of your beeswax. It’s been decided, that’s all you need to know. The breeze is blowing your way. Fly your kite or go away and shut up forever.”

WOLF ROAD

CHICAGO

July 15, 1934

“Baby, can’t we stop, spend the night in a cabin?” said Helen.

“No, sweetie, I know it’s tough, but we’re almost there. I got to make this meet.”

Les pushed the Hudson through the steamy night. It had been over 100 all day, suffocating hot, but he roared through the heat like he rolled through everything, hard and remorselessly, fueled by his surging anger at everything that was not Helen. Ahead, at last, the glow of Chicago’s bright lights blurred the horizon. It had been a hell of a grind from Sausalito, almost the breadth of the continent away, where he and Helen and J.P. had headed straight off the South Bend job. Distance was safety, they all knew.

But now it was time to get to work.

“You want me to drive a while, Les?” asked J.P. from the backseat.

“No, pal,” said Les. It was a quirk of his. He liked to do the driving. He could put himself behind the wheel as the hours turned into days with few ill effects. And now, so close to the meet, he didn’t want to relinquish control — heat or not, fatigue or not. He wanted to get there, get something set up, get something started. As a professional, he had a great work ethic.

“Couldn’t we go to a club, Les?” said Helen. “I could use a Coca-Cola. You know, the Rainbow or the Crystal Room?”

“Cops are watching ’em all. You forget how famous I am now. I’m bigger than Gable!” He laughed.

“You ought to go to Hollywood, Les,” said J.P. “You’re handsome enough to be a star.”

“Aw, they put makeup on you, like a dame. Not for Les, no sir.”

Illinois rolled past, the Hudson’s engine devouring the pavement. When they were within twenty miles of city limits, Les looked for a solid north — south route, found it, and turned north. Here the lights were sparser, the roadhouse opportunities less available, mostly everything was closed down. But that also meant little traffic, and that meant few cops, and he motored on, gliding through the night.

He hit the far reaches of Touhy Avenue at about 1, right on schedule. He’d planned it perfectly. Turning east on Touhy, he took that road in, just north of Chicago, until at last he hit Wolf Road, another through and through, and turned north again. Closer in, more stuff, but most of it silent, the roadway empty — he still obeyed the occasional traffic light, just in case — and headed toward Mount Prospect, his actual destination just north of it, a little road to nowhere where he and the boys had rendezvoused before and knew well.

He hoped Jack Perkins had come up with the soup, as they called the volatile liquid explosive nitroglycerine. You’d have to blow the safe on his next objective, which wasn’t a bank but a mail car on a streamliner, meant to be intercepted just out of Chicago. Mr. Murray, who had a long record of setting up jobs going all the way back to the Newton boys, had scouted out this one and said the take would be six figures. Mr. Murray should know, as he’d set up the Newtons’ biggest robbery, at Rondout, downstate, fifteen years ago. He was a solid, reliable guy who planned carefully and knew all the tricks.

So Jack would be there to report on his nitroglycerine quest, and so would longtime pal Fatso Negri, and Carey Lieder, a mechanic with aspirations of joining the big boys who had in fact fronted Les the big chunk of luxury automobile he now drove.

Beyond Mount Prospect, he slowed. Country here, few lights, it wouldn’t get bright for another few miles, when they skirted Wheeling, which is why it was such a great spot for a meet.

“I think it’s pretty soon,” said J.P.