Стивен Хантер - G-Man

“Get down,” said Les. “And watch this.”

He went to his car, opened the back door, and from a briefcase on the floor removed his machine pistol and a few twenty-two-round magazines welded by Mr. Lebman.

“Helen, slip out low and get behind the wheel well.”

“Les, I—”

“It’s nothing. Got it covered,” he said, snapping in the magazines, heavy with fat .45s, and throwing the slide.

Charles got in to see Purvis near 6, just as His Elegance was freshening up, tightening and aligning his tie, gargling with mouthwash, and combing his hair, at a mirror and sink specially affixed to the wall in his big, well-lit office, where the ceiling fan sliced the air into cooling motion.

“Yes, Charles, hello, sit down, I just have to priss up, my wife is dragging me to the Opera tonight.”

“Yes sir.”

“What’s up?” said Purvis, working intently on the part, running to the left side of his handsome head.

“I have a tip, I’m sure it’s nothing, but someone said he overheard someone say that some ‘big boys’ were meeting on a country road out in far north Cook at two a.m. tonight. Anyhow, this info went to a cop and he called me. Chicago Gang Squad said, forget it, it’s nothing, and I’m sure it isn’t, since there’s no names attached, but I thought I’d go out there and park and take a look-see.”

“Did you run it by Sam?”

“He left early. It just came in.”

“You sure you don’t want to take a couple of these kids and some Thompsons?”

“Mr. Purvis, these kids have been working like dogs, and it’s 100 out. I hate to put ’em on a double shift in this heat for something so unlikely.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. What are your plans if the one-in-a-million plays out and you strike something?”

“Follow from way, way back, get an address, then we’ll set up surveillance, and if it’s a go, we’ll set up a real good raid, off of recon intelligence, just like we did in France.”

“Good thought, Charles. Very thoroughly worked out.”

“I have a car chit, sir. You need to sign for Hollis to release a car to me.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Purvis, taking the chit and dashing out his signature on the appropriate line. “Sure you don’t want to log out a Thompson now since I’m signing stuff?”

“I’ll be fine. No action tonight, I guarantee it. I just want to get the drive mostly done while it’s light out so I’m not stumbling around in the dark.”

“Good. Okay, Charles, good luck. And let me know how it works out.”

“You’ll be the first to know, Mr. Purvis.”

“Call me Mel in here, Charles. You’re smarter than I am, more experienced than I am, braver than I am, whatever the ranks say, so in here, please, it’s Mel, Mel, Mel.”

“Got it, Mel.”

Charles took the chit, went to find Hollis, and found him in the arms room cleaning a Thompson.

“You clean ’em whether they’ve been fired or not, huh?” he said.

“Sheriff, if we need ’em, we may need ’em fast, so I want to keep them sparkling.”

“Good work, Ed. Here, I have the chit, I need a car.”

“Sure. Big date tonight?”

“Ain’t been on a date but once in my life and that was my wedding date. Maybe someday I’ll go on a real date, but I doubt it. Anyhow, no, I got a tip to run out. Help me figure out how to get out there.”

With that, the two went out to the main squad room, where a bank of rolled-up city and state maps hung on the wall. They unspooled Greater Cook County and spent several minutes locating the site, as indicated by the map Charles had just received from Uncle Phil, and the best way out there, considering the play of traffic.

“You want me to come, Sheriff? No problem. I’ll call Jean.”

“Nah, go home, take some time off. I’m sure this’ll turn out to be nothing but farmers sitting on the fence, talking pennant race, the kind of thing farmers talk about when they ain’t complaining about the weather.”

“Okay, Sheriff, whatever you say.”

The best route appeared to be a run out Michigan until he hit the Outer Drive at Oak Street, stay on that a few miles north of downtown, then head west on either North or Belmont.

“I’m guessing Belmont would be little lighter, though you do go by Riverview, the big amusement park. Maybe traffic will back up.”

“Nah, not in this weather, unless they figure out how to air-condition fun houses.”

“After the park, you run through River Grove, Franklin Park, and Bensenville. Belmont T-bones into Wolf. You go right on Wolf and, according to this map here, it’s about five or six more miles to this Miller.”

“He said there was a sign, a big Standard Oil billboard, on the corner. I’ll park there and mosey on down with binoculars and see what’s up.”

“You sure you don’t want me along?”

“Nah, it’ll be nothing, I’m almost certain.”

“I’ve got six cars left. The number thirteen Hudson is the best.”

“Let’s do number thirteen, then.”

All the paperwork taken care of, Charles took the freight elevator down to the underground lot and found number 13 by license plate number, and it started right up.

He exited onto Adams Street, hit State left, fought the Loop traffic for a bit, then took a right, which took him out of the Loop, passing under the looming fortress of the El station, then turned left on Michigan, heading out of town, finally hitting open highway on the Outer Drive, as they called it, which let him speed along the lakefront until it was time to turn west on Belmont.

The two-hour drive went pretty much as planned. The intersection of Miller and Wolf, set in farmland halfway to hell, or Wisconsin, whichever came first, was prosaic, and without the billboard, you’d never notice it. He scanned the field and saw that it was fallow, not plowed, and would be easy to traverse. He’d arrive, lights off, park, go diagonally across the field, hit Miller and ease down it, seeing if he could get close enough for a look, or even to overhear any chatter, assuming anybody showed up.

His plans made, he got back to his car and drove down Wolf, and ten miles farther on in Mount Prospect found a restaurant and had a meat-and-potatoes dinner. He read the papers while he waited for the food, forced himself to eat slowly, had coffee and rolled a cigarette to burn time. But time wouldn’t be burned, not readily.

He got back in his car, found a service station, and refueled, making sure to save the receipt for expenses. Then he drove stupidly around Mount Prospect in the dark, seeing nothing, until at last he came upon a movie theater on the outskirts of a town called Wheeling. He hated the pictures, but, what the hell, it would kill some time.

The only thing playing was a drama called Manhattan Melodrama , a Gable picture, and he paid his nickel and watched the thing. It was actually pretty good, if a little dopey, but who didn’t love Gable, with his commanding air, his self-deprecating humor, his easy way with the ladies, the sparkle of brains behind his eyes and a smile that would melt hubcaps even as it showed spade-like teeth, all polished and shiny. It was about two kid pals grown up to be a big gangster and the governor. The plot was full of stuff, but it came down to the governor, William Powell, another mustache guy, having the power to commute gangster Gable’s chair date, but Gable wouldn’t let him do it. “Let me have the death I’ve earned,” he said. That was fine with Charles.

He got out at midnight, found another diner, had a cuppa and a piece of pie, being the only customer, a real nighthawk sitting alone with nothing to look at but a brutal slab of dark through the window amid hard, dark angles. Soon enough, a couple came in, all lovey-dovey, and they had burgers and Cokes and paid him no attention, and neither did the counterman, who was too busy cleaning the intricate coffee machine to notice much.