Стивен Хантер - G-Man

After some farewell ceremony, they left the old woman, found a place to eat, and then headed back to D.C. He would drop Nikki off at her apartment, then head out to Nick’s, where he was bunking, to see if Nick had come up with anything.

As he dropped her off, she said, “By the way, are you aware that you’re being followed?”

THE LOOP

CHICAGO

July 21, 1934

Charles took the freight elevator down, stepped into the Chicago heat — it hit him like a hammer — and walked the few blocks to State. Chicago’s main stem was thronged. It was the season of the straw hat, that flat-brimmed pancake head cover that had always seemed ridiculous to Charles. These big-city folks, how did they think they looked? But everywhere, the disk-like things bobbed and swayed and jiggled, their wearers seeming to believe in their magic cooling powers, though faces ashine with sweat in the harsh sun seemed to belie that faith.

Charles himself, even in cotton khaki, sweated badly as he moved the two blocks to the huge hulk of the Maurice Rothschild department store and found the central phone booth outside the main entrance. Fortunately, it was empty, and wiping his brow with a handkerchief, Charles entered and slid the door shut — even hotter! — took the phone off its cradle and pressed the lever down, putting the phone to ear. He wasn’t much for pretending, but he made a halfhearted attempt to play the game, and Uncle Phil’s spies must have been efficient, for in a few seconds the phone rang.

“Swagger.”

“Well, aren’t you the hero.” It was the creamy voice of the man on the park bench, assured, vaguely New York, smoother than it ought to be.

“So what is this?”

“Your lucky day.”

“Okay.”

“No names. But there’s a cop in the East Chicago police force so crooked, he can’t find a bed to lie flat in.”

Uncle Phil waited for his laugh, but Charles wasn’t a laugher.

“Anyhow, he’s trying to sell out Johnny D.”

“All right,” said Charles, “I am impressed.”

“He knows a gal — this is the only name: Anna — she’s an ex-madam, was in the whore trade since before you were born. Her mess is, she’s some kind of European, she’s in trouble with Immigration, and they want to ship her back to her country, to which she’s in no hurry to go.”

“Got it,” said Charles, thinking, Get to the point!

“She runs a North Side rooming house, on the outskirts of respectability. It seems her newest roomer is a tall bub with a way about him. Lots of cash, flashy dresser, the dames got all their skivvies wet for him.”

“This guy would be Johnny?”

“You’re on it. So the deal is, Anna’s willing to give up Johnny in exchange for help with Immigration. That’s why the deal is coming to you, federal government, instead of local palookas, who can’t do a thing for her.”

“Give up how?”

“You’d have to discuss that with her.”

“What’s the timing look like?”

“She wants to move fast so she doesn’t end up back in Sylvania or Pennsylvania or Transylvania or wherever it is. You could have him inside of a week.”

Charles took a deep breath.

“This cop, will he be trouble?”

“No. He’ll get a message from certain folks I know to back off on this one. He’ll handle arrangements, put it together. He wants to be in on the pinch, or shoot — whichever — but he’s not a worry. He’ll either play ball or go for a swim in the lake with a refrigerator.”

“You guys play rough.”

“It’s the only way.”

The moon was a sliver, the lake a sheet of motionless gray, though here and there reflections winked. Behind them, the well-lit skyline of Chicago declared itself in dazzling illumination, the irregularity of the lights communicating the complexity of the architecture. Each vertical spurt of brightness stood for a building, too many of them to count, and between the buildings Charles could see more buildings, an infinity of buildings. Every two minutes the pulse of light from the Lindbergh Beacon atop the Palmolive Building swept over them, and when its brightness temporarily vanished, the glow of a metropolis going full blast rose in a great pink-orange crown over the skyline. The water lapped lazily against the concrete blocks of the revetment, and out there on the lake, a few lights disclosed vessels, whether yachts or barges being unknown.

There were two black Division Fords parked on this deserted stretch of shoreline a few miles north of the World’s Fair of 1933, now 1934, on new landfill extending the lakefront east, claiming it from the big waters. Someday it would be parkland, but now it looked like a bleak battlefield.

In the first Ford, Mel Purvis sat, elegant as usual, and behind him, in the backseat, Ed Hollis and Clarence Hurt sat with Thompsons, fully loaded with big fifty-round drums, bolts locked back, safety levers down, ready to pour out streams of fire in case of ambush of some sort. Both the young agents had taken their jackets off, wore bulletproof vests over their shirts, but still had their ties cinched tight, their collars starched and pinned, and hats — those straw boaters — atop. You never could tell when the Director was watching.

In the second car, Charles sat behind the wheel and Sam Cowley was in the backseat. Both were armed with handguns, and a Thompson and a Model 97 riot gun rested in the trunk, Charles was smoking, and the air felt heavier than saturated cotton.

“Are they late, Sheriff?” asked Sam.

“Still two minutes to go,” said Charles after checking his Bulova. “I hope they show. I hope this one don’t blow away like all the others.”

“But you think this Zarkovich seemed solid?”

“He knows the game. That’s not saying he’s some Angel of Virtue, but he knows the rules and doesn’t want us pissed at him because he knows how much heat the Division can stoke.”

“One of the advantages of working for the biggest boys on the block,” said Sam. “I hope I don’t have to shoot a Tommy gun tonight. I’ve never touched one in my life.”

“I’ll teach you. When I’m done, you’ll be able to shoot ducks with the goddamned thing.”

“Ha! Now, that’s optimism.”

At that point, a car turned off the Outer Drive onto this gravelly wasteland, dimmed its lights, and proceeded slowly toward the two government vehicles. It arrived, pulled off the road nearby, and went dark.

“Okay,” said Sam. “You’re on, Charles.”

Charles said nothing. He exited the car, tossed his half-smoked tailor-made away, and lounged against the fender, enjoying a bit of offshore breeze, as a figure emerged from the newly arrived car.

“Swagger?” said Detective Zarkovich.

“Yep,” said Swagger, and the man, heavyset, with a rather pouchy, glum Serbian face, came over. Blue double-breasted, Panama. Cigar.

“Is she here?” Charles asked.

“Yeah, but she’s a little fragile. Was crying all the way over. Doesn’t want to do this, but she don’t want a one-way to Bucharest either. What’s a gal going to do? I guess what she needs to do.”

“It’s a tough life if you’re a whore,” said Charles.

“I’ve noticed. Anyway, you’ve got your big man?”

“The biggest. Purvis is in the other car, the real power belongs to Cowley. He’s here to make a deal.”

“Nobody in that other car’s going to go nuts or anything?”

“They’re trained men. The best.”

“Okay, and it’s accepted, my stuff? I get to be in on the bust, I get credit. Someone tells my chief what a hero I am. I get the reward.”

“Not sure about the reward, and never said I was. The other stuff is all right.”