Стивен Хантер - G-Man

They looked at him, not comprehending.

“Just do what I say. You will be caught, you will be questioned, give ’em some cock-and-bull about safe houses in Wilmette. It don’t matter, they won’t care. Just set your mind to it. You’re doing it for him, think of it that way.”

“I don’t understand,” said Helen.

“You don’t have to. Now, get out of here. Take Lester to the cemetery he so richly deserves.”

“We’ll put him in St. Peter’s in Niles Center. He likes it.”

THE OUACHITAS

ARKANSAS

The present

“So where does the story he chickened out come from?” asked Nick. “I don’t see any—”

But then he halted.

Bob broke his silence.

“He couldn’t save Sam. That would dog him the rest of his life. Maybe it destroyed him. But he was able to save Sam’s reputation, his memory, his heroism, in the story that Sam killed Baby Face. Along with Ed Hollis. To do that, he had to take himself out of the story. He had to erase himself from history and from the FBI. We’ll never know how he did it, but the ‘running away’ lie was part of it. He had to do what Baby Face couldn’t do. He had to kill himself.”

NORTHFIELD, ILLINOIS

November 27, 1934

Charles watched the Hudson pull out with its cargo of dying gangster. Where it went, what they did with the body, all that meant nothing at all to him. It would take care of itself.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief and applied it to the wound on his ear. The linen came away saturated with red. He went back to the wound, cleaned it as best he could, satisfied himself that he’d lost the top half inch, and that it would scab over for a month or so, but that it wouldn’t kill him. He’d stop and get some disinfectant for it.

He went to the guns, which lay in the grass. The Monitor was heavy, but not so heavy that he couldn’t also take up the Thompson by its front grip. He got the load to the Pontiac, opened the trunk, and laid the weapons next to Sam’s Thompson and Ed’s Model 11. He went back, picked up the various .45s and magazines that had spilled out of a getaway bag, the bag itself, and took it all to the trunk too. One item was an envelope, which held a crisp, new thousand-dollar bill. He threw that in the trunk too. Then, standing there, he peeled off his topcoat and his suit coat, unsnapped and unbuttoned his floral-carved shoulder rig with its automatic. He looked at it, a man who trusted a gun, and the gun protected him and did its duty for him. Can’t ask more of a gun. You did good, bud, he thought, and laid it on the pile. He closed the lid, got his coats on fast — it was cold, the moon was higher now, full and bone white, the wind still whistled through the grass.

After his labor, he awarded himself a cigarette. One last thing remained.

He went to the car, started, backed, turned, cranked the wheel, and returned to Willow Road. He followed it, over a bridge, to an intersection with one Happ Road, a turn to the right, a turn to the left, a transit over some tracks, and he found himself in the tiny village of Northfield. A turn past the town hall took him to a gabled, shingled house that was called Happ’s Liquors and Bar & Grill. It had a phone booth outside, near the entrance.

He went to it, dropped in his nickel.

“Number, please?”

He gave it, then fed in another dime for the downtown call.

“Jessup, Herald-Examiner .”

“You recognize my voice?”

“Jesus Christ, where are you? You heard? Baby Face killed two—”

“Baby Face is dead,” said Swagger. “Here’s your scoop, as I promised. He was shot by Sam Cowley of the Justice Department, who put a .45 into his guts with a Tommy gun. He bled out. They dumped him at St. Peter’s Cemetery, in Niles Center. You show up there tomorrow at nine a.m. and you’ll find him somewhere, on the ground. Do you hear me?”

“Niles Center, St. Peter’s.”

“You call the Division, got that? And this has nothing to do with me.”

“You killed Baby Face?”

“Sam Cowley killed Baby Face. That’s the story you’re telling, and you got it first. It ain’t got nothing to do with me. You never heard of me, you never got this call.”

“I—”

He hung up, pulled another nickel.

“Randolph 6226.”

“That’s another dime, please.”

The dime tinkled as the phone swallowed it.

“Justice Department.” It was Elaine, still on.

“Elaine, it’s Swagger.”

“Sheriff, thank God! They’ve been looking for you. They’ll be so glad.”

“Who’s running things?”

“Inspector Clegg.”

“Elaine, you’re the best. You did so much for me, and, believe me, I do appreciate it.”

“Sheriff, I—”

“Can you put Clegg on?”

“Just a second.”

But it was four seconds.

“Clegg.”

“It’s Swagger.”

“Jesus Christ, man, where are you? Do you know what’s happened? Nelson jumped Sam and Ed Hollis in Barrington. He killed ’em both and stole their car. I’ve got all the men out looking for Baby Face. I need you, dammit, Swagger. The men need you. Get in here!”

“No sir,” said Charles.

“What? Where are you?”

“I’m in a bar, drinking. And getting drunker.”

“Swagger, what is—”

“I was at Barrington. I saw Sam’s guts shot out, and Ed’s head with a hole above the eye. No thank you. Not me. I come through enough already with the war, with the fights I been in. I ain’t ending up in some field, bled out, while the small-town cops stand around clucking.”

“Charles, you’ve been drinking. It’s understandable. Go home, go to bed, sleep late, and come in ready to go tomorrow. We need you. The men need you. They look up to you for leadership and steadiness. They don’t have to know about tonight.”

“By tomorrow morning, I hope to be well south of St. Louis. You tell them what you want, a crack-up, a breakdown, a chicken dance, I don’t care. I ain’t gonna end up like Ed or Sam. That’s for suckers. They’re only dead because some fat Nancy J. Swish in Washington, who wanted to poke Purvis’s pretty ass, wants to get more money in the budget. That ain’t worth dying for, not a bit of it. I’m done. I’m headed out.”

“Swagger, Jesus Christ, you cannot say… That is so… Swagger, if you do this, I will wipe the slate clean of you. You will be expunged from the record and nobody will mention your name again. You will be shunned, banned, despised. You will be cast into outer darkness. You will be—”

Charles hung up.

He climbed the steps, went to the counter, and bought a pint of Pikesville Rye.

The guy at the counter took his money, but said, “Say, bud, you okay? That ear needs tending.”

“It’s fine,” said Charles. “It don’t hurt a bit.”

Then he went outside, got in his car, opened the bottle, took a swig, and pulled out for the long drive ahead.

AHMED’S TURKISH BATH

CHICAGO

November 29, 1934

The steam worked its way in through his pores, seemed somehow to drain all the toxins and regrets from his soul and urged him to relax. He had much to contemplate with pleasure.

They were working meatpacking. Take over the union, threaten a strike, the big boys paid to keep the men on the line, and it was more incoming cash, bushels of it. Nobody could stop them, nobody could risk standing against the Italians. And this was happening everywhere! Right now, the thing against Swift, the biggest, was proceeding as planned. Swift had seen the others roll over and knew that resistance was pointless. Mr. Nitto would be pleased, as would the New York people.