You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) (13 page)

The streetcar and killer had won. It pulled further into the blowing snow. I stood catching my breath, or trying to. When I could talk, I asked the bearded man where I could get a cab. He answered me in Yiddish. I said thanks and looked around for a cab. There wasn’t any. I gave up and went into the delicatessen, sweating and panting.

At a booth away from the door, I put my hands on the warm table, waiting for the pain and trembling to pass. The place was full of families and couples having their Sunday meal out. The place was clean and plain, with the smell of hot food and onions.

“What’ll it be?” asked a guy with a pot belly, a sour look, wild grey hair, and a white apron.

“A buck and a half of lunch, a friendly smile, and coffee.”

His thick face moved into a bilious fake grin, and I let out a laugh—more of a laugh than the moment deserved, but I needed it. I was alive. The waiter shrugged, people looked at me and I tried to control myself.

The food was great—hot Jewish food, memories of childhood and a mother long gone. Chicago, murder, and disease had begun to turn me nostalgic. I ate the chopped liver, cold beet borscht with sour cream, kishke, boiled chicken, and rice pudding; downed my coffee, ate a piece of halvah, left a big tip, and asked the waiter how to get downtown. He told me and pocketed the tip without a comment.

I made it back to Merle’s place by late afternoon. She was reading the Sunday paper and listening to Henry Aldrich on the radio. She made some coffee, helped me undress and made me warm all over. I told her my tale, enjoyed her hands on me and giggled once.

Then I fell asleep.

When I woke up, my watch told me it was night, and my eyes told me that Merle was still in her robe. She got dressed, told me what there was to eat, and said she was going out.

“I’m going to see my kid,” she explained somewhat defiantly.

“I didn’t ask,” I said.

She smiled sadly and went out.

The phone was down the hall. I called Kleinhans’ home number, figuring it was still Sunday, but he wasn’t there. I tried the Maxwell Street Station number. He was there.

“Peters,” he sighed enormously, a man of broad telephonic gestures. “What the hell happened on the West Side?”

“I went to see Canetta, but somebody was just ahead of me.”

“We know all about your visit,” he said. “Homicide wants to talk to you.”

“They want to do more than talk, don’t they?”

“Maybe so,” he said. “I told them I thought you were clean. That I knew you were going to see Canetta, that you have no way of getting your hands on a chopper, but they want to talk. They’ve already got witnesses to your being there—some kid—and other witnesses saying you were in the neighborhood running around.”

“Shit, Kleinhans,” I said wearily, “you don’t think I did it. You—”

“I don’t think I like you, Peters, but I don’t think you did this either. You have to admit, three guys have been chopped down around you since you hit town less than two days ago, and you came here straight from a visit with Capone in Miami. I think you’d better come in and do some explaining.”

“That’d keep me tied up too long,” I said. “I’m still trying to save Chico Marx, remember?”

“Suit yourself,” he said. “But the word’s out for you and they’ve called for pictures of you from L.A. You don’t come in, it’s going to look bad and take you longer to get out and on your way back to L.A.”

“Kleinhans, did you see the bodies from that place?”

“Yeah. One of them fits what you were saying about Marx having an impersonator, but the guy isn’t that close. His name’s Morris Kelakowsky, a harmless neighborhood guy who used to act in the Yiddish theater on Ogden Avenue. Did a little neighborhood gambling, small time stuff.

“He fits, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Kleinhans admitted. “But I don’t know what you’re going to do with it now.”

“Someone’s knocking off everyone who might know about this gambling scam,” I explained. “There’s something to find out, and I keep getting close without knowing what I’m close to. Can you give me some time? How about your boss, the one who assigned you to watch me?”

There was a long beat before he answered.

“Sorry kid,” he said. “We just don’t have clout when there’s a homicide. I’ll back you if you come in.”

“By the time I get out, Chico Marx could be plowed under. Thanks anyway.”

“Your funeral,” he said. “I’ll tell the homicide boys you called and what you said. It might keep them from blowing you up on sight.”

I hung up and went back to Merle’s room. I had chills and a lot to worry about. Nitti’s gang and the cops were looking for me. My flu was worse. I still had Chico Marx to protect, and now a killer to catch.

I sweated into delirium on the bed, soaking it through, and got up around midnight with an idea. Merle had come back without my knowing it and had been placing cold washcloths on my head.

“Know why you let me in?” I said to her. “You’re a mother cat. I’ll bet you take in stray animals and feed them and find them homes.”

Her smile said yes.

8

The sun came up, promising nothing—a small orange ball bouncing over the frigid mist of Lake Michigan. It wasn’t the same sun I had seen in Miami. This was a puny younger brother who had no heat, only a useless smile. From the window in the Drake, I watched a small boat, probably a coast guard launch, heading slowly into the low steam. I listened to its motor gasp in brittle chugs over the water.

Chico and Harpo were playing gin rummy, smacking the cardboard rectangles on the table. Chico beamed through the game, uttering
uhs
and delighted
ahs
while we waited for a phone call.

Groucho lay on the bed reading the newspaper. He looked at me and shook his head.

“We’re an anachronism, a relic of the past, a clown for people who’ve never been to the circus, a dialect comic for people who don’t remember vaudeville, a fast-talking, baggy-pants comic with a leer for those who were afraid to go to burlesque. We’re a trio of dinosaurs, an endangered species lying around a hotel in Chicago waiting for someone to come through the door and shoot us.”

“No one’s going to shoot you, Grouch,” Chico said, without looking up from his cards. “They’re going to shoot me.”

“That’s consoling. If I’m lucky, and they don’t miss, all I’ll lose is my brother instead of my life. I may be tired of playing that character in our movies, but I’m not tired of playing.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Call Arthur,” Chico said. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Groucho turned to me.

“My son Arthur,” he explained, “thinks he’s a tennis player, but he doesn’t have to watch himself play. That’s what I should be doing, following my son around from sunny villa to sunny country club, watching girls from the veranda while I sip cool drinks and complain about the heat.”

“Then why are you here?” I said.

“Because he’s my brother,” sighed Groucho, looking at Chico. “He never memorizes his lines. He misses shows because he’s out gambling. He throws his money away, but he’s my brother. I’m younger than he is but I’m like a father to him.”

Chico’s hand went up in a mock denial, but his eyes stayed on his cards.

“Don’t be crazy.”

“Crazy, eh,” said Groucho, throwing the paper down and opening his eyes wide. “They said Caesar was mad and Hannibal was mad and surely Napoleon was the maddest of them all.”

“Eduardo Cianelli in
Gunga Din,
” I said.

“That’s right,” said Groucho, throwing me a cigar and glaring at Chico. “Now Ciannelli is a great Italian actor.”

“He was supposed to be an Indian in
Gunga Din,
” said Chico, “but he kept his Italian accent. I could have played an Indian with an Italian accent.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Groucho. “Let’s see if we can get you cast as Geronimo. I’ll suggest it to Mayer.”

The phone rang. Groucho answered in a fake Southern Negro dialect.

“Yessuh. Yessuh, he right here suh. He shohly is.”

He handed me the phone.

“Peters,” I said.

“Mitch O’Brien at the
Times.
You wanted someone from City Desk to call you?”

“Right,” I said. “I’m a reporter from the
Toronto Star
and I want to get in touch with Ralph Capone—an interview. Have any idea how I might do it?”

“What’s your first name, Peters?”

“Tobias,” I said. “Why?”

“Who’s the city editor on the
Star?
”

“Tavalario,” I said instantly. “New man. Old friend.”

O’Brien laughed at the other end.

“O.K. Peters. Is the
Star
a morning or evening paper?”

“Evening,” I guessed.

“What are the deadlines?”

“Ten, two and four,” I said quickly.

I didn’t like his laugh.

“You don’t work for the
Toronto Star.
You work for Doctor Pepper. You’re the guy the cops are looking for. Shit, you could at least have changed your last name.”

“I didn’t think they’d get to the papers with me.”

“I’m a police reporter,” he said. “I read all about you on the blotter last night.”

Groucho had gone back to his paper. Harpo held a card up high, hesitating to throw it. Chico looked at the card, leered, and nodded his head, daring Harpo to drop the card.

Harpo let out a gookie, the puff-cheeked, crosseyed idiot face from his movies. I had never really related the little man playing cards with the wild-haired idiot on the screen. The look startled me. Chico burst out laughing and Groucho smiled.

“That’s been sure fire since he was a kid,” Groucho explained. “When in doubt, pull a gookie. It always cracks Chico and Gummo.”

“Peters, what the hell is going on there?” It was O’Brien’s voice over the phone.

“I was thinking,” I said. “You win. Why are you talking to me?”

“Maybe a story,” O’Brien said. I could hear the sound of voices behind him, somebody yelling, typewriters clacking.

“I checked you out with a couple of calls to L.A. I’m going to have a hell of a time explaining the expense if I don’t come up with something. My source says you’re straight—well, maybe a little bent—but you’re not likely to start a machine gun spree.”

“You never know,” I said.

“I really don’t give a shit,” said O’Brien. “I’ll give you a Capone phone number if you give me the story.”

“Some things I can’t talk about,” I said, looking at the Marx Brothers. “I’ve got a client. I’ll tell you what I will give you—a first person account about how I found the bodies.”

“Is it bloody?” said O’Brien.

“Yeah,” I said. “You’ll love it.”

“O.K., Peters, but I tell you in advance, it’ll be fugitive gives his version of gangland style murders in exclusive interview with the
Times.
”

“What the hell,” I sighed. Then I told him about Finding Bistolfi in the LaSalle and Canetta and Morris Kelakowsky in the West Side apartment. When I looked up, Harpo and Chico had stopped their game and were staring at me. Groucho’s eyes had become narrow and serious.

“O.K.,” said O’Brien. “It’s good.” He gave me a number, Independence 1349, and told me to call again if I had anything to trade.

I hung up. Six Marx eyes were on me as I got the desk and asked the operator to get me the number O’Brien had told me. In a few seconds it was ringing.

“Yeah?” said a voice.

“My name’s Peters,” I said. “Al Capone said I should look up his brother Ralph.”

“Who’re you?” The voice was that of a man who took his time, and yours, absorbing information. I told him who I was and repeated that Al Capone had told me to call. Then there was silence.

“Hello,” a male voice said. This second voice was high but raspy, as if someone had cut it in two and pasted it back together but did a bad job.

I repeated my tale about Al Capone, even mentioned Giuseppe Verdi, and asked if the guy on the other end was Ralph.

“What you want?” he replied.

“Nitti’s men are after me. The cops are after me. I’m trying to save my client, Chico Marx, from getting cut down for a debt he doesn’t owe, and Nitti won’t listen.”

The voice told me to keep talking, so I did.

“I need to get Marx and a guy named Gino Servi together to prove Marx isn’t the guy who owes him. Nitti’s going to have to stop trying to kill me and Marx long enough to listen.”

“I think Chico Marx is funny,” said the voice soberly.

I put my hand over the receiver and told Chico the guy at the other end thought he was funny. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I like the one doesn’t talk, too,” he said. “The other one talks too fast.”

“Nitti doesn’t think Chico’s funny,” I said.

“He has a right,” said the voice reasonably. “I’ll see what I can do about Nitti. I can’t do anything about the cops. There was a time a few years back when I could. Understand?”