Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 12 Read online

  Though this surrealistic statue seemed to be springing from his head, Barney Ross did not look like a dope addict. In fact, he just looked like Barney Ross—a slightly pudgy bulldog-pussed brown-eyed ex-boxer in his late thirties, his hair prematurely stone gray, looking pretty spiffy for just getting out of rehab, in a brown-and-white-checked sportjacket and red bowtie.

  I stood swallowing spit, feeling just a little awkward, no worse than the time I farted on the witness stand.

  Cathy looked great—a Maureen O’Hara type with the flowing dark tresses to prove it. In her powder-blue dress with dark blue embroidered flower at one shoulder, she looked as chicly beautiful as the movie goddesses around us.

  But Cathy’s smile—which normally could make a man’s knees go rubbery—seemed forced, and anxiety was doing a spastic dance in her usually flashing blue eyes.

  She was holding on to Barney’s elbow—he was looking up at me, pop-eyed—as she whispered to him: “It was my idea—I hope you don’t mind, dear.”

  “Hey I’m sorry,” I said to him, backing away a little, Peggy hugging my arm protectively. “I don’t like surprises, either—Peg and me can just go.”

  Barney just looked up at me, frozen.

  “Barney,” Eliot said, ignoring the melodrama. He reached his hand across the table and Barney shook it, numbly. They were old friends, too—used to practice their jujitsu together. “Glad things worked out—you look good.”

  Barney was just sitting there as glazed as a glazed ham and with about as much expression.

  Then he said to Cathy, “Let me out.”

  “Barney . . .”

  “Let me out, would you?” His voice was flat.

  She complied, getting out of the booth so that he could, too. Was he going to paste me one? Great—nothing like standing here waiting for a sucker punch from the former welterweight/light-weight world boxing champion.

  “Barney,” I said, holding out a palm, “take it easy—I couldn’t stand what you were doin’ to yourself; I had no choice, I had to do it.”

  Barney just stood there, looking at me, trembling, hands balled into fists, mouth quivering, eyes twitching—goddamn it, he was looking like a dope addict all of sudden. . . .

  Then he hugged me.

  And I hugged him back.

  We held on to each other for a long time, and maybe we cried a little—that’s what Louella Parsons claimed in her column the next day, anyway. Nobody minded: this was Hollywood, where people displayed their emotions openly, and a lot of men liked to hug each other.

  This was followed by a round of congratulations for Peggy and me, on our recent marriage, including admonitions from Barney and Cathy (and, for that matter, Eliot) for not being included in the wedding, and we were told the impromptu Vegas nature of it was no excuse.

  Cathy gave up her seat and I got in next to my childhood pal. She and Peggy sat next to each other, holding hands and giggling (which was okay—a lot of the women in Hollywood liked to hug each other, too), coconspirators who had happily pulled something off. Cathy had also had some bit parts in movies and the two women had a lot in common.

  Eliot and Fred, who knew each other well from Chicago, sat and chatted and caught up with each other, as Barney and I did the same.

  “Why the hell did you go to a government hospital?” I asked him. “You could afford a private sanitarium, and those guys never talk about their patients.”

  Cathy answered the question, or started to: “Barney didn’t want to keep this a secret—he wanted to go public with it.”

  Barney shrugged, his smile rumpling his rumpled face further. “Best place to get the cure is a government hospital. They’re the toughest—you need that military kind of iron discipline to beat this thing.”

  “What does Cathy mean,” I asked, “you wanted this made public?”

  He shrugged again, sipped his beer. “There’s a lot of people, some of ’em just kids, who’re hooked on dope, too afraid and ashamed to look for help. Maybe somebody like me comin’ forward will help them get over that.”

  Blue eyes sparkling, Cathy said, “I bet you didn’t know Eliot helped Barney make the original arrangements.”

  Eliot didn’t notice himself being mentioned, he and Fred were so deep in conversation.

  “No!” I said. “What’s that about?”

  Barney said, “The Public Health Service Hospital at Lexington is designed for addicts who got caught committing a crime—you know, it’s one of those joints the courts order you to go to. Being admitted as a volunteer patient is a little trickier.”

  “And Eliot helped?”

  “Yeah, with friends of his over at the Treasury Department. Set it up so I could surrender to their district narcotics supervisor.”

  I had a taste of my rum and Coke. I was trying to think of what to say, finally just blurted, “Listen, I’m not going to ask you how tough it was. I know it was tough. . . .”

  And it was like I’d turned a spigot.

  “I’ll tell you this much,” Barney said, words streaming out. “The withdrawal gave me the miseries, ’cause the reduced dose of morphine wasn’t enough to kill the cramps and the sweats. I learned damn quick where that expression ‘kick the habit’ comes from, ’cause when they gradually cut down my dope, I got spasms in my arms and legs—I kicked like a chorus girl, without even trying. Then the nightmares, the delusions . . . I was back there, Nate. Back on the Island. I kept fighting the Japs in that muddy shell hole, over and over again. . . . But now? Now I don’t have to go back there no more.”

  He was gripping my arm, just above the wrist. I patted his hand.

  “No, buddy,” I said, not quite sure whether he meant Guadalcanal or the rehab hospital. “No, you don’t. How long have you been clean?”

  “Three months.”

  “How come you aren’t skinny?”

  He grinned. “Most addicts come in skin-and-bones, so they feed you this high-calorie diet—meat and eggs and potatoes. Man, have I porked up. Gotta get back to the gym.”

  “Are you out for good? Are you sprung?”

  Barney shook his head. “Officially, it’s just a furlough. In two months, I go back—they check me for dilated pupils and needle tracks and runny nose and the whole megillah . . . three days of testing.”

  “But then . . . ?”

  “Then it’ll be over. I got my life back, Nate. Now all I got to do is get my wife back.”

  Cathy—who had been right with us through all of this, smiling, encouraging—suddenly stiffened, and turned away.

  “I’m not supposed to talk about that,” Barney said, with a pitiful grin. His voice was quavery. I knew he loved her like crazy. And I wondered why she seemed so supportive, yet insistent on going through with the divorce.

  I learned the reason when Barney took Peggy out onto the dance floor.

  Very quietly, Cathy told me, “Nate, you can’t repeat this. You have to swear you won’t share with this Barney.”

  “Hey, I’m the guy who took his dope away from him, remember?”

  “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” she said, shaking her head, “telling Barney I wouldn’t take him back. But his doctors at Lexington talked to me—they told me to let the divorce go through.”

  “What? Why?”

  She glanced out where Barney and Peggy were dancing to “Come Rain or Come Shine.” “I’ve told Barney he has to prove himself, to win me back. If I take him now, the way I’m dying to, the doctors say he could lose his incentive.”

  I was frowning. “Don’t you think he already has ‘incentive’ enough, Cathy?”

  Firmly, she said, “I’ve told him if he’s still off that stuff a year from now, we can talk about remarriage. As for right now, the divorce will be final soon, and we won’t be living together.”

  “Yeah, but if you were, you could watch him and—”

  She shook her head again, dark tresses bouncing off her shoulders. “He has to do this himself, Nate—just like he check
ed into that hospital himself. If the disappointment of not immediately getting me back sends him reeling, reeling so bad that he starts back on the dope . . . then he isn’t cured.”

  “Jeez—I don’t know, Cathy. . . .”

  “You promised me, Nate. You will respect my wishes on this.”

  I smiled at her, nodded. “All right. But if it’s okay with you, I’m going to take the little bastard back in my life as of now.”

  She beamed and squeezed my hand.

  Eliot was out dancing with Peggy, and Barney with Cathy, when Fred and his big Havana slid over next to me. “You get a load of the rocks in the lobby?”

  “Actually, no—missed ’em somehow.”

  That Edward G. Robinson puss of his worked up a smirk; Fred was feeling pretty cute. “They’re in a glass case recessed in the wall. You can take a gander on the way out—thirty thousand in diamonds.”

  Fred had told me earlier about the new Ringgold Jewelry display, which was making its debut tonight, replacing the ice that had been heisted by the McCadden Group.

  “Just like I told ya they’d be, the brothers are here tonight, kicking off the new display—they’re gonna get introduced by Phil Ohman, to take a bow. That’s them, sitting ringside.” Fred used his Havana like a director’s baton, waving it toward distant tables. “That big bald guy with the glasses and the blonde—that’s Sid. The little bald guy with the glasses and the brunette—that’s Abe.”

  “What’s the story on ’em, Fred?”

  “Respected businessmen today, mob guys yesterday. Chicago boys, originally.”

  “Then why don’t I know them?”

  “Little before your time, Nate—the older one, Abe, was a Hymie Weiss bodyguard. Survived the hit on Hymie, back in, when was it, ’26? Lost two fingers, which was a bargain considering it was machine-gun fire, and relocated to New York, and went to work for Luciano. Brother Sid was an accountant, worked with Lansky. Abe did two years or so on a gun charge, and the boys moved out here, decided to go straight, and went into the jewelry business.”

  “How straight?”

  “Not that straight. Sid was fined two thousand dollars for perjury, couple years ago, over his questionable ‘acquisition’ of twelve grand in diamonds. Just a fluke—ran into an honest judge. The heist here at the Mocambo is probably the sixth time they’ve been robbed in the last ten years.”

  “Arranging the robberies, getting the insurance dough, and reselling the gems?”

  “Yeah—and never ‘inside’ jobs, always working with guys like your McCadden Group, which puts the insurance companies in a position to have to pay.”

  Ten or twelve minutes later, Abe Ringgold was heading for the men’s room just as Barney was ushering Cathy back to the booth.

  Before Barney had a chance to sit down, I got up and grabbed his boxer’s bicep and whispered, “I need your help. How soft are you?”

  “I could take any of the pansies in this joint.”

  “What about the ones who aren’t pansies?”

  He shrugged. “Them, too.”

  The men’s room was smaller than a Busby Berkeley set and decorated in the same demented manner as the rest of the Mocambo, red wallpaper trimmed silver and framed expressionistic paintings of South American dancing girls. No attendant on duty. At six urinals were two men: one of them Henry Fonda, the other a guy I didn’t recognize. Only one of the stalls was in use, the feet and trousers down around them apparently belonging to Abe Ringgold.

  I waited for Fonda and the other guy to finish pissing and wash up—Barney was already standing outside the door, informing patrons the restroom was temporarily out of service—and then I took a piss myself, because I was there.

  Not being a complete prick, I allowed the bald little man with the glasses and dark well-tailored suit and the well-tanned, homely face to wash his heavily jewel-bedecked hands before I grabbed him and slammed him against a red-and-silver wall and placed the nose of the nine-millimeter against the side of his.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Abe Ringgold demanded. His eyes were wild but his face tightened in the manner of a guy who’d been in tough spots before. He was the smaller of the brothers, but also the three-fingered one, the former Hymie Weiss bodyguard.

  He was about sixty, and no real threat to me—at least I felt that way after I patted him down and found no weapon—but I wouldn’t forget that when this jeweler was a kid he was a gangster shooting other gangsters in my hometown.

  “I’m Nate Heller,” I said. I placed the snout of the nine-millimeter right against his lips, like the automatic was giving him a kiss. “Maybe you know who I am.”

  “Frank Nitti’s boy,” Abe said matter-of-factly, as if the gun weren’t pressing against his mouth.

  I nodded, once. His description of me was an exaggeration I would let stand, in this company.

  “Have you ever taken a Chicago lie detector test, Abe?”

  “No,” he said, gruffly, eyes settling down, “but I know what it is. Why don’t you skip the shit and just ask me your fucking questions, and see if you like the answers.”

  “Fine,” I said, and moved the snout of the gun so that it was just under his chin, creasing a jowl. “Did you have Elizabeth Short killed, Abe?”

  Now the eyes went really wild. “What? No! Fuck no! Why the fuck would I do that?”

  “To encourage Bobby Savarino to shut his idiot mouth.”

  “You’re fucking crazy!”

  “You really do know who I am,” I said, and cocked the nine-millimeter.

  The words came quickly: “Savarino was squealing on Dragna, you jackass, not me, not me and my brother. And if that dago did try to sell us out, what the hell good would it do him? You think we operate in this town without sanction? You really think we don’t give the cops their taste?”

  “You’re saying Dragna did it?”

  “How the hell should I know? He’s capable of having somebody killed, sure, but this Black Dahlia deal, it don’t sound like him. Too extreme—calls too much attention.”

  “None of that attention’s on him. The cops and papers call it a sex crime.”

  “Yeah, that’s a fascinating fucking insight. Why don’t you take it up with Dragna, Heller? And listen, if I did wanna get at Savarino, I wouldn’t hit at him through some goddamn bimbo—he’s got a pregnant wife, for Christ’s sake, that’s his exposure.”

  I pressed the gun harder against his throat, making a deep dimple. “You ever hear of a guy named Watterson, Abe? Lloyd Watterson?”

  He winced, but his eyes gave no indication he wasn’t telling the truth, when he said, “No. Means nothing to me.”

  I liked the way he was afraid, but not pissing-his-pants afraid. He was a tough little man.

  Abe glared at me. “Stick that fucking thing in my mouth if you want, get me down on my knees, do the whole corny routine, Heller. You’ll still get the same story.”

  I took the gun out of his neck, backed up a step.

  “Yeah, I believe I would, Abe.”

  “But do you believe me?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Good.”

  The dapperly dressed homely little man straightened himself, smoothed out the front of his suit, went over and checked himself in the mirror. Looking at his reflection, not at me, he said, “Anything else?”

  “No. Sorry for the rough stuff. No offense meant—I’m working against the clock here.”

  He glanced at me. “None taken. I been there.”

  I looked at him hard. “I don’t have to sleep with one eye open tonight, do I?”

  Abe shook his head. “Not on my account. I’ll tell my brother we spoke.”

  I shoulder-holstered the nine-millimeter, and exited behind Ringgold, relieving Barney of his duties.

  “I guess you have gone Hollywood,” Barney said, as we walked back to the table, and the jeweler headed toward his.

  “How’s that?”

  My old friend slipped an arm around my shoulder. “Wanting ti
me alone with some guy in the john.”

  20

  The next morning I accompanied Eliot to Central Homicide at City Hall. We took separate cars, because he would be linking up with Harry the Hat, while I would need to drive over to the Examiner building afterward, and check in with Bill Fowley and his boss Richardson; I planned to keep that headline-hungry pair at bay by giving them just enough information from my Florentine Gardens conversations to satisfy them.

  After that I would again have to shake loose from Fowley, as I had looming before me the unenviable task of investigating the mob aspect of this murder. Fred Rubinski had confirmed that Jack Dragna held court at Lucey’s at lunch each day—including Saturday, which this was—and it was my intention to beard the Sicilian lion in his den.

  Right now, however, on this perfect, smog-free, sunny, blue-skied Los Angeles morning, I was showing an astounded Eliot Ness the entrance to Central Homicide: a ground-floor window you stepped through, going down a three-tier stairway consisting of piled-up cardboard evidence boxes.

  Homicide had outgrown the antiquated facilities at Central Station, and moved its offices to the northwest main floor of City Hall. The side window had become an impromptu entrance, as the City Hall front entry was too far out of the way for the lazy dicks. Besides, Robbery and Burglary had transferred their offices here as well, with temporary offices set up in the hallway itself, which was no fun to wade through.

  I had been here before, back when I was working the Peete case, and knew the way to where Detective Harry Hansen and his partner Finis Brown (the latter nowhere to be seen this morning) had two desks butted against each other, in a far corner—providing as much privacy as possible in the crowded bullpen.

  As we approached, Hansen—seated at the desk with his pearl-gray fedora on, wearing a snappy three-piece gray suit (every other plainclothes copper in the bullpen had his suit jacket slung over the back of a chair)—was sifting through a stack of typewritten reports.

  The big tall sleepy-eyed Dane rose endlessly from the desk, towering over both of us as I made introductions. The Hat gave Eliot a rare toothy grin—as opposed to one of those trademark pucker smiles—and pumped the Untouchable’s hand.