I parked the elevator, flicking the OUT OF SERVICE switch, stepped past Pete, who was on his side, scowling at me, and got off at the entryway, where the golden Egyptian settee and sunburst clock awaited. Using the passkey, I went in, nine millimeter still an extra appendage growing out of my fist — I didn’t think the Fischettis were here, but I might be wrong. My track record tonight wasn’t that great, after all.
Or some other watchdog or two might be present, more competent than the McCarthy-jowled elevator operator.
But I was barely inside when I heard music, coming from the living room.
Someone was playing the piano — “They Say It’s Wonderful,” Irving Berlin, Annie Get Your Gun — and someone was singing, a clear, sweet soprano... exquisitely feminine, and not Ethel Merman.
Jackie Payne was sitting at the grand piano in the spacious living room, near the terrace-style balcony, the curtains open, revealing the sky with its stars and the moon with its glow that was turning the endless lake shimmering silver. Accompanying herself (she played fairly well), Jackie sang with delicacy and feeling, and she looked fine — no black eyes, just those lovely big brown ones; she wore a white short-sleeve blouse and sky-blue pedal pushers, her feet bare, toenails painted blood red.
Nine millimeter still in hand, I began to clap; the first of the claps — echoing off the slate floor — made her jump, and stop in midnote, hands frozen over the keys.
“Please,” I said, the gun lowered, “don’t stop on my account. You sound fine.”
She just sat there and looked at me, her face as expressionless as a Kewpie doll; then her lip began to tremble and tears rolled down her face. No sound of sobbing, though.
I sighed, walked over, sat next to her on the piano bench, gun in my lap, in my hand, limply now.
“Why?” I asked her.
“I’m not going with you, Nate.”
“Why?”
“I don’t deserve you. You were wonderful, you believe in me, but I’m not ready to kick.”
“Why?”
“I need it — I need the stuff. I can’t get through the day without it.”
“Why?”
“Rocco called — he was crying. I know... I know you can’t believe that, Nate. But he does have a good heart, a soft side. He said he missed me, he couldn’t live without me, and he would never harm me again. He said, if ever he touched so much as a hair on my head, I could leave him forever, and he’d never bother me again. I had to come back to him.”
“Why?”
“He needed me.”
“Why?”
“I love him.”
“Why?”
“He’s good to me. Look at this place. Look around you. And now he’s promised to let me have my career — starting at the Chez, then, eventually, opening for acts in Vegas. Joey owns part of a recording label, you know. And... I can’t do that, any of that, without my... without help, you know — medicinal help.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m just not strong enough without it. Maybe... maybe someday I can shake it. But not now.”
“Why?”
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”
She covered her face with her hands and she wept. I let her do that for a while.
Then I asked her, “Where are they?”
Her voice seemed tiny; so did she. “Gone. They’ve let all but a skeleton staff go. Rocco put me in charge of the apartment here. He didn’t want to take me with him.”
“Why?”
The brown eyes, red from tears, flashed at me. “Are you going to start that again? He said he and his brother Charley — I think Joey is in Florida, at his house there — but Rocky and Charley are sort of... on the run. Incommunicado, until this thing, this Kefauver thing, blows over.”
“And Rocky left you here? Knowing if you changed your mind — if I talked sense to you and you changed your mind — you could be a witness against them?”
She shook her head, shrugged. “What could I testify about?”
“You could tell them, for example, just how many times Tubbo Gilbert came calling in recent months.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t? Two men died tonight, Jackie — I saw it. But I couldn’t stop it.”
She frowned and looked at the piano keys. “Oh, Nate... don’t. I don’t want to hear this...”
“Bill Drury, a cop — maybe you read about him in the papers. He saved my life once. He was an honest cop — in Chicago, can you buy that? He and an attorney named Bas... they both have wives who probably love them, and families to support... were trying to get the goods on Charley and Tubbo. And they were murdered, just about an hour ago — Bill in his own garage, that attorney on a public street. Executed. Cattle at the stockyards die with more dignity.”
She swallowed, looked up, stared right at me. “Nate, I couldn’t testify against Rocky, and I don’t know anything about Charley.”
“You couldn’t testify against Rocky? Listen, if they subpoena you, and you’re under oath—”
“Nate! You don’t understand. Listen to me: I can’t testify against Rocky. A wife can’t testify against her own husband.”
I just looked at her. Finally I said, almost spitting at her, “What?”
“We were married this afternoon, at City Hall. Rocky pulled some strings, to get past the waiting period. He has connections.”
“No kidding.”
She was looking at the keys again. “I saw him off at O’Hare. Our honeymoon will have to wait.”
“Where are you and Rocky and your hypodermic planning to go?”
The brown eyes fixed themselves on me — they were soft, even loving; she touched my hand — the one that didn’t have a gun in it.
“Nate... I’ll always love you, you’ll always occupy a special place inside of me. Our few days together — the things you did for me, and tried to do for me — I’ll never forget them. I’ll cherish that memory — like a flower pressed into a book.”
“Swell. I get the honeymoon, but Rocky gets the bride.”
“Please, Nate...”
I sat there, wondering if I should search the penthouse.
I couldn’t think of a reason to; and the brothers were long gone. Probably I needed to get out of there — the cops would be coming to talk to the Fischettis, as soon as the Drury and Bas murders went past the crime scene stage. Of course, Tubbo Gilbert would probably be in charge of the investigation.
“Wait here,” I said, standing.
“What are you...?”
“You’re going to hear some noise. Don’t worry about it. Just stay put. Okay?”
“Why?”
I grinned at her. “You don’t get to ask that question, baby. Just sit tight and shut up.”
Five minutes later, breathing hard, I came back in the living room — my arms ached. Jackie had a startled-deer look — she had to have heard the racket I made; but she had stayed put.
“What on earth — Nate, what did you do?”
“I threw each and every one of them against the wall,” I said. “I broke every goddamn precious fucking train.”
Then I went over and grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her on the mouth.
And got the hell out of there.
11
St. Andrew’s Church — a stone’s throw from the Drury home, just beyond the rumbling El — was more than just the biggest cathedral on the Northside: it was a tribute to the fund-raising savvy of Bishop Bernard J. Sheil. The sprawling complex of Catholic activity, including a school and a gym, took up three of the four corners of the Addison/Paulina intersection, and the formidable brick cathedral spanned a city block, with twin bell towers, a massive round stained-glass window between them, and a trio of solemn wall-sconce-enshrined concrete statues, one of them depicting St. Andrew (don’t ask me which or who the other two were — it was my mother who was the Catholic).