But all I said was, “Nitti was the best man in his world—that’s all that can be asked of anybody.”
His eyes widened and rolled. “Bullshit, Heller! He was a killer and a thug and a goddamned extortionist and…hell, you know that, you know damn well you should join me and help cleanse this city.”
Now my eyes widened. “Did you say that? Did you really say that? ‘Cleanse this city?’ Can Bill Drury be that naive? That stupid?”
He folded his arms. “I’m not stupid and I’m not naive. And while I don’t share your admiration for Frank Nitti, I do admit he was a damn sight better than the boys upstairs.”
And he jerked a thumb at the ceiling, where fifteen floors above, the Fischettis’ three-story penthouse began.
I wasn’t really following this, and said so: “What makes the Fischettis so special, all of a sudden?”
Leaning forward, he shared his secrets, like a swami who had traded his crystal ball in on firearms and tape recorders. “The power is shifting. Guzik’s way down the ladder, now…last of the old guard. Accardo wants to retire, and there’ll be a successor named, soon. And right now, first in line, is Capone’s sweet cousin, Charley—the worst of a sick lot.”
I shrugged. “The worst I ever heard about Charley, and his brother Rocco for that matter, is they’re woman-beaters.”
“That’s an indication of their savagery, sure. Nate, since the war, Charley’s moved the Outfit full-scale into narcotics…which was something Frank Nitti would never have done.”
That was true about Nitti, and I knew narcotics use in town was up, but I said, “I thought Fischetti’s agenda was encouraging the boys to invest in legit enterprises. All I hear from Outfit sources, these days, is Wall Street and Texas oil.”
He smirked. “Oh, yeah, they’re investing in stocks and bonds and petroleum, all right. But they’re also investing in human misery.” He began counting on his fingers, though the numbers he began tossing around didn’t correlate. “There are fifty thousand drug addicts in this city, Nate—about half of them colored, on the South Side. You know what a habit like that takes to maintain? You got to steal over a hundred bucks worth of goods a day. You add it up.”
“Save the speeches for Kefauver.”
But he was rolling. “Did you ever see a schoolkid hooked on heroin? I have. Think about your baby son, Nate…think about him.”
“Maybe you should think about your own family, Bill.”
“You know I don’t have any kids.”
“No—but you got a wife, a beautiful one who loves your foolish ass. And your mother lives with you, right? And your sister? And her husband? And their kid? It’s not just your life, and mine, you’re risking, you know.”
That chin jutted even more than usual. “Annabel knows what we’re up against. She’s been at my side for a long time, Nate, through all my wars…. You know that.”
My turn for a speech. “Here’s what I know, Bill—you can talk about justice, and wave the flag, and play the violin about schoolkid junkies all you want…. But you know and I know that this isn’t about justice. It’s about getting even.”
He started to respond, then stopped.
I went on: “You picked out these Outfit guys for a target, when you were a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked punk kid, looking to make a reputation. Well, you made that rep, and along the way, also made the worst kind of enemies. They didn’t shoot you, oh no—they killed your career instead, because the way this city…hell, this country…works is, the public wants what the Outfit is selling, and so the politicians and the civil servants, like the whores they are, do their part by climbing in bed with the mob guys. You can’t do anything about that, Bill—people like money, and they like sex, and they like all kinds of things that are bad for them, like gambling and booze and dope. This isn’t about any of that, though, is it, Bill? This is about you getting even with the bastards who took your career away from you…and if you deny it, I’m going to stick that illegal sawed-off shotgun up your ass.”
He avoided my gaze, studying the tape recorder whose reels were whirling, gathering more tainted evidence. Finally he said, “They can subpoena you. I’ll tell them that you know plenty.”
“Then I’ll lie through my teeth, and save my ass.”
He gave me a long, withering look. “You did that once before.”
That was a low blow. I knew exactly what he was referring to. When I was a young uniformed cop, I had lied on the witness stand as part of a Capone mob cover-up. My father was an old union guy with a leftist bookstore on the West Side, and I knew if he didn’t get an influx of money, and soon, he’d go under. So I lied on the stand, and got the money, and was promoted to detective, and Pop shot himself through the head with my nine millimeter Browning automatic at his kitchen table in the living quarters back of the bookshop. It was still the gun I carried, when I carried a gun, which I wasn’t right now. That gun was the only conscience I had.
“When it’s safe,” I said, calmly, gesturing to the Revere machines on the scarred table, “haul this stuff out of here. Take the recorders, and any other A-1 property you’ve checked out, back to the office.”
He shrugged, nodded. “All right.”
“And Bill? You’re fired.”
Of course, he knew that already; he said nothing else as I found my way out. I paid the janitor his second fin, and walked around the front of the building. I was going to lay a twenty on the doorman, to make sure he forgot my visit.
I was in the process of giving him the bill when Joey Fischetti came out through the lobby and recognized me.
Grinning, Joey Fischetti—having just exited the elevator—trotted across the narrow, modern lobby of Barry Apartments, with its ferns, mirrors, and luxurious furnishings; his footsteps echoed like gunshots off the marble black-and-white tile floor, the first few making me flinch. About five-eight, slender, darkly tanned and immaculately groomed, Joey wore the kind of “casual” outfit it took half an hour to select from a well-stocked closet: a brown-with-white patterned sports jacket, a blue-on-white tattersall vest, gray slacks, a red-and-blue patterned tie, and a sporty charcoal hat with a fuzzy red feather that looked like a fisherman’s fly.
At forty, Joey was the baby of the Fischetti triumvirate, the only one not actively involved in criminal capitalism, with a blank arrest record to prove it; he was generally considered the best-looking of the brothers (though Charley might have taken issue), and the dumbest (no likely challengers on that point).
The latter quality was what I was counting on.
“Nate Heller!” he said, joining the doorman and myself in the crisp fall afternoon air. He was an animated guy drenched with show biz sincerity. His voice had a husky, high-pitched enthusiasm, and his eyes were as bright as he wasn’t. “Goddamn. Do you believe it? What a coincidence!”
“Isn’t it, though? Good to see you, Joey. Frank sends his best.”
Sinatra and Joey Fischetti were bosom buddies.
He grinned—big glistening white teeth that were either caps or choppers—and shook his head. “You believe that? That’s the second coincidence!”
I still didn’t know what the first coincidence was.
Now his eyes narrowed, in an approximation of thought. “What are you doin’ around these shabby digs, Nate?”
The Barry Apartments were anything but shabby: this was as fashionable as Chicago neighborhoods got, and the Fischetti clan’s luxurious triplex penthouse had once been occupied by Mayor Thompson and Mayor Cermak…one at a time, of course.
I gave him half a smile and said, “I was just bribing your doorman to see if I could come up and see you, without an appointment.”