Moran was down at the far end of the bar, bending over a bottle of bourbon and a tall glass, giving what was left of his attention, after the bourbon got done with it, to a busty corn-fed barmaid of twenty-five or so with short curly strawberry-blond hair, wearing a white apron over a red-and-white checked house-dress, looking very homey, wiping the bar with a rag while she smiled and listened to Moran’s smoothest line of bull. He was selling her a shopworn matinee-idol smile, gesturing with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around the tall glass. If this was a movie, John Barrymore would play him and Joan Blondell her.
A man of about fifty was working the counter in the front, hardware half of the store; he had thinning blond hair and a shovel jaw and a disgusted look.
“Can’t you keep your friend away from my daughter?” he asked Nelson.
Nelson said, “Sorry, Kurt. You shouldn’t oughta let her tend bar, if you don’t want her meetin’ men.”
With tight anger, Kurt said, “Just because she’s divorced don’t mean she’s loose.”
“Did I say that? Anything for Verle?”
“Nothin’.”
“Can I use the phone?”
Still disgusted, Kurt nodded, and Nelson went behind the counter; he nodded to me, then toward Moran. I got the picture.
I went down and sat by Moran.
He turned and cast his rheumy gaze upon me. He was wearing a dark suit with a dark tie and a dark vest; it wasn’t as hot a day as we’d been having, and there were fans going in here, so he wasn’t sweating, and looked very professional, very proper. If a little tanked.
“Do I know you, young man?”
“I’m staying out at the Gillises. I walked in on the last act of your latest operation.”
He lifted an eyebrow, placing me, then nodded gravely, but I could tell Candy Walker’s death didn’t mean a damn to him; he’d seen too many outlaw and gangster patients die to be too concerned. And, in his defense, they were lucky to have him, often working under unsanitary conditions in cellars and hotel rooms, patching up hoodlums who could go nowhere else but to a “right croaker” like him for the tending of a bullet wound that would not get reported to the police, or to bring him a knocked-up moll or prostie so he could “pull a rabbit,” or to fix a too-familiar face, or what-have-you. The underworld needed its Doc Morans.
He offered his hand. “Joseph P. Moran. Doctor.”
“I know. I’m Jimmy Lawrence.”
He had a strong grip, but his hand was trembling. Whether from drink, fear or palsy, I couldn’t tell you.
The strawberry-blond strudel behind the counter started moving down the bar with the rag, and Moran called out to her, “Don’t leave, my dear! We’ve so much else to discuss.”
She smiled at him, a pixie smile in a prettily plump face, and said, “There’s always later, Doctor.”
“A misnomer, my dear. As my former patient, Candy Walker, may now realize... ‘later’ is a commodity that can prove rare indeed.”
She didn’t understand that, so she giggled at it, and moved on down the bar, where a scruffy, apparently unemployed gentleman in coveralls had found a quarter to spend.
I suggested we move to a booth, and Dr. Moran agreed, taking glass and bottle along.
“Why are you here, young man?” he asked, pouring himself some bourbon, though his tall glass was already half full. “Getting hot for you elsewhere? Perhaps you’ve heard of my services. Not cheap, but well worth the price, I assure you. Now, don’t be put off by that unfortunate mishap with Mr. Walker. A one-in-a-thousand occurrence, a freak happenstance, a medical misfortune of the rarest order.”
“No. No thanks...”
“What you need,” he said, narrowing his eyes, holding his thumb up to his eye like an artist measuring distance, “is a good surgeon. I, myself, was an honor student, a young physician with a distinguished career ahead of me, when I ran afoul of fate. But that’s my story, and what we’re concerned with here is yours. Afraid of the authorities, are you? Well, you can go anywhere without worrying, after I’ve done a lift job on that face of yours. I’ll alter that nose — some Jewish blood in the line? Not to worry — change the shape of it entirely. And lift those cheeks, pull ’em up tight, even in a young fella like you it makes a difference...”
“Doctor...”
“I can change the expression of your eyes. I can raise those eyebrows...”
They were already raised.
“...take the sag out of your mouth. Your family, your best friends? They’ll never know you. And let’s see those hands — I can get rid of those bothersome fingerprints with the easiest, nearly painless little operation...”
“I already had a lift, Doctor.”
He drew his head back; reached in an inside coat pocket and took out some wire-rim glasses and looked at me close. “I say. Outstanding job. Who did it?”
“None of your business.”
He smiled, looking as sophisticated as a John Held, Jr., drawing. “Quite the proper answer, in your line of work. I have no difficulty with that answer whatsoever. Say! You have nothing to drink — we’ll remedy that — my dear! I prescribe alcohol for this young gentleman!”
The nicely chubby strawberry blonde walked over like an advertisement for making babies. I ordered a beer.
“Healthy lass,” he said, watching her go, almost licking his lips. “Good bone structure, beneath that well-placed beef. Ah — farm country. A rest in the country is just what I’ve needed, of late. By the way, what does bring you into the company of such notables as our friend Baby Face Nelson? An appellation, I might add, one might best refrain from using to the little weasel’s face.”
“Actually, Doctor,” I said, “I’m here to see you.”
“Me? Why, I’m honored, Mr. Lawrence. What brings you here to see me?”
“Frank Nitti.”
He swallowed, and he didn’t have a mouthful of liquor, either. The blood drained out of his face.
“He’d like you to come back to Chicago,” I said.
“Young man, I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m in the process of... relocating.”
“I heard you were well-connected.”
“Perhaps you’re aware of my dealings with one ‘Boss’ McLaughlin?”
“Just vaguely.”
“He suggested I dispose of certain funds — certain warm funds — by doling it out, a few dollars at time, to some of my patrons... if you follow me.”
“You mean, some of Nitti’s people were passed hot money?”
“Indelicately put, but true. In small amounts, Mr. McLaughlin thought the bills would cause little trouble. For his efforts he’s facing a penitentiary term. As for me, well... an emissary from Mr. Nitti passed me an envelope, shortly before I left the city. Do you know what was in that envelope, Mr. Lawrence?”
I said I didn’t.
“Nothing much,” he said, sipping his tall glass of bourbon. “Simply a single unfired round. A bullet. Do you understand that? Do you derive a meaning from that?”
It was a death sentence.
I said, “Perhaps Nitti would like to work it out with you.”
“Did he say as much?”
“Not really. He just said to tell you that he wanted you to come back to Chicago. He had work for you.”
“I see. Then I hardly understand why he bothered sending you — he’d know I wouldn’t return with so little assurance of my safety.” He looked at me as if he hadn’t looked at me before. “Unless, of course, you’re here to... but you don’t look like a gunman. Then looks at times deceive. Take, for example, the childlike countenance of the gentleman approaching...”