by Tee Morris
I had known all along that this case would eventually bring me here. After all, I was getting involved with the Business. However, I had been hoping for that involvement to be more on my terms, preferably with someone close to Capone. But sitting down with Capone himself? Over a dinner he cooked? Now that was something I didn’t count on.
As “nice” as our dinner had started, though, he had begun playing games almost immediately. The second insult was no slip. Then a mention of Miranda—extremely intentional. If his hospitality had caught me completely off-guard, the games sobered me up pretty quickly.
“You set a terrific table, Al.” I broke off a piece of bread, dipping it in the sauce remaining outside my pasta. “I can’t help, though, but worry that I’m taking up your valuable time.”
Al’s smile softened as he helped himself to a hunk of bread. His plate still had a bit of this sauce left on it, but not for long as he ran the bread across its surface. “What makes ya say dat, brownie?”
Yep, he did it again. Time to swallow hard and keep going.
“Well, just that you’re a man of extremes. You either enjoy the lush life, or you’re keeping to yourself. Tonight, you’re dining here in this ritzy hotel. Big room, sitting at a table for eight, and your guards are on the clock. Dinner at what I’m guessing is your office? Kinda tells me you didn’t feel like being social tonight.”
Capone gave a laugh and nodded. “Veeeeery good. Very good, you. Guess bein’ a private eye, it’s hard ta turn dat off, huh?”
“I just watch and learn, Al,” I replied with a shrug. He was right, but I wasn’t going to let him in on that. “I watch and learn.”
“And how ’bout teach, Billi?” His plate now clean, he shot a glance to the waiter hovering in the doorway before picking up his wine glass. I watched as the employee disappear the moment Al took a sip, his glass nearing empty. “Y’evah teach?”
I finished my own glass. I could see a trace of a grin on his face. “Well,” I replied, “I don’t so much teach as I inform.”
Al nodded slowly, turning his attention to the window opposite. A car honked, its engine revved, and then faded into the distance. He looked back at me. “T’ink ya could inform me, den?”
Capone’s waiter reappeared with an open bottle of wine and a second. As he refilled the glass, the other waiter appeared with the pipe removed from me earlier (already packed with my weed) and a good-sized cigar, already cut and waiting to be lit.
“You see,” Capone continued, “I’m lookin’ fa some infahmation, and I can’t t’inkah no one bettah ta inform me den a private dick from da front page.”
I could have come back with that “private investigator” line I used with Miss Lesinger and Miss Rothchild, except that here, it would be my ticket on the Wise-Ass Express to the Afterlife.
“All you have to do is ask, Al,” I smiled as I mopped up my plate with the fresh baguette, its thin crust melting in my mouth. The wine steward offered a refill, but I shook my head and took my pipe. “You’ve been a gracious host and a stand-up guy for inviting me to dinner.”
I wasn’t lying there. Insults aside, Capone was being gracious. After all, I was still breathing. Pretty damn gracious, if you ask me.
Capone laughed, his laughs sounding closer to pig’s grunts as he placed the stogie in his mouth. “Ya know sumtin’, Shorty, I’m likin’ yous da longah we sit heah!” He drew from the cut end as the waiter held a small lighter to the cigar, causing the lighter’s flame to flare with each of his deep drags. “Na…don’ geh me w’on…” he continued, still lighting the cigar. I guess he felt like he had to get his thoughts out, regardless of how much the cigar hindered his speech. “I unna-sta y’goh ob-la-gai-sha…” One more long drag and the cigar was lit, his speech clearing up. “An obligation ta keep t’ings private an’ all. So do I. I got obligations. Obligations ta da people dat work fa me. Obligations ta my family. Obligations ta my friends.”
“Obligations to friends, Al?” I placed the pipe stem in my mouth and, on cue, the wine steward ignited the lighter, catching the contents of my bowl. Once the weed glowed softly, the servant gave me a courteous nod and cleared my side of the table. “Some friends. Asking obligations of you?”
With the second already heading for the kitchen with Al’s dishes, the butler took my plate and empty glass, gave a nod to us, and we were alone once again. Just us and Capone’s hired muscle, their attentions divided between the world outside the hotel, the corridors outside our suite, and me.
I removed the pipe from my mouth, sending a light puff above us. Didn’t want to be rude to the host. “What kind of obligations are we talking about?”
“Favuhs fulfilled, Billi. Promises kept. An’ if I make a promise, my honah, my children’s honah, and da honah of my family is challenged. I’m not one ta back off a challenge, no mattah wheah it comes from.”
Capone reached for a folded-up newspaper, letting it fall open to the front page. This headline was about as clever as the one I’d read this morning:
HALF AND HALF
The headline blared in huge letters above the picture of me leaving Riletto’s crime scene. This public eye, though, got lucky. Along with revealing me being escorted from the alleyway, the photo included the bottom half of Riletto stuffed in the trash can behind me.
“An’ dese people I got obligations to?” Al went on. “Well, Billi, dey wanna know who’s issuin’ da challenge.”
Big Al had a point. All I could do was remove my eyes from the newspapers and lock on his. “I can understand that.”
He kept this stare with me for a moment, and then turned back to the picture, puffing the stogie in his mouth. “Mmmm…I figyuh y’wou’. Ya smah gah.” After appearing to memorize every inch of that front page, he took another drag from the cigar, shaking his head disapprovingly.
I gave my pipe a long drag too, sending a few smoke rings to one side. I find smoke rings make great tension-breakers. “So, Al, these obligations to these friends of yours, your crew—how do they involve me?”
“Now yah da private dick. I t’ink ya can figyah dat out.”
“Oh, it’s a test,” I said with just a touch of facetiousness, not that I was expecting Capone to pick up on it. He didn’t, thank the Fates. “Well now, let’s see. The Defender’s photographers couldn’t get too close to the crime scene in question, but they did manage to get a shot of a rather handsome dwarf. Now, if this handsome dwarf is coming from a crime scene that public eyes couldn’t get up close to, he must’ve been invited by Chicago’s Finest to give them some pointers on the crime scene.” Replacing the pipe in my mouth, I concluded, “And when you got a mick like O’Malley running the fuzz, Chicago needs all the help it can get.”
Al gave a few healthy guffaws, the cigar still lodged in between his teeth. “So, ya go back a ways wit O’Malley, eh?”
“We’ve danced a few times. He’s got two left feet.”
Capone gave few more chuckles. Paused. Puffed. And then asked, “But he still invited ya ta have a look at what happened ta m’boy, Benny?”
“Yeah. Apparently, I was the last one to be seen with him.”
“And den Benny winds up dead in an alley?” He folded up the paper and set it on the table, rubbing his forehead with his palm while the cigar continued to smolder between two fingers. “Dis upsets me. Dis upsets me like y’wouldn’ believe, Billi.”
“Yeah, it upsets me, too.” I took another slow drag as I studied Al, who remained engrossed in the newspaper. “Benny was a good guy. A real pal. I’m sure you feel a loss…”
He finally looked over. “I just learned da guy’s name a coupla days ago,” he remarked, his tone a bit cold and callous. “Still, he was a loyal soldjah an’ all. But since you knew Benny so well, how ’bout ya tell me what yous two talked about?”
Finally, we were getting down to business. I was going to ’fess up that I’d been poking my pudgy nose into Al’s affairs.
Now that we were facing the real reason why I was th
ere, I knew I needed to tread lightly unless I wanted to make a bad situation worse. Although he was Public Enemy Number One, Capone never forgot “the big three.” Duty. Honor. Family. If you asked him what got him up to where he was, he would have given “the big three” all the credit. (Well, most of it anyway. I’m sure the bullets and the brutality were a big help, too.) If you betrayed any of Al’s Holy Trinity, you’d better have a Portal of Oblivion to get sucked into, because there wouldn’t be anyplace you could hide from him in this world.
“Al,” I began, adopting the casual approach. Now, I was friendly, chummy, and relaxing with an old friend…an old friend who wouldn’t hesitate to use me for his private boat’s anchor. “We’ve been sitting here, breaking bread and sharing wine as friends. So, how about we talk like friends, capisce?”
Capone didn’t budge.
“You know what I do for a living,” I explained patiently. “People pay me to find answers to questions. All kinds of questions. Why? Because I ask the questions no one else will ask, to people no one wants to be seen or associated with. I’m on a case right now, and the question my client asked led me to Benny Riletto. I asked the question. We talked a bit. And we didn’t talk about anything in your business, save for one thing: one of your generals, Anthony ‘Pretty Boy’ DeMayo.”
I noticed Capone flinch on hearing DeMayo’s name. Interesting reaction to his former right-hand man. He puffed on his cigar, still avoiding any eye contact. Maybe he was thinking about DeMayo? Looking back on their years together? Whatever trip my new friend Al was taking down memory lane, it was not a pleasant one. His eyes darkened slightly. Now it was my turn to watch him in silence, trying to figure out if I was going to leave on my own accord, or be carried out by four of Capone’s boys.
“It’s one thing to hit one of your own. But you brought that whole building down with not one, not two, but three bombs?”
Capone nodded. “I was tryin’ ta prove a point.”
“Prove a point, Al?” I leaned forward, fishing for a certain response. “Or trying to bury something you couldn’t control?”
Maybe he knew more about DeMayo’s plan than he was letting on. Did Capone think that DeMayo had the Sword and figured he would bury both traitor and trinket, making sure neither would move against him? Did Capone know something about the Singing Sword that he wasn’t admitting?
He raised a dark eyebrow, a smile accented by the cigar between his lips the prelude to a soft laugh. “I’m impressed,” he finally said, removing the stogie and tapping it free of ashes. “A little private-eye Tom Thumb, aintcha?”
The ogre at the door was snickering. Now we’re back to the name-calling? Bad direction, Al. Don’t do this.
“Y’got balls. Serious balls for a small fry, Billi.”
“Yeah, well, when you only come up to the waistline, you got two options to do with what the other guy’s shovin’ in your face. Me? I choose to punch ’em. The Catholic Church is always in need of good sopranos.”
Oh, he found that one funny. “Good one, Billi. Good one. But ya know, I’m not a violent man. I’m not. I jus’ have a tempah.” He shrugged, gesturing with his hands, his smoke sending wisps around his head. “My boys know it. Chicago knows it…”
His voice trailed off as he leaned forward, the cigar now pointing upward like a defiant “one-finger salute.” He wasn’t smiling anymore. “But I’m thinkin’ maybe you don’t know dis. Shorty, ya just need ta ask if ya really wanna screw wit me?”
This intimidation game was getting dull. “Okay, I’ll ask. Do ya really wanna screw wit me?”
Capone didn’t laugh. I didn’t expect him to.
“You asked me what I talked about with Benny. I told you. And as I told you before, Al, I’m not stupid enough to lie to you. I’m telling you the truth about Benny and my morning. Now you’re fishing for—what—details? Then, I went on a research trip to the Ryerson. What more do you want?”
“What do I want? What do I want?!?” Capone was on his feet now, his face a deep, mottled red. I knew what he wanted. It had nothing to do with details. I just wanted to be sure.
“Y’know what I want!” he shouted. “I wanna heah it! I wanna heah what ya found out ’bout da t’ing!”
I kept my eyes locked on him, sending a set of smoke rings his way.
“Y’know sumtin’, Baddings?”
Okay, that’s his windup. I’m thinking his fastball is next.
“For a pixie, you’re a handful.”
Fine. Time to send this pitch deep into center field. “Yeah, but even being a dwarf, I still stand toe-to-toe with you, Scarface.”
I heard the ogres’ hammers pull back. They must’ve pulled out their heaters when Capone exploded, thinking I was on borrowed time. Maybe I was close to taking the dirt nap, but I really didn’t care now what line I’d just crossed. I knew he killed people for calling him that, but he wouldn’t stop pushing. (Something else Al didn’t know about me…I can handle being called an elf before being called a pixie.)
“You lose that temper of yours, kill me now, and I take what I know with me. Now maybe you’re thinking, ‘So what?’ Well, how about I tell you exactly what?”
He was about to pop, but I just wasn’t all that impressed. I’ve seen orcs up close and personal, feeling their breath on my face and smelling their sweat in the heat of battle. You think this fat human is going to intimidate me?
“Let’s say you find whatever you’re looking for. I can tell you this: You’re not going to know what the hell it does, or how it works. I’ll make a wizard’s wager that no one in this world is going to know what the hell it does, or how it works. So that leaves me.”
I gave a nod to the steward and held out my pipe. After his eyes darted nervously from me to Capone, he quickly turned to fetch me an ashtray. (Poor guy was sweating harder than a fully armored foot soldier in summer.)
“I’m not from these parts, Al. Like you couldn’t have guessed that. So when you finally find what we’re both talking about, which is…?”
I wanted Capone to say it. I didn’t need to ask myself if we were talking about the same thing. Coincidence was a fair-weather wench in my life.
“Da Singin’ Sword,” he finally said, his voice just audible over the outside traffic.
A piercing tink-tink-tink-tink-tink filled the room as I rapped my pipe against the thick marble tray. I gave my bowl a quick check before giving Al the final score in this pennant playoff.
“Then you’re going to need an expert from the outside. And I’m here to tell you, Al, that they don’t come more outside than me.”
The cigar smoldered between his pudgy lips, but I could tell from the occasional glow of the embers that he was still breathing. Calling Capone the name he hated was a stupid thing to do, but what I was offering him was far beyond the borderlands of his imagination. It was also my bargaining chip with the Big Man. What I knew about the Sword of Arannahs would wrap Capone around my finger until I became useless. Then, he would bring up the “Scarface” comment and take me for diving lessons off the Reliance Building.
I knew that this was a serious bluff, but I wasn’t showing my cards. Capone wasn’t the only one who knew the gargoyle’s stare.
He finally moved away from the end of the table and leaned in close to me. If it had been just the two of us, I would have slapped that stogie out of his mouth. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to bore through me with his steely gaze.
“And why d’ya t’ink ya can stand up ta me, Baddings?”
I conjured up the best shit-eating grin I could muster. “Because I know what the word ‘flout’ means.”
Okay, it was his move. I didn’t have to glance at Al’s muscle to know they were just wanting the nod. I hadn’t heard their boom daggers slipping back into their holsters. A single gesture stood between me leaving here on my own accord and that long car ride out to the country where three leave, and two come back.
He grunted. Okay, not what I expected, but it was better t
han having him give the command to his boys. Again, he grunted…and these grunts eventually turned into a good, healthy laugh.
“You—are funny. Yeah, youah funny guy, Billi!” Capone nodded approvingly, still laughing at me as if I was a court jester who finally got in the big score. Even over his guffaws, I could hear the guns behind me slipping back into holsters. “And I like funny guys, Baddings. I do. Yeah, deah’s too much tragedy in da streets.”
“Listen, Al,” I volunteered, “I don’t know if you were on top of this, but you may not be the only boss looking for the Singing Sword.”
His laughter died down as he put out his cigar in the massive ashtray on his end of the table. “Really? What gives ya dat impreshun?”
“Couple of trolls dropped Bugs’ name to me a couple of nights ago. Consider that a free bit of investigation from me.”
Capone nodded. He didn’t seem surprised at all, but he did appear disappointed. “So, I take it y’gonna come work fa me if I get da Singin’ Sword first?”
“If you don’t, I’ll get it for you. You got an idea what it can do, and I know exactly what it can do. I’d rather see it in your hands before Moran’s. No offense, but you’re the lesser of two evils.”
My second bluff. I just hope he took it as well as the first.
“None taken,” he nodded.
“Al,” I went on, “Chicago is yours. And I respect that. I’m going to make sure the Singing Sword goes to the right people, and the right people are in this room.”
Yeah, the right people were in this room, all right. It was me.
He was quiet, thinking over my offer. For the second time tonight, the chances of me seeing the sunrise tomorrow rested with his decision. Guns out or not, the ogres were still on the clock and waited on that decision, right along with me.
“Den I’ll bid ya good evenin’, Mr. Baddings. I hope y’enjoyed dinnah.”
“Mr. Capone, the pleasure was all mine.” I slipped my pipe back into my inside pocket, gave my tie a slight tug, and fixed my stare with Capone’s. Yeah, it was my pleasure that I was walking out and not being carried out. “If you come across the Singing Sword, Mr. Capone, you go on and give me a call, and my services are yours.”
