At a booth away from the door, I put my hands on the warm table, waiting for the pain and trembling to pass. The place was full of families and couples having their Sunday meal out. The place was clean and plain, with the smell of hot food and onions.
“What’ll it be?” asked a guy with a pot belly, a sour look, wild grey hair, and a white apron.
“A buck and a half of lunch, a friendly smile, and coffee.”
His thick face moved into a bilious fake grin, and I let out a laugh-more of a laugh than the moment deserved, but I needed it. I was alive. The waiter shrugged, people looked at me and I tried to control myself.
The food was great-hot Jewish food, memories of childhood and a mother long gone. Chicago, murder, and disease had begun to turn me nostalgic. I ate the chopped liver, cold beet borscht with sour cream, kishke, boiled chicken, and rice pudding; downed my coffee, ate a piece of halvah, left a big tip, and asked the waiter how to get downtown. He told me and pocketed the tip without a comment.
I made it back to Merle’s place by late afternoon. She was reading the Sunday paper and listening to Henry Aldrich on the radio. She made some coffee, helped me undress and made me warm all over. I told her my tale, enjoyed her hands on me and giggled once.
Then I fell asleep.
When I woke up, my watch told me it was night, and my eyes told me that Merle was still in her robe. She got dressed, told me what there was to eat, and said she was going out.
“I’m going to see my kid,” she explained somewhat defiantly.
“I didn’t ask,” I said.
She smiled sadly and went out.
The phone was down the hall. I called Kleinhans’ home number, figuring it was still Sunday, but he wasn’t there. I tried the Maxwell Street Station number. He was there.
“Peters,” he sighed enormously, a man of broad telephonic gestures. “What the hell happened on the West Side?”
“I went to see Canetta, but somebody was just ahead of me.”
“We know all about your visit,” he said. “Homicide wants to talk to you.”
“They want to do more than talk, don’t they?”
“Maybe so,” he said. “I told them I thought you were clean. That I knew you were going to see Canetta, that you have no way of getting your hands on a chopper, but they want to talk. They’ve already got witnesses to your being there-some kid-and other witnesses saying you were in the neighborhood running around.”
“Shit, Kleinhans,” I said wearily, “you don’t think I did it. You-”
“I don’t think I like you, Peters, but I don’t think you did this either. You have to admit, three guys have been chopped down around you since you hit town less than two days ago, and you came here straight from a visit with Capone in Miami. I think you’d better come in and do some explaining.”
“That’d keep me tied up too long,” I said. “I’m still trying to save Chico Marx, remember?”
“Suit yourself,” he said. “But the word’s out for you and they’ve called for pictures of you from L.A. You don’t come in, it’s going to look bad and take you longer to get out and on your way back to L.A.”
“Kleinhans, did you see the bodies from that place?”
“Yeah. One of them fits what you were saying about Marx having an impersonator, but the guy isn’t that close. His name’s Morris Kelakowsky, a harmless neighborhood guy who used to act in the Yiddish theater on Ogden Avenue. Did a little neighborhood gambling, small time stuff.
“He fits, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Kleinhans admitted. “But I don’t know what you’re going to do with it now.”
“Someone’s knocking off everyone who might know about this gambling scam,” I explained. “There’s something to find out, and I keep getting close without knowing what I’m close to. Can you give me some time? How about your boss, the one who assigned you to watch me?”
There was a long beat before he answered.
“Sorry kid,” he said. “We just don’t have clout when there’s a homicide. I’ll back you if you come in.”
“By the time I get out, Chico Marx could be plowed under. Thanks anyway.”
“Your funeral,” he said. “I’ll tell the homicide boys you called and what you said. It might keep them from blowing you up on sight.”
I hung up and went back to Merle’s room. I had chills and a lot to worry about. Nitti’s gang and the cops were looking for me. My flu was worse. I still had Chico Marx to protect, and now a killer to catch.
I sweated into delirium on the bed, soaking it through, and got up around midnight with an idea. Merle had come back without my knowing it and had been placing cold washcloths on my head.
“Know why you let me in?” I said to her. “You’re a mother cat. I’ll bet you take in stray animals and feed them and find them homes.”
Her smile said yes.
8
The sun came up, promising nothing-a small orange ball bouncing over the frigid mist of Lake Michigan. It wasn’t the same sun I had seen in Miami. This was a puny younger brother who had no heat, only a useless smile. From the window in the Drake, I watched a small boat, probably a coast guard launch, heading slowly into the low steam. I listened to its motor gasp in brittle chugs over the water.
Chico and Harpo were playing gin rummy, smacking the cardboard rectangles on the table. Chico beamed through the game, uttering uhs and delighted ahs while we waited for a phone call.
Groucho lay on the bed reading the newspaper. He looked at me and shook his head.
“We’re an anachronism, a relic of the past, a clown for people who’ve never been to the circus, a dialect comic for people who don’t remember vaudeville, a fast-talking, baggy-pants comic with a leer for those who were afraid to go to burlesque. We’re a trio of dinosaurs, an endangered species lying around a hotel in Chicago waiting for someone to come through the door and shoot us.”
“No one’s going to shoot you, Grouch,” Chico said, without looking up from his cards. “They’re going to shoot me.”
“That’s consoling. If I’m lucky, and they don’t miss, all I’ll lose is my brother instead of my life. I may be tired of playing that character in our movies, but I’m not tired of playing.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.
“Call Arthur,” Chico said. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Groucho turned to me.
“My son Arthur,” he explained, “thinks he’s a tennis player, but he doesn’t have to watch himself play. That’s what I should be doing, following my son around from sunny villa to sunny country club, watching girls from the veranda while I sip cool drinks and complain about the heat.”
“Then why are you here?” I said.
“Because he’s my brother,” sighed Groucho, looking at Chico. “He never memorizes his lines. He misses shows because he’s out gambling. He throws his money away, but he’s my brother. I’m younger than he is but I’m like a father to him.”
Chico’s hand went up in a mock denial, but his eyes stayed on his cards.
“Don’t be crazy.”
“Crazy, eh,” said Groucho, throwing the paper down and opening his eyes wide. “They said Caesar was mad and Hannibal was mad and surely Napoleon was the maddest of them all.”
“Eduardo Cianelli in Gunga Din,” I said.
“That’s right,” said Groucho, throwing me a cigar and glaring at Chico. “Now Ciannelli is a great Italian actor.”
“He was supposed to be an Indian in Gunga Din,” said Chico, “but he kept his Italian accent. I could have played an Indian with an Italian accent.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Groucho. “Let’s see if we can get you cast as Geronimo. I’ll suggest it to Mayer.”
The phone rang. Groucho answered in a fake Southern Negro dialect.
“Yessuh. Yessuh, he right here suh. He shohly is.”
He handed me the phone.
“Peters,” I said.
“Mitch O’Brien at the Times. You wanted someone
from City Desk to call you?”
“Right,” I said. “I’m a reporter from the Toronto Star and I want to get in touch with Ralph Capone-an interview. Have any idea how I might do it?”
“What’s your first name, Peters?”
“Tobias,” I said. “Why?”
“Who’s the city editor on the Star?”
“Tavalario,” I said instantly. “New man. Old friend.”
O’Brien laughed at the other end.
“O.K. Peters. Is the Star a morning or evening paper?”
“Evening,” I guessed.
“What are the deadlines?”
“Ten, two and four,” I said quickly.
I didn’t like his laugh.
“You don’t work for the Toronto Star. You work for Doctor Pepper. You’re the guy the cops are looking for. Shit, you could at least have changed your last name.”
“I didn’t think they’d get to the papers with me.”
“I’m a police reporter,” he said. “I read all about you on the blotter last night.”
Groucho had gone back to his paper. Harpo held a card up high, hesitating to throw it. Chico looked at the card, leered, and nodded his head, daring Harpo to drop the card.
Harpo let out a gookie, the puff-cheeked, crosseyed idiot face from his movies. I had never really related the little man playing cards with the wild-haired idiot on the screen. The look startled me. Chico burst out laughing and Groucho smiled.
“That’s been sure fire since he was a kid,” Groucho explained. “When in doubt, pull a gookie. It always cracks Chico and Gummo.”
“Peters, what the hell is going on there?” It was O’Brien’s voice over the phone.
“I was thinking,” I said. “You win. Why are you talking to me?”
“Maybe a story,” O’Brien said. I could hear the sound of voices behind him, somebody yelling, typewriters clacking.
“I checked you out with a couple of calls to L.A. I’m going to have a hell of a time explaining the expense if I don’t come up with something. My source says you’re straight-well, maybe a little bent-but you’re not likely to start a machine gun spree.”
“You never know,” I said.
“I really don’t give a shit,” said O’Brien. “I’ll give you a Capone phone number if you give me the story.”
“Some things I can’t talk about,” I said, looking at the Marx Brothers. “I’ve got a client. I’ll tell you what I will give you-a first person account about how I found the bodies.”
“Is it bloody?” said O’Brien.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’ll love it.”
“O.K., Peters, but I tell you in advance, it’ll be fugitive gives his version of gangland style murders in exclusive interview with the Times.”
“What the hell,” I sighed. Then I told him about Finding Bistolfi in the LaSalle and Canetta and Morris Kelakowsky in the West Side apartment. When I looked up, Harpo and Chico had stopped their game and were staring at me. Groucho’s eyes had become narrow and serious.
“O.K.,” said O’Brien. “It’s good.” He gave me a number, Independence 1349, and told me to call again if I had anything to trade.
I hung up. Six Marx eyes were on me as I got the desk and asked the operator to get me the number O’Brien had told me. In a few seconds it was ringing.
“Yeah?” said a voice.
“My name’s Peters,” I said. “Al Capone said I should look up his brother Ralph.”
“Who’re you?” The voice was that of a man who took his time, and yours, absorbing information. I told him who I was and repeated that Al Capone had told me to call. Then there was silence.
“Hello,” a male voice said. This second voice was high but raspy, as if someone had cut it in two and pasted it back together but did a bad job.
I repeated my tale about Al Capone, even mentioned Giuseppe Verdi, and asked if the guy on the other end was Ralph.
“What you want?” he replied.
“Nitti’s men are after me. The cops are after me. I’m trying to save my client, Chico Marx, from getting cut down for a debt he doesn’t owe, and Nitti won’t listen.”
The voice told me to keep talking, so I did.
“I need to get Marx and a guy named Gino Servi together to prove Marx isn’t the guy who owes him. Nitti’s going to have to stop trying to kill me and Marx long enough to listen.”
“I think Chico Marx is funny,” said the voice soberly.
I put my hand over the receiver and told Chico the guy at the other end thought he was funny. He shrugged his shoulders.
“I like the one doesn’t talk, too,” he said. “The other one talks too fast.”
“Nitti doesn’t think Chico’s funny,” I said.
“He has a right,” said the voice reasonably. “I’ll see what I can do about Nitti. I can’t do anything about the cops. There was a time a few years back when I could. Understand?”
I said I did.
“I give you no promise,” said the raspy voice. “Nitti might say no. And I’m going to check you out with Al. If he didn’t give you the O.K., I’ll be looking for you. You’re Peters, right?”
“Right. And you’re Capone, right?”
“Where do we reach you?” he said, avoiding an answer.
I suggested that I call back, but he wasn’t having any.
“Page a Mr. Pevsner in the lobby of the Drake,” I said. “I’ll have someone answer it and get the message to me.”
“Right,” he said and hung up.
“That was very nice,” said Groucho. “Very tricky. Who’s going to pick up the message?”
“I will,” I said. “There’s no problem.”
I proved there was no problem by looking at my watch and leaning back in my chair with a false yawn. There was a very good chance that Al Capone wouldn’t remember who the hell I was, and the only other guy who could confirm the Miami meeting was Bistolfi, who had been permanently punctuated at the LaSalle. The chances were good to even that Capone or Nitti’s men would soon be in that lobby ready to break the arm of whoever picked up their message, and would keep breaking it into smaller pieces till they were led to me. I figured I’d save them the trouble and one of the Marxes a broken arm. The odds were bad if you were betting your life, but I had the feeling Chico, with his lousy gambling instinct, would have thought they were reasonable.
“Well,” sighed Groucho. “I’m going upstairs to sit in on a regional convention here-the American Psychiatrist’s Association.”
“You got the right,” said Chico, examining his cards and rubbing his chin pensively. “You played a horse doctor.”
Groucho stood up, put on his jacket, combed back his hair, and tightened his mouth into a serious and painted grimace. He looked like a bored doctor.
“It’s about time someone spoke up about Freud and his disciples,” he said, moving to the door. His brothers ignored him, and Groucho went on. “I’m sick of that nonsense. ‘Parents are responsible for all their children who turn out wrong. They hated their mother, father, or both. Show people had especially unhappy childhoods and made up for it by going into acting.’”
“I know,” said Chico, still not looking up, but knowing what was coming. “You loved our mother and father.”
“Our parents were wonderful people,” Groucho went on. Harpo nodded in agreement and played a card, which Chico snapped up with a ha-ha.
“Our parents were terrific,” said Groucho. “We had great times. We didn’t go into show business to escape our home. We went into show business because my mother’s brother was Al Shean, who was pulling down $250 a week. We wanted a piece of that.”
“Analysis may have done some good for a handful of people,” Groucho said, “but if I know, it left a lot of people with a hell of a lot less money. Well, maybe Doctor Hackenbush can get in a few words of scorn on the twelfth floor. Take care of yourself, Peters.”
He exited and I went to the door.
“Toby,” said Chico, without looking
up, “you don’t have to get yourself killed for me. Grouch just left the room because he was embarrassed to tell you that he and Harpo agreed to pay the $120,000 even if I don’t owe it.”
Harpo didn’t look up from his cards.
“You want them to pay?” I said.
“Hell no,” he said with a smile.
I left the room, closing the door behind me, and took the elevator down to wait for a message from the man with the raspy voice I assumed was Ralph Capone.
The lobby was crowded with men in dark suits and white name tags, pipes, and a few beards. I took a seat facing the door after buying a Life magazine for a dime. I flipped through it.
Some New Zealand soldiers in Libya were on the cover. There were stories about Nazis killing Poles and the British effort to keep smiling through the bombs. There were two pages of pictures of a yogi doing contortions, and a piece on a newsy named Angie S. Rossitto, a thirty-five inch high midget who was running for Mayor of Los Angeles. “As short as I am,” Life quoted him, “I won’t sell the people short.”
Somewhere around eleven in the morning, about thirty minutes after I had sunk into Life and the leather black chair, three familiar forms came through the front entrance. Costello’s arm was still in a sling. Chaney was wearing a scarf. Maybe he had caught my cold, since I was pretty well rid of it. The juke box man came right after them. Life magazine covered my face, and I was nose-to-nose with a picture of Ingrid Bergman, but they knew I was around or someone was who could lead them to me. The juke box stayed at the door while the other two moved forward with hands in pockets. It looked like Ralph Capone had turned me over to Nitti, but I didn’t have time to be bitter. I got up slowly as two men passed by, talking close together and seriously. One of the men was fat. I moved behind him as they headed for the elevator.
Through the crowd, the two familiar figures bubbled in and out of sight, searching faces. I ducked, pretending to listen to the conversation of the two talkers. One guy was saying something about subconscious wishes.
If the elevator had come five seconds earlier, I would have made it clean-but you can check off the turning points of your whole life and punch them into a total of a few minutes of chance and choices.
You Bet Your Life tp-3 Page 10
