“Frank, he was bad for the city, very bad. You, the jury is still out.”
Nitti furrowed his brow. “And you are here why?”
“Exactly three weeks ago, a woman was shot dead in the Palmer House; eleven days ago, a man was shot dead in Beverly Hills, California.”
“So what? People get shot dead every day.”
“They were both killed with the same gun, a gun that was also used during the past ten years by one of your enforcers to, as one might say, keep certain people in line. The gun is connected to at least a dozen murders, probably more.”
“It must be a very busy gun. What the fuck does that have to do with me?” Nitti ran his manicured fingertips over the pistol on the desk.
“Its last two victims ran your Hollywood operation. They were your laundry—dirty money in and clean money out.”
Nitti’s eyes seemed to try to lean forward; for a moment, Alfano thought they actually moved. The cleft in his chin deepened. “So why you telling me this, Alfano? Hollywood, that’s in California, too, right?”
“Yeah, Hollywood, California—and, on top of that, a quarter of a million bucks is missing. It’s not actually missing; the Beverly Hills Police have it. Nonetheless, it is missing from you. Gone. Poof.”
Nitti’s tensed fingers began to wrap around the handle of the gun. “That’s a lot of laundry,” he said softly. “Shit, somebody’s going to be pissed.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” Alfano said. “And it’s all because of the killing at the Palmer House. You must have read about it—Kitty Hill, onetime chanteuse here in Chicago, connected to the O’Banions gang ten years ago, was shot down in her room. That happened the day after she and Hines Melnik had a business meeting with you. And then, ten days ago, Melnik was found dead in his fancy home in Beverly Hills, right as he was supposed to start production on your movie.”
Nitti sat there and cogitated. “I don’t know anything about all this shit,” he said irritably. “What movie?”
“I’m sure that Handsome Johnny and Gil Tuttle have filled you in about the goings-on in Hollywood. Two more dead, and your baglady has been arrested and charged with murder. She’s probably spilling her guts about now, and a quarter of a million has been recovered. Hell, there may be even more. And it isn’t just the legit films; all those sweet little deals with the stag film industry are now ass over applecart. If I were you, I would be seriously pissed.”
“As I said, I don’t have any idea about any of this. Sure, I know John Roselli. He sends me flowers for my birthday, good kid. This guy Tuttle you mentioned, never heard of him. I assume he’s some dumb Mick who thinks he’s bigger than he is. And I had nothing to do with that gun.”
“Every time I look at the guy’s rap sheet—”
“What guy?”
“The Palmer House shooter, Kitty Hill’s killer, that guy. I keep seeing your name . . . he’s connected to the Outfit, been seen with Alfonse Capone. He was born in Naples, grew up in Los Angeles. For all I know, he could be another cousin. But this guy stands out. Why? Because I know him. He used me; I got him a legit job. Then he pissed on me. I want it off.”
“He snookered you! I need to write that down. Who the hell is this guy that you got such a hard-on for?”
“Henry Bucci.”
Nitti’s fingers were entirely wrapped around the grip of the pistol. His knuckles suddenly whitened. “I don’t know a Henry Bucci.”
“Sure you do, Frank. You may have known him as Enrico Bucciola. He’s about forty, big man, wide shoulders, dark hair, wears it combed back, black eyes, smells like Old Spice.”
“That shit, Jesus. So, maybe I know about the guy. It’s a small town, really. I meet a lot of guys; buried a bunch, too. I still send flowers to a few of their mothers. What do you want me to do?”
“Give me Bucci.”
Nitti released the grip, slid his hand away. As he talked, he pointed his finger at Alfano. “Turn over a goomba to you—why the fuck would I do that? What’s in it for me?”
“A longer life.”
The hand went back to the gun. “You fucking threatening me, Alfano? That asshole Lang, I hope he goes to jail, and they give him a nice, friendly fucking roommate, that’s what I’m hoping. Cermak sent a sciatto to do a man’s work and see what it got him. So, Antonio, you threatening me?”
Alfano smiled and slowly raised his hands about chest high. “Frank, don’t get me wrong. I was just wishing you a long and peaceful life. Moments like that can change a man, I know.”
Nitti released the gun and rolled his chair backward away from the desk. His eyes never left Alfano. “Una vita lunga e tranquilla, si?”
“Yeah, something like that. Most wish for a long life; for many, that wish is cut short.”
Nitti shrugged. “I’ll ask around about Bucciola, maybe somebody knows him. I ain’t promising you anything. If I find him, I’ll tell him you are looking for him.”
“Gee, thanks.” Alfano stood and headed to the door. “Stay safe, Frank. It’s a tough city out there.”
“Fuck you, Detective.”
✥✥✥
Alfano’s next stop was Mayor Edward Kelly’s office, which was only three blocks away. He parked the Packard in the designated police stall in front. The mayor had wanted an update about his trip to Hollywood. It had been a long two weeks since Alfano saw him last.
The streets around city hall were packed with Legionnaire conventioneers. Alfano had been warned by a general note posted on the bulletin board in the station that tomorrow was all hands on deck; there was a big parade planned down Michigan Avenue to Soldier Field. Just what he needed. He had other plans. He cooled his heels again in a spacious outer office; at least this time there weren’t three guys ready to shoot him if he made a sudden and threatening move. Here in the mayor’s office, they’d just strip you of everything you held dear and leave you out there to twist in the wind.
It was the same woman at the mayor’s desk.
“Good morning, Miss Sarah Jean Alcott. Everything copacetic?” he asked.
“Don’t go using vile words around me, Detective,” Sarah Jean said.
“It’s a good word,” Alfano answered.
“It’s a Negro word. I’ll thank you for not using it in my presence.”
“I will take care, Miss Alcott. I certainly don’t want to get you all in a sweet lather.”
“I know that one, too—you are a very dishonorable and rude man, sir.”
“He is most certainly that, Miss Alcott. Why don’t you come in, Tony—you have had a very busy couple of weeks.”
It was the first time in maybe a dozen visits that the mayor came to the door of his office and personally welcomed him in. Maybe that was the way they did it in Joliet; the warden came to get you just before they threw the switch. Alfano patted his chest lightly, half thinking he might need his gun to protect himself—nothing. His gun was still in his desk back at the station.
He walked past Miss Sarah Jean Alcott, tapped her desk with his fingers, then slid past the mayor and into his office. His back and neck felt tense.
“I knew those three were no good the moment they walked into my office, Tony. No damn good, those Hollywood types. Trouble,” Mayor Edward Kelly said. “Sit there, your usual spot.”
Alfano looked around. The only other man in the room was Kelly’s fixer, Patrick Nash—no Spats Lanigan this time. The mayor went to stand leaning back against his desk, his usual spot.
“Thanks for keeping the city of Chicago out of the papers when all that ugliness and brutality happened in Los Angeles,” Nash said. “It is a Godless land; I’ll tell you that.”
“It is that,” Alfano said. “But the weather’s nice, and the food’s good, too.”
“There’s more to life than sunshine and oranges,” Kelly added.
Alfano thought for a moment. He’d not had one orange while he’d been away. “What can I do for you, Mayor?”
“Well, I originally wanted to say
thank you and learn what went on in Los Angeles. A Detective Dominic Suarez called Friday and thanked me for your help in solving the murder of that director and actor. To think that actress was the killer. Well, I just don’t understand it all.”
“I will thank Detective Suarez for thinking of me.”
“Yeah, make sure you do,” Nash said. “He seems like a good cop for a guy with a Mexican name—he didn’t have an accent or anything.”
Alfano cringed. Nash was one clueless guy.
Nash took a few steps toward Alfano and stopped about three feet away. “What we want to know is what the hell were you doing at Frank Nitti’s office not just an hour ago? That man is a cancer in this city. He and his people must be put down like dogs.”
“I understand, Mr. Nash. You mean, like what Mayor Cermak tried to do, and since Cermak couldn’t take a piss without you, Mr. Nash, holding his dick, I’ve personally concluded there were others involved. Lang said so, but nobody paid him any attention. Poor guy, I hope he makes it through the winter.”
“That’s insubordination. I’ll have you fired and thrown in the street, Detective,” Nash steamed.
“Patty, just hold on—no reason to get all in a dither,” Kelly said. “Let the detective explain.”
Alfano wanted nothing more than to spit in Nash’s eye and walk out the door. Besides, Nash talking about putting Nitti down was like two rival street gangs fighting for the sidewalks of Chicago. Maybe it was the Irish-Italian angle, maybe it was the power angle, but in either case it certainly included the money angle.
Alfano dialed his temper back and began. “Frank Nitti and his Outfit are funding film productions in Los Angeles, and most of that money is coming from their illegal operations here in Chicago. That money is then washed through the production and distribution. Then, when it’s nice and clean, it flows back to the syndicate, all neatly folded and sanitized. Melnik and his people were involved. However, it seems there was some internal squabbling about the money, and it is lots of money—and people died. One of them was a woman named Katherine Mooney. She was from your old neighborhood, Mayor, Bridgeport. She was the unfortunate victim I saw that morning at the Palmer House. That was just an hour before I met with Melnik and his cohorts here in your office. Kitty Hill worked for Hines Melnik and had connections to the O’Banions and Nitti. In fact, she and Melnik met with Nitti the day before they met with you.
“The police have been watching Nitti’s office since the shooting last winter. I read the report about two unidentified people going into Nitti’s building. It makes my skin crawl a little to think about them coming here the very next day.”
“Detective, be nice,” Mayor Kelly said.
Nash was holding a lit cigar. Alfano decided to take a chance and light a cigarette. No lightning bolt struck from above. He took a long drag and continued his story.
“It turns out that Katherine Mooney’s murder—by the way, her alias for the last ten years was Kitty Hill—had nothing to do at all with the film production in Hollywood. It had to do with two Irish hoodlums and their sidewalk executions eleven years ago. She was involved with those gangsters, saw and knew the killer, and survived.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Kelly said. “You know the killer of this woman?”
“Yeah, I know him. I know him personally. And to get him out of his hole, I had to have his boss give him a push.”
CHAPTER 31
Detective Anthony Alfano stood alone at the foot of Katherine Mooney’s grave. The white painted casket rested on two planks that straddled the hole. A priest from the Bridgeport parish, St. Mary of Perpetual Help, stood opposite Alfano reading from the Bible. An altar boy stood next to him holding an aspergillum to consecrate the coffin with holy water. A single massive bouquet of flowers, a mixture of white lilies and carnations, adorned the lid. To Alfano’s right, one woman, a paid mourner he assumed, stood between Alfano and the priest. She sniffled at the appropriate moments, earning her per diem, as the priest read the service. At least the day was fair, Alfano thought, looking around at the clear October sky. High above, a V-shaped flight of geese were heading south—Alfano thought of the pelicans at Malibu.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Alfano,” Henry Bucci said from behind him. “Thanks for coming. We hate to be buried alone.”
Alfano was startled, even though he’d known the man would be there.
“And you’re not a surprise either, Henry,” Alfano said, not moving. “It was good of you to take care of Katherine. I am pleased that someone did.”
“She deserved this. This wasn’t all her fault.”
“We each make our own story; no one else can.”
Alfano watched the priest take the aspergillum and flick it over the casket and flowers. God’s rain fell on both the casket and the blossoms. The mourner sniffled again and said “Amen” just a little too loudly. The priest, altar boy, and mourner all, as if signaled, turned and walked away from the grave. Fifty feet away, two men with shovels stood smoking cigarettes.
Alfano also turned and began to walk away.
“Follow me, Henry.”
Henry Bucci did.
“You loved her, didn’t you, Henry? That’s a hard thing to get over, I know. It’s a hard thing to find and a hard thing to hold onto. It’s just hard.”
“Star-crossed lovers, I guess,” Bucci said as he walked next to Alfano.
“In the end, Shakespeare’s lovers both take their own lives. What happened in your case?”
“I recognized Katherine when she got out of the limousine with those actor folks. I was shocked, you can imagine. So many years had passed since that day. She jumped in front of O’Neal; the bullet nicked her and killed him—wasn’t supposed to be that way.”
“Never is, is it? A contract, right?”
“I’m good, Detective, damn good. If it weren’t for her showing up here in Chicago, you would never have caught me. But I’m a piece of shit. I made money, blew it all. Four years ago, you were there to help. I needed some cover and you provided it. Sorry.”
“I guess I’m the chump. You played me. But that story is a bit false about seeing Kitty at the hotel, right? It was Nitti who told you about Kitty, that she was at the meeting with him.”
“You are good. Mr. Capone said to leave Antonio Alfano alone, don’t touch him. I never understood that. A cop’s a cop, debris in the road. But what Mr. Capone says, I follow.”
They had walked a hundred feet through the tombstones. The sugar maples and the hawthorns were turning color. More geese flew overhead.
“You and Hines Melnik, you go back a few years,” Alfano said.
“Yeah, we came over on the SS Manhattan together from someplace in France. I can’t remember the name of the city. We met onboard; we were maybe ten. I had my sad tale, he had his. A Jew from Poland meets a Dago from Naples. When his family moved to Los Angeles, I followed. We were both about eighteen then. He loved photography. I loved fast women and money. In time, he stayed. I made a mistake; I had to leave. I’ve been here over twenty years, through the war, Prohibition, and this Depression. Kept a low profile to avoid the draft. Simple, really. Do you mind?”
Alfano lit Bucci’s cigarette and one for himself.
“We had dealings with the O’Banions then—that was about twelve years ago. I think that’s when you and I first met, a roust somewhere. We were bringing hooch, good stuff, prices were high. That’s when I met Katherine. She broke my heart. She told me to drop dead a few times; I persisted. I knew that nothing was going to come of it, but she took my fucking heart. What was I to do?”
“I understand. Honest to God, I do. You should have walked away.”
“Well, that day it was all a blur. I fulfilled my contract. I believed she was dead from my bullet. Damn near ate that Colt that night. Then someone told me she was alive—but gone. She took off; I had no idea where to start. Then it got big here in Chicago—you remember, good times. A man with my skills was needed, but I burned throu
gh money as fast as I made it.”
Alfano didn’t say anything. He let Bucci talk. They kept walking.
“Then, a few weeks ago, she gets out of that limousine, damn. It was like I was knocked to the ground. Melnik gives me a hug and a handshake like it was old times. He knew I was in Chicago, but it had been years since we’d seen each other. And Katherine was with him. I was in a fucking fog. I drove the two of them to a restaurant where they met with Frank, then I took them back to the hotel. Melnik and his actors were going up to the premier of that movie. I came back to the hotel and switched for the night shift.”
“You could have left her alone, not bothered to go see her.”
Bucci gripped Alfano’s forearm. “I couldn’t. I had to see her.”
“Stupid thing to do,” Alfano said.
“Yeah, I know, but I’m not the brightest guy when it comes to these things.”
“The gun?”
“I always carry it, in a back holster. You never know in this town. I went up to see her. All I wanted was a couple of minutes, honest, that’s all. I called her Katherine; she said her name was Kitty Hill. She told me to get out, go away. I pushed my way in. She pushed back, took a swing, clocked me one good. I knocked her down; she kicked me in the knee. I buckled. I pulled my gun. She was screaming at me. She threw a bottle at me. I fired. Twice. I didn’t mean it, but I went nuts. She slammed her hands against her chest, blood everywhere, then collapsed. The gun was . . . gone. I dropped it, I guess. I had to get out. I ran, slammed the door behind me. The elevator was just opening, so I went down the back stairs. Ten minutes later, I was back at the entry.”
“You are one of the most stupid men I’ve ever known.”
“I know that, Tony. Good God in heaven, I know that. And now I have to do what Mr. Nitti says I must do.”
“You really don’t—you can walk away.”
“I can’t walk away from all this. I can’t walk away from her. I loved her. And that love will kill me.” Bucci shoved Alfano away, knocking him to the ground. Kitty’s star-crossed lover pulled a revolver from inside his coat, and as his arm rose, half his head exploded.
Chicago Boogie Woogie Page 20
