Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 14 by Chicago Confidential (v5.0) Read Free Book Online

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