You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online

fact that you wanted to go to the New Michigan where I’ve delivered some unsavory ones, I come up with the following: You’re a California cop tracking down some guy. You asked the Chicago cops for help and they didn’t give you much so you’re on your own.”
    “That gets you a quarter tip, Philo, and if you want to sit here with the meter off, I’ll be back out in a little while.”
    “Suits me just plumb to death,” he said in a fake Western accent. “You don’t come out in an hour you want me to call the sheriff to send in a posse?”
    “No,” I said. “It’d be too late. By the way—Capone ain’t dead. He’s alive and not very well in Miami.”
    “I never claimed to be good on facts,” said Narducy, looking at me in the mirror over his glasses. “It’s deduction that’s my forte.”
    “Goodbye,” I said, turning to cross the street.
    “Around here it’s arrivederci, ” replied Narducy, wrapping his arms around himself and slouching for warmth.
    The lobby of the hotel didn’t look big time. Like the neighborhood, it had dropped from what had once apparently been near-respectability. It was almost noon. A couple of well-upholstered painted ladies sat on stuffed chairs. It was too early and too cold to go out and work. The hotel lobby had the musty smell of mildewed carpet. It was still a few years from being an out-and-out dive, but it was clearly a losing battle. As I walked to the desk, I spotted a mean looking guy shaped like an egg giving me the eye. He was sitting, but by the time I reached the desk he had put down his comic book and was heading toward me.
    The dark young desk clerk sat with his chin in his hands and his elbows on the counter. He wore a suit, a tie, a cut on his chin from shaving, and the look of someone who had taken something to keep as much distance as possible between what he saw in his head and what his eyes told him was out there.
    “I want to get a message to Frank Nitti,” I whispered to the clerk. The tough looking little fat guy listened. The clerk heard my voice from somewhere and looked in my general direction, trying to focus. He was probably the day talent. It didn’t look like many people checked into the New Michigan during the day.
    “What makes you think Mr. Nitti’s here?” The fat little guy’s voice was the croak of a frog through a tunnel of sandpaper.
    I looked at the desk clerk who was just turning toward the gravel voice. I knew when I spoke he’d start to turn back to me and he’d forever be a beat behind whoever was talking. He must have felt like someone watching a movie out of sync. From the gentle grin, I gathered he liked it that way.
    “A cop told me,” I said, still looking at the desk clerk. The fat guy cut the distance between us to almost nothing and breathed garlic up at me. He must have been eating the stuff for breakfast.
    “I’ve got a message for Nitti from Big Al,” I said, fascinated by the desk clerk’s underwater movement. “I got in from Miami last night.”
    “Who are you?” he croaked.
    “My name’s Peters, Toby Peters. Big Al said Nitti would help me with something. Said he was a good guy.”
    From the corner of my eye I could see the fat face nod in agreement about Nitti being a good guy. From what I knew about Nitti, he had been Capone’s enforcer, the top killer. With Capone gone, he might be on top instead of Ralph Capone or Guzik. I didn’t know. I thought I’d ask Kleinhans the next time I saw him.
    “Wait here,” said the fat man. He walked away and around a corner.
    “Large weather we’re having,” I said to the desk clerk, who nodded in agreement.
    The ladies of the afternoon looked me over, gave me their best show of teeth, ankle, thigh and breast. I shrugged sadly, pointed upstairs and said, “Business.” They went back to their conversation.
    I blew my nose two or three times, passed my hand in front of the clerk’s face to be sure he wasn’t blind, and waited. The fat guy came back