True Detective (46 page)

I kept looking: the parking area wasn't lit, but the aurora borealis of the fair, at left, provided light enough. I was Hearing the end of the first row when I saw a car pull out over on the next row, a little black Buick coupe with a white canvas top. It was the car that had glided by and gunned down Cooney last night. I ran between parked cars into the next lane and as the lights bore down on me, I saw him. Behind the wheel.

The blond.

I stepped to one side and pointed the gun at him but he swerved toward me, and as I backed up out of the way, squeezing between two parked cars, he got a shot off at me, a silenced one, and it grazed my arm, and, dammit, goddamnit, reflex sent my automatic flying.

And he saw that, and hit the brakes, and then he was hopping out of his car, moving toward me, gun in hand, the silencer making it look bulkily modern, as if a souvenir of the fair.

At the same time, I fell back, on my back, grabbed my chest as if he'd hit me there and kind of curled up and moaned and as he was standing over me, smiling, pointing the gun down at me, I kicked his balls up inside him.

This time
he
dropped the gun.

He dropped it, his hands popping open when he doubled over, and a wheeze came out of him. not a scream, just a dry pain-racked wheeze, and as he was still bent over I slammed a fist into his jaw that about took it off its hinges and he fell on his side, but the moment of white pain had passed, apparently, because then he was scrambling for his gun and suddenly he had the damn thing, was bringing it up toward me when I dove at him, and with both hands grabbed the wrist and turned it in on him and together we pulled the trigger. The sound was no more than a
snick
but the ghostly pale face went slack and I barely had time to say it: "This time I
did
get you, flicker."

I stood, his gun in my hand, and looked around. The only sound was the muffled roar of the fair; otherwise, the night was as silent and empty as the dead man's mind. Even the breeze had died. Nobody had seen this. Nobody had heard it- not with the blond's silenced gun as the instrument of death.

His car, the engine running, was only a few steps away; I dragged him to it, and hauled him up over the running board into the seat on the rider's side. I made him sit up straight, though his chin was on his chest; his belly was bright blood-red, and spreading. I shut the door and got in on the driver's side.

I flashed my ID to the attendants as we drove past and they smiled and nodded. I laughed to myself, remembering whose concession parking was.

I stopped at an all-night drugstore on Michigan Avenue and bought a bandage for my ami and used a phone book. Ronga was listed. I didn't have to jot the address down; I could remember it. It was only ten or fifteen minutes away, too. Good.

I went back to the car and the blond was still sitting there. Where was he going to go?

Me. I was going to call on the man who sent him: his boss.

I told him so, not starting the car back up yet. getting out of my coat and bandaging the nick on my arm.

"I'm taking you to Nitti, pal," I said.

But he made no comment; in fact he slumped over to the right and rested his head against the window as if bored- the glaze on his barely open eyes seemed to confirm that. I was sitting up nice and straight, in fact leaning forward; I was a little crazy, as a matter of fact.

"What good's your opinion, anyway?" I said to the blond, pulling out onto Michigan Avenue. "You're dead."

As dead as Lingle.

As dead as Cermak.

"As dead as Nitti," I said to my rider, stopping at a light.

Then it turned green and I went.

Dr. Ronga lived on West Lexington, on the near West Side. I caught Harrison, took it over to Racine, and when I reached the corner of Lexington and Racine, I knew I was a stone's throw from the address I was looking for. On the corner was a sandy-colored brick pharmacy, MacAlister's, with an apartment jutting out above- a perfect spot for a lookout post. But I didn't see anybody in the window.

We were in the midst of Little Italy, my silent blond passenger and I. but this was a remarkably nice neighborhood for the area- and a sleeping one: it was approaching midnight, with no one on the street. no other cars at the moment, nobody but the blond and me. Down at the end of the long block was Our Lady of Pompeü Church, with an open bell tower that could also be used as a lookout, if Nitti was feeling especially threatened.

In fact, the location seemed designed to be easily defensible. The Ronga apartment was in the middle of the block, a massive three-story graystone that came right up to the sidewalk; this was unusual, as other buildings in the neighborhood were set back from the walk, with a little yard and stairs going up a story to an entrance. Across the street were more apartment buildings, also three stories, where men could be posted on rooftops, if necessary.

I drove past; the next block over, on the left, there was a little cul-de-sac park. Lexington otherwise seemed to be fancy two-flats, row houses, small mansions, all set back with modest fenced front yards. A ritzy neighborhood, for Little Italy. Cabrini Hospital and Notre Dame Church were nearby; maybe that explained it.

I turned right at the church and cut down an alley behind it. taking a jog over to another alley that would take us directly behind Ronga's graystone. It was more a glorified gangway than an alley, and it was tricky, weaving around garbage cans; my passenger leaned from one side to the other as we went. Another alley intersected and I glanced down to my left, past my inattentive companion, and saw an old-fashioned lamp over the side door. Ronga's side door.

I continued down the gangway-style alley, stopping behind the building, but not killing the motor. A series of three open porches, one stacked atop the other, joined by one open staircase, ran up the back wall. Underneath the porches was a row of garbage cans, tucked away there. I sat and let the motor run and waited for something to happen.

Two figures appeared on the middle porch; two men in shirts with rolled-up sleeves and ties loose around their necks and no coats or hats. Two men with guns in their hands. One revolver each. They leaned over the porch and assessed the situation.

The motor still running but cutting the lights, I opened the door, stood out on my running board; if I'd opened my door wide, it would've smacked into the wall of the adjacent building- the alley was that narrow.

"Any of you guys know me? I'm Heller."

The two guys looked at each other. One of them was starting to look familiar, a small, dark man with a cigarette in his slack lips, its amber eye looking down at me.

Louis "Little New York" Campagna said, "What the hell ya doin' here. Heller?"

"This isn't my idea." I said. "This guy said I should bring him here."

Campagna exchanged glances with the other man, who was fat, dark, with eyebrows that joined in one thick line over beady black eyes. Campagna and his cigarette and his gun looked down at me. "What guy?"

"I don't know his name. He's wounded. He says he works for Nitti and made me bring him here."

"Get the hell outa here," Campagna said.

"He's got a gun." I said.

Campagna and the fat guy backed away, but they were still up there looking down.

"I think he's passed out," I said. "Give me a break! Handle this."

Campagna came clomping down the wooden steps; he didn't move fast. He looked at me with more distrust than one person should be able to muster and, revolver at the ready, squeezed past the car on the opposite side of me, by the window the blond sat next to. I stayed on my own side of the car: I had a gun in my hand, too, but with the car between me and Campagna, that wasn't readily apparent. Above me the fat gunman was watching.

"Jesus." Campagna said, looking in. "He looks dead."

"Could be," I said. "He was gut-shot."

"Whaddya doin' bringin' him here for. ya stupid bastard?"

"He had a gun. Stumbled in my office, bleeding, and said he was shot and wanted me to drive him. I did what I was told. You do know him. don't you?"

"Yeah. I know him. I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it, though. Get him outa here."

"Fuck you, jack. He's your dead meat."

Campagna glared at me.

I tried to look apologetic. "Come on, take him off my hands. Look, it's
his
car- you can dump it someplace. I'll catch a cab."

"All right. Shit. Fatso!"

Fatso came trundling down the steps. As he reached the bottom, I stayed where I was while Campagna stepped away from the car, and he and Fatso faced each other within the tight dark alleyway.

Campagna tucked his gun in his belt. "Go someplace and flick yourself. Heller," he said, dismissing me.

barely glancing back at me.

Fatso put his gun away, too. and asked Campagna what it was all about, and I shut the engine off and stepped out from around the side of the car and laid the silenced gun across the back of Campagna's head, and he went down like so much kindling. Fatso's mouth dropped and his hand moved toward his waistband, but then he saw the look on my face- it was a sort of smile- and thought better of it.

Campagna was down there with red on the back of his head and on one ear; he looked out. He was out.

Holding the silenced gun on Fatso, I bent down and yanked Campagna's revolver out of his belt and emptied the cylinder of its bullets onto the brick alleyway, tossed the gun down the alley, where it fell a good distance with a dull clunk. Fatso had his hands in the air and I got his revolver out of his waistband and repeated the procedure.

Then, in a stage whisper, I said to Fatso, "Use his tie to tie his hands behind him."

He did what I told him. Huffed and puffed a bit, but he did it.

"Who's up there?" I said, still whispering.

"What do you mean?" he said, glancing back at me as he bent over working, picking up on the sotto voce. The single eyebrow across his forehead was raised almost to his hairline.

I put the silenced gun's snout near his. "Guess what I mean."

"Just Nitti."

"No other bodyguards?"

"A guy in the apartment over the pharmacy. He just stays there, sort of on call."

"Nobody else?"

"Two men in the apartment above; they're the day shift. Asleep, now."

"And?"

"Most of the people in the building are family or friends. Dr. Ronga owns the building. But no more bodyguards."

"Where's Ronga now?"

"At Jefferson Park. The hospital."

"When'll he get back?"

"Not till morning. He's on duty all night."

"Nitti's wife? Ronga's?"

"Mrs. Nitti and her mother are in Florida."

"Is that the truth?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's the truth!"

"If it isn't, I'll blow your guts all over this alley."

"If you live that long."

"Take that chance if you like."

"I'm tellin' the truth. Heller. There? Is that good enough?"

Campagna's hands were bound tight with the tie; he was breathing heavy, but was still dead to the world.

"Haul him over under the steps and put him behind the garbage cans. Get him out of sight."

He dragged Campagna like a sack of something and put him down the same way, as he moved the cans out a bit to make room. Then he heaved Campagna back there.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Now turn around," I said.

He sighed and shook his head and did. I laid the barrel of the ami across the back of his head.

He landed in the garbage cans and made a clatter. I just stood there looking up, the gun in my hand, waiting for someone to stick his head over the porch and look down. Just fucking waiting.

Nobody did.

I used Fatso's tie to tie his hands behind him. I rummaged around in one of the garbage cans looking for some paper or cloth; I found a nice dirty dish towel that had got burned, along the bottom, and discarded. I ripped it in half, wadded each piece, and shoved it in either unconscious man's mouth. Then I tied each man's shoelaces together, before laying the fat man on top of Campagna. That stood more likely to kill "Little New York" than my slugging him.

Kid games
, I said to myself silently, thinking about the shoelaces.
I'm playing kid games
. I looked over at the car; the blond was visible behind the windscreen, tilted to one side, his eyes still open a bit.
Not really
, he seemed to be saying.

Somewhere, way down the alley, a tomcat let go a yowl; then the night went silent again. It was cool for late June, but I felt hot; well, I'd been working.

I went up the stairs. Onto the first landing: the lights were off in the flat on this level. I went on up to the next. Ronga's apartment. I could see a light on in there, past a second, enclosed porch.

There was a heavy door with a lock, standing open, from when Campagna and Fatso had come out to check up on the car that had stopped in the alley, and a screen door that was shut, but not locked. I peeked in. A figure was moving in the white room beyond; the room was a kitchen. The man seemed to be Nitti.

I didn't like the way the silenced gun felt in my hand; the automatic was still under my shoulder, but I supposed I should use this bulky- goddamn gun. since it belonged to the blond, and the portion of my brain that was still rational said it was a good idea to use the other man's gun for what I was about to do.

So I went in through the screen door, with a killer's silenced gun in my hand; I went in to shoot and kill Frank Nitti.

Who was in his pajama bottoms, at the oak ice chest across the kitchen from me. with his back to me, as he bent down, rummaging around in the icebox. His back was slimly muscular and tan, the latter from his naturally swarthy complexion and Florida; there was a nasty fresh red scar on his lower back, where Lang had shot him. In his right hand was a bottle of milk. His left hand was in there picking at stuff in the icebox.

He heard me come in but didn't turn.

"What's the commotion, Louie? A couple of kids in a car losin' their cherries, or what?"

"Well there's going to be blood spilled," I said. "You're that far right."