“I don’t. It’s the hotel’s vase. I was just trying to keep things light.”
Her eyes and nostrils flared. “Light? Light? I’ve been waiting here with what I thought was a dead body for hours, waiting for you, thinking maybe I killed him, wondering what I should do…Nate…Nate, I’m frightened.”
I held her close, glanced back at the guy. “He showed up hours ago?”
She drew away just a little and nodded. “Don’t know how long, exactly. I let myself in about eleven and he was already here-after I closed the door behind me, he came out of the bedroom with that gun.” She meant the.45 that was now in my hand. “He told me to relax-we were going to wait for my ‘boyfriend.’ That’s you.”
“No kidding. So how did you arrange to smack him with the vase?”
“I was just nice to him for about fifteen minutes-smiling, chatting about the weather, just making an inane commentary-he didn’t tell me to shut up, either. He was smiling at me. He didn’t say much, but when he did, he called me ‘cutie.’” She cringed. “And then I asked him if I could turn on the radio. I said I’d be more comfortable with some music playing. He thought that was a good idea.”
“And he was sitting on the couch, there, with his back mostly to you, and you clobbered him.”
“But good. He fell over like a ton of bricks. Then I got his gun so when he woke up I’d be ready for him-only he never woke up.”
I glanced over toward our sleeping guest. “He’s hurt pretty bad. I better get some medical help for him, or maybe we will have a corpse on our hands.”
“I don’t understand…all I did was hit him with a vase.”
“This isn’t the movies, honey. A blow like that to the head’ll kill you, as often as not.”
“Well, he started it.”
I checked his wallet. According to his driver’s license, his name was Louis J. Fusco and his address was 7240 South Luella Avenue.
“I know this address,” I said, studying the license. “Where do I know it from?”
She raised her heavy dark eyebrows in a facial shrug, as she gazed down innocently at me and my pal Fusco.
“Of course,” I said, smiling, standing. “That’s Guzik’s address!”
Now her eyes narrowed. “Jake Guzik? That Greasy Thumb character that had Uncle Jim shot?” She kicked Fusco; not very hard. “I wish I had killed you,” she told the slumbering thug. “If that’s who you work for.”
“Guzik lives in an apartment house at this address,” I said. “He owns the place. This guy is probably one of his personal bodyguards, with an apartment in the same building. I should’ve known right away.”
“Why?”
“Guzik sent for me earlier. A man of his-that same clown that accosted us on the street, outside of Berghoff’s last year- was waiting in my office building. Guzik mentioned he’d sent a guy here, too. I figured they would’ve remembered to call him off, once they picked me up. They obviously didn’t.”
She cocked her head, looking at me like I was the eighth wonder. “You saw Guzik tonight?”
“I’ll tell you all about it. Let me make a couple of calls first.”
I phoned down to the front desk and Williams answered. “This is Heller. Send Matthews up.”
“Why, certainly, Mr. Heller.”
“How much did he pay you?”
“Pardon me?”
“How much did this mug who’s out cold on my carpet pay you for letting him in with a pass key?”
He gulped. “How can you even suggest…”
“I get suspicious when you don’t treat me like dirt, Mr. Williams. Of course, it could have been Matthews, or one of the bell boys. I’m just too tired to care, let alone look into it. But if this ever happens again, I’m going to feed you the fucking goldfish.”
“The what?”
I cut him off, then called the number on the card Guzik had given me.
“What?” a gruff voice said. Not Guzik’s.
“This is Heller. Your boss sent a guy around to pick me up at my place, and forgot to call him off. My girl crowned your boy with a vase and I think he’s going to need some stitches.”
“Oh. Where are you, the Morrison?”
“That’s right. I’m so pleased that you fellas keep up on my whereabouts. I’m sending him down with the house dick. He’ll have him in the alley, the loading dock area. You go in off Dearborn.”
“I know where it is. I’ll send somebody. Twenty minutes, probably.”
“Take all night, if you want. He might be dead by morning, but that’s your problem.”
I hung up. She was looking at me carefully, the violet eyes still narrowed but filled with wonder. She looked like a kid, freckles trailing across her nose.
“How can you talk to people like that,” she asked, “like that?”
“I have to talk to all kinds of people in my line.”
“No, I mean, get so tough with them. Aren’t you afraid of them?”
“Scared shitless. But if you let them push you around, they don’t respect you.”
“You want the respect of such people?”
“Sure. They leave you alone, more, if they respect you.”
She gestured to the unconscious Mr. Fusco on the floor.
“Leave you alone like this, you mean?”
“Tonight’s an exception,” I said. “Is it Tuesday yet?”
“Technically.”
“Good.” I sighed. “I’ve had enough of Monday. You want a beer or something?”