“Ya talked me out of it,” I said. “I’m not going in.”
The waiter brought us each a second beer.
Lou shrugged, smiled. “I understand the impulse. I’m older than you and I thought about it, too.”
“When your brother enlisted,” I said, beer at the ready, “you went down the next day and took the physical. If you hadn’t flunked, you’d be in right now.”
Wide-eyed, smiling, he said, “How do you know that?”
“I’m a detective.” I took a sip of beer. “Anyway, I used to be. How much play did Davis give me in the News?”
“‘Barney Ross’s Private Eye Pal.’ Pretty corny. All the Cermak and Dillinger and Nitti stuff, dredged up. The Pegler bit, too. But just one story. Yesterday.”
“Fuck. Did I understand Gladys to say Barney’s coming back to town?”
“I believe so. His malaria flared up, and he was off Guadalcanal before New Year’s; he’s been in the States for-”
“I know,” I said. “They let us read the papers in the bughouse. It’s just sharp objects they kept from us.”
“No offense meant, Nate…”
“Me neither. Anyway, I know about Barney. I talked to him on the phone once, even. Did you know Roosevelt pinned the medals on him, personal?”
“We get the papers here, too,” Lou said, smiling faintly.
“But he didn’t say anything about coming back to Chicago, on this extended furlough they’re promising him. He said he was going out to Hollywood, to be with his girlfriend. Wife, I mean.”
“Well,” Lou said, “he’s changed his mind, apparently. My guess is he’s needed to pump some business into his cocktail lounge. His brother Ben just isn’t the manager that Barney was.”
“Shit-Barney was a terrible manager, Lou. But he was a draw. A celebrity.”
Lou shrugged facially. “Now that he’s a war hero, they’ll flock there to see him.”
For some reason I didn’t like to hear that. I didn’t know why, exactly, but I could feel anger behind my eyes.
Lou said, “Do you want to hear about our business, or not?”
“Sure. How have I been doing?”
“You’re not getting rich, but you’re no pauper. Business is off slightly-divorce work is way down-but there’s still too much for one op to handle. If Frankie were here, one of us might be feather-beddin’, but there’s plenty here for the two of us.”
Why didn’t I care? I tried to look interested and said, “Such as?”
“Half a dozen suburban banks are using us for investigating loan applicants and credit; also some personnel investigation, and inspection of property and businesses. We got plenty of retail credit-risk checks to do, and four lawyers are now using us to serve their papers…”
I couldn’t listen. I tried. I swear I tried. But after while I was just looking at his face and his mouth was moving but I couldn’t make myself listen.
This is your business, a voice in my head was saying, this is what you worked so hard to build, once upon a time, so jump back in, jump back in, but I didn’t give a shit.
“Nate?” he said. His change of expression, to concern, made me tune his words in. “Are you all right? You seemed…distant, all of a sudden.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I sighed. Sipped the beer. “You just drop a stack of work on my desk and I’ll get to it. I promise you.”
“You’re the boss,” he said.
“In name only. You got to run the show till I get back on the ball. I had amnesia, did you know that?”
“No,” he said. Trying not to show his surprise. “We were told…battle fatigue. Shell shock…”
“I blocked it all out,” I said. “Forgot everything I could. My name. Who I am. Who I was. I don’t know if I can remember how to be a detective, to be quite honest with you.”
He smiled a little, swirled his beer in its glass. “Nate Heller with amnesia is still twice the detective of any other man I can think of.”
“That’s horseshit, Lou, but I do appreciate it.”
He looked in the beer, not at me, as he said, “I took the liberty of setting up an appointment for you this afternoon.”
“Really? I don’t think I’m in any mood to see a client just yet, Lou-”
“It’s not a client, and this is something you might just as well deal with right away, ’cause they’re not going to let loose of you till you do. They been calling for weeks, trying to set something up.”
“Oh. The federal prosecutor. That grand jury thing.”
“Yeah. Treasury and Justice Department investigators been swarming around town for weeks. Months. They’re really trying to put the screws to the Outfit. For whatever good it’ll do ’em. The prosecutor’s name is Correa, by the way.”
“Don’t know him.”
“He’s out of New York. That’s where the grand jury will eventually meet. But much of the investigation’s going on here. Most of their witnesses, and those they indict, will be from here, so Correa keeps a local office. And there’s an Illinois-based grand jury in the works, as well. Same subject-the Syndicate infiltrating the unions.”
“Aw shit.”
“They want to talk to you, bad.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“There’ll be somebody to talk to you, informally, at the office at two this afternoon. If you don’t want to face it, duck out. Me, I’d suggest you get it out of the way. You won’t get any rest till you do.”
“Shit.”
“Correa won’t be there; he’s in New York at the moment. But a couple of old friends of yours will be.”
“Such as?”
“Such as your favorite cop, for instance.”
“Stege?”