“In reference to Dean’s missing million?”
“Mostly. And the grand jury investigation in general.”
“Would she have been called to testify?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Would she have talked?”
“I don’t know. Maybe somebody didn’t want to risk she might.” He sipped his beer, gave me a crafty look. “There’s also a theory that it was her that blew the whistle on Dean.”
I sat forward. “Hell, I heard she hid out with Nick, when he was ducking his indictment. That she dyed her hair black and moved into a cheap flat with him, in Cicero.”
“Yes, which is where Hoover’s finest picked him up,” Eliot said. “After somebody tipped them off as to where he was, that is.”
“Estelle?”
“That I didn’t find out. It’s an interesting wrinkle, though, isn’t it? Makes Nicky Dean himself a suspect, if it was a contract hit, that is.”
“Can’t you find out whether she fingered him or not?”
“That information’ll likely be given Drury, in good due course. Besides, I can only do so much sniffing around for you, you know. It’s got to seem casual, gossipy. If I poke too hard, somebody’ll poke back.”
“I know that, Eliot, and I appreciate it, what you’re doing.”
Pig knuckles put away, he used his napkin. Smiled again. “Enjoy me while you can, because tomorrow I’m out of here. It’s back to Cleveland.”
“To see the wife?”
“Yes, and to check in with the Defense Health regional office there. I’m on a swing where I’m spending a few days at each of our regional offices-there’s twelve of ’em, from Boston to San Francisco-giving this co-op workshop with the FBI.”
“Gee, do they have VD in Cleveland now? That place is really getting up to date.”
“Sure there’s VD. It takes the proper stamp out of your ration book to get it, however.”
“Which reminds me,” I said, standing, throwing my napkin down. “I got to walk over to the courthouse and get mine.”
“VD?”
“Ration book.”
He shrugged, stood, reached for the bill. “You’re fighting the battle of the home front, now, Nate.”
“Ain’t we all,” I said, and plucked the bill from his hands. “This is my treat. Consider it a payoff.”
“When in Rome.”
He walked out on the street with me; the snow had let up, but the wind was blowing it around, so it didn’t make much difference.
“You take care of yourself,” he told me.
“Sure, kid.”
He looked at me carefully. “Are you getting any sleep?”
“Some.”
“You look like hell.”
“You look like shit.”
“No wonder we can’t get laid,” he said, and walked off.
An hour later, ration book in my billfold, I sat in my office, and started making phone calls, working my way down a list of credit checks that Sapperstein had left on my desk. Gladys came in and asked me if I’d like some coffee. I said, sure-blonde and sweet. She said, huh? And I explained that was G.I. for sugar and cream, and now I was sipping it, between calls, slouched comfortably in my swivel chair, as the phone rang.
“A-1 Detective Agency,” I said, for the first time in some while.
“Heller?”
It was a hoarse, familiar voice, but I couldn’t place it.
“Speaking.”
“This is Louis Campagna.”
An old chill went up my spine. I sat up.
“Hello, Louie.”
“You did pretty good over there.”
“Where?”
“Over there with those Jap bastards. You did pretty good. Frank said to tell you he was proud of ya. We’re glad you’re back safe and sound and everything.”
“Well, uh, thank you, Louie.”
Silence.
Which he finally broke: “Safe and sound is a nice way to be.”
“It sure is.”
“You got in the papers your first day back, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. How ’bout that?”