“Just one of those things. Drury happened to be in my office when he got the Carey call. He was welcoming me back. We were on the pickpocket detail together, you know, in the old days.”
Silence.
“So I went along,” I said. “I knew Estelle, you know.”
“Yeah, we know. That was an awful thing that happened to her.”
I tried to find hidden meaning or menace in the voice; I couldn’t quite.
“Awful thing,” I agreed.
“You ought to stay out of that.”
“The investigation, you mean.”
“Yeah.”
“I have an interest in who killed Estelle, Louie. But I’ll leave that to Drury.”
“That’s smart.”
“I can’t seem to make myself buy that Frank had anything to do with it.”
Silence.
“It just wasn’t his style,” I said.
Silence.
Then he said: “Frank may want to see you.”
“That might not be a good idea. The federal prosecutor knows that Frank and I have met from time to time. I’m going to be questioned about it.”
Silence.
“But you might tell Frank that I have a little medical problem left over from the war. I got amnesia over there.”
“Meaning you forget things.”
“That’s exactly right, Louie.”
“That’s a healthy sickness to have. Frank will like hearing that. Keep us informed as to the G’s interest in you.” By G he meant government. “Get a pencil.”
I got a pencil.
He gave me a phone number.
“Is this a number I can reach you at?” I asked, trying to understand what this was about.
“The party at that number can reach me,” he said. “Reach them, and I’ll reach you.”
And a click in my ear said good-bye.
I should’ve been shaken by the call; instead, I felt oddly reassured. Like the Berghoff, Campagna hadn’t changed much. Another Chicago fixture, and-judging by the black-market talk in the papers, “meat-legging” in particular being attributed to the Nitti Outfit-one unaffected by rationing.
I sipped the sweet creamy coffee, made another credit-check call.
Shortly after three, somebody knocked at my door. A crisp, hard, single knock.
“It’s open,” I said.
A Marine sergeant stepped inside, shut the door behind him. He was about forty, wore pressed blue trousers, khaki shirt, necktie and campaign hat. The shine of his shoes reflected the overhead light. He stood board-straight, not at attention, not even at parade rest, but his bearing strictly military and intimidating as all hell, anyway.
“Private Heller?” he said, taking off the hat. He had something in his other hand, too; a small dark blue box.
“Yes,” I said, standing. He looked familiar. Who was this guy?
He marched over to the desk. “I tried to call before coming, but your line was busy.”
“Uh, yes, sorry. Use the phone a lot in my line of work…hey, I know you. You’re my recruiting sergeant. You’re my goddamn recruiting sergeant.”
I came around the desk and extended my hand; he accepted it, shifting the hat to the hand holding the little box. His smile was as tight as his grip.
“Welcome home, Private,” he said.
“What brings you here, Sergeant?”
He handed me the small square box, the corners of which were rounded off. “It is my honor to present you this, Private Heller.”
I opened the little box, half expecting to find a watch inside. Instead I found a medal. A ribboned star of bronze at the center of which a laurel wreath encircled a small silver star.
“That’s your Silver Star, Private. For gallantry in action. Congratulations.”
“I…well, thank you. I, uh…shit. I don’t know, Sergeant. I feel funny about this.”
“Funny?”
“I don’t feel I did anything worthy of a medal. I did what I had to and that’s all. Only medal I feel comfortable wearing is this.” I pointed with a thumb to the Ruptured Duck on my suitcoat lapel. “I did what I had to. But getting medals for killing people, I don’t know about.”
His mouth was a thin straight line that words miraculously squeezed out of: “Private, the Marine Corps is fucked up in many ways. But one way in which it ain’t fucked up is it don’t give out medals for killin’ people. It gives out medals for savin’ people, which is what you and Corporal Ross did over in that hellhole. So if I was you, I would not have nothing but pride for this here medal.”
I smiled at the tough old bird. Old? Three years older than me, probably. Not that that made him young. Had he served in the first war? He’d have been a kid. But then a lot of Marines were.
Anyway, I offered my hand for him to shake again; he did.
“Thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate your words.”