I went next door and sat at my desk. I’d slept pretty good at the Morrison. Restless, but no dreams about shell holes. Or office shoot-outs, either.
Midmorning, the phone rang.
“A-1 Detective Agency.”
“Heller?”
“Louie.”
“No problems, I trust?”
“No. Thanks for the new glass.”
“You’re welcome. Frank said to tell you he appreciated the opportunity to clean up that mess.”
“Well, it was Frank’s mess, after all.”
“No. It wasn’t. They were Outfit, but Frank didn’t send ’em to that apartment on Addison Street. And he didn’t send ’em to your place, neither.”
“Sure.”
“You don’t have to believe it.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Frank says he owes you one.”
“Frank owes me nothing!”
“He says he owes you one. And he’s going to pay it right now. Your boxer pal, Ross?”
What in hell could Frank Nitti have to do with Barney?
“What about him?”
“He’s got a monkey on his back.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s buying morphine from street dealers.”
“What?”
“They must’ve give it to him overseas to kill the pain and he got a taste for it. He’s got a seventy-buck-a-week habit, and it’s gonna get more expensive in a lot of ways as the days go by. Capeesh?”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything.
“Frank just thought you might want to know,” Campagna said.
And hung up.
On March 18, a Thursday, the federal grand jury in New York returned indictments against Nitti, Campagna, Ricca and six other top Outfit figures. It didn’t hit the Chicago papers till the next morning-I, however, got a preview that very afternoon.
I was sleeping on the couch in my inner office under the photos of Sally and another actress from my past; such cat naps were becoming a way of life for me. Gradually, I’d been sleeping better. The shell hole dreams were easing up. Subsiding. But I’d as yet to have a good, full night’s sleep, so once or twice a day, I flopped out here on the couch and snoozed.
And was usually awakened by the phone on my desk ringing, like it was doing right now, and I stumbled over and fumbled for it and the long-distance operator asked for Nate Heller, and I said “Speaking,” thickly, yawning, and then somebody else was speaking-U.S. Attorney Mathias Correa, who was spearheading the investigation into the Outfit’s Hollywood “extortion” racket.
He was calling from New York; he told me about the indictments that had just been handed down against Nitti and the others, and said, “Mr. Heller, I understand your reluctance to come forward. But we feel your testimony may be valuable. You are a former police officer. You are a decorated soldier-a war hero-and one of the few ‘civilians’ known to have had considerable contact with Frank Nitti.”
“Make up your mind-am I soldier or a civilian?”
“I think you get my meaning. We have Willie Bioff and George Browne’s testimony and, in a limited manner at least, Nick Circella’s. But both Bioff and Browne lied on the witness stands in their own trials. Their credibility may be called, justly, into question. You, on the other hand, are the kind of outside, reliable, corroborating witness we need.”
“I made my feelings clear to your emissaries.”
“I’m grateful to Eliot Ness and Bill Drury for paving the way for me. But I’m serving notice on you, Mr. Heller. You’re going to testify in this trial. You’re being subpoenaed. Whether you choose to perjure yourself on the witness stand or not is, of course, your decision. Good afternoon.”
So I called Campagna-or, rather, I called the number Campagna gave me and told the guy I needed to talk to Campagna, and a call from Little New York followed within half an hour.
“They’re going to subpoena me,” I said.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“I just wanted Frank to know.”
“Okay,” Campagna said, and hung up.
I got back to work on some insurance matters and at a few minutes after four Campagna called again.
“Frank wants to see you,” he said.
“Is that wise? Surely the FBI is keeping him under tight surveillance. That would just link us further. It plays right into Correa’s hands.”
“I know. I agree with you. But Frank wants to see you.”
“Louie, I’m not in the mood to go swimming forever.”
“No Chicago River, no cement shoes. He wants to see you tonight, at his house.”
“His house?”
There was a shrug in his voice. “Show of good faith.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Don’t come heeled.”