“It was in his glove compartment, with a box of shells, when those sons of bitches shot him... Like I say, Annabel wanted you to have it.”
O’Conner hadn’t picked it up; he was just staring at it, leaning an elbow against the table, fingertips pressed to his head.
Then he finished his Pabst off in a big gulp, and said, “I can use another. How about you?”
“No, I’m fine.”
While he was in the kitchen, I took the nine millimeter Browning from my shoulder holster and held it beneath the table, where he wouldn’t notice. I’d carried this weapon a long time, too. Different sentimental reasons, though.
A few moments later, he stumbled back in, sliding on the floor in stocking feet, with a fresh sweaty Pabst in hand, and sat down, rather heavily. He sighed and took several swigs of the beer.
“I miss him, that bald-headed bastard,” O’Conner said. He had tears in his eyes. “I feel like I let him down.”
“Well, sure you did — setting him up like that.”
O’Conner looked up, sharply. “Is that what you think?”
I bestowed him a bland smile. “I don’t just think it, Tim. I know it.”
His forehead clenched, his eyes moving back and forth, as if trying to escape his head. “I loved Bill Drury. We were like brothers.”
“Ever hear of Cain and Abel, shitheel?”
He backed away in the chair. “I think maybe you oughta get the hell outa here, Heller.”
“No. Finish your beer. Let’s talk.”
He sneered at me — kind of a pathetic sneer, though — and picked up the .38 and pointed it at me. “Is this loaded?”
“Yeah. Just one bullet, though. Mine has a full clip.”
Not quite smiling, O’Conner looked at me carefully. “You want me to believe you’re pointing a gun at me right now, I suppose.”
“That’s right... Of course, I could be bluffing.”
He said nothing. Then he put the .38 down in front of him, again, and swigged his beer. “What do you want from me?”
“A few answers. A few holes I haven’t been able to fill. This starts with Bill assuming you were a straight-arrow copper, like he was — that when you got tossed off Town Hall Station together, for covering up gambling, the both of you were being railroaded. What occurred to me was, you could be the reason Bill didn’t know about the gambling in the district — you’d been there longer, you could’ve been, well, assigned to him, to steer him away from those joints.”
He gestured with the hand that had the Pabst in it, and a little spilled. “Does this look like the home of a bent cop, enjoying the fruits of graft?”
“Actually, it does. This was a family home, right? Your parents lived here before you? You grew up in this house, only child, if I recall.”
The bloodshot blue eyes were fixed unblinkingly on me. “So what?”
“Speaking of sentimental attachment... don’t shit a shitter, Tim. I’m a divorce dick — the husband doesn’t end up with the house... not unless the wife ended up with more than just the kids and the furniture. Like, for instance, a hefty bank account. You must’ve made a hell of a settlement with Janet... all ’cause you couldn’t keep your prick in your pants. What happened to that little dame you were dating?”
His mouth twitched; he swigged the beer. He belched and it echoed. “She dumped me. For a guy who had real dough. He owns supermarkets or something.”
“Pity. And for this you got excommunicated? Couldn’t you sweettalk Janet back? She was a hell of a fine girl.”
“She was a bitch. You don’t know anything about my life.”
I shrugged; the nine millimeter felt remarkably light in my hand. “I know you’ve been in bed with Northside Outfit guys for a long, long time, Tim... which would include the late, very unlamented Charley Fischetti. I think you were... like I said, assigned to Bill Drury, to keep an eye on him. My guess is it’s you who fucked around with the witnesses to the Ragen shooting, and muddied those waters, and got Drury suspended.”
“I was suspended, too.”
“Hey, that goes with the territory. It’s sort of like... undercover work, but from the other end of the telescope... or gun barrel.” I grinned at him. “You misdirected me, Tim — a very simple piece of misdirection, but a good one — by indicating your lawyer pal, Kurnitz, was working for the Kefauver Committee. Of course, he wasn’t working for ’em, but with them... as he admitted to me, himself, the other day.”
“So what?”
“So Kurnitz was Bill Drury’s lawyer. I guess I figured Bas was Bill’s lawyer, but they were just working on a matter of mutual interest — the downfall of Tubbo Gilbert. Of course, Tubbo was an old pal of yours — he instigated the Ragen cover-up, in which you assisted.”
He grunted a nonlaugh. “You don’t have anything solid. Nothing but air.”
“Maybe so, but it’s foul-smelling air — like the worst gas Tubbo Gilbert ever passed... and that would have to be rank shit, wouldn’t it? Kurnitz offered himself to the committee, as a conduit of friendly witnesses, when his real employer was the Outfit... or perhaps just Charley Fischetti. I’m a little unsure on that point — care to clear that up?”
“Fuck you.”
