True Crime полностью

“Don’t be silly! I can’t feed the world! I’m not that well off, I…you’re needling me, aren’t you? That was the point you were making.”

I shrugged, smiled, chewed.

“I don’t know, Nate. I eat caviar, and people a few blocks away are in soup kitchens; I wear mink, and pregnant women in Hoovervilles are wearing rags. I pay five hundred bucks a month to sublet this fancy-ass flat from a fag who’s in Florida, and over in Little Italy, not a mile from here, families are living in basements for six bucks a month. How do you expect me not to choke on my success a little?”

I sipped my orange juice. “Pay your taxes. Find a church to give some money to. That’s a start. Support some charities, if you like. But don’t climb on the cross. It’s hard to hold those fans with your hands nailed like that.”

She smiled crookedly. “There’d be too many lechers like you trying to climb up there with me.”

“That’s the ticket,” I said. “These are sad times, Helen. Your heart can break every time you walk down the street, if you let it. And there isn’t much you can do in this life but your job, if you’re lucky enough to have one, the best you know how. And try not to hurt too many people along the way. And maybe buy an apple from a guy on a street corner, once in a while, even if you don’t like apples.”

She studied me; she had a pale, beautiful look, right then, that I can see before me now.

“You’re okay, Heller,” she said. “This town hasn’t got the best of you yet.”

I laughed a little. “Oh yes it has. Many times.”

“Here I been bellyaching about my silly concerns, and it’s you who’s been so troubled and preoccupied all night. What’s going on with you, Heller? And why exactly did you show up unannounced at one of my shows, on a Thursday night? Last I heard from you, you planned to come by on Friday….”

“I was just anxious to see you.”

“Horseflop. What’s eating you? Come on, Heller, spill!”

I sighed, thought it over.

Then I said, “Can you keep something to yourself, even if it’s pretty hot stuff?”

She blinked, shrugged. “Sure.”

“You got newspaper pals, and I—”

“This won’t be in any of the boys’ columns, I promise you.”

“I know it won’t. This is front-page stuff, Helen. Ben Hecht would come back to cover this.”

“Now you gotta tell me.”

I told her.

I gave her chapter and verse on the events of the week, from my traveling-salesman client to the guy who seemed to be Dillinger.

“I know I ought to walk away from this,” I said, “but I feel a sort of…I don’t know, responsibility for Polly Hamilton. Not ’cause I…slept with her once. That was nothing—it was just business. But my client hired me to follow her, and that’s business of another stripe. Now, I know he hired me to see if she was cheating on him—he didn’t pay me to be her bodyguard or anything. But he clearly cares about her, and here I am, leading her into a potentially dangerous situation. Potentially, hell—she’s going to be in the middle of a goddamn shooting gallery.”

“You really think the federal men will just start blasting away at Dillinger, then.”

“Hell yes. And I’m not even sure the guy’s really Dillinger. I feel a certain responsibility for putting that poor bastard’s head on the block, too—and even if it is Dillinger, I’m not crazy about setting him up for an execution. That’s a job for a judge and jury.”

“If you feel this way, why don’t you just warn Polly Hamilton? Get her out of there?”

I shook my head. “She hasn’t left the guy’s side in days; she’s shacking up with him, for Christ’s sake. I can’t warn her without warning him.”

“Maybe you should. Warn him, I mean.”

“Maybe I should. But what if he is Dillinger? If I go near him, I might get my head shot off. Or if he just lams, and the feds get wind I warned him, suddenly I’m an accomplice or accessory or something. Obstructing justice, that’s called, Shit. I should just walk away from this one. I really should.”

“That’s what you told this Zarkovich guy—that you wanted no more part of this.”

“You bet. When I found out that son of a bitch was involved, I knew I wanted to jump ship.”

“You say he’s a smooth character, though.”

“Very. A real ladies’ man, too. They call him the ‘Police Sheik,’ back in Indiana.”

“What’s his relationship with this Anna person…Anna, what was it?”

“Sage. Well, like I said, he’s a bagman. He picked up money from her and other madams to pass along to the big boys, keeping some for himself.”

“Do you trust Anna Sage?”

“Not particularly.”

“But you don’t suspect her of anything, either.”

“No.”

“You don’t think maybe she talked to this Zarkovich before she talked to you?”

“I suppose that’s possible…but why would she talk to me about her suspicions, if she’d already talked to Zarkovich?”

“I been in show business since I was about nine. And I can tell you from experience, things are rarely as they seem.”

“I don’t get you.”

“This whole thing seems…orchestrated, somehow. Don’t you think?”

I didn’t answer.

“You were led to Jimmy Lawrence. By your traveling-salesman client—who you have no way of contacting, right?”

I nodded.