The Million-Dollar Wound by Max Allan Collins

said.
    “How’s that?” Barney said.
    “He bet on Armstrong,” I said.
    Barney laughed a little. “What a pal,” he said, meaning me.
    “I wasn’t referring to that,” Lou said, a little embarrassed. “Actually, after you lost, I bet a friend of mine you would quit. Which you did, of course.”
    “How’d you know I’d quit and stay quit? I had plenty of comeback offers, you know.”
    “I can imagine. I couldn’t collect the bet till a year from the day of your Armstrong defeat. That was part of the deal. It was fifty smackers, too. Thanks, Mr. Ross.”
    “Make it ‘Barney,’ please.”
    “Lou retired after twenty-five years on the force,” I said. “We were on the pickpocket detail together.”
    “I was his boss,” Lou told Barney. “Hiring me is just Nate’s idea of revenge.”
    “Hiring you is my idea of being a nice guy,” I said. “Working your ass off is my idea of revenge. Where’s Fortunato?”
    “Late,” Sapperstein shrugged.
    “On his first day?” I asked, a little stunned.
    Sapperstein shrugged again.
    “I wanted him to start right in on those credit checks,” I said, pointing over to some paperwork on the other desk, which from where Lou was seated he couldn’t see, anyway.
    The door opened behind us and Frankie Fortunato came in; he was small, thin as a knife, with dark widow’s-peaked hair and sharp features. He would’ve looked sinister, but his smile was bright, white and wide. His suit was brown and snappy and his tie was yellow and red.
    “Hey, I’m late,” he said. “Off to a flyin’ start.”
    “You don’t have to be here till nine o’clock,” I said. “Is it asking too much…”
    “You looking for quality, or punctuality?”
    “Actually, I was looking for both.”
    “Heller, you’re turning into an old man. You don’t remember what it was like to be young. I had a hot date last night.” He was over behind his desk, now, dialing his phone.
    “That better be a credit check,” I said.
    “Sugar?” he said into the phone. “It’s Frankie.” He covered the phone, waved us off. “Do you mind? Little privacy.”
    I went over to the phone and took it from his hand. I said, “Hi, sugar. Frankie just called to say he was unemployed.” I handed the phone back to him.
    “Talk to ya later, sugar,” he said into it, and hung up. He grinned. “Just testing the waters, boss. Mind if I get started on these credit checks now?”
    “Go right ahead. This is my friend Barney Ross, by the way.”
    “Listen,” he said to Barney, by way of greeting. “There’s dough in a comeback. It don’t have to be Armstrong. Hey, Canzoneri’s still fighting; a third Ross-Canzoneri fight’d make some tidy dough. We should talk.” He glanced at me and smiled on one side of his face. “After business hours of course.”
    I nodded to both Frankie and Lou and we went out.
    Barney said, “That kid’s cocky, but I bet he’s bright.”
    “Safe bet. I’ll get him straightened out. Much as possible, anyway.”
    “What’s his background?”
    “He was fired off the force in his first year for rubbing Tubbo Gilbert the wrong way.”
    Captain Daniel “Tubbo” Gilbert was, even in Chicago terms, a notoriously corrupt cop. A notoriously powerful corrupt cop, at that.
    “Aw,” Barney said. “No wonder you like the kid. You see yourself in the little son of a bitch.”
    “Hey,” I said. “I see admirable qualities in a lot of sons of bitches. I’ve even been known to hang around with washed-up ex-pugs.”
    Barney’s expression turned suddenly thoughtful. “You’re liable to lose that kid to the draft, you know.”
    I shook my head. “It’ll never come.”
    We were standing just outside my office now.
    “I think it’s going to have to come, Nate. We might get caught up in it, too, you know.”
    “ That I guarantee you will never happen.”
    “I might go whether they ask me or not.”
    “Don’t be foolish,” I said.
    “Don’t you know there’s a war