The Million-Dollar Wound by Max Allan Collins Page A

on?”
    “In Europe. We been snookered into fighting their battles before—never again.”
    “You really believe that?”
    “Sure.”
    “But, Nate, you’re a Jew…”
    “I’m not a Jew. That doesn’t mean I don’t sympathize with what’s happening to the Jews in Germany. I don’t like the idea of military seizure of property happening anywhere to anybody. But I don’t feel it has anything special to do with me.”
    “You’re a Jew, Nate.”
    “My pa was a Jew, my ma was Irish Catholic, and me, I’m just another mutt from Chicago, Barney.”
    “Maybe so. But as far as Mr. Hitler’s concerned, you’re just another Jew.”
    Well, he hadn’t scored a knockout punch, by any means, but Barney had made his point. It wasn’t the first time, and was hardly the last.
    So without even trying to crack wise, I sent him on his way, while I went in to get to work. I made several calls on an insurance matter before I noticed the morning was nearly gone.
    Then Gladys stuck her pretty, impersonal puss in my office and said, “Your eleven o’clock appointment is here.”
    I’d almost forgotten.
    Which considering the stature of the client—potential client, as we hadn’t talked, he’d merely called for an appointment—was stupid of me.
    “Send Mr. O’Hare in,” I said, straightening my tie and my posture.
    But Mr. O’Hare wasn’t the first person in. A striking-looking woman was, a rather tall, dark woman who strolled in as if out of an Arabian dream (or was it a Sicilian nightmare?), regal in her camel-hair swagger topcoat with padded shoulders, open to reveal a mannish, pinstripe suit beneath. Beneath the suit, any good detective could deduce, was not a mannish body, the lapels of my suit didn’t flare out like that. She wore a gray pillbox hat atop long black shining hair pulled back in a bun; a large purse was slung over her shoulder on a strap—she could’ve carried a change of clothes in the thing. She glanced at the portraits of actresses on my cream-color wall and seemed faintly amused. Then she smiled at me. nodded; there was no warmth in it, but there was sensuality and smarts: a wide mouth, with dark red lipstick, a patrician Roman nose, dark, dark eyes and ironic arching brows.
    O’Hare, shorter than her, was on her heels, helping her with her coat, like she was the queen and he was her foot servant.
    Which was ridiculous, whoever she was, because Edward J. O’Hare—a small but powerful-looking man in his own natty pinstripe suit, a diamond stick pin in his red, spotted-black tie, a black topcoat over his arm, black fedora in his hand—was a big man in this city, a millionaire with connections in both city hall and the underworld. Especially the underworld. His face was handsome in a lumpy way, dark bushy black eyebrows hanging over piercing dark blue eyes, a sharp, prominent nose, strong features undercut by a small chin riding a saddle of flesh.
    He hung her coat up, and his own, and smiled at me, the smile of the professional glad-hander. “Mr. Heller, 1 hope you don’t mind my bringing my secretary. Miss Cavaretta, along…to take some notes during our visit. It’s my practice at business meetings.”
    I was standing, gesturing to the chairs along the nearby wall. “Not at all,” I said. “Such charming company is always welcome.”
    She smiled, tightly, holding something back, her eyes alive with things she knew I didn’t, and she sat down and crossed slender, shapely legs, getting a steno pad and a pen from her purse.
    O’Hare was standing across from me, offering his hand, still smiling like a politician. I shook the hand, smiled back, wondering why he was so eager to please. This was an important man. I was nobody in particular. Did he always come on this strong?
    “It’s a real pleasure Mr. Heller,” he said. “I’ve heard good things about you.’
    “Who from, Mr. O’Hare? Frank Nitti, possibly?”
    His smile disappeared; I shouldn’t have said that—it just blurted