Read You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) for Free Online Page A

“You don’t have a chopper and you’d be one fool to kill a guy in your hotel room and call the cops. It smells like a gang job with you in the middle, but I don’t see how or why. I’ve seen a lot of them put away like Leonardo. Thompson submachine gun bootlegged from a crooked Army supply sergeant somewhere or stolen by a mob kid who spent a few years in the army. Bullets are easy to get. Standard forty-five in ACP rimless cartridges, basic U.S. Army pistol round since 1900. The ammunition is held in a circular drum. Fifty rounds. Our expert at the LaSalle didn’t need more than ten or twelve. He had a pro finger. Those things kick, but they’re nice and easy to work. Just pull back the bolt, push the trigger, the bolt comes forward, throws a round into the magazine and pushes it into the chamber. The round pops into the chamber, drops in place. The firing pin on the bolt crushes the cap, and the bullet flies. The bolt kicks back from the shot, and another slug falls in the chamber. Two or three spit out every second. Takes a soft touch and strong hand to handle a chopper without making a mess.”
    “He was a mess,” I said.
    Kleinhans shook his head no.
    “The St. Valentine’s Day party was a mess. I was on the cleanup. I moved Frank Guzenberg. That was a mess. You want another coffee?”
    “No,” I said. “What are you going to do?”
    “Have some coffee, Toby my friend. Were I you, I’d get the hell out of here. But I’m not you. I’m going to do nothing much except turn this over to some homicide boys. The hotel is in their district, and happy I am of it. Now I’m going to the can and getting some more coffee. Then you can go back to looking for your gangsters, but I’ve got a feeling one of them has already found you.”
    He left the room closing the door behind him. The phone on the desk gave me an idea. Kleinhans wasn’t worried about the mob death of a bodyguard, but I had a lot of reasons for caring. One was that it must have had something to do with the Chico Marx business. The other was that death was too close to me. I blew my nose, took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
    “Desk,” came a tired voice.
    “Get me Indianapolis Central Police Headquarters and move it fast. If you’re too tired to move, we can get you out on the street.”
    The guy on the desk put the call through fast. He didn’t want to be out on the streets of Chicago in the winter. I watched the door and waited. A voice came through the phone, a little tinny, but clear.
    “Tashlin.”
    “This is Detective Peters in Chicago. You got a pencil?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Write this number.” I gave him the number on the phone. “Now check on a blotter report for last night. Kid in an orange shirt had his nose broken at the train station.”
    “Probably a local,” Tashlin said through his teeth.
    “Hey,” I snarled. “You just find it. Don’t guess. The mayor here wants it and he’s on my ass. I don’t know why he wants it or what’s going on, but if he doesn’t get it, I serve you on a platter, Tashlin. When our mayor gets mad, he knows how to use the phone and he’s got your mayor’s number. Got it?”
    All he had to do was ask me who the mayor of Chicago was and the game was over, but he took the easy way out, which I figured he would. If he hadn’t, nothing was lost.
    “You want to call me back?” I said.
    “No,” he said. “Hang on.”
    I hung on and Kleinhans came back with his coffee. With my hand over the mouthpiece I explained.
    “Local call. MGM office. I need some more cash and the name of a lawyer in case I need one.”
    “Next time you ask first.”
    “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll pay the nickel.”
    “Here’s an address for you,” said Kleinhans, pulling out his pencil and writing it on the torn end of a ratty blotter. “You may find Nitti there or you can leave a message. There’s no phone.”
    “Is it far?”
    “You can almost walk it from here. It’s over on twenty-second.