Free Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 14 by Chicago Confidential (v5.0) Page B

should come over to my suite at the Sherman,” he said. “Very nice. Nothing like an office with room service.”
    Tubbo was on leave of absence from the State’s Attorney’s office, for the duration of his campaign for sheriff—not that he’d ever spent much time at the office out of which he supposedly supervised one hundred detectives.
    “How’s the campaign going?” I asked.
    “Swell. Public’s really responding to our message.”
    “What message is that? I’ve been out of town.”
    “Oh. Well. I’m going to drive all the gambling out of Cook County—just give me your vote, and six months.”
    I had to grin. “Does that include that handbook of yours, over on West Washington?”
    Tubbo didn’t take offense; he just flashed me a yellow grin, and reached inside his suitcoat pocket. I knew he wasn’t going for a weapon—well, not a weapon that used bullets.
    The envelope he flopped onto my desk would have green ammunition in it, no doubt.
    “Take a look,” he said. “Two grand in fifties.”
    During his thirty-three years as a police officer, Tubbo Gilbert had been a busy boy. He’d been a labor organizer prior to his first assignment on the P.D.—patrolman—and in less than nine years, he made captain. And it didn’t interfere with his continued union organizing, at all. After he became chief investigator for the State’s Attorney’s office, few Chicago-area labor crimes were solved; and in his eighteen years with the State’s Attorney, gambling flourished in suburban Cook County, while not one major Capone hoodlum went to jail—although Tubbo did find time to frame a few of the Outfit’s competitors, notably bootlegger Roger Touhy.
    These minor lapses didn’t keep Tubbo from achieving distinction as a law enforcement officer in Chicago. He was considered the city’s top cop—above the commissioner and the chief of police—and was undoubtedly the most important law enforcement officer in the county. His real claim to fame, however—cemented by various newspaper articles—was as “the world’s richest cop.”
    An underpaid public servant could get wealthy, he explained to reporters, by investing wisely on the Chicago Commodity Market.
    “It’s two grand, all right,” I said, thumbing through the greenbacks; then I tossed the envelope back on the desk—nearer to myself than Tubbo.
    “Would you like to know what that’s for, Nate?”
    “I figure you’ll get around to it.”
    “We’ve not had many dealings, you and I.”
    I’d seen to that: steered Tubbo a wide path.
    He went on: “But we’ve had mutual friends, over the years. Frank Nitti said I was his favorite golfing partner.”
    “No kidding.”
    “None. We used to go down to the Arlington Hotel in Hot Springs, together—great golf course. Owney Madden used to join us. You know, I still use the clubs Frank gave me. Gold-plated. Frank was a generous man.”
    “The clubs he gave me were solid gold.”
    Tubbo frowned—the pouchy eyes seemed hurt, for an instant; then he grinned. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”
    “A little. But I agree with you. Frank Nitti was a hell of a guy.”
    “He put the word out, you know—no one was to screw with Nate Heller. He liked you. You had his protection.”
    “But he’s dead, now. Dead for what—seven years?”
    Tubbo raised a plump, jeweled hand as if in benediction. “It still goes—you still benefit from his goodwill. His respect for you.”
    “Good to know.” I didn’t mention that Tubbo was referring to the same Outfit guys who had cornered Nitti into suicide.
    Captain Gilbert folded his hands on his ample belly. “I don’t see your associate, Mr. Drury, in the office today—or does he have a private office?”
    Didn’t Fischetti fill him in? “Bill doesn’t work here anymore, Tub…. Still want to give me the two grand?”
    “That’s a token of thanks from certain individuals in return for your cooperation in this laughable ‘crime’