Little Underworld by Chris Harding Thornton

Author:Chris Harding Thornton [Thornton, Chris Harding]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

13

The Fontana was chaotic after news of the bombings. Jim told Frank to go wait in the Ford and took advantage of the confusion, checking entrances inside and out for Jack Maloney. He wasn’t there. A porter said he had been but left a couple hours ago, when the bigwigs arrived.

As Jim crossed the street to the car, he heard a voice call out, “Mister Beely.” He turned. Kobb stood on the sidewalk outside the hotel. Jim took his time walking over. Kobb said he was surprised to see Jim at the Fontana.

“You oughta be.” Jim said he’d been walking past, seen somebody he knew, and stopped to chat.

“You haven’t heard, then?” Kobb grimaced.

“Hell if I know.”

“Our homes,” he said. “Both our homes were bombed.”

Initially, Jim thought Kobb meant his own family had two homes and both got blasted. That wouldn’t have surprised Jim. He was sure Kobb could afford two houses, and if Jim wanted to bomb a couple, Kobb’s would be at the top of the list. But the wince on Kobb’s face, a look as phony as the puzzlement he’d worn at the commissioners’ meeting, clarified what he meant. Jim didn’t let a muscle in his face twitch. “Any word from your family?”

Kobb thanked him for asking. Yes, thank God, he’d spoken with his wife—she and his son were fine. The damage was limited mainly to the porch. “I’ve heard matters are much worse at your house.”

“Well, it’s a rental.”

“I hope—fervently—your family escaped danger. Would you like to phone? There’s a pay phone in the lobby of the Fontana. Do you need some change?”

“They’re out-of-state.” Jim ignored Kobb’s offer of spare change and kept his tone hard and flat. “Visiting relations.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Sure.”

“Who’s that you’re with?” Kobb squinted into the darkness across the street. Frank must’ve lit a cigarette. A puff of smoke crept from the passenger window of the Ford.

“My brother.”

“Of course—Ward Beely. He’s an ice man, isn’t he? Married to the daughter of—what’s the gentleman’s name—Daddy?”

“Pop.” Which was what Jim wanted to do to that goddamned balloon head of Kobb’s.

“That’s it. Pop Nelson. Distinguished old Danish gentleman, with the soft drink parlor off Twenty-Fourth.”

“I get it. You know who’s who in my family.”

Kobb smiled. “Well, Omaha’s a great big small town. Hard to keep secrets.”

Jim stared at him, assessing his expression, reading his eyes to see just how many secrets Kobb thought he knew.

“Say, I nearly forgot—I’m sorry to hear about the attack last night. It’s been one thing after another for you.” Kobb tilted his head downward. An expression of pity. It was not a good look on him. “But listen, I read your response in the Post earlier, and I’m afraid you’re wrong about the gang. About who’s who.”

Jim stared at Kobb’s head that tapered into his shirt, at his shock of bright white hair, his sad beagle eyes. After he popped it, Jim wanted to run over that head once or twice with the wheels of the Ford. “Anything else?”

Kobb looked mildly affronted.

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