By Max Allan Collins
Along with his cynical humor and knack for prepared social statement, Chicago PI Nathan Heller narrates this attractive number of thirteen crime tales in response to actual instances from the Thirties and '40s.
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Extra info for Chicago Lightning
Up north someplace. Someplace she and Mr. Riggs like to go to, to…you know. ” I called Sgt. Pribyl from a gas station where I was getting Barney’s Hupmobile tank re-filled. I suggested he have another talk with bartender Alex Davidson, gave him the address of “Mr. and Mrs. Riggs,” and told him where he could find the maroon Plymouth. He was grateful but a little miffed about all I had done on my own. “So much for not showboating,” he said, almost huffily. ” “They’ve gone up north somewhere,” I said.
His hooded eyes flared. ” He lowered his gaze. ” The girl was sitting on the bed, weeping; body heaving. ” he said, zipping his fly. ” I was opening a window to ease the stench of his vomit. “Sure,” I said. ” I handcuffed the lovebirds to the bed and called the local law; they in turn called the State Prosecutor’s office in Chicago, and Sergeants Pribyl and Gray made the long drive up the next day to pick up the pair. It seemed the two cops had already caught Henry Berry—a tipster gave them the West Chicago Avenue address of a second-floor room he was holed up in.
The street was an empty ribbon of concrete. But about five minutes later, a car came barreling down that concrete ribbon, right down the middle; I sat up. ” “A drunk, I think. ” It was a maroon Plymouth coupe; and it was headed right our way. ” I said, and dug under my arm for the nine millimeter. The driver was leaning out the window of the coupe, but whether man or woman I couldn’t tell—the headlights of the car, still a good thirty feet away, were blinding. The night exploded and so did our windshield.