“Yes. Yes.”
“Well, then I don’t have to tell you she was exploring very dangerous territory. Very.”
“No. You don’t.”
“When is the funeral?”
“Not till later in the week. To give her friends from around the country... around the world... a chance to get here, if they... they choose.”
“Frank — was there anything disturbed? Anything missing, any signs of struggle or possibly anything indicating a search of her things?”
“No! Nate... she died in her sleep last night, just hours after What’s My Line? She guessed two of the occupations, how... how about that? My little Florrie Mae.” His pet name for her. He was crying again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “These are inappropriate questions right now. Forgive me.”
“I... I understand. She’s an investigator, too. Her mind works like that.”
She was still in the present tense for him. Me, too.
“Frank, would you approve my coming out there tomorrow? Talking to me, and giving me a chance to kind of look things over?”
“I don’t know, Nate... There are so many arrangements to make... people to talk to... and...”
“Just let me come out there and give me even half an hour.”
“I... I suppose that would be all right.”
“Tomorrow afternoon then?”
“Yes. All right. Fine.”
“Frank, do you know what happened to the tapes she made on our trip? The interviews?”
“No, but I can check where she keeps such things.”
“Do you have anywhere secure to keep whatever you find? A wall safe, locking file cabinet, something?”
“Well, yes, probably. Why?”
“Take whatever you can find from the Dallas trip, tapes, notes, and hide them away. Please. Do that one thing for me.”
“All right, Nate. I’ll... I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
We said our good-byes. He had stopped crying.
My turn to start.
West Side Ford New and Used on West Cermak Road in Riverside was indistinguishable from scores of other such dealerships in the Greater Chicago area. Its best shot at standing out from the rest of the pack would have been advertising a certain probable off-the-books custom job.
Back in May of 1962, the cops checked out a parked ’62 Ford sedan where two individuals were spotted ducked down on the floor of the backseat. The two individuals turned out to be notorious mob hit man Charles “Chuckie” Nicoletti and his frequent backup, Felix Alderisio. The officers discovered switches under the dash, one enabling the driver to disconnect the taillights (aiding in avoiding pursuit), the other opening a compartment in the center front-seat armrest fitted to hold shotguns and rifles. Reporters dubbed the vehicle the “hitmobile.” Asked to explain why he and Alderisio were crouching in the backseat, Nicoletti said, “We were waiting for a friend.”
Nicoletti grew up in poverty, his first killing (at twelve) that of his abusive father, then dropped out of school to join the slum delinquents known as the 42 Gang, whose members included “Mad Sam” DeStefano and Chuckie’s current boss, Sam Giancana. In Outfit circles, Nicoletti was perhaps best known for cold-bloodedly eating his spaghetti while Anthony “the Ant” Spilotro squeezed Billy McCarthy’s head in a vise till an eye popped out of its socket.
As to why I’d assume West Side Ford New and Used had done the hitmobile customizing: Chuckie Nicoletti was a co-owner and assistant manager there. This was essentially a cover story for the cops and FBI, of course, but Nicoletti was a charming guy for a psychopathic Mafia murderer, and got a kick out of selling cars.
And there he was on the lot, tall, affable, handsome for a hood, talking to a young couple in their early twenties about a shiny new red Mustang convertible. Several other salesmen in the brightly lighted lot — it was approaching closing time, eight o’clock — were similarly occupied. When I walked into the showroom, nobody was there but a busty brunette secretary on the phone at her desk, talking to her boyfriend. I walked past the various empty offices, found the central one labeled CHARLES NICOLETTI, ASSISTANT MANAGER, then went over to the brunette at her desk up front between showroom windows.
Smiling, I raised a finger, indicating I just wanted a brief word. She told her boyfriend to hold a second, covered the mouthpiece, and looked up at me with very big brown eyes, her lipstick a startling pink. She had a bouffant hairdo you could have bounced bullets off of, which considering who her boss was might come in handy.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I whispered. “Just tell Mr. Nicoletti that a satisfied customer is waiting in his office to thank him.”
She nodded, managed a smile, then went back to her important conversation, which seemed to be about selecting a discotheque.
Inside the glorified cubbyhole of Nicoletti’s office, leaving the door slightly ajar, I checked the desk — there was no filing cabinet, just walls with a few sales awards and framed color photos of current model cars — and found a Browning .22 automatic among the paperclips in the center drawer. Despite the seemingly small caliber, a .22 was typical for a hard-core hit man, being a weapon that silenced effectively. I removed the clip, thumbed each shell into the wastebasket, replaced the now-empty clip, and returned the gun to its drawer.
Sitting in one of two customer chairs across from the desk, I unbuttoned the jacket of my suit coat to give me access to my shoulder-holstered nine-millimeter Browning — which did not silence well at all. I scooted the chair into a sideways position to see Nicoletti as he entered.
It was possible that he might be armed, but I doubted it. Similarly, he might be escorting that couple into his office to write up a deal, but I doubted that, too. Those kids were window-shopping or whatever the car lot equivalent was. This late in the evening, a deal would not likely go down.
I sat for maybe fifteen minutes, about ten minutes into which the lights dimmed in the showroom, followed by the sound of the secretary and various sales personnel gathering their things, saying good nights and going. If the secretary told Nicoletti about my presence, I didn’t hear her do it.
He would return to this office, though, because a hat and raincoat were waiting on a metal tree in the corner. No weapon in any raincoat pocket, by the way.
When he came in, Nicoletti was already friendly and saying, “Susie said you were wanting to—”
And then Chuckie’s smile froze and his words stopped.
Even pushing fifty, Chuckie Nicoletti cut an intimidating figure — broad-shouldered, six two, big hands with frying-pan palms and fingers like swollen sausages. His handsome features had a vaguely swollen look, too, and the white infiltrating his ridge of dark, carefully cut-and-combed hair stood out starkly against his Miami tan. His suit was charcoal black and tailored, his tie white and black and silk, wider than current fashion and with a knot like a fist.
“Hi Chuckie,” I said as he stood in the doorway, the dark showroom behind him, neon signage giving him a halo of color. “Why don’t you shut that?”
I wasn’t holding a gun on him. Nothing so melodramatic. But my suit coat was open enough to make the butt of the nine millimeter apparent in its rig. So just melodramatic enough.
“Heller,” he said with a smile that hid its uneasiness. “I thought you drove Jags. Decide to try a good old-fashioned American ride like Ford for a change?”
“Sit down, Chuck. I just need a couple of minutes. Not to talk cars, though.”
He moved slowly behind the desk and eased down as if fearing I’d rigged the seat of his swivel chair to explode. “What subject?”
I moved my chair around to face him directly.