Halley had been sipping his coffee; he set the cup down in its saucer, clatteringly. His nasal lisp notched up, in volume and indignation. “Mr. Heller, if that’s going to be your attitude, we won’t do you the courtesy of meeting with you in private. We’ll send you a subpoena and put you on public display with the rest of the hooligans.”
I saluted him with my Coke glass. “Oh, this is a courtesy? Five’ll get you ten — hypothetically speaking — there’s a mob watchdog in the lobby keeping track of every informant coming up the elevator to see you. Charley Fischetti and Jake Guzik and Paul Ricca and Tony Accardo and assorted ‘hooligans’ will all know Nate Heller was meeting with the Kefauver quiz kids, this afternoon. And I’ll have some explaining to do.”
“You have some explaining to do, right now,” Robinson said. The slit of his mouth curled in contempt. “You were James Ragen’s bodyguard the day he was shotgunned in the Chicago streets, were you not? In June 1946?”
“Yeah. I was Mayor Cermak’s bodyguard, too, and Huey Long’s.” I took a swig of Coke, and swallowed obnoxiously. “How’s that for a track record?”
“I’m afraid your point eludes me,” Robinson said.
“My point is, I do that sort of thing for a living... not always very well, obviously. It doesn’t mean I’m a mobster or that I have any particular insights into the breed. Look, I testified at the Ragen inquest; it’s all in the public record.”
“Ragen was your wife’s uncle, I understand.”
“She was my girl friend, at the time. She’s my ex-wife, now.”
O’Conner said to me, “Bill Drury thinks the way to bring the racing wire mobsters down is to crack Ragen’s murder. After all, Ragen was murdered so the Capone crowd could take over his racing wire business.”
I didn’t respond; I mean, it wasn’t a question.
Frustrated, O’Conner pressed on: “Back in ’46, you and Bill Drury searched out the eyewitnesses, Nate. You helped Bill!”
“We did find the eyeball witnesses,” I admitted, “and they ID’d the shooters — a trio of West Side bookies.”
Robinson read from his notebook: “David Finkel, Joseph Leonard, and William Yaras. Yaras is still a Chicago resident, and Mr. Drury would very much like to see him brought to justice. The whereabouts of Finkel and Leonard are unknown, though I’m sure Mr. Drury would like to see them brought to justice, as well.”
It was too late for Bill Drury or this committee or anybody short of God Almighty to bring Davey Finkel and Blinkey Leonard to justice, because I already had. I’d shot them both on a lonely moon-washed beach on Pacific Coast Highway, the night they blew Ben Siegel away.
But I decided not to share that tidbit with the Crime Committee’s representatives.
“The witnesses recanted,” I said. “Except for the one that was murdered.”
Robinson blinked. “Doesn’t that make you... angry?”
“It makes me... cautious.”
“Mr. Heller, do you really want us to call you as a witness?” Halley lisped. “Wouldn’t you prefer to help us, behind the scenes?”
“Gentlemen, call me to testify if you like. My answers will fall into two categories: taking the fifth amendment, against self-incrimination; and invoking attorney-client privilege.”
Halley reacted like I’d thrown a drink in his face. “You’re not an attorney!”
“Individuals you might assume are clients of mine are, in most instances, actually the clients of attorneys I represent... The attorney-client privilege pertains.”
All three of them were lawyers; none of them disagreed with me.
Kurnitz, though — who had stayed silent, thus far — seemed vaguely amused; his arms were folded — he was leaning back. “Where do you stand, Mr. Heller, where these gangsters are concerned?”
“You do criminal law around these parts, Mr. Kurnitz. I would imagine you just do your best to serve your clients’ interests and keep your head above these murky Chicago waters.”
Kurnitz smiled, arching an eyebrow.
“We can seriously embarrass you, Mr. Heller,” Robinson said, “if you force us to.”
“Mr. Robinson,” I said, “let me explain a couple things. First, the more sleazy and connected to gangsters you make me sound, the more desirable and glamourous I’ll seem to potential clients. Second, I’m a decorated veteran of the recent war, a Bronze Star winner. Maybe you boys would like to be embarrassed.”
“You were mustered out on a Section Eight,” Halley said.
I sat forward. “I was honorably discharged, after fighting on Guadalcanal — what’s your war record, Four-Eyes?”
Halley huffed, “I served my country,” but he didn’t say how.
“But thanks for reminding me,” I said. “I had amnesia, induced by battle fatigue, what they used to call shell shock. How’s that for a reason not to be able to recall this and that?”
“You’re a very unpleasant man, Mr. Heller,” Halley said.
“You’re not exactly Norman Vincent Peale yourself,” I said, and got up. “Thanks for the Coke... By the way, that fella out in the hall, getting on the elevator when I arrived?”
They all frowned, but they knew who I was talking about.
“Jake Rubinstein?” I reminded them. “Is he the kind of informant you’re counting on?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your concern,” Robinson said.
“Just be careful, is all. Whoever advised you to fly that guy in from Dallas, take a close look at.”
Halley sneered. “And why is that, Mr. Heller?”
That sneer deserved a smirk in return. “Here’s one free tidbit I will give you. My understanding is Jake is the liaison between the local mob and the Dallas boys. I’ve known Rubinstein for years... or, what is it he’s calling himself these days?”
“Jack Ruby,” Kurnitz offered.
The other two lawyers glared at him.
“A rose by any other name,” I said. “Never take a guy like that at face value. Any ‘informing’ Jake’s doing is likely a cover for what he can find out about what you fellas are up to.”
“That’s the chance we take when we deal with these kind of people,” Robinson said stiffly. “By necessity, informers come from the ranks of the gangsters themselves.”
Pompous ass.
“Swell,” I said, “but Jake, or Jack, is an old union goon, with strong ties to Captain Dan Gilbert — you know... Tubbo? Do you really want somebody from Tubbo’s camp pretending to be your buddy?”
Robinson and Halley exchanged glances.
Kurnitz said, “You must be aware, then, that your friend Mr. Drury is investigating Gilbert.”
“Sure, hoping to expose him before the election — but my knowing that isn’t important. The key thing is, Tubbo knows.” I made a sweeping gesture with my fedora, then put it on, saying, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Lots of luck in your fine effort to wipe out gambling.”
O’Conner didn’t walk me out. I had a feeling he’d probably given me a pretty good build-up — friend of Drury’s, ex-cop who’d stood up against mobsters — and I’d made him look like an idiot.
When I got off the elevator in the lobby, the guy in the green snapbrim was still reading the Herald-American sports section, but he had moved to one of the round couches. I settled in beside him.
“I thought that was you,” I told the guy.
Sam Giancana looked over at me from behind the paper, lowered it to his lap, and under the brim of the green hat, his gray-complected oval face, with its lumpy beak and close-set mournful eyes, gave me no clue to how he was reacting.
They called the little hoodlum Mooney because of his crazy unpredictability. The former chauffeur/bodyguard of Tony Accardo, and Paul Ricca’s likely heir as Chicago mob boss, Giancana was a quietly self-confident psychopath.