“Go on.”
“Most of our leads are from private, unofficial sources. Newspaper reporters on local crime beats... private eyes like yourself... honest cops caught in the middle of crooked administrations... smalltime hoodlums who want to get quietly even with their bosses.”
“And these people never get called as witnesses.”
“That’s right; we protect them, keep them behind the scenes. We put the information these confidential sources have provided us in front of the American people, by posing embarrassing questions of gangsters who invariably respond by pleading the fifth.”
I was starting to get it. Kefauver was shrewder than I’d given him credit for. “And you guys can’t get sued for libel, ’cause you’re a congressional committee — legally privileged.”
“That’s right. Very astute, Mr. Heller. We can put sensitive facts on the record, by the questions we pose... even though those questions invariably go unanswered. ‘Isn’t it true that...?’ We can put what we’ve uncovered on the record — and reveal the corrupting influence of organized crime on American society... That’s the purpose of our traveling circus.”
The son of a bitch was close to having my vote. “I gotta admit it’s good show business, at that.”
“Thank you.”
“But you’ve set a dangerous goddamn precedent — Senator McCarthy is protected from libel suits by that same privilege.”
Now, as if a switch had been thrown, his expression turned troubled. “I know... the potential for witch-hunting is great... and grim. To misuse this tool, as McCarthy is bound and determined to—”
“That’s what he feels you’re doing, Senator. He thinks you’re the witch-hunter.”
“Is this something you’ve gathered, following the press...?”
“No, I talked to Joe McCarthy last week, in D.C. I’ve done my share of work in your second home.”
Nodding, he said, “For Drew Pearson. Yes — and he speaks well of you.”
“And he of you — he’s your most ardent cheerleader.”
Kefauver heaved a deep breath, seemed to be searching for words. Finally, he found them: “Mr. Heller — I would like to ask you about a certain matter... confidentially.”
“You can ask.”
“You were Bill Drury’s friend — and he worked for your detective agency, in his last months. He promised us extensive materials — notebooks, diaries, files, tapes... do you have them?”
“No.”
“Do you know who does?”
“All I know is Bill took them with him, the day he was murdered. They’re gone by now, anyway.”
“Gone?”
I nodded. “If that stuff’s in Outfit hands, it’s been destroyed.”
He frowned. “What if Charles Fischetti got hold of those books, to keep his Mafia brethren from finding certain things out?”
“Then Fischetti’s burned them. But I can give you another tidbit of confidential information.”
“Please.”
“You have a leak on your staff.”
He said nothing; he tented his fingers and his eyes tightened behind the circular lenses. “Are you certain of that?”
“Oh yeah — it comes from an Outfit source. A high-up Outfit source. Lee Mortimer also suspects as much.”
Kefauver worked up a smirk. “I’m afraid Mr. Mortimer is something of a spurned lover, where this committee is concerned.”
“Nonetheless, the guy knows his beans. He suspects Halley—”
“Ridiculous!”
“I tend to agree with you, Senator. But you would be dismayed if you knew how quickly your confidential information is getting into the hands of the competition — the Outfit, I mean.”
He just sat there, mulling that over for a minute; then he said, “I do appreciate this, Mr. Heller. I’ll try to quietly locate the leak on my own. Thank you.”
“That’s okay, Senator. Just don’t say where you heard it.”
He managed a smile; halfhearted though it was, it was still a mile wide. “That’s the nature of confidential sources, Mr. Heller.”
“Swell... and I might be able to help you regarding another matter.”
“By all means.”
“Charley Fischetti.”
Kefauver lifted both eyebrows. “Mr. Fischetti is a witness we would very much like to have sit before our committee. We’re very interested in his brother Rocco, as well.”
“Rocco doesn’t know much — he’s just a thug with an important brother. But I might be able to put Charley’s ass in your chair, so to speak.”
“Really. And how would you manage that?”
I didn’t tell him that I was trying to angle a way to cause Charley trouble, without doing what Giancana strongly implied I should do — flat-out killing the bastard. Which I would have relished, at this point, but was uncomfortable doing Mooney’s dirty laundry. I’d had a feeling I was being played, last night, at the Silver Palm...
I asked, “Does the United States have a friendly relationship with the Mexican government, where extradition is concerned?”
He shrugged matter-of-factly. “If we knew Fischetti’s whereabouts, and those whereabouts happened to be in Mexico, we could get him brought home to us, yes.”
“I know where he is. At least I think I know.”
His eyes narrowed; he again sat forward. “Would you like to share that information with the committee?”
“Would the chairman of the committee like to assure me I won’t be called as a witness?”
Kefauver chuckled. “You are everything you’re cracked up to be, Mr. Heller... What do you have in mind?”
“Maybe you’d like to hire me... confidentially, of course, by which I mean only you and me and your government checkbook would know.”
“Continue, please.”
“You fund my jaunt South of the Border, where I confirm the whereabouts of your witness. I’ll wire you that information, keep Charley and Rocco under surveillance until the federales take over.”
“I like the sound of this. When would you do it?”
“Right away. Soon as I can book plane tickets... next few days.”
Kefauver shook his head, grinned the infinite grin, and stuck his hand across the desk. “Mr. Heller — welcome aboard the Special Committee to Investigate Organized Crime in Interstate Commerce.”
I shook with him, but said, “Yeah, well, let’s skip the office welcome wagon... No one but the two of us are hep to this, remember.”
“Hep...?”
“Are in the know about my role.”
“Fine.” The endless grin — a toothless version — seemed to crinkle across his face; then he added, “Always room for another talented performer here at the circus.”
I stood. “Let’s hope I’m not just another clown.”
“It could be worse, Mr. Heller.”
“Yeah, Senator?”
“Try not to get shot out of a cannon.”
Thinking that was good advice, I nodded and went out.
That afternoon around two, in the lobby of the St. Clair Hotel, red-headed Hannan, the house dick, caught me just as I was about to go up on the elevator.
“I need a moment, Nate,” he said, kind of edgy.
“Sure, Hannan,” I said, walking with him over to one side. “What cooks?”
“Not my goose, I hope — listen... I let a dame in your room.”
“Yeah? Anybody you know? Anybody I know?”
“She says she’s a friend from Texas.”
“Texas? I don’t have any girl friends from Texas.”
He gestured with open hands. “Nate, I’m pretty sure you’re not gonna mind. This is one of the best-looking babes I ever saw, built like a brick shithouse and then some... and she was real tired, just got off the bus. She had luggage with her, and no money. I felt sorry for her.”