He didn’t need to know about all the information I had, once upon a time, passed along to Bobby Kennedy and the rackets committee.
“You do know where the bodies are buried,” he said pleasantly, getting bored with me.
My hairy-eyebrow doorman and the two other baggy-suit thugs were playing nickel-dime poker now, at a card table in a corner of the Victorian living room. Seeing me, the doorman threw in his hand, scurried to get my coat and hat, gave them to me, and scurried back to the game.
Hoffa and I went down in the elevator together, having it to ourselves. None of his bodyguards had made the trip, probably because their boss was dining in the hotel, with those lawyers, and there was no need.
He was rocking on his heels again, looking at the floor indicator, having forgotten I was there, though I was at his side.
I said, “I wouldn’t ever insult you with that old wheeze, of course.”
Hoffa frowned. “What old wheeze?”
“Oh, that I’ve written a bunch of stuff down and left it with my lawyer or in a safety deposit box … or both. If something should happen to me. You know, the original one place, the carbon another?”
He had the expression of a clown that just got hit by a pie.
I patted him on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t insult your intelligence that way, Jim.”
The elevator said in its seductive female voice, “Lobby floor.…”
I headed quickly across the lobby’s marble expanse, but when I glanced back at him he was standing near the elevator, possibly waiting for his party, or maybe I’d slowed him down a little.
I called out, “Jim! If you’re eating at the Swiss Chalet, and you never tried the pork shanks and sauerkraut? Do.”
CHAPTER 9
Tuesday, October 29, 1963
When I rolled in at just past ten, I found Lou Sapperstein-as ever, in shirtsleeves, suspenders, and wire-frame glasses-seated in our little break room off the bullpen. This was just a glorified cubbyhole with counter, coffee machine, sink, a few cabinets, and refrigerator. The bulk of the space was taken up by a Formica table whose centerpiece was a cardboard container offering the remnants of what had undoubtedly once been a proud selection of pastries and doughnuts. Lou sat drinking coffee, nibbling on one of the latter.
I joined him, but just for talk-I’d had juice and toast at home. “You get Jean Ellison home okay?”
It was one of those questions you knew the answer to but had to ask.
He nodded, chewing. He swallowed. “I drove her in her car. Gladys followed in ours. We were back by midnight.”
“Appreciate that. How did Jean do?”
“She was very quiet. No more crying, at least not that I saw or heard. She was turned away from me, resting against her window. Think maybe she even slept a little. You could transcribe our conversation on the head of a pin.”
I leaned back in the kitchen-style chair. “She’s brave and she’s smart, but this would be a rough one for anybody.”
He sighed, nodded again. “Her parents were at her place. They seem pretty solid. Kids were already in bed. There was no melodrama.”
“None is needed when you got actual drama.” A sigh seemed called for. “I appreciate you handling that, Lou.”
“Sure. But I’ll stop short of saying ‘my pleasure.’”
“I’ll need you to represent the A-1 at the funeral.”
“No problem.” He sipped his coffee. “Your pal Dick Cain called right at nine. Said he had a big meeting this morning, something about Kennedy’s visit this weekend, and might not be free for a while, so I should give you a message.”
“So give.”
“Said to tell you the latent print guys say the drinking glass with the lipstick traces was otherwise clean-probably wiped clean. Interesting, huh? Somebody takes the time to wipe off a glass but leaves the lipstick?”
“Doesn’t surprise me. There hasn’t been a more obviously staged crime scene since Basil Rathbone last made a monkey out of Nigel Bruce.”
Lou smiled at that. He appreciated it when I made an effort.
“Dick say whether the latent print guys found anything useful?”
“No.” He smirked. “It’s a hotel room. There’s gonna be all kinds of prints-recent guests, hotel employees, not to mention cops.”
I frowned. “Not that tough an exercise-the hotel knows who stayed in the room lately. You print the hotel staff for elimination, or to see if anybody working there pops up with a prior.”
My indignation amused Lou. “Listen to yourself, Nate. The homicide boys already have their theory, and that’s what they’ll try to prove-they’ll compare whatever prints do turn up to known hookers, and known hookers only. Some poor schmuck is probably flipping through ten-print file cards on that hopeless mission right now.”
Two glazed doughnuts were staring at me. I started eating one of them.
Lou was saying, “The fingerprint aspect of what we’ll call a police investigation, just to have something to call it, will begin and end there.”
I knew he was right. I got up and got myself a glass of orange juice. My second of the day.
But Lou wasn’t through: “I also heard from Doc Owens. Nice guy, Clarence. Surprised you haven’t run into him before. Anyway, he confirms the weapon was likely an ice pick. He said to tell you that the killer was probably five nine or ten, due to the angle and depth of the wound.”
“Five nine or ten,” I said, sitting back down with the glass of juice in hand. “Probably a man but still possibly a woman. Did salt-of-the-earth Clarence comment on whether a woman might be capable of a blow with that kind of force?”
Lou shrugged. “Wasn’t part of Doc’s message for ya. I have his number, if you want to follow up.”
I waved him off. “No. No need. The cops will just say it’s a big strong gal that did it. Let’s not waste our time on that.”
He nodded-that was fine with him. “So what about our investigation of the Ellison death? Since it will be the only real one.”
I sipped juice, flipped a hand. “You don’t need me to outline it for you.”
“Do, anyway. You’re the boss, after all.”
I chewed. Swallowed. “Okay, let’s put two agents, male and female, on the Milwaukee end. Have the female deal with Mrs. Ellison, whenever contact with her is necessary. Both ops need to dig through the Ellisons’ lives-neighbors, friends. We want to know if Tom had any skeletons in the closet.”
“Particularly skeletons in skirts.”
“Or if any of Jean’s friends wear trousers. I don’t suspect her but that has to be looked at. And let’s see if Tom’s murder grew out of his PR business.”
“Associates and clients?”
“Yeah. Short of the Teamsters-related ones.”
Lou took the other glazed doughnut. “I’d suggest we put three agents on the business end. Reynolds has an accounting background. Might come in handy.”
“Good. Use him. Then locally, we want to hit that hotel. Put one guy on that, somebody good-Donaldson, maybe.”
Lou had a free hand; he gestured with it. “How about I do that myself?”
“Perfect. See if any B-girls are known to be working the Pick-Congress bar. Talk to the staff, from janitor to desk. Find out what phone calls Tom made, if he had any meals in his room, anything you can.”
“All right.” Lou sipped his coffee. “So how did your meeting with your pal Jim go?”
Even at this late date, the son of a bitch could surprise me. I hadn’t mentioned anything last night other than I needed to talk to somebody. He just put it together. He just knew.
“Finish your breakfast,” I said, “and we’ll continue this in my office. A little too public here.”