“Well, that’s hard to argue with. But let me share the larger story.”
“By all means. Who doesn’t like a good story?”
“You have somebody who works at the Cosmo Club who keeps an eye on your ex-wife for you. Somebody who called you and told you a guy, who was definitely not a Cosmo regular, was talking to her, and maybe passed her some money. Asking questions obviously on a subject other than what-time-do-you-get-off tonight. Maybe he described to you what I look like. Or maybe he recognized me.”
Another quarter of a burger disappeared. He nodded and chewed. “You do get too much publicity. Being recognized is not good for an individual in your line of work.”
I looked around. “You probably live somewhere in the area...”
“Apartment on DeBaliviere.”
“...and thought you better go over and give, like you said, the ol’ heads-up to Joe Costello.”
“Why wouldn’t I just call?”
“What does the FBI have in common with Fred Astaire?” He chuckled. “Tap tap tap.” About a third of a burger went down this time.
“That’s right, Barney. So that whole routine in the alley was a set-up. To make you look good while I was getting the fear of God put in me.”
He waved what was left of the current sandwich at me. “There you are dead wrong, Nate. And none of what you say contradicts what I told you. I walked over to see Joe and happened to see some poor bastard getting beat up, and I just waded in to help.”
“If you’re the Lone Ranger, I feel sorry for the horse.”
He looked a little hurt by that. He finished the hamburger, then shrugged elaborately as he helped himself to the final of three burgers. “Believe what you wanna believe. I cop to wanting to let Joe know you were in town, sniffing around. Question is, sniffing around about what, Nate?”
“The missing Greenlease money,” I revealed. No need not to. “What did you think?”
He batted at the air. “Ancient history.”
“Three hundred thousand unrecovered bucks is like Abbott and that other Costello doing ‘Who’s on First.’”
His eyebrows went up. “Yeah?”
“Never gets old.”
He touched his face with the tail of the napkin around his neck, daubing away stray ketchup. “Nate, my buddy, my pal, what was done to the Greenlease child was evil and, worse, it was dumb. It stirred up Jake Lingle-type heat, St. Valentine’s Day-type heat, and anyway these rough tough mob bozos are sentimental slobs when it comes to family and innocent children. Nobody in their right mind would want anything to do with that dough. Touch that blood-taint ransom money? Jimmy wouldn’t...” He meant Hoffa. “...Big Tuna wouldn’t...” He meant Outfit capo Accardo. “...the Camel wouldn’t...” He meant Murray Humphreys. “...Buster wouldn’t.” Local mob guy Wortman. “...and Joe? He is the softest hard guy you ever saw, loves his son to the point of absurdity, loves all his off-springs, including those from rotten marriages.”
“Then why does the FBI see him as their prime suspect?”
He was so worked up, he’d forgotten his food. “The FBI! Those Ivy League losers think the Mafia doesn’t exist. Hoover thinks Cosa Nostra’s the latest dance craze! The FBI. You know better, Nate.”
“You told your wife that Joe Costello wound up with that money.”
He had the hamburger back in hand, but now he put it down. This was serious. “First of all, she’s my ex-wife. Second of all, she is one lying vengeful bitch. She would like nothing better than to wrap me up in that crime and make me look bad. Doesn’t need to be able to prove anything, just spread vile talk! I’m a labor organizer, Nate! I deal with rank-and-file folks, guys with families, salt-of-the-earth solid working Americans. She would love to smear me with those good people.”
“Okay. A woman scorned. I’ll keep that in mind.”
His smile split the difference between friendly and menacing. “Who’s your client in this, Nate? You don’t work for free. You’re not some bleeding-heart crusader. Is it that punk silver-spoon Kennedy kid? Let me point something out to you — if Jimmy Hoffa was some kind of gangster, some kind of cold-blooded, brutal asshole, why are you still alive? I will tell you why. He respects you. You have never ratted out any of your Outfit friends. In fact, sometimes I wonder if you’re really working in that committee’s best interests. Maybe you have Jimmy’s welfare at heart. Your old man was a union guy, right?”
“My old man was a ‘union guy,’ yes, but he would’ve been disgusted with the tactics of corrupt men like you, Barney, and our friend Jimmy.”
He did something astonishing — he pushed his unfinished food aside. “Well, my friend, back in the early days, people could afford to be idealistic. Could go through life being unrealistic. But we know nothing is black-and-white, don’t we? We got to deal with how gray things are, right?... I gotta toddle off. Where can I catch you in town?”
Not sure I wanted to be caught, I nonetheless told him where I intended to stay, which amused him.
He gave me a wave. “Make sure you stop and see me before you leave St. Loo.”
The big man with the tiny head took the napkin from his collar, dabbed his mouth delicately with it, and tossed it on the tabletop. He snatched up the check, said, “I’ll get this,” as if my Coke was a real factor in his burger banquet, and headed for the register.
I tossed the straw aside and finished my Coke like a man. It would appear Barney suspected I was Hoffa’s double agent on the Rackets Committee, but apparently hadn’t had that confirmed by Hoffa — possibly hadn’t even broached the subject. Which was interesting, since he and Hoffa were tight. That could mean a number of things, including that Hoffa didn’t trust Barney, or simply that the union president knew the wisdom of keeping my inside man status to himself.
Or was Barney keeping something from Hoffa?
I swung the Cadillac up the modest incline between the two welcoming low-slung fieldstone entrance walls in the blush of the pink-and-red neon sign. A buzzing secondary neon promised a VACANCY in white. About two-thirds of a full moon cast its ivory tinge onto the gleaming beige and brown ceramic tiles of the rounded units of the Coral Court, their occasional glass-brick windows glowing — not every couple had gotten round to turning off the lights or else were fine following their desires with the lights on.
Returning to the scene of the crime — and I had to stay somewhere, didn’t I? — made a certain kind of perverse sense. Special Agent Grapp had told me Sandy O’Day resided here and of course so did owner/manager Jack Carr, who I’d yet to meet.
But I’d read Grapp’s notes. Carr had done a stretch at Leavenworth for armed robbery a decade prior to opening his motel and was rumored to have pushed his first wife down the stairs to her death — that should qualify him for the $300,000 blood-money sweepstakes. And Sandy, now a madam for call girls at Carr’s motel, seemed an acquaintance well worth renewing.
The office was just inside those fieldstone walls, facing Watson Road, a building in the same Streamline Moderne style as the double units but twice their size, as it included the owner’s living quarters. I pulled in front, got out and went up a few steps into a spacious pink-walled lobby, large enough to accommodate a long ebony registration desk, a desk sign at left saying
and another at right announcing
and maybe implying something that rhymed with “truckers.”
The walls were decorated with framed photos of attractions in the St. Louis area, including the Coral Court itself, and both side walls had elaborate wooden racks of tourist brochures. Modern furnishings, appropriate to the place’s styling, were here and there, with a corner coffee station and table and chairs, in case a rush on check-ins was on.