Seventeen
A Circus Maximus waiter took us to a booth in a row of VIP seating elevated just behind the packed perpendicular-to-the-stage long tables where you got to know your neighbor a little too well. On the other hand, Nita and I found ourselves practically swimming in our plush gold-leather approximation of a Roman chariot, where a RESERVED card with “Heller Party” on it meant I probably could have skipped the generous tip.
The walls of the thousand-seat supper club, lined with pillars and statuary, were decorated with golden legionnaire shields. Actual (well, ersatz) Roman soldiers were positioned along the red-velvet-curtained stage, keeping an eye on the crowd, hands on the hilts of their swords. Possibly they were there to keep out the Ritz Brothers, who were working the nearby Nero’s Nook lounge. Those boys could get rowdy.
The crowd was a well-dressed one and we fit right in. Her hair up, Nita was a curvy knockout in a slim sequined black evening dress with bare arms. I was in a gray Botany 500 suit, cut to accommodate the shoulder-holstered nine millimeter. I hoped the Roman guards wouldn’t notice.
The grub was good. Nita partook of the Boneless Breast of Poulet de Bresse, which was Capon Breast in Sour Cream Sauce on Savory Rice (much better than unsavory rice) and I had the Broiled Filet Mignon Caesar Augustus with Champignons in a Triumphal Laurel Wreath. Rare.
We’d started with marinated herring and closed with Baked Alaska, after which Nita said, “What the hell are we doing here, Nate?”
“I saw Newley in Roar of the Greasepaint on Broadway,” I said. “He’s terrific.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
I said with a shrug, “I’m surprised myself. I figured either Shep would show up personally or we’d be sharing this booth with somebody else. Somebody significant.”
“Such as?”
“No idea.” Really, I did have a hunch.
She leaned close enough for me to make out the Chanel No. 5 even in a room that was already smoky. “This isn’t your style, is it? You’re more the small jazz club type.”
“Or blues den, in Chicago. Yes, that’s right. Playboy Club’s as close as I come to this, and their showroom back home’s fairly intimate. This Ben Hur hokum is designed for the tourist trade.”
That amused her. “Then why are we here?”
An affable mid-range male voice said, “Because this is the house that Jimmy Hoffa built, and Nate gets comped on his room... Sorry. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
The owner of that voice slid into the booth on my side. His hairline a memory, the brown of the surviving sides turning gray, Robert Maheu looked like just another vacationing businessman in his conservative blue suit, white shirt and red-and-blue striped tie. A tad heavyset, he was a pleasant, dark-blue-eyed, usually smiling individual whose knob nose and reflective bald head gave him a vague resemblance to actor Karl Malden.
But this was no vacationer — as Howard Hughes’ surrogate, he was one of the real movers and shakers in Vegas. Hell, in Nevada. And the reason for this VIP booth was mostly his presence, not that of the almost famous private eye and his sort of well-known actress companion, to whom I introduced him.
Maheu said, big smile, charming as hell, “You look very familiar to me, Miss Romaine. Have we met?”
“You might have seen me on TV,” she said, smiling, pleased to be nearly recognized. “I’m an actress.”
“She’s been on every one of your favorite shows, Bob,” I told him. “You watch all the ones with pretty girls, right?”
He said to her, “Don’t listen to him. I’ve been happily married since 1941 to the lovely Yvette. Have you ever done a Mission: Impossible?”
“I have,” she said, nodding, brightening further.
I said, “He’s bragging now. That show’s based on him and his DC agency. He used to assemble teams for the Company.”
He leaned across me and smiled, whispering to Nita: “That’s CIA... Of course your private detective friend here was the inspiration for Peter Gunn, so I can’t really hope to one-up him.”
She asked, “What did you mean about Jimmy Hoffa?”
Maheu grinned; he had a great smile. “Tell the girl, Nate.”
“Hoffa put twelve million into Caesars,” I said. “They couldn’t get financing anywhere else. Borrowed it from the Teamsters Pension Fund.”
“Hoffa’s a great man,” Maheu said, meaning it. “But Nate’s probably told you all about that.”
She shook her head, looked from him to me. “No, he hasn’t.”
I said, “I did some work for him, oh, back in the fifties.”
Was Maheu being cute? Could he know that I’d been working undercover for Bob when I got in good with Hoffa? That was still the kind of thing a guy could get killed over.
Maheu’s smile softened into something vaguely menacing and his attention was off Nita and onto me. “I would think you’d be looking hard at Jimmy Hoffa about now, Nate... in regard to Bobby Kennedy’s passing, I mean.”
What a very creepy way to put it: as if RFK had died in his damn sleep or something.
“Hoffa has an alibi,” I said, a little arch.
Maheu’s bald head reflected light. “You mean, he’s been inside Lewisburg for over two years, with another, what? Eleven to go? Are you telling me he couldn’t reach out and make something happen from behind bars?”
“I don’t rule anything out,” I admitted.
His eyes widened. “I certainly wouldn’t. If Bobby Kennedy had gone on to be president, Jimmy Hoffa couldn’t hope for any kind of mercy. But one of these days Nixon just might pardon him.”
“Nixon hasn’t done that yet.”
Maheu lighted up a cigarette — a filtered Kool. “Closer to reelection time he might. A Teamsters endorsement would go a long, long way, next time ’round. But enough politics.” He beamed at my date. “Say, Miss Romaine, I should apologize. The plan was, I would join you folks for supper but then I got tied up with the doggone Atomic Energy Commission.”
“It was quite good,” Nita said.
He let some smoke out. “I’m sure it was. But I’ve taken a few too many trips around that menu already.” He patted his tummy.
“Why the Atomic Energy Commission,” she said, “if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Don’t mind at all. It’s a public concern, and especially a concern of my boss’s. They stopped the aboveground testing but the underground testing continues, and it’s very dangerous. A health conscious man like Howard Hughes takes notice of such things.”
That last had just a hint of mockery in it. A hint.
“So, Nate,” he said, “how is it you rate so high with my boss?”
I tossed a hand. “Mr. Hughes? I did a job for him once, years ago, and he was happy with the outcome.”
Maheu leaned back into the booth, folded his arms, shook his head, consigning his Kool to an ashtray. “Well, I’ve done some jobs for Mr. Hughes myself, y’know. This is kind of a cute story, Nita... is it all right if I call you ‘Nita,’ Miss Romaine?”
“Certainly.”
“Is that short for Anita?”
“It is.”
First I heard of it.
“Anyway,” he said, sitting forward, folding his hands prayerfully on the white linen tablecloth, “when we made the move to Las Vegas, Mr. Hughes wanted to travel by night and arrive before dawn. I set up a decoy operation to have a fake Hughes seen leaving the Ritz in Los Angeles, taking the press along with him. But our train had brake problems and repairs meant we’d sit on the tracks for hours and arrive in Las Vegas possibly as late as the afternoon. In broad daylight. That would not do with Mr. Hughes. In the middle of the night, I arranged for another train to take us to Vegas at a cost of $18,000. It was an executive decision that I knew might cost me my job. But Mr. Hughes was thrilled with how I handled things.”