“Naw! We lost a hell of a lot of good men there, though, didn’t we?”
“Who were you training exactly?”
“Cuban exiles. They want their country back. They want a free Cuba! Don’t you?”
“Where in New York did you train guerrillas?”
“Well, not in Manhattan!” He giggled. That’s right, giggled. “Long Island. Ever hear of Levittown?”
I had heard of Levittown, and a more unlikely place for guerrilla warfare training I could not picture.
Vallee was saying, “No, this is today, Nate, this is going on right now. There’s a war going on, you know. A secret war. Against the Communists. You ever hear of the John Birch Society?”
“I’m a member in good standing,” I lied.
The John Birch Society was an ultra-right-wing movement started by candy mogul Robert Welch, who deemed Dwight D. Eisenhower an agent of the Commies. For a bunch of screwballs, they had attracted considerable mainstream attention.
Vallee was talking very fast now, his high-pitched voice almost shrill. “Then you get it, Nate-you know we have to be vigilant. We have to be more than vigilant … we have to take action. What would you say if I told you another Cuban invasion was coming? And not to be surprised if you look in the papers someday soon and see somebody took care of that son of a bitch Castro.”
This little lunatic, if he’d been training guerrillas on Long Island, was-whether he knew it or not-a pawn of the CIA, and likely had been for some time. How else would a plate-in-the-head medical reject get to reenlist in the Marines? And the guerrilla training he’d done in fucking Levittown, aimed at taking Castro down, meant he was a part of Operation Mongoose, too … though he’d likely never heard the phrase.
“You’re right about the Bay of Pigs,” I said, quietly goading him. “It’s that bastard Kennedy’s fault.”
“Yes! Yes, exactly. He’s the primary obstacle.” If he’d opened his eyes any wider, they’d have rolled out of his head onto the Formica. “He’s surrendering our military forces, our security, into Communist hands. We have to eliminate the Communist influences in Washington, Nate, and we need to start with Jay Fucking Kay, pardon the French.”
“You know, he’s coming to town this Saturday-Kennedy.”
Vallee smiled his small smile. “I know. I know. He’ll be near where I work.…”
Mention of work made him think to check his watch. “Hell, I’m gonna be late! Nice meeting you, Nate.”
His breakfast gone, he rose, we shook hands again, and he was gone.
He was gone, all right.
The Eat Rite manager didn’t know where Tommy Vallee lived, but he thought that one of his busboys might, which turned out to be the case. The address was on Paulina, less than two blocks away, so I left the Jag parked on the street near the cafeteria and hoofed it over.
Once past a block of nondescript brick apartment buildings, this was a nice enough neighborhood, with plenty of trees and expansive lawns, in what many decades ago had been a well-to-do community, a small town that the city engulfed.
In less than five minutes, I was on the sidewalk outside the three-story paint-peeling-off white frame house where Vallee lived. Three stories was generous, since the top floor was the peaked-roofed attic. An open but roof-sheltered porch fronted what had once been a big one-family residence; acknowledging the structure’s current rooming-house status was a metal fire escape that climbed one side all the way to the attic.
I took the eight steps to the porch where several old worn wooden chairs sat, not yet hauled in for winter. In summer around neighborhoods like this, people sat out and watched kids, fireflies, and the world going by. The door I knocked on was an echo of the handsome residence this once had been-a solid if weathered well-crafted door with cut-glass decorations in an arc above with narrow stained-glass panels on either side. The only sign this still wasn’t a one-family dwelling was the oversize mailbox.
The woman who answered was slender and handsome in a severe, time-carved way, with very pretty light-blue eyes; probably in her mid-fifties. She wore a brown-and-orange-print housedress with an apron, her graying blonde hair tucked under a yellow scarf. No makeup, but you could tell she could have once given Leni Riefenstahl a run for the money back at the cabaret.
I think she liked my looks, too, because instead of frowning and beating me with that broom she was leaning on, she cast something my way that had the makings of a smile in it.
Her voice was a kind of guttural purr. “Yes, young man?”
Young man, huh? I was easily her age. She did like me.
I flashed her my credentials. I tried to make it quick enough that she wouldn’t catch the name “Heller.” Some people are known to hold grudges.
“I’m here on a confidential matter for the government,” I said. “May I step in?”
“Certainly.” She had the kind of accent that made each syllable seem considered.
I stepped inside and she closed the door behind us. She rested the broom against a wall and casually removed the scarf from beauty-shop hair, and the apron, too, setting them on a small table with tenant mail piled up on it.
The foyer was enclosed, with several apartment doors on either side, a spindle-banister stairway rising to more doors. No framed paintings or family pictures were on the uncluttered wallpapered walls to remind you that this had been a home, before it got chopped up into flats.
“My name is Peters. How may I help you, Mr. Heller?”
She had seen the name.
“Miss Peters?”
“Missus, I am a widow.”
“Sorry.”
“It has been twenty years. He drove a bus and had a heart attack in the intersection at State and Randolph. No condolences are necessary.”
“Oh. All right.”
“Do we need to go somewhere and sit, Mr. Heller? Would you like coffee, tea?”
“I don’t think so, no thank you. You have a roomer named Vallee? Thomas Vallee?”
Thin curves of eyebrow arched. “I do. He is a polite, strange little man. Is the government interested in him?”
Not why is the government interested in him-is the government interested in him. She’d been in Germany during the war, all right.
“This is fairly routine,” I said, going the Jack Webb route, “but Mr. Vallee is known to have made threatening remarks about the President. And since Mr. Kennedy is coming to town on Saturday, we would like to check up on him.”
Her nicely carved face was placid. “Of him I know very little. He pays his rent on time. He sometimes has men in his room. But I do not judge. Not when he pays his rent on time.”
The way she said that made me think less of co-conspirators than of something sexual. Maybe I was just remembering the glance Vallee and that busboy exchanged.
I asked straight out: “Is he a homosexual?”
“I have my suspicions.”
I found myself recalling that the homosexuals had been in line right next to the Jews at those very special showers. Still, I kind of dug her. She was a nice-looking middle-aged gal, and she couldn’t help being a German any more than I could being a sort of Jew.
“Do you know his place of employment?”
“It is a printing business. Downtown. Where it is exactly, I do not know.”
We’d have to find that out. According to Vallee, it was on the parade route.
“What I’d like to do, Mrs. Peters, is have a look at your tenant’s flat.”
“Certainly.”
She did not ask if I had a search warrant or any official document justifying such a request. Boy, had she been in Germany during the war.…
As I followed her up the stairs, she glanced back at me and said, “I hope you will not be critical of me to your people.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there are things in Mr. Vallee’s room.”
“Things in his room?”
We were on the landing now.
She said, “Things that I find troubling. Th
ings that perhaps I should have alerted you of.”
“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see for myself.”
Vallee’s room was unremarkable in most ways-a good-size single room with a living area and a bedroom area, no kitchenette, just a place to stay. Furniture dating back twenty years or more, faded floral wallpaper of similar vintage. A small rabbit-ears portable TV perched on a stand near his bed, and a plank-and-brick bookcase under a window bore paperbacks by Fleming, Robbins, and Spillane-not far removed from my own reading habits. The muscle-building magazines on his nightstand wasn’t my scene, but to each his own.
Where our tastes really differed was the collage on the wall next to his bed-a homemade artistic masterpiece consisting of newspaper and magazines clippings, all pertaining to JFK, whose face was inevitably doctored in various ways: red ink turning him into a devil, or an X through his face, or just plain scribbled out. Various threats were scrawled in margins, not that subtle-for example, “Bastard must die!” and that oldie but goodie by the ever-popular John Wilkes Booth, “Sic Semper Tyrannis.” Vallee misspelled the latter, however, as “Tyrranous.” Dinosaurs, presidents-just so they’re extinct, right?
Frau Peters was at my side suddenly. “Will he pay?”
I said, “Well, he has to actually try something before he can be arrested. This kind of thing is covered by freedom of speech.”
“No, I mean, will he pay for ruining my wallpaper?”
I almost laughed. “That’s between you and him, Mrs. Peters.”
She nodded, filing that away. She pointed, like the Wicked Queen in “Snow White” indicating which direction the huntsman should go. “There is something you should see in the closet.”
I figured one thing in the closet was Vallee himself, only not literally. But our Germanic landlady seemed to have a pretty good fix on what was in her tenants’ apartments.
And she was right to call it to my attention. In the closet, among Vallee’s spare work boots, a few other shoes, work clothes, and a single suit, were two rifles, leaned against the back wall.
I parted the clothes on their rung to get a better look.
The rifles were both M-1’s, the standard implement of war for the infantry. Gas-operated, semi-automatic, clip-fed. Using.30–06 rounds, in clips of eight. Speaking of which, on either side of the rifles were stacked ammunition boxes, twenty rounds per oblong box. About half Winchester, the other half Remington. Like maybe he’d bought out a store’s supply of one brand and had to start in on another.
Kneeling there, I counted fifty boxes.
On my feet again, I turned to see Mrs. Peters pointing to a dresser, the Ghost of Christmas Future indicating Scrooge’s gravestone.
She was right again. In the dresser, I found a.22 revolver. A Smith and Wesson model 22. Just one box of ammo, though, Remington brand …
… of 2,500 rounds.
“You will take away all of this contraband,” she said, at my side again.
“No. Actually, it’s not illegal, owning this stuff. It’s not even illegal to say you want to kill the President, though it does get the attention of certain people.”
“I no longer care that he pays his rent on time. I wish you to take him away.”
“You have every right to throw him out on his tail, you know. You don’t need a reason to ask a tenant to leave.”
Those curves of eyebrow were diagonals now, trying to form an upside-down V together. “What, and have that nice little man shoot me? I do not think so.”
I smiled. “Anyway, please don’t throw him out until after this weekend. We like knowing where he is.”
At the door, I gave her my card, after adding the Secret Service number under my regular ones.
“If you witness anything else suspicious regarding Mr. Vallee,” I said, “or odd in any way … you let me know.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Heller. If this happens, you will hear from me.”
She smiled, and the light blue eyes sparkled like sunlight on Lake Konigssee. At Berchtesgaden.
You may think that’s a cheap shot, but before I left, I let my hostess talk me into a cup of tea in her kitchen, which was down a hallway where family photos finally kicked in, and I swear I glimpsed a framed Hitler Youth photo. You could never be quite sure about these German DP’s.
But I still kind of dug her.
* * *
When I got back to the Secret Service office, I found Chief Martineau with my friend Dick Cain in the former’s office. They were preparing to go to another presidential trip meeting, this one in the auditorium of police HQ at Eleventh and State.
“It’s a special security coordination conference,” Martineau said, “with the sheriff, PD and us. I really don’t have time to hear your report right now, Nate.”
I pulled up a chair next to Dick and sat.
“Yes, you do,” I said, and filled him in quickly and thoroughly about the breakfast conversation with Vallee and my visit to his rooming house.
“It does sound serious,” Martineau allowed. “But your loon is not one of the suspects the FBI gave us that your friend the AG wants us to concentrate on.”
“Well, I can see ignoring this,” I said lightly. “It’s just a guy with a kill-Kennedy collage on his walls and a couple of M-1 rifles in his closet and thousands of rounds of ammo. Nothing to sweat bullets over, right?”
Dick-who’d been studying me with that disconcerting gaze of his, with the one milky eye-said, “Nate’s right, Marty. You need to put this joker under surveillance.”
“I can’t spare the men,” Martineau said, his frustration palpable. “How about loaning me a couple of your guys from the SIU, Dick?”
The sheriff’s man shook his head. “No-we’re short-staffed, too, working on stadium and street security. But I know a couple of guys from your old bailiwick, Nate-the Pickpocket Detail? Dan Gross and Pete Shoppa. I could get them for you.”
“I know them a little,” I said. “But they’re way after my time on the Pickpocket Detail.… Still, anybody with that kind of training is perfect for surveillance.”
Martineau seemed almost amused. “The sheriff’s chief investigator is making PD assignments now?”
I reminded him, “Dick was on the PD for a lot of years.”
Cain was sitting forward. “I can approach Captain Linsky about it-he’d have to make the assignment. But I’m sure I can swing it.”
“Swing it then,” Martineau said, rising to go out. Dick was also on his feet. “And when I get back, I’ll get the Washington office on rounding up information for us on this Vallee character. We have till Saturday, after all.”
Right.
Less than three days.
CHAPTER 13
In downtown Chicago, after dark, the two most brightly illuminated buildings were easily the Wrigley Building and the Silver Frolics nightclub, unlikely neighbors on the north bank of the Chicago River. Unlikely but fitting, since what was more American than chewing gum and sex? Particularly when you factored in the Doublemint Twins.
And if the Wrigley Building on Michigan Avenue was the heart of Chicago commerce, the Silver Frolics-in its shadow to the west-was the city’s navel, or the glittering costume jewel in it, anyway.
That jewel liked to call itself “Paris in Chicago,” but “Chicago in Paris” was more like it. The gaudy neons outside and the billboard-like come-on painted on the former warehouse’s side promised FOLLIES INTERNATIONAL, 35 ARTISTS, GLAMOUROUS GIRL REVUE, and (best of all) NO COVER, NO ADMISSION. Thousands of conventioneers and small-town visitors, and even the occasional local, learned soon enough that the ballyhoo omitted the four-buck minimum. And the only resemblance to the French capital would be limited to froufrou decor and one Parisian production number per show.
Few complained, however, as the Silver Frolics’ exotic dancers were unanimously considered the best-looking in town-young, well-built, and pretty, and exclusive to the venue, appearing in a revue elaborate enough to rival Broadway, including a chorus line and the kind o
f acts (comic magician, contortionist, ventriloquist) that Ed Sullivan on TV made you sit through Sunday night waiting for the really big show.
This was no 606 Club-nothing so crowded or poorly ventilated, no pockmarked tables or pockmarked dancers, either, the former wearing white linen, the latter elaborate costumes, to start with, at least. The clientele was classy for a strip joint, too, men in suits, the few women in smart dresses, attire appropriate for the most plush legit nightclub. Which the Frolics resembled, seating perhaps 250, tables for four arranged so that none was more than two or three rows away from the large stage, which bumped up against a dozen ringside seats.
Still, there was something about the place that felt quaint, even old-fashioned-especially compared to the plush Playboy Club on Walton Street, with its Bunnies spilling their beauty-contestant bosoms from sleek, satiny, colorful, cottontail costumes, cut thigh-high to expose lushly nyloned legs. The Silver Frolics, from its ornate hoop-skirted floor-show costumes to the inevitable pasties and G-strings (never more, or rather never less, not at the refined Frolics), seemed damn near nostalgic in its approach to naughtiness. Strippers teased. Bunnies promised.
Working on a rum-and-Coke, I was seated somewhat away from the stage and relieved to be, as right now dark-haired yuck-it-up stripper Tinki DeCarlo was dumping various items of discarded clothing on the heads of ringside customers. It was a Christmas routine, and she came out Mrs. Santa Claus and was down to electric pasties that glowed red like Rudolph’s nose and a bunch of sleigh bells dangling off her G-string.
“She’s good,” I said to Helen, able to converse easily over the small orchestra, “but I don’t care for funny strip acts. Maybe I take sex too seriously.”
We were two at one of the four-seat tables.
“It makes men feel uncomfortable,” Helen said, with a knowledgeable nod; she was between sips of her Champagne cocktail. “They’re already a little embarrassed, just coming to a place like this. But you’re right, for that kind of thing, she’s not bad.”
Helen was flying under the radar tonight, nothing overtly Sally Rand about her, in her navy-blue dress with white Peter Pan collar and her blondeness pinned up in curls-an extremely attractive middle-aged woman who might still turn heads, anywhere except a club where girls in their twenties were peeling down to their most appealing.
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