Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 14

by Chicago Confidential (v5. 0)

  O’Conner was saying, “The committee didn’t want to hire either Bill or me, because we’re controversial figures. We were fired off the police force, after all.”

  “I’d think getting fired off the crookedest goddamn force in the country would be a glowing recommendation.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’re getting the job done.”

  O’Conner escorted me into the living room area of the nicely appointed suite, where my hosts were waiting. A sofa along the window overlooked Grant Park and the lake—a breathtaking view made irrelevant by the gray afternoon—with several easy chairs pulled up close, a coffee table between…a nice, cozy setting for an inquisition.

  As we approached, the three men who’d been seated together on that couch rose as one. All three had dark-rimmed glasses and dark hair and receding hairlines—they might have been brothers.

  Or maybe the Three Stooges—only all of them were Moes, albeit balding ones.

  The one nearest me extended a hand—he was tall, lean, but sturdy-looking with an oblong face that had slits for eyes and a slightly wider slit for a mouth, which right now were combining to form a stern expression. Fiftyish, he wore a brown suit and a darker brown tie. “George Robinson, Mr. Heller, associate counsel. Thank you for joining us.”

  It was a firm handshake, and his words were cordial enough; but his manner made me think of a high school principal regarding a problem student.

  “Rudolph Halley, Mr. Heller,” said the man next to Robinson—a head shorter, a good ten years younger—in a high-pitched voice laced with a lisp. “Chief Counsel.” A compact character in a blue suit with a blue-and-red bow tie, Halley had a moon face, its roundness offset by a cleft chin and hard dark eyes.

  “Mr. Halley,” I said, accepting his aggressive handshake. Then I turned to the remaining man, and said, “Mr. Kurnitz,” nodding to the lawyer, who was at right, standing slightly apart from the other two.

  “Mr. Heller,” he said, nodding back, in a well-modulated courtroom baritone. He wore a gray suit, nicely cut, and a blue-and-gray tie, and would have been handsome if his intense brown eyes hadn’t been too large for his face even before his eyeglasses magnified them.

  They returned to the couch and I took a comfortable armchair opposite them, with the coffee table—piled with various files and notebooks—between us. Water glasses and a coffee cup also rested on the glass top. The grayness of the afternoon filled the windows behind them like a bleak expressionist painting.

  O’Conner, standing near the other easy chair but not taking it, asked, “Anybody want anything?” To me he explained, “There’s coffee and ice water and soft drinks.”

  “No pretzels?” I asked.

  Nobody but me found that funny.

  Robinson and Halley asked for refills of their water glasses, and Kurnitz requested another coffee, black. I asked for a Coke. O’Conner hustled over to the wet bar and filled everybody’s orders. Glad to see the ex-cop had a significant job here on the Crime Committee.

  “Mr. Heller, you’ve had an interesting and varied career,” Robinson said. He managed to make that sound like an insult.

  Sitting forward, Halley said, “You can understand why we would like to have your cooperation.”

  “I’m here,” I said with a shrug.

  O’Conner was in the process of serving everybody.

  “You left the police force, locally,” Robinson said, referring to a spiral notebook, “in December 1932, not long after an incident involving Frank Nitti.”

  “Two crooked cops tried to kill him,” I said. “They expected me to lie for them. I didn’t.”

  “You testified to that fact in April 1933,” Halley said. Unlike Robinson, he didn’t refer to any notes, and I guess I was supposed to be impressed.

  O’Conner—after serving me last, handing me a water glass with ice cubes and Coke—settled into the easy chair at my right. He flashed me a nervous smile; he hadn’t gotten himself anything to drink.

  “I don’t have anything to add, where that incident is concerned,” I said. “It’s all part of the public record—my testimony speaks for itself. Besides, that’s ancient history, isn’t it? Frank Nitti is dead.”

  “Killed himself,” Robinson said, in a “crime does not pay” fashion.

  I shifted in my seat. “Why do you need to ask me things you already know the answers to? If you have the FBI file on me—”

  “We don’t have your file, Mr. Heller,” Halley said. That nasal voice of his was weirdly hypnotic. “J. Edgar Hoover has gone on record with his opinion that the Mafia is a myth—we are receiving no cooperation whatsoever from the FBI, which is why we have to work so hard investigating, on our own steam.”

  I kept a poker face, but relief was flooding through me. I knew for a fact—because just last year, I’d been confronted with it in an interrogation in Washington, D.C.—that the FBI had a file on me as thick as the Chicago phone book. Once, a long time ago, I had told J. Edgar to go fuck himself (that’s not a paraphrase, by the way) and he had ever since taken a personal interest in my welfare. I had been expecting Kefauver’s advance team, here, to have that handy little reference tool to guide them.

  “We do have the cooperation of the IRS,” Robinson said. “And Frank J. Wilson gives you high marks.”

  Wilson had been one of the IRS agents who had nailed Capone; until recently, he’d been head of the Secret Service, another Treasury Department operation.

  “That’s nice to hear,” I said.

  “Eliot Ness also regards you highly,” Robinson said, referring to the former T-man who had been key in the Capone case. “He indicates you helped him, and effectively, on several matters in Cleveland, during his years as Public Safety Director.”

  I said nothing.

  He went on: “You are aware, certainly, that we’re concentrating on illegal gambling, in general, and the racing wire racket, in particular.”

  “I am.” I grinned at him, which seemed to unsettle him. “And just why is that, Mr. Robinson?”

  Robinson frowned in genuine confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Why gambling? Why aren’t you dealing with narcotics, or loan sharking, or prostitution? Or perhaps the relationship between machine politics and the mob? Or maybe the criminal infiltration of labor unions?”

  Robinson looked at a page of his spiral notebook. “We have to begin somewhere, Mr. Heller. Gambling is our focus.”

  “Gambling is a safe target, you mean—you don’t step on as many toes, in an election year. You can play Joe Friday, and look good, and still not get yourselves or your political parties in any trouble.”

  Halley had been sipping his coffee; he set the cup down in its saucer, clatteringly. His nasal lisp notched up, in volume and indignation. “Mr. Heller, if that’s going to be your attitude, we won’t do you the courtesy of meeting with you in private. We’ll send you a subpoena and put you on public display with the rest of the hooligans.”

  I saluted him with my Coke glass. “Oh, this is a courtesy? Five’ll get you ten—hypothetically speaking—there’s a mob watchdog in the lobby keeping track of every informant coming up the elevator to see you. Charley Fischetti and Jake Guzik and Paul Ricca and Tony Accardo and assorted ‘hooligans’ will all know Nate Heller was meeting with the Kefauver quiz kids, this afternoon. And I’ll have some explaining to do.”

  “You have some explaining to do, right now,” Robinson said. The slit of his mouth curled in contempt. “You were James Ragen’s bodyguard the day he was shotgunned in the Chicago streets, were you not? In June 1946?”

  “Yeah. I was Mayor Cermak’s bodyguard, too, and Huey Long’s.” I took a swig of Coke, and swallowed obnoxiously. “How’s that for a track record?”

  “I’m afraid your point eludes me,” Robinson said.

  “My point is, I do that sort of thing for a living…not always very well, obviously. It doesn’t mean I’m a mobster or that I have any particular insights into the breed. Look, I testified at the Ragen
inquest; it’s all in the public record.”

  “Ragen was your wife’s uncle, I understand.”

  “She was my girl friend, at the time. She’s my ex-wife, now.”

  O’Conner said to me, “Bill Drury thinks the way to bring the racing wire mobsters down is to crack Ragen’s murder. After all, Ragen was murdered so the Capone crowd could take over his racing wire business.”

  I didn’t respond; I mean, it wasn’t a question.

  Frustrated, O’Conner pressed on: “Back in ’46, you and Bill Drury searched out the eyewitnesses, Nate. You helped Bill!”

  “We did find the eyeball witnesses,” I admitted, “and they ID’d the shooters—a trio of West Side bookies.”

  Robinson read from his notebook: “David Finkel, Joseph Leonard, and William Yaras. Yaras is still a Chicago resident, and Mr. Drury would very much like to see him brought to justice. The whereabouts of Finkel and Leonard are unknown, though I’m sure Mr. Drury would like to see them brought to justice, as well.”

  It was too late for Bill Drury or this committee or anybody short of God Almighty to bring Davey Finkel and Blinkey Leonard to justice, because I already had. I’d shot them both on a lonely moon-washed beach on Pacific Coast Highway, the night they blew Ben Siegel away.

  But I decided not to share that tidbit with the Crime Committee’s representatives.

  “The witnesses recanted,” I said. “Except for the one that was murdered.”

  Robinson blinked. “Doesn’t that make you…angry?”

  “It makes me…cautious.”

  “Mr. Heller, do you really want us to call you as a witness?” Halley lisped. “Wouldn’t you prefer to help us, behind the scenes?”

  “Gentlemen, call me to testify if you like. My answers will fall into two categories: taking the fifth amendment, against self-incrimination; and invoking attorney-client privilege.”

  Halley reacted like I’d thrown a drink in his face. “You’re not an attorney!”

  “Individuals you might assume are clients of mine are, in most instances, actually the clients of attorneys I represent…. The attorney-client privilege pertains.”

  All three of them were lawyers; none of them disagreed with me.

  Kurnitz, though—who had stayed silent, thus far—seemed vaguely amused; his arms were folded—he was leaning back. “Where do you stand, Mr. Heller, where these gangsters are concerned?”

  “You do criminal law around these parts, Mr. Kurnitz. I would imagine you just do your best to serve your clients’ interests and keep your head above these murky Chicago waters.”

  Kurnitz smiled, arching an eyebrow.

  “We can seriously embarrass you, Mr. Heller,” Robinson said, “if you force us to.”

  “Mr. Robinson,” I said, “let me explain a couple things. First, the more sleazy and connected to gangsters you make me sound, the more desirable and glamourous I’ll seem to potential clients. Second, I’m a decorated veteran of the recent war, a Bronze Star winner. Maybe you boys would like to be embarrassed.”

  “You were mustered out on a Section Eight,” Halley said.

  I sat forward. “I was honorably discharged, after fighting on Guadalcanal—what’s your war record, Four-Eyes?”

  Halley huffed, “I served my country,” but he didn’t say how.

  “But thanks for reminding me,” I said. “I had amnesia, induced by battle fatigue, what they used to call shell shock. How’s that for a reason not to be able to recall this and that?”

  “You’re a very unpleasant man, Mr. Heller,” Halley said.

  “You’re not exactly Norman Vincent Peale yourself,” I said, and got up. “Thanks for the Coke…. By the way, that fella out in the hall, getting on the elevator when I arrived?”

  They all frowned, but they knew who I was talking about.

  “Jake Rubinstein?” I reminded them. “Is he the kind of informant you’re counting on?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your concern,” Robinson said.

  “Just be careful, is all. Whoever advised you to fly that guy in from Dallas, take a close look at.”

  Halley sneered. “And why is that, Mr. Heller?”

  That sneer deserved a smirk in return. “Here’s one free tidbit I will give you. My understanding is Jake is the liaison between the local mob and the Dallas boys. I’ve known Rubinstein for years…or, what is it he’s calling himself these days?”

  “Jack Ruby,” Kurnitz offered.

  The other two lawyers glared at him.

  “A rose by any other name,” I said. “Never take a guy like that at face value. Any ‘informing’ Jake’s doing is likely a cover for what he can find out about what you fellas are up to.”

  “That’s the chance we take when we deal with these kind of people,” Robinson said stiffly. “By necessity, informers come from the ranks of the gangsters themselves.”

  Pompous ass.

  “Swell,” I said, “but Jake, or Jack, is an old union goon, with strong ties to Captain Dan Gilbert—you know…Tubbo? Do you really want somebody from Tubbo’s camp pretending to be your buddy?”

  Robinson and Halley exchanged glances.

  Kurnitz said, “You must be aware, then, that your friend Mr. Drury is investigating Gilbert.”

  “Sure, hoping to expose him before the election—but my knowing that isn’t important. The key thing is, Tubbo knows.” I made a sweeping gesture with my fedora, then put it on, saying, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Lots of luck in your fine effort to wipe out gambling.”

  O’Conner didn’t walk me out. I had a feeling he’d probably given me a pretty good build-up—friend of Drury’s, ex-cop who’d stood up against mobsters—and I’d made him look like an idiot.

  When I got off the elevator in the lobby, the guy in the green snapbrim was still reading the Herald-American sports section, but he had moved to one of the round couches. I settled in beside him.

  “I thought that was you,” I told the guy.

  Sam Giancana looked over at me from behind the paper, lowered it to his lap, and under the brim of the green hat, his gray-complected oval face, with its lumpy beak and close-set mournful eyes, gave me no clue to how he was reacting.

  They called the little hoodlum Mooney because of his crazy unpredictability. The former chauffeur/bodyguard of Tony Accardo, and Paul Ricca’s likely heir as Chicago mob boss, Giancana was a quietly self-confident psychopath.

  He smiled. “That’s what I like about you, Heller.”

  “What is, Sam?”

  “That you’re not afraid of me.”

  “Maybe I’m just not afraid of you in the lobby of the Stevens at lunchtime.”

  He laughed; it was a raspy, death rattle of a laugh. “That’s the other thing I like: you’re a funny guy. Natural fuckin’ wit.”

  What he really liked about me was my discretion. I had done a job for him a couple of years ago, getting an embarrassing photograph back. He had paid well, and hadn’t forgotten I’d done right by him.

  Also, he was probably comfortable with me because we were both Westside boys, though he wasn’t a Maxwell Street kid like Barney and me (and Jack Ruby); he was a product of the Near Northside’s infamous Patch, and a veteran of the vicious street gang, the 42s. His legend was based upon having endured an abusive father until he finally grew up, beat the shit out of the old man, and took over the household.

  I said, “I hope you don’t mind my sitting down to say hello.”

  “Not at all.” He folded the paper and put it next to him on the tufted couch. “You weren’t upstairs long. Having a quick one? What’s her name?”

  “Kefauver.”

  He twitched a sick smile. “I didn’t think ‘she’ was in town.”

  “No, but her sisters are.”

  “Good-looking girls?”

  Now I twitched a smile. “Sam, don’t ask me to tell you who I talked to up there.”

  “Did I ask? I don’t remember asking.”

  “You see, the way t
his works, Sam, is I don’t inform on anybody, on either side. I’m not playing—I’m not even in this game.”

  One shoulder shrugged. “If you don’t want to tell me you talked to Robinson and Halley and Kurnitz and Drury’s pal O’Conner, that’s fine. But I would like to know what you told them.”

  I shrugged both mine. “I told them if they’re dumb enough to call me as a witness, my amnesia will recur. Or I’ll plead the fifth, or attorney-client privilege.”

  The cold eyes were studying me. “That’s all you told them?”

  “That’s all…. Well—you saw Rubinstein, I take it?”

  “Am I gonna not notice another Westsider? I saw the prick.”

  “Well, I told them Jake went way back with Tubbo, and if he told ’em anything, they should consider the source. And that’s all the help I gave them,”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s the boat.”

  He nodded slowly. “I appreciate this. Your frankness.”

  “Can I ask a favor?”

  “Ask.”

  “I told Charley Fischetti I wasn’t going to cooperate with these clowns; I think he knows I can be trusted. Sam, would you make sure Guzik knows? And Accardo, and Ricca?”

  “I can do that.”

  “I don’t need anybody thinking I’m a problem.”

  “Like your friend Drury is a problem?”

  “Like that.”

  “What about your friend Drury?”

  “He’s still my friend, Sam. But you probably heard, I fired him.”

  “I did hear. That’s for real?”

  “That’s for real.”

  “Okay. Appreciate it.”

  I knew this friendly, even charming little man could turn on a dime, but I had to risk it….

  “Sam—these guys, these Crime Committee guys, you know they’re not worth killing anybody over.”

  He had his shark eyes fixed on me. “What are you trying to say, Heller?”