“Go on.”
“Most of our leads are from private, unofficial sources. Newspaper reporters on local crime beats…private eyes like yourself…honest cops caught in the middle of crooked administrations…smalltime hoodlums who want to get quietly even with their bosses.”
“And these people never get called as witnesses.”
“That’s right; we protect them, keep them behind the scenes. We put the information these confidential sources have provided us in front of the American people, by posing embarrassing questions of gangsters who invariably respond by pleading the fifth.”
I was starting to get it. Kefauver was shrewder than I’d given him credit for. “And you guys can’t get sued for libel, ’cause you’re a congressional committee—legally privileged.”
“That’s right. Very astute, Mr. Heller. We can put sensitive facts on the record, by the questions we pose…even though those questions invariably go unanswered. ‘Isn’t it true that…?’ We can put what we’ve uncovered on the record—and reveal the corrupting influence of organized crime on American society…. That’s the purpose of our traveling circus.”
The son of a bitch was close to having my vote. “I gotta admit it’s good show business, at that.”
“Thank you.”
“But you’ve set a dangerous goddamn precedent—Senator McCarthy is protected from libel suits by that same privilege.”
Now, as if a switch had been thrown, his expression turned troubled. “I know…the potential for witchhunting is great…and grim. To misuse this tool, as McCarthy is bound and determined to—”
“That’s what he feels you’re doing, Senator. He thinks you’re the witch-hunter.”
“Is this something you’ve gathered, following the press…?”
“No, I talked to Joe McCarthy last week, in D.C. I’ve done my share of work in your second home.”
Nodding, he said, “For Drew Pearson. Yes—and he speaks well of you.”
“And he of you—he’s your most ardent cheerleader.”
Kefauver heaved a deep breath, seemed to be searching for words. Finally, he found them: “Mr. Heller—I would like to ask you about a certain matter…confidentially.”
“You can ask.”
“You were Bill Drury’s friend—and he worked for your detective agency, in his last months. He promised us extensive materials—notebooks, diaries, files, tapes…do you have them?”
“No.”
“Do you know who does?”
“All I know is Bill took them with him, the day he was murdered. They’re gone by now, anyway.”
“Gone?”
I nodded. “If that stuff’s in Outfit hands, it’s been destroyed.”
He frowned. “What if Charles Fischetti got hold of those books, to keep his Mafia brethren from finding certain things out?”
“Then Fischetti’s burned them. But I can give you another tidbit of confidential information.”
“Please.”
“You have a leak on your staff.”
He said nothing; he tented his fingers and his eyes tightened behind the circular lenses. “Are you certain of that?”
“Oh yeah—it comes from an Outfit source. A high-up Outfit source. Lee Mortimer also suspects as much.”
Kefauver worked up a smirk. “I’m afraid Mr. Mortimer is something of a spurned lover, where this committee is concerned.”
“Nonetheless, the guy knows his beans. He suspects Halley—”
“Ridiculous!”
“I tend to agree with you, Senator. But you would be dismayed if you knew how quickly your confidential information is getting into the hands of the competition—the Outfit, I mean.”
He just sat there, mulling that over for a minute; then he said, “I do appreciate this, Mr. Heller. I’ll try to quietly locate the leak on my own. Thank you.”
“That’s okay, Senator. Just don’t say where you heard it.”
He managed a smile; halfhearted though it was, it was still a mile wide. “That’s the nature of confidential sources, Mr. Heller.”
“Swell…and I might be able to help you regarding another matter.”
“By all means.”
“Charley Fischetti.”
Kefauver lifted both eyebrows. “Mr. Fischetti is a witness we would very much like to have sit before our committee. We’re very interested in his brother Rocco, as well.”
“Rocco doesn’t know much—he’s just a thug with an important brother. But I might be able to put Charley’s ass in your chair, so to speak.”
“Really. And how would you manage that?”
I didn’t tell him that I was trying to angle a way to cause Charley trouble, without doing what Giancana strongly implied I should do—flat-out killing the bastard. Which I would have relished, at this point, but was uncomfortable doing Mooney’s dirty laundry. I’d had a feeling I was being played, last night, at the Silver Palm….
I asked, “Does the United States have a friendly relationship with the Mexican government, where extradition is concerned?”
He shrugged matter-of-factly. “If we knew Fischetti’s whereabouts, and those whereabouts happened to be in Mexico, we could get him brought home to us, yes.”
“I know where he is. At least I think I know.”
His eyes narrowed; he again sat forward. “Would you like to share that information with the committee?”
“Would the chairman of the committee like to assure me I won’t be called as a witness?”
Kefauver chuckled. “You are everything you’re cracked up to be, Mr. Heller…. What do you have in mind?”
“Maybe you’d like to hire me…confidentially, of course, by which I mean only you and me and your government checkbook would know.”
“Continue, please.”
“You fund my jaunt South of the Border, where I confirm the whereabouts of your witness. I’ll wire you that information, keep Charley and Rocco under surveillance until the federales take over.”
“I like the sound of this. When would you do it?”
“Right away. Soon as I can book plane tickets…next few days.”
Kefauver shook his head, grinned the infinite grin, and stuck his hand across the desk. “Mr. Heller—welcome aboard the Special Committee to Investigate Organized Crime in Interstate Commerce.”
I shook with him, but said, “Yeah, well, let’s skip the office welcome wagon…. No one but the two of us are hep to this, remember.”
“Hep…?”
“Are in the know about my role.”
“Fine.” The endless grin—a toothless version—seemed to crinkle across his face; then he added, “Always room for another talented performer here at the circus.”
I stood. “Let’s hope I’m not just another clown.”
“It could be worse, Mr. Heller.”
“Yeah, Senator?”
“Try not to get shot out of a cannon.”
Thinking that was good advice, I nodded and went out.
That afternoon around two, in the lobby of the St. Clair Hotel, red-headed Hannan, the house dick, caught me just as I was about to go up on the elevator.
“I need a moment, Nate,” he said, kind of edgy.
“Sure, Hannan,” I said, walking with him over to one side. “What cooks?”
“Not my goose, I hope—listen…I let a dame in your room.”
“Yeah? Anybody you know? Anybody I know?”
“She says she’s a friend from Texas.”
“Texas? I don’t have any girl friends from Texas.”
He gestured with open hands. “Nate, I’m pretty sure you’re not gonna mind. This is one of the best-looking babes I ever saw, built like a brick shithouse and then some…and she was real tired, just got off the bus. She had luggage with her, and no money. I felt sorry for her.”
What the hell was this about?
“Jesus, Hannan—have you seen the papers lately? I’m kind of hot right now. You might have just let some Outfit bimbo lay a trap for m
e.”
His eyes showed white all around. “This is a trap I’d give my left nut to lay. Look, she’s clean—I made her let me go through the suitcase, and her cosmetics case, and then she stood for a frisk.” He grinned and his eyes narrowed and kind of glazed over. “And what a frisk…. Sometimes this is a great job.”
I shook my head, not knowing whether to smack him or tip him. “Does this Texas girl fresh off the bus have a name?”
“Sure—Vera something.”
Vera Jayne Mansfield, nee Palmer—in a short-sleeve white blouse with gaucho collar and black pedal pushers ending over nicely curving calves and red-painted toenails—was asleep on my sofa in the living room of my suite, her powder blue suitcase next to her, a matching train case too. On her back, her cute face to one side, the brunette pageboy tousled, her magnificent bosom rising and falling, Vera was lost in a deep sleep, clearly exhausted.
I sat on the edge of the sofa and wondered why I wasn’t irritated with her. For some stupid reason, I was glad to see her. Maybe that she was a gorgeous girl of nineteen or so, asleep in my apartment after driving cross-country to see me, had something to do with it. Maybe if I couldn’t have the former Miss Chicago on my sofa, the almost Miss California would make a sweet substitute.
She didn’t wake till after dark. I’d been sitting in my easy chair, with a lamp on, reading the afternoon papers, when she purred and, moving sinuously, stretched and yawned and cracked her neck this way and that. Blinking a few times, she finally noticed me and beamed.
“I’ll bet you’re mad at me,” she said.
“Furious.”
“I bet you wonder what I’m doing here.”
“Visiting?”
She touched her breasts, eyes doing an Eddie Cantor. “I must look a fright.”
“Horrible.”
“I was on the bus most of last night and a lot of today.” She tasted her mouth and didn’t like it. “I’ll be right back.”
She snatched up her train case, scampered off into the bathroom, and fifteen minutes later emerged with fresh makeup and brushed hair and a big white smile. Returning to the couch, she patted the cushion next to herself with one hand, while crooking the forefinger of her other hand. It was insulting, really, even demeaning—like she was summoning a child, or maybe a dog.
I obeyed at once.
“Thanks for not being angry,” she cooed. “I didn’t call because I thought you’d try to talk me out of it.”
“Out of what?”
“Coming to Chicago to see you. To get you to help me. You know—to get work, modeling assignments, maybe some nightclub thing, in a chorus line. Doesn’t that make sense? Starting here, sort of small, and working up to Hollywood?”
This girl—who was nineteen or at most twenty—had something almost scarily intense in those wide-set hazel eyes; beneath those soft curves and that sweet face was a ferocious drive, a willingness to do whatever was necessary. Most girls who went after show biz careers were ready to settle for a husband or a sugar daddy; this girl wanted to be in show biz for one reason, and one reason only: to make it big. To be a star.
I asked, “What about Paul?”
“Paul—my husband, Paul?”
“Yeah—that Paul.”
“He’s at Camp Gordon in Georgia. Intense training for a month—no wives allowed—before he goes to Korea.”
“What does he think about you coming to Chicago?”
She shrugged, batting the big hazel eyes. “He doesn’t know. Nate, you have to understand something…. Back in high school, some boys at a party got me high and raped me, or anyway took advantage of me, I don’t really remember the details, too out of it…I just know I got pregnant. Paul was a decent-looking guy, president of his class, and he always wanted to date me. So we got secretly married my senior year and he gave my daughter a name…and a father.”
“Sounds like you got yourself a nice guy. A good catch.”
“Paul really helped me out—but he doesn’t understand my ambition.”
“Why don’t you divorce him, if you’re unhappy with him?”
“I’m not unhappy. He’s going to Korea—when he gets back, if he’s willing to go out to Hollywood with me, I’ll give him a chance. I owe him that much. In the meantime, I have a dream to pursue.”
I shook my head. “Vera, I don’t know if Chicago’s the best place to do that.”
“What about modeling jobs?”
“Well…. The Patricia Stevens agency I have an in with; I’ve done some security work for them. And there’s no denying you would make a swell swimsuit model.”
“Oh, Nate—you’re wonderful.”
“I can’t guarantee anything, Vera…”
“Thank you…thank you…thank you for not being mad at me.”
She put her arms around my neck and kissed me with those soft full lips. The only light on was the lamp by my chair, and I got up and switched it off, and returned to her on the sofa, where she was already unbuttoning her blouse.
Vera was a married woman—sort of—and I was still in the throes of an emotional attachment to another beauty queen. And I should have either thrown this one out on her pretty behind, or just been a friend to her, helping her make some connections in the big town.
About two minutes later, she was naked on my lap, her hips churning, my pants around my ankles, and I was deep inside her, my face burrowed first in one generous breast, then the other. Her devil-may-care, giddy sexuality was infectious, but she noticed something different about me, and—slowing but not stopping the motion of her hips—she placed a soft tender hand against my face and her eyes were caring as she stared into me, saying, “You’re hurting, aren’t you, Nate? Why are you hurting?”
“Nothing…it’s nothing….”
“Vera Jayne’ll make you forget…or die trying….”
I was the one who almost died—we did it on the kitchen table next, after I’d fixed us sandwiches, and eventually we even got around to the bedroom. It was close to midnight, with Vera curled up against me, her full lips smiling in slumber, when the phone on the nightstand rang.
Catching it on the first ring, hoping not to disturb my guest, I said, “Hello.”
“Nate…Nate….”
It was Jackie!…and she sounded strange…out of breath…was she crying?
“What is it, baby?” I said into the phone.
Vera, half-awake now, looked up at me, propping herself on an elbow.
“Nate,” Jackie said. “Please help me…you have to help me….”
“Where are you?”
“Riverview. A lad…”
“A lad? Baby, what—?”
Now another voice came on the line, a male voice, rather high-pitched but gruff. Was this the “lad” she was referring to?
“She’s hurting, Heller. She needs a fix.”
“Who the fuck—”
“Bring those notebooks to Aladdin’s Castle.”
“Notebooks?”
“Don’t play dumb. We know your pal Drury gave ’em to you—notebooks, diaries, tapes, the works. Come alone. Before one a.m., or the next injection this junkie slut gets is forty-five caliber.”
And the phone clicked dead.
Sitting up in bed, clutching the receiver, eyes and mouth wide open, I must have looked like a madman, because Vera backed away as she said, “What’s wrong?”
“I have to go somewhere.” I swung over and sat on the edge of the bed; then I was using the phone again—dialing this time. “You’ll have to stay here, Vera.”
“Where are you going?”
“Riverview.”
“What’s Riverview?”
“An amusement park—the world’s largest.”
“Well that sounds like fun! Take me along!”
“They’re closed for the season, Vera.”
“Then why…?”
“Quiet,” I said, as the party I was phoning responded.
“Yeah?” the sleep-thick male voice said. “Who is it?
You know what the fuck time it is?”
“Tim,” I said to Bill Drury’s ex-cop partner. “This is that call you asked me to make.”
Riverview amusement park—bordered on the north by Lane Tech high school, on the east by Western Avenue, on the west by the Chicago River, and on the south by Belmont Avenue— had been a fixture of the Northside as long as I’d been alive. In fact, one of its rides—the Pair-O-Chutes—loomed over that part of town like a Chicago Eiffel Tower; actually that’s what it had originally been called—the Eye-Ful tower, an observation deck that had been condemned by the city and cannily turned by the Riverview management into a freefall parachute drop. From miles around, you could see the oil well-like structure, crosshatched against the sky.
Some of my earliest and fondest childhood memories were of the so-called “world’s largest amusement park”—free entrance passes were routinely mailed out all across the city, and the park refunded the two-cent streetcar fare for kids (a big table of shiny pennies awaited inside the front gates), encouraging customers for what was already a bargain-packed extravaganza.
When I was a kid, I’d held onto my stomachful of cotton candy and popcorn through the wild ride that was the Jack Rabbit roller coaster, only to be defeated by the Crazy Ribbon, with its barrel-shaped cars rolling and twisting back and forth down an inclined track. Dreams during my adult life on occasion had returned me to the funhouse called Hades, a hell of a ride through dark passageways filled with flashing figures and unearthly noises.
And my memory still tingles with other vivid images of Riverview: the freak show with the Tattooed Lady, the Rubber Man, and Pop-Eye (not the sailor but a guy who could force his eyeballs to jut from their sockets); midget fire eaters; hootchie-kootchie dancers; the African Dip (colored guys dressed like jungle warriors who taunted you into hurling baseballs at them— “Hey man, that ain’t the gal you was here with las’ night!”); and of course every kid’s favorite, the Monkey Races, where you bet on the driver of your choice among the tiny terrified creatures “steering” cars of various colors, cute little critters but if you petted them you’d get nipped—don’t say you weren’t warned.
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