Target Lancer (14 page)

And the blade paused for the half-lathered face to turn and grin at me, to take the edge off; but I knew he was kidding on the square.

I stood near the bathroom door, not too near. “I apologize for busting in on you, Jim. But it
is
important.”

As he watched himself shave, now and then his Chinaman eyes would flick toward me, catching me in the mirror. “We got maybe ten minutes, kiddo. Go, man, go.”

“Jim, are you aware of what happened to Tom Ellison?”

“No. What happened to Tom Ellison?”

Okay. So that was how he was going to play it. He didn’t know about it.

But the hell of it was, maybe he didn’t. I had seen the papers, and only the afternoon editions had anything about Tom’s murder, and those had been squibs, buried deep.

If Hoffa was innocent in this thing, he really
wouldn’t
know.

“Tom was murdered last night, Jim. In his hotel room.”

If he was acting, he was good. The razor jogged, then froze, and when he wiped the lather from his face, I saw a little blood come away on the towel. He hadn’t really finished the shave, but he threw some water on his face, toweled off, stuck a little piece of toilet paper where he’d nicked himself, and exited the john.

“I do not mean to downplay the import of this thing,” Hoffa said, “but you talk while I get ready.”

He got dressed, initially sitting on the edge of the bed to pull the white socks on. He’d motioned me to sit across from him, which took pulling a chair around, which I did. I gave him a condensed, factual report, including the police suspecting a hooker robbery gone awry, and my own feeling that this was a horseshit theory, and that in all likelihood a man had committed the act. Hoffa was ready for his dinner engagement by the time I finished.

But he didn’t stir. He just sat on the edge of the bed facing me, big hands on his small knees.

“I’m gonna save you the trouble,” he said. His face was serious, even somber, his eyes hard but not cold. He gestured with a karate chop. “I can see where you could think this thing may be related to that other thing.”

Apparently Hoffa was not convinced the Bismarck was free of bugs, and I don’t mean bedbugs.

“It seems suspicious to me, yes. You were unhappy with Tom, because he hired me to go along on that handoff.”

I was doing my best to be cryptic myself, in case cops or FBI were listening.

“I think you have a valid concern,” Hoffa said.

This surprised me.

Then he stood, gave me the finger crook like Gladys (not as ominous, strangely, coming from him), said, “In my office,” and I followed him back into the bathroom.

He turned on both faucets, all the way, letting them run hard and loud. He gestured to the toilet, which had the seat down. I sat. He stood near the sink with his arms folded and a piece of toilet paper on his face.

Well, it appeared once again we were going to talk in the can.

“If Tom became a loose end that somebody decided to cut off,” he said softly but forcefully, “it was done without my knowing, and is not something I would have approved. Something like that when I am in
town,
doing business? Jesus H. Fucking Christ. I have already seriously reprimanded the individual who involved a civilian in this thing in the first place.”

“Jim, a reprimand doesn’t go far with a widow and two young kids.”

“No, it don’t.” He looked grave. Nothing seemed phony about it. “If I gave you, say, ten grand for the family, would you pass it along?”

That was funny. Well, not hilarious, but sick-joke funny: that had been the amount of cash in the envelope Tom gave Ruby at the 606.

He cocked his head, raised an eyebrow. “You would have to accept that it comes out of genuine concern for the family of a trusted business associate, and is not in no way an admission of guilt. Nate, I swear on my mother’s grave I had nothing to do with this goddamn thing.”

“That’s good to hear.” I had no idea if he was telling me the truth or not.

“That will come out of my personal funds,” he said, tapping his chest, allowing himself just a touch of magnanimity.

The running water seemed to be shushing us.

“I’ll get the ten grand to them,” I said. “I’ll say it’s from an anonymous friend of Tom’s.”

“Good. I would appreciate it.”

I’d keep the ten grand. Jean Ellison wouldn’t accept it, and I could use it to fund the investigation. That way I could spare her the expenses.

He rocked on his heels; standing there in that suit, he might have been a cut-rate after-dinner speaker, or the headwaiter at a hash house.

“What are your intentions in this thing, Nate? Are you going to let this thing lie?”

The sink noise wanted to know, too.

I met his unblinking gaze, wondering if my life depended on my answer.

“Here’s what I’m thinking of doing, Jim—I will put agents on the case here and in Milwaukee, and see if this murder really was a robbery gone wrong, whether a hooker or some asshole robbing hotel rooms. I’ll also see if there’s anything else going on in Tom’s life that could have got him killed. You never know—some people have secret lives. He could have a girlfriend who had a boyfriend who decided to get rid of the competition. He could have a business partner who is embezzling that wanted him gone. Anything’s possible.”

Hoffa said, “Anything’s possible.”

“But if you tell me not to look into this, I won’t.
I
don’t want to be a loose end, Jim.”

I might have been lying about the former, but I was telling the God’s honest truth about the latter.

And after several moments’ thought, Hoffa said something interesting: “Would it make the little woman feel better, you looking into it?”

“I think it probably would … unless I come up with an answer that doesn’t sit well.”

“Another woman kinda thing.”

“Right.”

He shook his head, made a sympathetic clicking sound in his cheek. “I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t do this investigation and bring some peace of mind to the little lady.”

“All right.”

“But I can’t promise you this ain’t connected.”

That shook me but I tried not to show it. “No?”

“No. Sometimes subordinates do things that they think they should do—you know? Sometimes these sons of bitches think too much on their own. They take the goddamn fucking initiative, the ass-kissing jackasses. Guys like me, you know how it is, Nate—we’re insulated. So I will not lie to you. It is possible Tom getting killed was a by-product of that favor he did.”

I wasn’t sure I should ask, but heard myself saying, “Would you be willing to ask around? If some subordinate of yours was responsible … and you’re unhappy with him … maybe I could … fire him for you.”

That got a big smile out of Hoffa. “Kiddo, you are one of a kind. You always never fail to surprise me. Goddamn right, I will ask around. Anything else? I’m five minutes late. I fucking hate being late.”

I raised a hand, gesturing for just another moment. “There is one other thing. If somebody under or … over you? If there
is
such a person? If somebody considers me a loose end that needs tying off, would you … please discourage them?”

He nodded with a big, reassuring smile, and he patted the air with his palms to indicate,
No problem
.

Then he added, “If I can’t discourage them, how about I warn your ass?”

“Please.”

“Okay? We done?”

“I can see taking a guy like Tom out,” I said, ignoring the dismissal. “I hate it, and I don’t think it was smart or necessary. But he was a civilian, and the mistake was enlisting a civilian.”

“I one hunnerd percent agree.”

“I don’t know what makes that little bagman exercise at the 606 worth killing somebody over.…”

“We don’t know that it was,” Hoffa reminded me.

I rose from toilet lid. “Right. But if it
was
worth killing somebody over? I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know why, and I don’t want to know what it’s about. I don’t want to know
anything
about it. I just want to live long enough to happily retire and see my son grow up and get rich enough to support me in my old age.”

The running water sounded like applause now.

“I hear ya!” he chortled. “Come on, come on.”

Then he turned off the faucets, slipped an arm around my shoulder, and showed me out of his “office.”

“I’m not a civilian, Jim,” I said, as he escorted me into the living room. “Look back over my history, and think about everything I’ve seen, everything I know, and see if you can find me ever testifying about any of it.”

He didn’t need to know about all the information I had, once upon a time, passed along to Bobby Kennedy and the rackets committee.

“You
do
know where the bodies are buried,” he said pleasantly, getting bored with me.

My hairy-eyebrow doorman and the two other baggy-suit thugs were playing nickel-dime poker now, at a card table in a corner of the Victorian living room. Seeing me, the doorman threw in his hand, scurried to get my coat and hat, gave them to me, and scurried back to the game.

Hoffa and I went down in the elevator together, having it to ourselves. None of his bodyguards had made the trip, probably because their boss was dining in the hotel, with those lawyers, and there was no need.

He was rocking on his heels again, looking at the floor indicator, having forgotten I was there, though I was at his side.

I said, “I wouldn’t ever insult you with that old wheeze, of course.”

Hoffa frowned. “What old wheeze?”

“Oh, that I’ve written a bunch of stuff down and left it with my lawyer or in a safety deposit box … or both. If something should happen to me. You know, the original one place, the carbon another?”

He had the expression of a clown that just got hit by a pie.

I patted him on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t insult your intelligence that way, Jim.”

The elevator said in its seductive female voice, “
Lobby floor.…
”

I headed quickly across the lobby’s marble expanse, but when I glanced back at him he was standing near the elevator, possibly waiting for his party, or maybe I’d slowed him down a little.

I called out, “Jim! If you’re eating at the Swiss Chalet, and you never tried the pork shanks and sauerkraut? Do.”

CHAPTER
9

Tuesday, October 29, 1963

When I rolled in at just past ten, I found Lou Sapperstein—as ever, in shirtsleeves, suspenders, and wire-frame glasses—seated in our little break room off the bullpen. This was just a glorified cubbyhole with counter, coffee machine, sink, a few cabinets, and refrigerator. The bulk of the space was taken up by a Formica table whose centerpiece was a cardboard container offering the remnants of what had undoubtedly once been a proud selection of pastries and doughnuts. Lou sat drinking coffee, nibbling on one of the latter.

I joined him, but just for talk—I’d had juice and toast at home. “You get Jean Ellison home okay?”

It was one of those questions you knew the answer to but had to ask.

He nodded, chewing. He swallowed. “I drove her in her car. Gladys followed in ours. We were back by midnight.”

“Appreciate that. How did Jean do?”

“She was very quiet. No more crying, at least not that I saw or heard. She was turned away from me, resting against her window. Think maybe she even slept a little. You could transcribe our conversation on the head of a pin.”

I leaned back in the kitchen-style chair. “She’s brave and she’s smart, but this would be a rough one for anybody.”

He sighed, nodded again. “Her parents were at her place. They seem pretty solid. Kids were already in bed. There was no melodrama.”

“None is needed when you got actual drama.” A sigh seemed called for. “I appreciate you handling that, Lou.”

“Sure. But I’ll stop short of saying ‘my pleasure.’”

“I’ll need you to represent the A-1 at the funeral.”

“No problem.” He sipped his coffee. “Your pal Dick Cain called right at nine. Said he had a big meeting this morning, something about Kennedy’s visit this weekend, and might not be free for a while, so I should give you a message.”

“So give.”

“Said to tell you the latent print guys say the drinking glass with the lipstick traces was otherwise clean—probably
wiped
clean. Interesting, huh? Somebody takes the time to wipe off a glass but leaves the lipstick?”

“Doesn’t surprise me. There hasn’t been a more obviously staged crime scene since Basil Rathbone last made a monkey out of Nigel Bruce.”

Lou smiled at that. He appreciated it when I made an effort.

“Dick say whether the latent print guys found
anything
useful?”

“No.” He smirked. “It’s a hotel room. There’s gonna be all kinds of prints—recent guests, hotel employees, not to mention cops.”

I frowned. “Not
that
tough an exercise—the hotel knows who stayed in the room lately. You print the hotel staff for elimination, or to see if anybody working there pops up with a prior.”

My indignation amused Lou. “Listen to yourself, Nate. The homicide boys already have their theory, and that’s what they’ll try to prove—they’ll compare whatever prints
do
turn up to known hookers, and known hookers only. Some poor schmuck is probably flipping through ten-print file cards on that hopeless mission right now.”

Two glazed doughnuts were staring at me. I started eating one of them.

Lou was saying, “The fingerprint aspect of what we’ll call a police investigation, just to have
something
to call it, will begin and end there.”

I knew he was right. I got up and got myself a glass of orange juice. My second of the day.

But Lou wasn’t through: “I also heard from Doc Owens. Nice guy, Clarence. Surprised you haven’t run into him before. Anyway, he confirms the weapon was likely an ice pick. He said to tell you that the killer was probably five nine or ten, due to the angle and depth of the wound.”

“Five nine or ten,” I said, sitting back down with the glass of juice in hand. “Probably a man but still possibly a woman. Did salt-of-the-earth Clarence comment on whether a woman might be capable of a blow with that kind of force?”