The Talk Show Murders (27 page)

As soon as they’d gone, Mantata said, “There’s something I’ve discovered about your good friend Mr. Webber.”

“I’d like to know more about Ferriola and the Cicero crew,” I said.

“There are times when the past has to bow to the present,” he said. “Did you know that Instapicks International is now located in Ireland?”

“I thought it was in Winnetka.”

“That’s where the work is done. But the company is registered in Dublin, where the tax rate is a mere twelve-point-five percent.”

“I saw something about this kind of thing on
60 Minutes
. It’s an exploitation of a tax loophole.”

“Precisely. Business can be conducted here, but the money is overseas.”

“It is legal, right?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

Mantata got to his feet. He seemed suddenly very old. He began gathering the scattered papers on the coffee table. “I’d better clear space for lunch,” he said.

“What exactly are you trying to tell me, Mantata?”

He paused and considered the question. “I can’t speak for people like Mr. Capone or Mr. Giancana as to why they chose to go against society’s grain. I did it because it seemed the only way to achieve anything in a country where all the doors were closed to me. I was smart enough to know that being smart wasn’t enough. I needed the power to gain the kind of freedom that allowed me to use my intelligence.
There were many things I did of which I am not proud, but I achieved my goal.”

“You don’t have to—”

“This is not a confession, Billy. It’s an … admission. There was a time when a wave of my hand could get a candidate elected to mayor of this city. Now I’m a toothless old lion who can’t even keep the jackals from his cave.”

“It was just a break-in,” I said.

“It would have been, if they had not had a key and if the gallery was owned by an ordinary businessman. My point of this private chat, Billy, is that we’re dealing with people who are more powerful than I’d thought. In my arrogance, I assumed I could keep you safe. I no longer believe that. I suggest you employ a reliable security firm.”

“Dal seems to be handling the job,” I said.

He smiled. “We have arrived at a time in this country’s history when the real-life Monopoly game is heading toward its conclusion. The small group of ultra-rich winners has amassed nearly all of the property and money on the board. They can buy or destroy whomever they choose. Supreme Court justices, FBI agents, politicians, cops. Even presidents. When the cost of a gallon of gasoline is five dollars, men like Dal or Hiho or Trejean, no matter how loyal, will always have their price.”

“You think one of them is responsible for the break-in?”

“Someone I trusted was.”

“Maybe it’s your guard, Oakley,” I said.

“Though the others are not aware of it, Oakley is my great-nephew. He’s no work wizard, but he’s kept his nose clean and, according to my grandniece, he even goes to church on Sundays. I don’t see him selling me out, but, the times being what they are, all things are possible.”

“Well, Dal’s rescued me twice,” I said. “I’d just as soon stick with him.”

“It’s your decision, Billy,” he said. “But bear in mind: Dal, Trejean, Hiho, and I are all sociopaths.”

Gemma Bright’s show had just ended when Hiho braked the Nissan Z near the entrance to WWBC. Leaving him to deal with the illegally parked car, I worked my way through the crowd of departing ladies. Each was lugging a copy of the massive
Da Mare
.

Willard Mitry was still onstage, getting de-miked. But it was another of the show’s guests who caught my eye: Adoree, engaged in conversation with Gemma and a woman with too much makeup whom I didn’t recognize.

Gemma, whose roving eyes covered more territory than radar, was the first to spot me. “Billy!” she exclaimed, waving me forward.

I suppose Mitry must have turned in my direction, but I wasn’t staring at him. Adoree was regarding me without expression.

“Adoree, you
must
meet Billy Blessing,” Gemma said.

“We’ve met,” Adoree said.

“Lovely of you to drop
by
, Billy,” Gemma said. “Oh, and this is Will—”

“Billy interviewed me this morning,” Mitry said.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to run,” Adoree said. Without waiting for a reply, she turned and began walking away, followed by the woman in excessive makeup.

“Give me a minute,” I said to Mitry and Gemma, and ran after them, catching up as they entered the greenroom.

“Adoree …,” I began.

She turned. “I’m in something of a rush, Billy.”

“I’m Candy Mott, with RDL Publicity, Chef Blessing,” the woman with Adoree said, extending her hand. “We’re handling prepub on the film.”

“A pleasure,” I said, shaking her hand. “Could you give us a minute, Ms. Mott?”

“Not more than that,” she said, walking away. “We have a key luncheon.”

Momentarily alone, Adoree said, “Well, Billy?”

“Evidently I did something to upset you last night,” I said. “I wanted to apologize.”

“Fine,” she said. “Apology accepted.”

She turned to go.

“Wait. Clearly I’ve offended you, and I—”

“You disappeared last night,” she said. “I was disappointed when you did not return. But that was probably a good thing. I do not need to make any more mistakes with men of your type.”

“I didn’t return because …” I paused before I could get the lie out of my mouth. “Men of my type? What the heck are you talking about?”

“Of course you would deny it.”

“Deny what?” I realized I was shouting.

“You are a
voleur
. A thief.”

“I’m a chef. I feed people. I entertain people. I do not rob people.”

“Ah. Now, perhaps, you are a chef.
Mais vous êtes dans les rues a faire ses combines
.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You were—how do you say?—a hustler on the streets.”

“Who told you this?”

“No one told me. I … overheard a discussion.”

“A discussion about me? At the dinner last night?”

“It does not matter when or where. Do you deny you were a
criminel
?”

I hesitated, then replied, “No. I won’t deny it.”

“
Soit
!”

“No. Not
soit
! It was more than twenty-five years ago. Adoree, it’s very important I know who was talking about my past.”

“Why, if they spoke the truth?”

“Because their knowledge of things I’ve done may mean they are criminals themselves.”

She smiled. “Now you are making fun of me.”

“I’m serious,” I said. “Do they know you overheard them?”

“I … I don’t believe so. They were helping one of the guests into a car in the garage. I was sitting in another car, awaiting … someone.”

“Listen to me. You must not let them know you overheard them. It could be dangerous for you.”

“You’re frightening me with this silly game, Billy.
J’en ai assez
!”

“It’s no game,” I said. “For both our sakes, tell me who they are.”

And Candy Mott picked that perfect moment to return. “Sorry, Adoree. We have to go.”

“
Au revoir
, Billy,” Adoree said.

“I’ll call you,” I said.

She merely shook her head from side to side.

And was gone.

Willard Mitry and I had lunch at Terzo Piano, the antiseptic white-and-gray, sunlight-freshened restaurant located in the Art Institute.

Thanks to his stockpile of intriguing anecdotes, a lamb burger grilled to perfection and stuffed with goat cheese, and a formidable pile of hand-cut french fries, I had almost recovered from Adoree’s rejection. Not to mention her potentially perilous situation. Especially if Derek Webber was the guy who’d been talking about me.

Well, maybe I hadn’t recovered.

“You okay, Billy?” Mitry asked.

“Fine. I was just … What was it you said about Patton’s murder?”

“That it’s not even mentioned in the paper anymore. Still, when they find the killer or killers, that’s going to be one sweet story. But it probably won’t be the
Trib
that breaks it. Hell, it’ll probably be TMZ.”

“In researching
Gangland, Illinois
, have you come across the name Giovanni Polvere?”

He thought for a few seconds, then withdrew a small reporter’s
notepad from his jacket pocket. He flipped through several pages filled with tiny crabbed handwriting and paused. “Yeah. He was the Outfit’s unofficial CFO during the eighties, starting with the last half of ‘Joey Doves’ Aiuppa’s stint as front boss and continuing through most of Joe Nagall’s run.”

“Know when he died?”

“Eighty-seven, according to my notes. Went up in a fire. Why?”

“Your research show any direct connection to Patton?”

“Not direct. But as I think I mentioned, the rumor was Patton and Nagall had something going and Polvere was working for Nagall. What’s your angle?”

“Suppose Nagall wanted to invest a sizable amount of the Outfit’s coin in some scheme or other,” I said. “Would he have to involve Polvere?”

“Sizable amount? Probably.” Mitry had his head cocked and was looking at me with a half-smile on his face. “What’s the story, Billy?”

I was beginning to see what might have happened back then—Paul approaching Venici with one of his cons, then, sensing an even bigger fish, expanding the con and drawing Joseph “Joe Nagall” Ferriola into the net. Ferriola takes the project to Polvere, who’s controlling the big funds. And then what? The fact that Paul was killed without the loot suggests that Polvere saw through the scam and ordered his death. Then why were Venici and his cousin killed?

Did the Outfit bump off its minions for stupidity? Wouldn’t that have depleted the ranks long before the government did?

I had the feeling I was just a few pieces shy of the jigsaw puzzle of Paul’s murder.

“You’re spooking me, Billy,” Mitry said. “Usually the food here is pretty good.”

“The food’s great, Willard. I’m sorry. Just a little distracted.”

“It’s Polvere, right? Is there something I should know? For the book?”

“Nothing right now. If anything develops, I promise to clue you in.”

“Good enough,” he said. “Meanwhile, if you’re looking for a dessert
to talk about on your show, you want to try the gingerbread cake and maple-bourbon ice cream.”

“Let’s get a couple, and you can tell me why your agent doesn’t trust Derek Webber.”

The dessert was a dream.

Mitry’s agent’s report on Webber was, like everything Mantata had turned up, not terribly incriminating and only vaguely supported by fact.

“Jeb didn’t say Webber was a crook. Just a shark. The reason he wanted to meet with me was probably to pick my brain. And even if he did make an offer to purchase the film and TV rights of the book, it wouldn’t be my talent he’d be buying. It’d be insurance that a rival project wouldn’t get launched.”

“How wealthy is he?”

“I don’t know, but he and his partner, Luchek, are up there with guys like Branson and Malone.”

“If they have all this money, why are they going out of their way to court backers for their movie?”

“Because the first rule any of these moguls learn is: Never use your own money.”

If Polvere obeyed that rule, that could be the reason he closed down Paul’s scam. Or maybe he hadn’t thought of the money as his own.

“Know anything about Luchek?” I asked.

“He’s not as high-profile as Webber, but I gave them both a Google when they expressed interest in my book. Luchek’s family has money. Not as much as he has now.”

“What’s his father do?”

“He doesn’t. He’s retired. He was in banking. Mother passed about ten years ago. Alan’s got two sisters, both older. One’s unmarried, maybe divorced, living in the family home in Winnetka. The other’s married and on the East Coast. Philadelphia, maybe.”

“You got all that from Google?”

“Google and the sweat of my brow,” he said. “I’m … I was a reporter, Billy. Research is what we do.”

Dal arrived at my hotel suite shortly before nine on Thursday night. Kiki, Hiho, and I had just polished off a room-service dinner of pan-fried trout (Kiki); filet mignon burger, well done (Hiho); and T-bone, rare (me), and were having coffee.

Dal seemed a little jangled and distracted as he passed along Mantata’s instructions to Hiho. “He wants you to go home, get a good night’s sleep, and pick him up at his place at seven.”

“Why so early?”

“Beats me. He commands, I obey.”

Hiho had removed his hat and coat for dinner. He retrieved them from the couch and, almost daintily, put them back on. Standing in front of the room’s only mirror, he adjusted his hat just so, shaping and smoothing the brim with his hand. “You and the boss worked late, huh?” he asked.

“We had pizza at Uno’s, then I dropped him back at the gallery.”

“He don’t want me to drive him home?”

“Said he’d take a cab.”

“A cab? That seem right to you?”

“What do you mean by ‘right’?” Dal asked.

“You know. Funny? He didn’t seem to be acting like himself.”

“Maybe. He’s pretty shook up about the break-in.”

“That bastard Oakley,” Hiho said. Finished with the hat, he turned to Kiki, bowed, and said, “A pleasure meeting you,
madame
.”

Then it was my turn. “Thank you for dinner, Billy. I will see you tomorrow.”

At the door, he turned to Dal. “Seven in the morning, huh? My eyes will be major puffy.”

Kiki left shortly thereafter. “See you earlier than seven, boys,” she said.

Dal and I stayed up long enough for him to tell me that Claus Dieter Heinz’s private eye license was legitimate, but his address had changed at least three times since he’d been issued his driver’s license, the most recent as yet undiscovered. There had been a one-room office for Heinz Security and Associates on the West Side for eight years, but that had closed over two years ago.