“I didn’t — he did. His secretary asked if you had a ten o’clock appointment, and I said no, and she said to put Captain Gilbert down and that was that.”
“Damn.”
“And Mr. Sapperstein wants to talk to you.”
I sighed. “Send him over.”
“I can get you some coffee, if that’ll help.”
“No thanks.”
I went through another frosted-glass door out into the bullpen — Lou’s office was straight ahead, door closed. The area was fairly open — I don’t like butting desks up against each other — and (while I was no modernist in Charley Fischetti’s league) the office furniture I’d chosen was the latest stuff: plywood, Fiberglas, perforated aluminum, and wire, sleek and efficient. We were in an ancient building, with foam green plaster walls and dark molding, and I wanted to send a contemporary message.
About half the desks were filled — my ops spent a good share of their time in the field, and of course Drury’s desk was vacant — and I nodded a couple hellos as I headed around to the right, stopped to get a Dixie cup of water from the cooler, then went through the door marked PRIVATE.
I hung up my hat and coat in the closet. My office was a spacious affair with a comfortable couch, padded leather client chairs, wooden file cabinets, and — positioned against the opposite wall to take advantage of the big double bay windows — the mammoth old scarred desk I’d had since the beginning. I wasn’t going to subject myself to any of that atomic age nonsense.
My office walls were decorated with framed, mostly signed photos of celebrities, sometimes with me, sometimes not. A few magazine covers were framed as well — a
I leaned back in my swivel chair and sipped my water, wondering if Captain Dan “Tubbo” Gilbert — who I’d seen yesterday afternoon, going in for the next appointment with Charley Fischetti — had spotted me, as well.
Two raps on the door announced Sapperstein, who did not wait for a response, just ambled in, shutting the door behind him, and pulled up a chair. He had his suitcoat off, exposing dark suspenders and the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt; despite this casualness, his royal blue tie wasn’t loosened.
My bald, bespectacled partner — who at sixty could still kick the hell out of most men half his age, belying his librarian looks — said, “Did Gladys mention you’d had a number of phone calls already this morning?”
“She said Tubbo’s secretary called for an appointment.”
He frowned. “Yeah, so I heard — what’s that about?”
“What do you think? Drury. Tubbo’s on his short list, right next to Fischetti.”
“Where
“I tracked him down, and he’s not going to be around, other than I hope to bring back those Reveres. I fired him.”
Briefly, I told Lou how I’d caught our operative in the basement of the Barry Apartments.
“Crazy bastard,” Lou said, shaking his head. “He’ll get us all killed before he’s through.”
“No he won’t. He’s not part of the A-1, anymore. We have nothing to do with him and his little war on crime.”
“Let’s see if you can convince Tubbo of that.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I think I convinced Fischetti — or anyway, I thought I had. With Tubbo turning up on my doorstep this morning, who the hell knows?”
That astounded him. “You saw Fischetti yesterday? What, Charley?”
“Charley
I gave him the lowdown, quickly — I left out the part about me giving Rocco’s discarded, battered showgirl a lift into the Loop... or that she was still in my residential suite at the St. Clair Hotel. (You’ll get the lowdown on that, in due time. Patience.)
As I wound up my story, Lou lifted a pack of Camels from his breast pocket and lighted up. I could tell he was thinking about how to approach me, on something. Finally he waved out his match and said, “Those other calls I mentioned? They’re all from Robinson — Kefauver’s man.”
“I know who he is.”
Lou’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, you’ve met him?”
“No. But I know who he is.”
“Robinson wants to meet with you. No subpoena — just informal. Over at the Stevens Hotel.”
“I heard they were camped out at the Crime Commission, with Virgil Peterson.”
Lou nodded. “Officially, yes. But they’re using the Stevens for talking to potential witnesses and, uh...”
“Informants?”
He shrugged. “Better a live informant than a dead witness. Anyway, you better get it out of the way. Go over there — see if you can convince them you don’t know jack shit. Head this fucking thing off.”
“You’ve talked to Robinson?”
Lou’s eyes rolled. “Oh, only six or twelve times, about this. You want me to call, and set it up?”
I sighed. Nodded.
“For when?”
“Soon as the hell possible,” I said. “This morning, even — just allow me time to deal with Tubbo.”
