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.
