Chicago Confidential полностью

Joey was shaking his head; strangely, there was no rattle. “Anything, Nate... Oh — hiya, Jackie. What are you doing here?”

“I’m with him,” she said, nodding to me.

Joey looked from her to me and back again, a couple times.

“Joey,” I said. “One problem at a time?”

“Right,” he said, nodding, as if acknowledging there was only so much room inside there. “Right.”

“But you have to do me a favor.”

“Anything, if you just talk to Frank.”

I was already out in the aisle. “You sit here with Jackie. If your brother notices her, and comes over, you have to protect her for me.”

“What? But Rocky’s—”

“You just tell him you’re warming my seat up while I’m doing you this favor — you can do that, Joey. You’re up to the job.”

He sighed and nodded and said, “Yeah. Yeah. Go! Do it!”

To the tune of the orchestra playing “Enjoy Yourself (It’s Later Than You Think),” I made my way down a few booths, and found Sinatra’s nemesis.

Small, well-groomed, in his early fifties, Lee Mortimer had gray hair, a gray complexion and a gray suit; his tie was gray, too... but also red, striped. His eyes were tiny and hard-looking and his nose was large and soft-looking; his chin was pointed and his lips full and sensual. Seated in the booth beside him was a good-looking green-eyed brunette in a green satin low-cut gown; she was twenty-five and I recognized her from local TV commercials and print ads, a busty, raving beauty. Sinatra had spread the word that Mortimer was a “fag” and the reporter was overcompensating.

Mortimer was smoking — using a cigarette holder (maybe he wasn’t compensating enough) — and his hooded eyes opened slightly as he smiled in recognition.

“Nate Heller,” he said. “The man who doesn’t return my calls.”

“Can I join you, Lee?”

“Please. Please... Linda, this is Nate Heller.”

She offered her white-gloved hand. “I recognize him... Mr. Heller, you make the papers now and then.”

“So do you — Miss Robbins, isn’t it?”

She was pleased I knew her name, and she seemed genuinely impressed with a local celebrity like me. Shallow girl. I filed her away for future reference.

Mortimer was born and raised in Chicago, but he left in the twenties for New York, where he’d become a gossip columnist at the Mirror. I had ducked him when he was in town researching his Chicago Confidential book, and I’d been ducking him lately, too.

“What can I do for you, Nate? Not that I owe you any favors, rude as you’ve been.”

“You want me to be one of your sources, Lee... but I have a relationship with another columnist, and besides, you have Bill Drury in your pocket.”

The mention of “another columnist” perked him up. “Are you and Drew Pearson friendly again? I heard you were on the outs.”

“We patched it up. He paid his back bills, gave me a new retainer, and I forgave him his sins.”

“Chicago-style penance.”

A waitress brought Mortimer and the brunette a martini and Manhattan, respectively; I’d brought my rum and Coke along for the trip.

“You know, Lee, I just might give you an interview, at that.”

His hooded eyes seemed languid, but they didn’t miss a thing. “Really? Including information that I can’t get from your associate?”

“If by my ‘associate,’ you mean Bill Drury, he doesn’t work for me anymore.”

He plucked the martini’s toothpick from the drink and ate the olive. “I heard you met with Halley and Robinson today.”

“Am I supposed to be surprised you know that, Lee? It’s not ‘confidential’ that you and Kefauver are thick as thieves.”

He sipped the martini. “We aren’t anymore.”

“Why not?”

A sneer twisted the sensual mouth. “That son of a bitch Halley has come between us.”

“How so?”

“Chief Counsel Halley advised Kefauver against hiring me as an official investigator for the committee — me, whose book, whose original research, only inspired the goddamn inquiry!”

Mortimer’s desire to work for the committee in an official capacity was, of course, laughable: Kefauver could hardly hire a member of the press.

But I humored him. “What a crock... I understand Halley didn’t want Drury or O’Conner hired, either — not officially, anyway.”

“Right! And those two know more firsthand about the Chicago underworld than almost anyone alive — and Halley says they’re not viable because they were ‘fired’ from the force — fired!

Rooked off the crookedest department in the country, because they were honest, fearless—”

“You’re right. Doesn’t make sense.”

He blew a smoke ring and sent me a sly look. “It does if you realize Rudolph Halley is as dirty as Tubbo Gilbert.”

I grunted a laugh. “That’s a tough one to buy.”

“Listen — Halley’s law firm represents a railroad that the New York Syndicate boys hold scads of stock in. And I spotted the bastard at the El Morocco, cozying up to movie company executives — who are his firm’s clients, now. You don’t see Kefauver going after the Hollywood connection, do you?”

“No. Of course you know, I’m close to Frank.”

His upper lip curled in contempt. “Frankie boy? I know you are. You should have better taste.”