Feeling like I was trying to put the pin back in a grenade, I ventured, “Sam — the girl. Miss Chicago?”
“Yeah?”
“She’s a friend of mine. I don’t want to see her hurt.”
He frowned — almost scowled. “Listen up, damn it: my friends and I are not trying to attract attention, right now. Drury and Bas getting splattered is the worst fucking thing that could have happened — bumping off a beauty queen, recently married to a Fischetti, is just as bad. Gimme a little credit, Heller, for Christsake!”
“Sorry, Sam.”
Smiling, he sat forward and patted my arm. “Hey — you and me, we have no problems. You
“For example, a favor you could do me, Heller...”
“Yeah?”
“Introduce me to your pal Sinatra, sometime.” Giancana stood. “Listen... it’s going to start getting busy in here, Friday night, I need to be scarce.”
“Yeah — sure.”
“But you can stay, Heller — run a tab on the house. Some decent girls are comin’ out. You see anything you like, just tell Fred... the bartender.”
“Well, thanks, Sam...”
“But they’re not hookers, understand. Lay a double saw-buck on ’em in the morning, as a kind of gift, and you’ll have a friend for life.”
Giancana walked toward the exit, and his bodyguard — Sally — scampered after him, like a two-hundred-fifty-pound puppy. It was still daylight out there, and a slice of it knifed into the smoky joint, as the gangster and his thug slipped out.
I finished my drink, but I didn’t stick around, and I sure as hell didn’t take him up on his offer of my pick of the girls. It wasn’t that I was above that sort of thing; but I wasn’t sure I wanted a friend for life.
Particularly one named Sam Giancana.
My neighbor the Federal Building (which was also the United States Courthouse) was a cross-shaped eight-story structure perched on Dearborn, between Adams and Jackson, extending to Clark, with an octagonal domed central tower adding another seven imposing stories. The grim splendor of the building’s ornate Roman Corinthian design seemed an apropos setting for dramatic trials of national note, like the $29 million judgment against Standard Oil and the Al Capone tax case... both matters of big business, after all.
In addition to the impressive courtrooms — with their William B. Van Ingren murals depicting the development of law over the ages — the Federal Building was also a rabbit’s warren of hearing rooms, offices, and conference chambers, as well as cubbyholes where distinguished lawyers and jurists could cut their sleazy deals.
Kefauver had been given one of the cubbyholes: a modest, windowless room to set up his temporary office, with space for a desk, a few hard chairs, and a bookend-style pair of file cabinets, with cardboard boxes of file folders stacked precariously along the plaster walls. It was as if the senator had been assigned a storage room that happened to include a desk.
I was sitting across from the Democratic congressman from Tennessee, who — when I’d stuck my head in the open door of his cubicle — had stood behind the file-cluttered desk, rising to an impressive six foot three or maybe four, extending me not only his hand but a wide, ingratiating grin.
In his rolled-up shirt sleeves and suspenders, his blue-and-red patterned tie loose under a prominent adam’s apple, Kefauver gave an immediate impression of unpretentiousness, a tall, angular, lanky individual with searching eyes behind round-framed tortoise-shell glasses and a beaky nose that swooped to a peak; facially, he struck me as a cross between Abe Lincoln and Pa Kettle.
“Mr. Heller,” he said, in an easy, drawling, soft-spoken manner (he didn’t have to be wearing his coonskin cap for you to guess he came from the South), “I am very grateful to you for agreeing to see me at such short notice... and on a Saturday.”
I’d received the message toward the end of business, yesterday — Kefauver was arriving from Kansas City that night, and requested a one-on-one meeting with me, Saturday morning.
I was sitting with my raincoat and fedora in my lap. “That’s all right, Senator — my office is just across the street, and I was planning to come in, anyway. I often save paperwork and letters for Saturday mornings, when the phone doesn’t ring.”
“And I wanted to speak to you without my staff present,” he said with a gesture of a frying-pan hand. “They’re great people, but you know, lawyers — particularly prosecutors — are sometimes, well, deficient in social skills.”
“I don’t think we could pack your staff in here, if we tried.”
