Eyes tensed, shaking his head, he asked, “Why? Why come here and confront me? Why not just let Giancana take me for a ride?” He searched my face, in desperation. “Or is this... is this one last expression of a friendship we shared — to give me a few hours to get the hell out?”
I shrugged. “Well, it is out of friendship, in a way. More with Bill, than you. I don’t think I want Annabel to have to suffer further, finding out that her husband’s partner was a greedy psychopath who betrayed him. I thought I’d do you the favor of offering you a graceful way out.”
He reared back. “And what would that be?”
I nodded toward the .38. “Bill Drury’s gun. Your partner’s weapon. Cops kill themselves all the time — ex-cops, too.”
A hollow laugh, an unbelieving grin. “You expect me to pick this gun up, and shoot myself?”
“Yeah.”
“One bullet in it, right?”
“Right.”
“Why wouldn’t I just turn it on you?”
“That’s an option. But you even hint at pointing that gun at me, the gun I’m pointing at you will fire first.”
“I might get lucky.”
“At this table? Anyway, if by some fluke you shot me before I could stop you, Sam Giancana would still finish the job. You’re a dead man, Tim. The question is, how do you want to go out?”
His head almost twisted off, from shaking side to side. “Suicide? Why the hell would I—”
“We can shoot it out right here, and I’ll plead self-defense, and reveal your whole sorry history. Or you can die a tragic police hero, depressed over the death of his murdered partner.”
“I’m a Catholic, Heller. I’m not—”
“You’re an excommunicated Catholic, Tim. And do you really think you’re going anywhere but hell? Jesus is going to forgive
“...He might.”
“Then go out with a little class. Don’t be just another gangland slaying. Don’t be the Judas that made Annabel Drury’s life even more miserable.”
“What about my kids? You’re a father.”
“You sold them out a long time ago, Tim. Anyway, you want them to remember you as a tortured soul, or a crooked cop? Up to you.”
He swallowed again. “Cold. So cold...”
Was he talking about me, or the temperature?
His eyes seemed woozy, suddenly. “You think I’m a piece of shit, don’t you?”
“What does that matter?”
“You’re worse than I am.”
“Maybe.”
He looked at me, then he looked at the pearl-handled gun. Me, gun, me, gun, me, gun, me, gun...
He picked it up, careful not to aim it my way. He held it in his palm and looked down at it.
“Father forgive me,” he said. “Forgive my sins.”
And he lifted the revolver to his temple and squeezed the trigger. The echo was like a thunder crack in the room; blood and brains and bone matter splattered the empty china hutch, and he tumbled off the chair, sideways, onto the floor, somewhat on his back, his empty eyes staring up at me.
“Good choice,” I said.
And I went out and got my coat and hat, walked unseen into the chill night — the drizzle had let up — and strolled across the woods to my Olds.
From May 1, 1950, to September 1, 1951, the Kefauver Committee heard over six hundred witnesses, racking up close to twelve thousand pages of testimony from minor hoods to major mob figures as well as government officials on every level. The senator’s circus traveled to fourteen cities and put on public display, for the first time in any significant manner, the ongoing connection between crime, politics, and business.
The last stop on the Kefauver tour was the big one: New York, with the entire hearing televised. Notorious mob courier Virginia Hill — who, once upon a time, Charley Fischetti had introduced to Ben “Bugsy” Siegel — brought some sex into the midst of the violence; and former NYC mayor William O’Dwyer generated some genuine pathos, a crime-busting former D.A. brought down by corruption. The real star, however, was Frank Costello, the east coast’s elder statesman among racketeers.
Or anyway, his hands became stars. Costello refused to be photographed, and the TV cameras focused on his nervous hands — tapping, rapping, clenching, unclenching, fingering cigarettes — accompanied by his whispery, raspy off-camera voice. He fudged, he fidgeted, he hedged, he refused to produce material, he stormed out, and of course refused to answer many of the questions on grounds of self-incrimination. Cited for contempt, sentenced to eighteen months, indicted and convicted for income tax evasion, Costello was a major mobster clearly brought down by the Crime Committee.
The Kefauver Committee turned out scores of recommendations, some commendable, others ridiculous. Of nineteen bills proposed by the committee, one — the Wagering Stamp Act — passed... and proved unenforceable. Of forty-five contempt citations to uncooperative witnesses, only three convictions resulted, the courts generally backing up the mobsters’ fifth amendment rights.
