He’d never been to law school; he studied the law books while working as a bartender and waiter. That much was well known by the public at large, who viewed him as a colorful character. Lesser known was Piquett’s stint as a hanger-on at police precinct houses, carrying messages to lawyers and bail bondsmen, as sort of an apprentice ambulance chaser. Ward heelers and politicians, as well as various underworld characters, were valuable connections made in those days by the would-be lawyer (rumor had it he tried out for the bar a dozen times before passing). And working as a waiter and bartender in road-houses and, later, in various Loop and North Side restaurants and taverns enabled Piquett to make some good, lasting friendships.
One of which, you would think, was the friendship between Piquett and Heller, the way the stocky little man stood and smiled and flung his hand out toward me. I shook it, and he gestured for me to sit in a chair opposite him, and I did, but he remained standing.
For a small man, he cut an impressive figure. Even on this warm day (albeit in an air-cooled office), he wore a three-piece suit, though nothing fancy; the vest and gray-speckled tie were for respectability, but the slightly worn look of the suit was for Clarence Darrow mock-humility.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said, with a disarming half-smile. His features were crowded toward the center of his chubby face—bright eyes, bulbous nose, tiny mouth; dark circles under the bright eyes gave him an intensity, and the effect was at once boyish and fatherly. His most striking feature, however, was his hair: a three-inch-high salt-and-pepper pompadour rose in startled waves, as if he’d stuck his finger in a socket.
“Nice to see you, too, Counselor,” I said, smiling faintly. The only time I’d ever seen him had been in court, in the Lingle murder case. I’d been testifying for the prosecution; he’d been the defense lawyer. Still, we’d been on the same team. Both of us were helping railroad a Syndicate patsy named Leo Brothers, Piquett’s client, who’d been chosen by the Capone crowd to take the rap.
“What brings you here, Mr. Heller?” He sat.
“I wanted to thank you for referring one of your clients to me. I sure can use the business.”
He brushed a hand over the pompadour and it did a little dance. “I don’t remember having recommended your services, Mr. Heller. Although I may have. You did reliable work for me, and my client, last year.”
All my dealings with Piquett on that job had been via intermediary or phone.
“But you don’t specifically remember recommending me to anyone?”
He shrugged, smiled like a pixie. “Sorry. I’d love to be of help. And I’ll certainly keep you in mind, for future referrals. I do, however, have a permanent investigator on staff.”
“I see. Do you know a John Howard?”
Piquett thought, then slowly shook his head. “Can’t say as I do.”
“He’s a traveling salesman.”
Piquett shook his head slowly, no.
“Works for a feed and grain company. Whose bosses gave him your name.”
Piquett shook his head slowly, no.
I described my client; Piquett shook his head.
“This isn’t good,” I said.
“Why is that?”
“I appear to have been used to set somebody up.”
“How so?”
“Mr. Piquett, my guess is that you already know the answer to that question.”
His round face took on a cherubic innocence that would’ve fooled most any jury.
He said, “I really don’t know what you mean, Mr. Heller.”
“You don’t.”
“I do not. I haven’t the slightest idea what point you’re trying to make.”
“Well, I’m no orator. That’s not my line. I’m just a detective who doesn’t like being played the fool.”
“No one does, Mr. Heller.”
“I understand you’re representing John Dillinger these days.”
With a tiny smile, Piquett said, “That’s correct.”
“The first time I ran into you, you were defending Leo Brothers—a man accused of killing Jake Lingle…a friend of yours. In fact you were one of the last to see Jake Lingle alive. And yet you defended the man accused of killing him.”
“Everyone deserves representation under the law, Mr. Heller. That’s the American way.”
“And on that job I did last year for you—your client was Al Capone.”
A small noncommittal shrug. “Yes.”
“And now you’re representing John Dillinger. Don’t you
Hands folded on his desk, he smiled like a child and said, “They’re the only ones who have money these days, Mr. Heller.”
“What I don’t get is why you’re helping set up your own client. The reward money’s substantial, but Dillinger himself ought to be pretty well fixed by now….”
Piquett stopped smiling. “If you’re implying that my client, Mr. Dillinger, is in some danger at the moment, that’s hardly news. Every lawman in the country is gunning for him. But I would hardly betray my own client, Mr. Heller. And if you have knowledge of any…conspiracy to do him harm, why, I’d be grateful for details.”
“You’re a slick one, I’ll give you that.”
“You flatter me, Mr. Heller.”
