Target Lancer

CHAPTER 8

The big, burly Bismarck Hotel, on the corner of LaSalle and Randolph, hadn’t changed much since it was rebuilt in 1926. Oh, during World War II its celebrated dining room became the Swiss Chalet, but then even the Berghoff turned magically Swiss when Hitler suddenly made Wiener schnitzel unpatriotic.

Squatting on the edge of the Loop near the northwest corner of the El tracks, the venerable Bismarck had seen the city around it shift. German Square, over which it once ruled, was a term nobody used anymore, the deutsche shops, steamship office, and clubs largely gone. And the real downtown center of social activity was a few blocks away-famous restaurants, ritzy hotels, movie palaces, and legit theaters.

Yet the Bismarck survived and even thrived. Located across from City Hall as it was, the hotel made the perfect place for politicians, businessmen, gangsters, union leaders, and assorted combinations thereof to hold meetings or maybe lunch in the Walnut Room or (for you out-of-towners) even book a room.

The overcast sky decided to spit at me as I walked over to the old hotel; I just tugged my hat brim down and hunkered, walking against the wind like a goddamn mime. At only six-thirty, the darkening sky made it seem like night was getting impatient, and maybe something bad was coming.

I wasn’t heeled, as we of the lower class used to say, my nine-millimeter and shoulder holster back in my bedroom, and I hadn’t availed myself of any of the other artillery in the A-1 safe. My suit wasn’t cut for hardware, anyway. And why would I need a firearm to protect myself in the Bismarck Hotel?

On the other hand, Tom Ellison could have used one at the Pick-Congress.

I nodded to George the doorman in his Victor Herbert operetta uniform, got a hat-touch nod back that said I mattered, spun through the revolving door into the modest entryway, and trotted up the double-width, red-carpeted stairs into the wider world of the lobby. My raincoat wasn’t wet enough to climb out of, but I did take off my hat and shake some droplets off. Then I moved across the high-ceilinged, elaborate chalet-like chamber, dodging overstuffed chairs and potted plants, footsteps echoing off marble.

The elevator I shared with half a dozen others, a mix of tourists and business types. When you pushed a floor button, a sultry female voice talked to you: “Lobby … second floor…” This was a relatively new feature, and I hadn’t decided yet whether to be amused or spooked.

I went up to seven, took a left turn down the carpeted hallway to the Presidential Suite. The gentleman I was calling on usually stayed here, though sometimes you would find him in the Conrad Hilton’s Presidential Suite, which at a thousand dollars a night was twice the rate here, such a bargain.

Anyway, I had called the Bismarck first, and got lucky. I had not asked to be connected to this famous guest’s room, merely saying I needed to have something messengered over to Mr. Hoffa, and was he in?

He was.

At the end of the hall was a little vestibule with a door within that said 737 over a small golden plaque that read PRESIDENTIAL SUITE. The numbers and plaque looked new, but their predecessors had read the same, back when I would come to this suite in the 1930s and early ’40s to call on another powerful man-Frank Nitti, Al Capone’s successor and my sometime benefactor. Gone since 1943 but a presence still felt.

I’d met with Hoffa here a couple of times before, so the resonance of this having been Nitti’s suite was nothing new. But somehow, this evening, it seemed more pronounced.

There was a gold knocker. I used it.

I stood and waited while, presumably, a guardian of the gate eyed me through the peephole. The door cracked open, the night latch in place. A part of a chubby face with half a flat nose and half a mouthful of bad teeth revealed itself. Also in that lineup was a bulgy orb (under a hairy eyebrow) that stared out at me like I was an apparition. Maybe the Virgin Mary, or the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“Nate Heller,” I said. “To see…” Shit, I damn near said Mr. Nitti. “… Jimmy.”

“You don’t have no appointment.”

The rough-hewn low-pitched voice was familiar. I believed this was the put-upon lackey who had delivered my football tickets the other night.

“Tell Mr. Hoffa I apologize for coming unannounced,” I said, the “Jimmy” familiarity not having worked, “but that it’s important.”

“You gotta have an appointment.”

“If I leave? Be sure not to tell Jim I was here, and you sent me away, because he’ll kick you in the ass.”

The bulgy eye blinked. The door shut. I waited. The door opened.

It was indeed my pal from the other night. He was in a brown suit that was too baggy with a blue tie that was too short. I figured the bagginess was to make the gun under his left shoulder not show. You’d think the Teamsters could afford a decent tailor.

“Nice to see you again,” I said with a nod, as he opened the door, stepped aside, and I went in. “The game was lousy, by the way.”

“You gotta stand for a frisk.”

“I’m not armed.”

“Rules is rules.”

Before I let him pat me down, I gave him my damp raincoat and hat to dispose of, just out of general disrespect, thinking this would have been an excellent time to shoot him, if that was why I was here.

As he did his job, I glanced around the spacious suite. The living room still had a Victorian look, as in Nitti days, but had been remodeled, and they’d brought in new fake antiques about five years ago. In all its incarnations, the suite maintained a lavish, gold-leaf look that would impress politicians and whores, if you’ll forgive the redundancy.

Two thugs also in baggy suits and ill-knotted ties were sitting on a fancy couch reading Ring magazine and Modern Man respectively. A versatile pair, they were also watching a rerun of My Little Margie. Same model color TV as I had, I noticed. But Margie remained in black-and-white. They looked up at me, wishing I were room service.

I was wondering if I should find something fancy and uncomfortable to sit on in there when I heard Hoffa call, “Heller! Nate! Come on in here. Come on, come on, come on.”

I followed the machine-gunning voice into a lavish bedroom with its own color TV. On the bed, like the Invisible Man taking a nap, a suit was laid out-just a standard off-the-rack pinstriped blue business suit, with a white shirt on a hanger inside the coat. Some well-shined shoes were on the floor nearby, a pair of the white socks he always wore waiting next to them.

Hoffa was in the bathroom, with the door open, shaving with a straight razor, about half the lather on his face gone. Black head of hair bristling with butch wax, the broad-shouldered little man was in an athletic-style T-shirt that showed off his massively muscular arms, and yellow-and-white-striped boxer shorts that revealed somewhat less muscular legs. He was in his bare feet.

“I have to meet some fuckin’ lawyers downstairs at seven,” he said, chin out, shaving his neck. “We don’t have much time to talk. But it must be important, or you wouldn’t barge in on me like this.”

And the blade paused for the half-lathered face to turn and grin at me, to take the edge off; but I knew he was kidding on the square.

I stood near the bathroom door, not too near. “I apologize for busting in on you, Jim. But it is important.”

As he watched himself shave, now and then his Chinaman eyes would flick toward me, catching me in the mirror. “We got maybe ten minutes, kiddo. Go, man, go.”

“Jim, are you aware of what happened to Tom Ellison?”

“No. What happened to Tom Ellison?”

Okay. So that was how he was going to play it. He didn’t know about it.

But the hell of it was, maybe he didn’t. I had seen the papers, and only the afternoon editions had anything about Tom’s murder, and those had been squibs, buried deep.

If Hoffa was innocent in this thing, he really wouldn’t know.

“Tom was murdered last night, Jim. In his hotel room.”

If he was acting, he was good. The razor jogged, then froze, and when he wiped the lather from his face, I saw a little blood come away on the towel. He hadn’t really finished the shave, but he threw some water on his face, toweled off, stuck a little piece of toilet paper where he’d nicked himself, and exited the john.

“I do not mean to downplay the import of this thing,” Hoffa said, “but you talk while I get ready.”

He got dressed, initially sitting on the edge of the bed to pull the white socks on. He’d motioned me to sit across from him, which took pulling a chair around, which I did. I gave him a condensed, factual report, including the police suspecting a hooker robbery gone awry, and my own feeling that this was a horseshit theory, and that in all likelihood a man had committed the act. Hoffa was ready for his dinner engagement by the time I finished.

But he didn’t stir. He just sat on the edge of the bed facing me, big hands on his small knees.

“I’m gonna save you the trouble,” he said. His face was serious, even somber, his eyes hard but not cold. He gestured with a karate chop. “I can see where you could think this thing may be related to that other thing.”

Apparently Hoffa was not convinced the Bismarck was free of bugs, and I don’t mean bedbugs.

“It seems suspicious to me, yes. You were unhappy with Tom, because he hired me to go along on that handoff.”

I was doing my best to be cryptic myself, in case cops or FBI were listening.

“I think you have a valid concern,” Hoffa said.

This surprised me.

Then he stood, gave me the finger crook like Gladys (not as ominous, strangely, coming from him), said, “In my office,” and I followed him back into the bathroom.

He turned on both faucets, all the way, letting them run hard and loud. He gestured to the toilet, which had the seat down. I sat. He stood near the sink with his arms folded and a piece of toilet paper on his face.

Well, it appeared once again we were going to talk in the can.

“If Tom became a loose end that somebody decided to cut off,” he said softly but forcefully, “it was done without my knowing, and is not something I would have approved. Something like that when I am in town, doing business? Jesus H. Fucking Christ. I have already seriously reprimanded the individual who involved a civilian in this thing in the first place.”

“Jim, a reprimand doesn’t go far with a widow and two young kids.”

“No, it don’t.” He looked grave. Nothing seemed phony about it. “If I gave you, say, ten grand for the family, would you pass it along?”

That was funny. Well, not hilarious, but sick-joke funny: that had been the amount of cash in the envelope Tom gave Ruby at the 606.

He cocked his head, raised an eyebrow. “You would have to accept that it comes out of genuine concern for the family of a trusted business associate, and is not in no way an admission of guilt. Nate, I swear on my mother’s grave I had nothing to do with this goddamn thing.”

“That’s good to hear.” I had no idea if he was telling me the truth or not.

“That will come out of my personal funds,” he said, tapping his chest, allowing himself just a touch of magnanimity.

The running water seemed to be shushing us.

“I’ll get the ten grand to them,” I said. “I’ll say it’s from an anonymous friend of Tom’s.”

“Good. I would appreciate it.”

I’d keep the ten grand. Jean Ellison wouldn’t accept it, and I could use it to fund the investigation. That way I could spare her the expenses.

He rocked on his heels; standing there in that suit, he might have been a cut-rate after-dinner speaker, or the headwaiter at a hash house.

“What are your intentions in this thing, Nate? Are you going to let this thing lie?”

The sink noise wanted to know, too.

I met his unblinking gaze, wondering if my life depended on my answer.

“Here’s what I’m thinking of doing, Jim-I will put agents on the case here and in Milwaukee, and see if this murder really was a robbery gone wrong, whether a hooker or some asshole robbing hotel rooms. I’ll also see if there’s anything else going on in Tom’s life that could have got him killed. You never know-some people have secret lives. He could have a girlfriend who had a boyfriend who decided to get rid of the competition. He could have a business partner who is embezzling that wanted him gone. Anything’s possible.”

Hoffa said, “Anything’s possible.”

“But if you tell me not to look into this, I won’t. I don’t want to be a loose end, Jim.”

I might have been lying about the former, but I was telling the God’s honest truth about the latter.

And after several moments’ thought, Hoffa said something interesting: “Would it make the little woman feel better, you looking into it?”

“I think it probably would … unless I come up with an answer that doesn’t sit well.”

“Another woman kinda thing.”

“Right.”

He shook his head, made a sympathetic clicking sound in his cheek. “I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t do this investigation and bring some peace of mind to the little lady.”

“All right.”

“But I can’t promise you this ain’t connected.”

That shook me but I tried not to show it. “No?”

“No. Sometimes subordinates do things that they think they should do-you know? Sometimes these sons of bitches think too much on their own. They take the goddamn fucking initiative, the ass-kissing jackasses. Guys like me, you know how it is, Nate-we’re insulated. So I will not lie to you. It is possible Tom getting killed was a by-product of that favor he did.”

I wasn’t sure I should ask, but heard myself saying, “Would you be willing to ask around? If some subordinate of yours was responsible … and you’re unhappy with him … maybe I could … fire him for you.”

That got a big smile out of Hoffa. “Kiddo, you are one of a kind. You always never fail to surprise me. Goddamn right, I will ask around. Anything else? I’m five minutes late. I fucking hate being late.”

I raised a hand, gesturing for just another moment. “There is one other thing. If somebody under or … over you? If there is such a person? If somebody considers me a loose end that needs tying off, would you … please discourage them?”

He nodded with a big, reassuring smile, and he patted the air with his palms to indicate, No problem.

Then he added, “If I can’t discourage them, how about I warn your ass?”

“Please.”

“Okay? We done?”

“I can see taking a guy like Tom out,” I said, ignoring the dismissal. “I hate it, and I don’t think it was smart or necessary. But he was a civilian, and the mistake was enlisting a civilian.”

“I one hunnerd percent agree.”

“I don’t know what makes that little bagman exercise at the 606 worth killing somebody over.…”

“We don’t know that it was,” Hoffa reminded me.

I rose from toilet lid. “Right. But if it was worth killing somebody over? I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know why, and I don’t want to know what it’s about. I don’t want to know anything about it. I just want to live long enough to happily retire and see my son grow up and get rich enough to support me in my old age.”

The running water sounded like applause now.

“I hear ya!” he chortled. “Come on, come on.”

Then he turned off the faucets, slipped an arm around my shoulder, and showed me out of his “office.”

“I’m not a civilian, Jim,” I said, as he escorted me into the living room. “Look back over my history, and think about everything I’ve seen, everything I know, and see if you can find me ever testifying about any of it.”

He didn’t need to know about all the information I had, once upon a time, passed along to Bobby Kennedy and the rackets committee.

“You do know where the bodies are buried,” he said pleasantly, getting bored with me.

My hairy-eyebrow doorman and the two other baggy-suit thugs were playing nickel-dime poker now, at a card table in a corner of the Victorian living room. Seeing me, the doorman threw in his hand, scurried to get my coat and hat, gave them to me, and scurried back to the game.

Hoffa and I went down in the elevator together, having it to ourselves. None of his bodyguards had made the trip, probably because their boss was dining in the hotel, with those lawyers, and there was no need.

He was rocking on his heels again, looking at the floor indicator, having forgotten I was there, though I was at his side.

I said, “I wouldn’t ever insult you with that old wheeze, of course.”

Hoffa frowned. “What old wheeze?”

“Oh, that I’ve written a bunch of stuff down and left it with my lawyer or in a safety deposit box … or both. If something should happen to me. You know, the original one place, the carbon another?”

He had the expression of a clown that just got hit by a pie.

I patted him on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t insult your intelligence that way, Jim.”

The elevator said in its seductive female voice, “Lobby floor.…”

I headed quickly across the lobby’s marble expanse, but when I glanced back at him he was standing near the elevator, possibly waiting for his party, or maybe I’d slowed him down a little.

I called out, “Jim! If you’re eating at the Swiss Chalet, and you never tried the pork shanks and sauerkraut? Do.”