colourful characters show up there, from time to time. Friends of Mooney's. Even a few celebrities. But we have every amenity.'
I'll bet you do,' said Nimmo. Hey, I was just kidding.'
That's all right,' shrugged Chuck. I'm used to it. Believe me, there's nothing you could say that would bother me. I'm like Harpo, you know? I see and hear a lot, but I always keep my mouth shut.'
I'm a Chico fan myself.'
Hey, did you hear? Gable is dead.'
Which one was he?'
Clark Gable. The heart throb.'
Jesus Christ. He couldn't have been very old.'
He was fifty-nine. Heart attack.'
Nimmo, who was fifty-seven himself, winced. I guess his heart stopped throbbing,' he said dumbly. He had always thought he looked a little like Clark Gable, being tall and dark. Once, before he put on weight, he had even had the same little moustache, only people had told him he looked more like Brian Donlevy, so he had shaved it off. And now they said he looked like Victor McLaglen.
They were pulling up at the Thunderbolt and, for Jimmy Nimmo, at that precise moment, the motel was well named. The news of Gable's death had really shocked him and was to prey on his thoughts for the rest of that day.
As they got out of the Olds, Chuck pointed out a dark blue Ford Galaxie on the other side of the motel parking lot. A large man wearing a suede short coat and a tweed cap was wiping the Galaxie's hood with a car duster.
You see that guy?' said Chuck. That's Joe. He'll drive you to see Mooney just as soon as I've shown you to your room.'
Nimmo followed Chuck through the motel entrance and across a black and white terrazzo floor to the elevator. They rode up to the penthouse, and a suite that Chuck proudly informed Nimtno was the best in the place.
I'm sure I'll be very comfortable here,' said Nimmo, and threw his bag on to the bed.
You wanna freshen up?'
No thanks, I'd better cut along and see your big brother.'
They were coming out of the room door just as a tall and extremely voluptuous blonde, wearing a pink bell- skirt with soft box pleats, was entering the room opposite.
Oh, hiya Rhoda,' said Chuck.
Nimmo's eyes were out on stalks.
Say hello to someone, Rhoda. This is Jimmy Nimmo. Jimmy? Rhoda is one of our Chez Paree Adorables.'
Hiya Jimmy.'
Nimmo took her offered hand and squeezed it gently.
Are you gonna come and see the show tonight?' she asked him.
I wouldn't miss it for the world. Hey, do you want to get up early tomorrow and we'll look for furniture?'
If you like.' She smiled, and then went into her room, slowly closing the door behind her.
Nimmo nodded his appreciation. He assumed the meeting in the corridor was no happenstance. Not after Giancana had mentioned his chorus girls on the telephone. He guessed Rhoda was being laid out for him. And that was okay. He could think of worse ways of taking hospitality from a guy than to fuck one of his tame broads.
Joe said nothing on the drive from the motel to the Armory Lounge. Unlike Chuck, he had the look of a killer and, besides, Nimmo's thoughts were already frolicking with Rhoda. The Armory was in Forest Park, a leafy suburb close to Oak Park and Cicero, which was where Capone had maintained his Chicago headquarters. But even better, the place was only three or four miles north of Nimmo's daughter's home and, if things worked out between himself and Momo, he was going to ask if Joe could drive him back via Hannah's house on Ogden Avenue. Now that Rhoda was on the bill-of-fare, it might be his last opportunity to see his grandson before flying back to Miami.
We're here,' growled Joe, steering the big Ford off Roosevelt Road, and into the parking lot.
Nimmo got out of the car and glanced around at the other cars, keeping his face in his coat collar until he was through the door, just in case the lounge was under surveillance. He was almost certain it wasn't, despite the fact that the FBI had, like in most other big North American cities, a THP - a Top Hoodlum Programme. Before receiving the call from Giancana, Nimmo had already visited the Chicago office of the FBI on West Monroe, right in the Italian village, and found that the same Hoover-directed priorities existed in Chicago as elsewhere in the United States. Chicago may have been the spiritual home of organised crime, but the THP was under-resourced, with most of the Bureau's money and manpower devoted to the investigation of communists and other subversives. Nimmo thought The Untouchables was a pretty good TV show, but it dealt with the kind of Bureau that hadn't existed since the war. Nimmo had plenty of friends in the Chicago office. He'd even scored a good lunch off the Chicago SAC at the Village, one of the city's best Italian restaurants. Guys liked to talk to Nimmo and he liked to listen. It was surprising what you could learn in Chicago that might be useful in Miami.
The Armory Lounge had been a speakeasy during Prohibition. Inside, the place was done up like a New Orleans bar, with ceiling fans, murals, old riverboat photographs, soft lights, flock wallpaper, white wrought-iron chairs, and glass-top tables. In the background, a big Wurlitzer jukebox was playing a current hit - Joe Jones's You Talk Too Much'. Nimmo didn't recommend it. Following his stone-faced driver into the back of the thinly populated lounge, Nimmo thought there were few of these sharp-suited wiseguys who would dare to talk at all - not if it concerned Mooney Giancana. That way you ended up like Gus Greenbaum, Leon Marcus, Jim Ragen, or any one of a couple of dozen others whose deaths Giancana was reputed to have ordered. To say nothing - nothing - of the dozen or so he'd killed himself. They didn't call him Mooney' - crazy - for nothing. The kid brother had had the best idea. Being like Harpo was the best way to stay alive around a hood like Sam Giancana.
Joe knocked at a heavy wooden door and, after a second or two, a peephole opened, speak-style, and an eyeball rolled over their faces and their hands. Only then was the door unlocked, by another heavy-set man, wearing a pullover jacket with knit sleeves and a suede front, and carrying a light, autoloader shotgun.
As Nimmo removed his coat, his eyes vacuumed up the contents of the gangster's inner sanctum: the steel door in the back, the card table, the walnut bar-console with built-in refrigerator, the Zenith TV with the sound turned down, the rolled-up lenticular projection screen, the Elite talkie recorder-projector, the old-fashioned safe, the big wrap-around leather sofa, and, sitting on it, wearing a blue cashmere blazer, the man himself.
Jimmy, come on in and sit down. I appreciate your coming out to the burbs. We've got an office on North Michigan, but it's kind of formal and I prefer it here. It's more private.'
You look very comfortable, Sam,' said Nimmo, sitting down beside him, and shaking the gangster's surprisingly soft hand.
Drink?'
Nimmo scanned the open bar through short-sighted eyes. Thanks. I'll have a Poland water and Ballantine's Scotch.'
Butch.' Giancana waved at the bar, and without a word the man climbed off the tall bar-stool by the door, put the Brida down, and went to fetch the drinks.
Giancana took out a packet of Camels and offered one to Nimmo.
No, thanks,' said Nimmo, producing a tobacco pouch. I'm trying a pipe.'
How's your room at the T'Bolt? Everything okay for you?'
I just dumped my bag and came straight down here,' he said. Looks nice though. And I met Rhoda. One of your Chez Paree Adorables.'
Isn't she just?'
Yeah. Her brassiere really has its work cut out, doesn't it?'
Giancana grinned wolfishly. They're all like that. Some of them used to work for me in Havana. Others are from Vegas. The show at the T'Bolt's pretty good. Best in town, probably. But it won't begin to compare with the place I'm opening in a few months. An out of town place, but real classy. The Villa Venice. You'll have to come and stay there next time you're in Chicago. It's in Wheeling, but that's not so far. Place is costing me a bundle.'
Butch handed Nimmo and Giancana their drinks and then returned to his position riding shotgun by the door.
I hear you play a lot of golf, Jimmy. Got the weather 'n everything. Must be nice.'
I whack a little white ball around most days,' admitted Nimmo. Some days it even goes in the damned hole.
