they knew me well enough to.'
Wild glanced up from his food, a nervous look flickering across his features. 'Hey, I was just kiddin' around.'
Then Whitehall laughed and said, 'Don't believe everything you hear about me, Sam. My reputation as a roughneck is exaggerated.'
Wild raised an eyebrow. 'Well, you make the papers often enough.'
'Don't believe everything you read in the papers, Sam.'
'You're tellin' me?'
'Labor organizers are to a man supposed to be muscle-bound, cigar-smoking slobs who get fat and cocky by stealing hard-earned dues out of the pockets of the overworked proletariat.'
Wild glanced at Whitehall's wife, obviously choosing his words carefully so as not to offend her. Then he returned his gaze to his host and said, 'Jack, you can't tell me that you haven't… leaned on people, from time to time?'
Whitehall shrugged. 'It's a class struggle. And no class struggle is without its'-now Whitehall chose his words carefully-'physical aspects.'
Wild began to say something, then glanced at Mrs. Whitehall again, grinned wryly and returned to his pork chops.
After dessert (pecan pie with ice cream), Whitehall and Wild withdrew to the front porch to have a smoke. They sat on the swing. Whitehall was about to roll a Bull Durham, but Wild stopped him, handing him a fat, fancy cigar.
'Don't worry about reinforcing the stereotype, Mr. Whitehall,' Wild said with arch formality, lighting a wooden match off a post and helping Whitehall get the cigar going. 'I ain't about to write you off as a muscle-bound, cigar- smoking slob.'
Whitehall drew in on the cigar, relishing it; it was as rich as the lining of a millionaire's smoking jacket. 'I thought you were a Lucky Strike man, Wild.'
'Oh I am,' Wild said, smirking as he lit up his own fat stogie. 'But I thought we oughta enjoy these Havanas together. After all, I got 'em out of Caldwell's office the other night.'
Whitehall had a good laugh over that, and Wild joined in some, and the two big men sat on the porch swing, like a courting couple, swinging and smoking, gently, swinging and smoking.
'Are you and Ness really pals?' Wild asked after a while.
'That's putting it a mite strong. We worked side by side in the Pullman plant in Chicago, for about six months. We got along. He was a smart kid. Hard-working little son of a bitch.'
'He hasn't changed much. Sometimes I feel like planting a nice fat cream pie in that S.O.B.'s smug puss.'
Whitehall laughed. 'I thought you two were friends.'
'Yeah, we're friends. But I'd still like to hit the bastard with a pie.'
'Well, he did con us into doing his work for him.' Whitehall sat and enjoyed the warm, gentle breeze for a few moments; it went well with the Havana. Then he said: 'We make an unlikely team, Sam, considering the bullshit your paper's been printing about the Teamsters.'
Wild shrugged. 'You shouldn't have passed that motion barring the press from your meetings.'
Whitehall didn't push it; nor did Wild. They sat in silence, listening to the noises of the neighborhood, the muffled sound of radios, the clinking of dishes being washed and dried, the traffic of the nearby main thorough- fare.
'I don't know whether I'm supposed to tell you this or not,' Wild said.
'You want me to get some whiskey, to help you decide?'
'Yeah. Why don't you?'
Whitehall went in and got a bottle and two glasses and returned. He poured Wild, and then himself, a drink.
'Anyway,' Wild said, 'you have a right to know, although by all rights it should be Ness who tells you.'
'Tell me.'
'Then again, he might not tell you. Might not want you told.'
'You tell me. We put our butts on the line.'
Wild thought about that. Then he raised his glass to Whitehall and Whitehall raised his and they clinked glasses in a toast to their teamwork.
'Vernon Gordon came forward,' Wild revealed.
'Damn. That's good news.'
'You're goddamn right it's good news. Gordon was the key witness, the one guy Ness felt he had to get in front of the grand jury. I mean, Gordon suffered the most outrageous vandalism of anybody. Machine fuckin' gun, no less.'
Whitehall raised a hand. 'Keep it down, please. Better watch the language. My kids are right inside.'
Wild made an apologetic face and gesture, and went on. 'Ness spoke to a whole group of them, a hundred or more of the businessmen that the two Jims have been preying on; and he told them he wouldn't ask any of them to testify unless there was a total of sixty witnesses that came forward.'
'So how many came forward?'
Wild smiled. 'Sixty-one.'
'Ha. Just made it.'
'Any number of 'em, including Gordon, said they'd testify in any case.'
'How did Ness pull that off, anyway?'
Wild grimaced. 'I don't know how he pulls off half of what he pulls off. But he's got a good share of the business community behind him.'
Whitehall sipped his whiskey, nodding. 'That's what worries me about my old co-worker.'
'What?'
'I'm afraid he's gonna wind up in the pocket of those 'prominent businessmen' and 'captains of industry' and 'social leaders' he hangs out with at the country club and so on. Hell, he lives in a damn boathouse that belongs to Wynston, who's got dough in Fisher Body, for crying out loud.'
Wild was slowly nodding. 'I know. I been telling him that. But he doesn't want to listen. Eliot Ness likes to think that those guys are civic-minded and that all they'll ask of him is to do his job and do it well. Which he does in spades, obviously.'
Whitehall shook his head. 'It won't be that simple. The bill will come due. Again and again.'
Wild shrugged. 'What can I say? I agree with you.'
They sat in silence, drinking and smoking.
Finally, Wild stood and said, 'I got work to do. And it's getting late.'
Whitehall rose. 'Thanks for coming.'
'Thanks for the invite.'
The two men shook hands, smiling at each other with cigars stuck in their smiles.
Then Whitehall accompanied Wild back inside, where the reporter thanked Sarah again and said his good- byes to her and the kids.
Once Wild had been seen off, Whitehall removed his suitcoat and his tie and shoes; he put on his bedroom slippers and padded into the girls' room, where Sarah, in her dressing gown, was reading them The Wizard of Oz. He sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Dorrie's hair, listening to the gentle, musical sound of his wife's voice.
Both his girls had Sarah's sky-blue eyes. Neither one of them had a facial feature that resembled their father, a fact for which he was grateful.
'What did you girls do today?' he asked them, after his wife had finished tonight's chapter.
The little girls spoke of their day, in overlapping sentences, none of which made much sense; their concerns were trivial, though so important to them. He listened to and savored the sound of their voices, and nodded when it seemed appropriate, without really listening to the words.
He hugged Dorrie and kissed her on the cheek, and then went around and hugged Janey and kissed her on the forehead.
'That's what Glinda did,' Janey said.
