Chicago Confidential

“I don’t know anything about that,” I said. “Bill was working for the Herald-American before he came to work with me. And his brother was a reporter. So he runs in those circles.”

The pouchy eyes narrowed; for the first time, a faint edge of menace crept into Tubbo’s voice. “You didn’t know he was feeding these yellow journalists his tripe at the same time he was on your payroll?”

“I did not.”

Tubbo shifted in the chair; the leather made a farting sound, as he crossed his other leg. “Have you ever seen these fabled notebooks of his?”

“The records, the files he keeps? I know about them. He’s mentioned them. He certainly didn’t keep them here.”

The dimpled chin lifted and he gazed down the pudgy expanse of his excess-ridden face. “If you could find them, they would be…of interest.”

“To you or to Charley Fischetti?”

An elaborate shrug. “Does that matter? Find them, secure them, deliver them—and there’s fifty thousand in it.”

“Jesus! Fifty thousand….”

His smile seemed almost puckish. “I thought that might get your attention.”

I picked up the envelope, riffled through the bills. This was the moment, in the pulps, in the movies, where the private eye threw that damn money in the crooked cop’s face.

“Thanks,” I said, and tossed the envelope in my top desk drawer. “I’ll see what I can do…. But those notebooks are a long shot. I’m not promising anything.”

Tubbo nodded, pleased. He got up—it took a while. He gestured for me not to show him to the door—I wasn’t planning to, anyway. He was halfway there when he paused and asked, “Do you know this attorney—what is it, Bas? Marvin Bas?”

I shrugged. “Not well. He’s a Republican, pretty active in his ward. Represents some nightclubs, strip joints, on the Near Northside.”

Now his tone got casual—a little too casual. “Did you know Bas and Drury are thick, these days?”

“News to me, Tub.”

“It’s really too bad…distressing. You see, Bas is working for Babb.”

That was a lot of b’s, but what it meant was, Drury was tight with a high-ranking campaign worker of Tubbo’s opponent in the sheriff’s race. Drury might be digging up dirt on Tubbo—a job that wouldn’t take much of a shovel—for that candidate.

“It’s a pity,” Tubbo said, and shook his head. “Beating Coughlan woulda been a damn cakewalk.”

J. Malachy Coughlan, Tubbo’s original opponent in the sheriff’s race, had died in August; young, handsome, personable John E. Babb—an attorney and a World War Two hero—had been chosen to fill the slate.

“You’re a Democrat, Tub,” I said. “You got to try real hard to lose, in this town.”

Tubbo nodded that I was right, waved a jeweled hand, and slipped out—and he was barely gone before Sapperstein slipped in. He trotted over and took Tubbo’s well-broken-in chair.

“Robinson will see you at eleven-thirty at the Stevens,” Lou said. “Suite 1014. Any objections?”

“No. Thank you for setting it up.” I returned to my mail and then looked up and Lou, bright-eyed behind the tortoise-shells, was staring at me.

“Are you still here?” I asked.

“So?”

“So what?”

“So what’s up with Tubbo—spill!”

I filled him in, and showed him the envelope of money.

“You’re keeping that?” Lou asked, mildly surprised.

“Hell yes. I wasn’t going to testify, anyway.”

His eyes were wide, his brow tense. “Well, Christ—thanks for making me party to a bribe.”

I shrugged. “In that case, this never happened, and this two grand goes into my pocket, and not the A-1 account, out of which you get a share.”

Sapperstein smirked. “You’re funnier than Kukla, Fran, and Ollie.”

“All of them? Anyway, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and now it has.”

“What other shoe?”

I leaned back, rocking in the chair. “It was too easy, yesterday, with Fischetti.”

“How so?”

“Charley just asked me not to testify, and I said don’t worry about it, and that was it. Some money had to change hands, or I’d be worried.”

He frowned—and with that bald head, the frown went way back and never seemed to stop. “You’re not going to sell Drury out, are you?”