Chicago Confidential

“Mr. Robinson,” I said, “let me explain a couple things. First, the more sleazy and connected to gangsters you make me sound, the more desirable and glamourous I’ll seem to potential clients. Second, I’m a decorated veteran of the recent war, a Bronze Star winner. Maybe you boys would like to be embarrassed.”

“You were mustered out on a Section Eight,” Halley said.

I sat forward. “I was honorably discharged, after fighting on Guadalcanal—what’s your war record, Four- Eyes?”

Halley huffed, “I served my country,” but he didn’t say how.

“But thanks for reminding me,” I said. “I had amnesia, induced by battle fatigue, what they used to call shell shock. How’s that for a reason not to be able to recall this and that?”

“You’re a very unpleasant man, Mr. Heller,” Halley said.

“You’re not exactly Norman Vincent Peale yourself,” I said, and got up. “Thanks for the Coke…. By the way, that fella out in the hall, getting on the elevator when I arrived?”

They all frowned, but they knew who I was talking about.

“Jake Rubinstein?” I reminded them. “Is he the kind of informant you’re counting on?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern,” Robinson said.

“Just be careful, is all. Whoever advised you to fly that guy in from Dallas, take a close look at.”

Halley sneered. “And why is that, Mr. Heller?”

That sneer deserved a smirk in return. “Here’s one free tidbit I will give you. My understanding is Jake is the liaison between the local mob and the Dallas boys. I’ve known Rubinstein for years…or, what is it he’s calling himself these days?”

“Jack Ruby,” Kurnitz offered.

The other two lawyers glared at him.

“A rose by any other name,” I said. “Never take a guy like that at face value. Any ‘informing’ Jake’s doing is likely a cover for what he can find out about what you fellas are up to.”

“That’s the chance we take when we deal with these kind of people,” Robinson said stiffly. “By necessity, informers come from the ranks of the gangsters themselves.”

Pompous ass.

“Swell,” I said, “but Jake, or Jack, is an old union goon, with strong ties to Captain Dan Gilbert—you know… Tubbo? Do you really want somebody from Tubbo’s camp pretending to be your buddy?”

Robinson and Halley exchanged glances.

Kurnitz said, “You must be aware, then, that your friend Mr. Drury is investigating Gilbert.”

“Sure, hoping to expose him before the election—but my knowing that isn’t important. The key thing is, Tubbo knows.” I made a sweeping gesture with my fedora, then put it on, saying, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Lots of luck in your fine effort to wipe out gambling.”

O’Conner didn’t walk me out. I had a feeling he’d probably given me a pretty good build-up—friend of Drury’s, ex-cop who’d stood up against mobsters—and I’d made him look like an idiot.

When I got off the elevator in the lobby, the guy in the green snapbrim was still reading the Herald-American sports section, but he had moved to one of the round couches. I settled in beside him.

“I thought that was you,” I told the guy.

Sam Giancana looked over at me from behind the paper, lowered it to his lap, and under the brim of the green hat, his gray-complected oval face, with its lumpy beak and close-set mournful eyes, gave me no clue to how he was reacting.

They called the little hoodlum Mooney because of his crazy unpredictability. The former chauffeur/bodyguard of Tony Accardo, and Paul Ricca’s likely heir as Chicago mob boss, Giancana was a quietly self-confident psychopath.

He smiled. “That’s what I like about you, Heller.”

“What is, Sam?”

“That you’re not afraid of me.”

“Maybe I’m just not afraid of you in the lobby of the Stevens at lunchtime.”

He laughed; it was a raspy, death rattle of a laugh. “That’s the other thing I like: you’re a funny guy. Natural fuckin’ wit.”

What he really liked about me was my discretion. I had done a job for him a couple of years ago, getting an embarrassing photograph back. He had paid well, and hadn’t forgotten I’d done right by him.

Also, he was probably comfortable with me because we were both Westside boys, though he wasn’t a Maxwell Street kid like Barney and me (and Jack Ruby); he was a product of the Near Northside’s infamous Patch, and a veteran of the vicious street gang, the 42s. His legend was based upon having endured an abusive father until he finally grew up, beat the shit out of the old man, and took over the household.

I said, “I hope you don’t mind my sitting down to say hello.”

“Not at all.” He folded the paper and put it next to him on the tufted couch. “You weren’t upstairs long. Having a quick one? What’s her name?”

“Kefauver.”