Chicago Confidential

“Thanks for the booth, Joey,” I said.

“You gotta help me, Nate,” Joey said from the aisle, leaning against the linen tablecloth. He hadn’t noticed yet that the pretty blonde sitting next to me was his brother Rocco’s ex-punching bag.

“Slide in—join us.”

He did. His eyes were darting, his expression twitchy with panic. “Frank won’t go on.”

“Why not?”

“That fucker Lee Mortimer’s in the audience. I could kill Halper for not catching that reservation, and squelching it.”

I shrugged. “Just ask Mortimer to leave—refund whatever money he’s spent—”

“Nate, you know that bastard. He’ll make a scene. It won’t just be in his column, it’ll be in every paper in the country.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

He clutched at my arm. “Go back and talk Frank into going on.”

“Jesus, Joey, he’s your friend, too. You guys are bosom buddies.”

“Yeah, but he don’t respect me like he does you, Nate. Please. You gotta go talk to him—look at the size of the audience. He stiffs this crowd, his career really is over.”

Joey seemed so pitifully desperate, I gave in, asking, “Where’s Mortimer sitting?”

“Three booths down.”

“I’ll talk to him, first. Mortimer, I mean. I know him, a little. Maybe he’ll listen to reason.”

Joey was shaking his head; strangely, there was no rattle. “Anything, Nate…. Oh—hiya, Jackie. What are you doing here?”

“I’m with him,” she said, nodding to me.

Joey looked from her to me and back again, a couple times.

“Joey,” I said. “One problem at a time?”

“Right,” he said, nodding, as if acknowledging there was only so much room inside there. “Right.”

“But you have to do me a favor.”

“Anything, if you just talk to Frank.”

I was already out in the aisle. “You sit here with Jackie. If your brother notices her, and comes over, you have to protect her for me.”

“What? But Rocky’s—”

“You just tell him you’re warming my seat up while I’m doing you this favor—you can do that, Joey. You’re up to the job.”

He sighed and nodded and said, “Yeah. Yeah. Go! Do it!”

To the tune of the orchestra playing “Enjoy Yourself (It’s Later Than You Think),” I made my way down a few booths, and found Sinatra’s nemesis.

Small, well-groomed, in his early fifties, Lee Mortimer had gray hair, a gray complexion and a gray suit; his tie was gray, too…but also red, striped. His eyes were tiny and hard-looking and his nose was large and soft-looking; his chin was pointed and his lips full and sensual. Seated in the booth beside him was a good-looking green-eyed brunette in a green satin low-cut gown; she was twenty-five and I recognized her from local TV commercials and print ads, a busty, raving beauty. Sinatra had spread the word that Mortimer was a “fag” and the reporter was overcompensating.

Mortimer was smoking—using a cigarette holder (maybe he wasn’t compensating enough)—and his hooded eyes opened slightly as he smiled in recognition.

“Nate Heller,” he said. “The man who doesn’t return my calls.”

“Can I join you, Lee?”

“Please. Please…. Linda, this is Nate Heller.”

She offered her white-gloved hand. “I recognize him…. Mr. Heller, you make the papers now and then.”

“So do you—Miss Robbins, isn’t it?”

She was pleased I knew her name, and she seemed genuinely impressed with a local celebrity like me. Shallow girl. I filed her away for future reference.

Mortimer was born and raised in Chicago, but he left in the twenties for New York, where he’d become a gossip columnist at the Mirror. I had ducked him when he was in town researching his Chicago Confidential book, and I’d been ducking him lately, too.

“What can I do for you, Nate? Not that I owe you any favors, rude as you’ve been.”

“You want me to be one of your sources, Lee…but I have a relationship with another columnist, and besides, you have Bill Drury in your pocket.”

The mention of “another columnist” perked him up. “Are you and Drew Pearson friendly again? I heard you were on the outs.”