“We patched it up. He paid his back bills, gave me a new retainer, and I forgave him his sins.”
“Chicago-style penance.”
A waitress brought Mortimer and the brunette a martini and Manhattan, respectively; I’d brought my rum and Coke along for the trip.
“You know, Lee, I just might give you an interview, at that.”
His hooded eyes seemed languid, but they didn’t miss a thing. “Really? Including information that I can’t get from your associate?”
“If by my ‘associate,’ you mean Bill Drury, he doesn’t work for me anymore.”
He plucked the martini’s toothpick from the drink and ate the olive. “I heard you met with Halley and Robinson today.”
“Am I supposed to be surprised you know that, Lee? It’s not ‘confidential’ that you and Kefauver are thick as thieves.”
He sipped the martini. “We aren’t anymore.”
“Why not?”
A sneer twisted the sensual mouth. “That son of a bitch Halley has come between us.”
“How so?”
“Chief Counsel Halley advised Kefauver against hiring me as an official investigator for the committee—me, whose book, whose original research, only inspired the goddamn inquiry!”
Mortimer’s desire to work for the committee in an official capacity was, of course, laughable: Kefauver could hardly hire a member of the press.
But I humored him. “What a crock…. I understand Halley didn’t want Drury or O’Conner hired, either—not officially, anyway.”
“Right! And those two know more firsthand about the Chicago underworld than almost anyone alive—and Halley says they’re not viable because they were ‘fired’ from the force—fired!
Rooked off the crookedest department in the country, because they were honest, fearless—”
“You’re right. Doesn’t make sense.”
He blew a smoke ring and sent me a sly look. “It does if you realize Rudolph Halley is as dirty as Tubbo Gilbert.”
I grunted a laugh. “That’s a tough one to buy.”
“Listen—Halley’s law firm represents a railroad that the New York Syndicate boys hold scads of stock in. And I spotted the bastard at the El Morocco, cozying up to movie company executives—who are his firm’s clients, now. You don’t see Kefauver going after the
“No. Of course you know, I’m close to Frank.”
His upper lip curled in contempt. “Frankie boy? I know you are. You should have better taste.”
I swirled my drink, idly. “I’ve gotten friendly with Joey Fischetti, too. Maybe I can find out something about Halley and his Hollywood connivings for you.”
His eyes and brow tightened. “You’d do that?”
“Sure. We can talk about it later. Only, right now you have to do
“What’s that?”
“Leave.”
“What?”
“Lee, you and I both know you’re here just to rankle Sinatra, to get under that thin Italian skin of his.”
Mortimer’s sneer turned into a sort of smile as he puffed on the cigarette-in-holder. “I paid the cover charge. My pretty friend and I have a right to be entertained.”
“You leave, and maybe we’ll do business. Otherwise forget it.”
Mortimer thought about it. “All right. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Fine. Call me at my office…. Pleasure, Miss Robbins.”
The brunette smiled and said, “Pleasure, Mr. Heller.”
I slipped out of the booth as Mortimer was paging a waiter to get his check. Then, nodding to Joey (sitting in the booth quietly with Jackie, who appeared calm), I headed backstage, where a couple of thugs who were Sinatra’s current retinue recognized me and showed me into the great man’s spacious dressing room. In addition to the usual makeup mirror, there was a couch and several comfy-looking chairs, as well as a liquor cart and a console radio.
Frank—still wearing that silly Gable mustache—was seated at the makeup mirror in his tux pants and a T-shirt; he looked lean and fairly muscular, not quite as skinny as many thought him to be. He sat hunched over the counter, smoking a cigarette, with a glass of whiskey nearby. His face had a ravaged look—hard to believe that, not long ago, he’d been the idol of countless girls and women.
“I’m not going out there, Nate—I’m not doing it. Not as long as that fucking fag cocksucker is in the house. No way, man. No fucking way.”
Lee Mortimer had blasted Sinatra countless times in his columns. Frank claimed it was because the reporter had once tried, unsuccessfully, to sell the singer a song (“a piece of shit!”). Mortimer had had a heyday running the
