“Your father was a Communist, wasn’t he? Ran a Commie bookstore on the West Side of Chicago? You grew up there, among those radicals?”
I felt like I’d been sucker punched in the belly. I managed, “He was a Wobbly, Joe—a pro-union guy. He killed himself, back in ’32.”
“Terrible tragedy. Terrible.”
“He killed himself because I wasn’t like him—I
“That’s the American way.”
My head was swimming. “Jesus—what are you saying to me, Joe?”
He heaved a huge sigh; shook his head, sorrowfully. “There are people…powerful people…good Americans, like my friend Pat McCarran…who would like me to take a hard close look at you, and your background.”
“…Are you saying, somebody’s told you to paint me with a red brush?”
His beady eyes turned into slits. “Let me say this. This fellow Kefauver, he’s like a bull in the china shop. He’s causing trouble for a lot of fine Americans. He’s abusing the system, with these hearings of his—I can’t abide seeing our fine system, the most nearly perfect system of government ever to find a place under God’s blue sky, abused for personal aggrandizement. That Tennessee turncoat will never be president if I have any say in it.”
The panic had been brief, but terrible—I’d had a tiny glimpse of the horror of having your world imperiled by government-sanctioned lies.
But that panic was gone.
“McCarran,” I said, smiling just a little, nodding. “Senator from the great state of Nevada. As in, Las Vegas. Joe—do you have friends who don’t want me to testify in the Kefauver hearings?”
He cleared his throat. “If you’re called, you’ll have to testify. That’s the law. But what you choose to share with these witch-finders, that’s another matter entirely.”
I laughed; the laughter was genuine but tinged with hysteria. The great Commie hunter was mobbed up!
He folded his hands, prayerfully; he had knockwurst fingers. “Nate…I couldn’t let this happen to you. I was so pleased when you called, and wanted to meet. After all, you were friends with Jim Forrestal…another great man Drew Pearson assassinated with his pen.”
That was why Pearson and I had fallen out: the columnist’s unremitting, merciless attacks had contributed to Forrestal’s suicide.
“Jim was my mentor,” McCarthy said. “He was the one who informed me about the Communists high up in our government.”
Forrestal was also a delusional paranoid schizophrenic.
I folded my arms. “Joe, I’ve already talked to the committee, who I basically told to go fuck themselves…and to Charley Fischetti, and Sam Giancana, given them my assurances that I’m not talking.”
“Those names mean nothing to me.”
“Yeah, right. You tell McCarran I’m no problem. And Christ, neither is Sinatra. You’ve got to give that kid a pass, too, Joe. You’ll destroy his career.”
“Mr. Sinatra is also on Kefauver’s list.”
“Oh. Wait…. I think I’m finally getting this.” I shook my head, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “You’ll lay off Sinatra, if he doesn’t cooperate with the Kefauver Committee.”
He twitched a humorless smile. “You make this sound like a quid pro quo…. I can tell you that Senator McCarran admires Mr. Sinatra, has enjoyed his many appearances in Las Vegas.”
I raised a hand, as if I was being sworn in. “Frank won’t give those guys the time of day—even if they put his ass on TV and embarrass him in front of the entire nation.”
“You can speak for him?”
“I am speaking for him.”
McCarthy thought about that. Then he grinned, and it didn’t seem strained. “Great. Great! Jesus, Nate it’s nice seeing you. You want to go out for beer and steak? I’m ready for a break.”
“No thanks,” I said. “Rain check.”
I was the one with the strained grin, now.
I stood, he stood again, and we had another handshake, and I went quickly out. At first I was pissed off, although relieved; but then the humor of it hit me.
The other shoe had finally dropped.
I’d thought Fischetti, Giancana, and company had too easily accepted at face value my assurances not to help Kefauver. I mean, hell—I was Bill Drury’s friend and almost partner! Yet there’d been no intimidation—just one bribe, from Tubbo, nothing from the Outfit itself.
Until this Sunday evening screening of
This had all been just another scam, courtesy of the mob and that poker-playing ape back there. Sinatra was a friend of the Chicago/Nevada gambling interests, after all; they wouldn’t want to insult him, not directly. And me, better to keep me a friendly nonwitness.
So they had reached out to Senator Joe McCarthy, that great Red-hunting all-American boy, to squeeze Frankie and me into silence.
