Maybe Kefauver’s outrage in the press wasn’t all talk.
But I wasn’t convinced. “I’m supposed to believe Kefauver’s not going to wait a little over a month, to protect the local Democratic machine? That he’ll screw over the same people he’ll have to turn to, if he runs for president?”
“It’ll be in the papers, any day now. Kefauver takes these murders as a personal attack on him and his committee, and he’s upping the ante.”
“How in hell?”
“The hearings have been moved up to October fifth.”
I frowned in disbelief. “Next week?”
“Next week. Right across the street from your office, in the Federal Building, Nate. And the senator’s got another couple dozen subpoenas ready to go. Not just the gangsters, this time—politicians, race wire operators, liquor dealers, jukebox distributors, even the wives of the big boys.”
“Why bother with the wives? They can’t testify against their husbands.”
O’Conner shrugged. “Halley says they can. Rules are different with congressional hearings than the usual courtroom procedure.”
If that was true, where did that leave the former Jackie Payne?
“Come work with us,” O’Conner said.
“No.”
He found a sneer for me. “Is that it, then? Bill’s in the ground, and you’re just going to walk away?”
“Did I say that?”
Now the leaves seemed to be whispering, but I couldn’t make out what they wanted with me….
“Nate…you’re not thinking of handling this…some other way. Your
“I don’t remember saying that, either.”
The bloodshot blue eyes seemed steady, suddenly—looking at me with a fresh focus. “You have a reputation for…sometimes people who have problems with you have been known to disappear.”
“Is that right?”
Car engines were starting here and there; the mourners leaving Bill Drury behind—they were just visiting, after all; he lived here.
O’Conner leaned close to me; surprisingly, he didn’t have liquor on his breath. “Listen—listen to me carefully, Nate. I would do anything to get even for Bill.
“Yeah?”
Those blue eyes were hard as marbles, now. “Are you listening? Do you hear me?”
“I’m listening. I hear you.”
“Promise me—if you do decide to try something…I don’t give a shit how crazy…you call me. And I’m there.”
“Be careful, Tim—”
“I know what I’m saying. I know what I’m offering. don’t try to do this alone.”
“Are you sure?”
That pale face was deadpan, now—the softness of self-pity replaced by something hard and cold and resolute. “Dead fucking sure,” he said.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
I rejoined Lou, who was starting a new cigarette.
“What did he want?” Lou asked, exhaling a wreath of smoke.
“Absolution,” I said, as we headed back down the graveled road.
Lou smirked. “Boy, did he come to the wrong guy.”
The phone call seemed more than a little mysterious. I didn’t take it myself—it came in during the morning, when Lou and I were at the Drury funeral. When I drifted in after lunch, Gladys gave me the cryptic message: “Silver Palm, Bas client, come alone, 3 P.M.”
I
What disturbed me was that someone was connecting me to Bas—my former affiliation with Drury was well known; but Bas had only hired me a few hours before he was killed…a new record among A-1 clients.
I found a parking place for the Olds a block and a half away, and walked to the Silver Palm, which nestled under the El on Wilson Avenue near Broadway. My trenchcoat collars were up again—it was cold and drizzling, sending the streetwalkers and dope peddlers into the recesses of doorways for cover. This once respectable stretch had, during World War Two, developed into a war zone of burlesque houses, room-by-the-hour hotels and tattoo parlors,
