“I know where he is. At least I think I know.”
His eyes narrowed; he again sat forward. “Would you like to share that information with the committee?”
“Would the chairman of the committee like to assure me I won’t be called as a witness?”
Kefauver chuckled. “You are everything you’re cracked up to be, Mr. Heller…. What do you have in mind?”
“Maybe you’d like to hire me…confidentially, of course, by which I mean only you and me and your government checkbook would know.”
“Continue, please.”
“You fund my jaunt South of the Border, where I confirm the whereabouts of your witness. I’ll wire you that information, keep Charley and Rocco under surveillance until the
“I like the sound of this. When would you do it?”
“Right away. Soon as I can book plane tickets…next few days.”
Kefauver shook his head, grinned the infinite grin, and stuck his hand across the desk. “Mr. Heller—welcome aboard the Special Committee to Investigate Organized Crime in Interstate Commerce.”
I shook with him, but said, “Yeah, well, let’s skip the office welcome wagon…. No one but the two of us are hep to this, remember.”
“Hep…?”
“Are in the know about my role.”
“Fine.” The endless grin—a toothless version—seemed to crinkle across his face; then he added, “Always room for another talented performer here at the circus.”
I stood. “Let’s hope I’m not just another clown.”
“It could be worse, Mr. Heller.”
“Yeah, Senator?”
“Try not to get shot out of a cannon.”
Thinking that was good advice, I nodded and went out.
That afternoon around two, in the lobby of the St. Clair Hotel, red-headed Hannan, the house dick, caught me just as I was about to go up on the elevator.
“I need a moment, Nate,” he said, kind of edgy.
“Sure, Hannan,” I said, walking with him over to one side. “What cooks?”
“Not my goose, I hope—listen…I let a dame in your room.”
“Yeah? Anybody you know? Anybody I know?”
“She says she’s a friend from Texas.”
“Texas? I don’t have any girl friends from Texas.”
He gestured with open hands. “Nate, I’m pretty sure you’re not gonna mind. This is one of the best-looking babes I ever saw, built like a brick shithouse and then some…and she was real tired, just got off the bus. She had luggage with her, and no money. I felt sorry for her.”
What the hell was this about?
“Jesus, Hannan—have you seen the papers lately? I’m kind of hot right now. You might have just let some Outfit bimbo lay a trap for me.”
His eyes showed white all around. “This is a trap I’d give my left nut to lay. Look, she’s clean—I made her let me go through the suitcase, and her cosmetics case, and then she stood for a frisk.” He grinned and his eyes narrowed and kind of glazed over. “And what a frisk…. Sometimes this is a great job.”
I shook my head, not knowing whether to smack him or tip him. “Does this Texas girl fresh off the bus have a name?”
“Sure—Vera something.”
Vera Jayne Mansfield, nee Palmer—in a short-sleeve white blouse with gaucho collar and black pedal pushers ending over nicely curving calves and red-painted toenails—was asleep on my sofa in the living room of my suite, her powder blue suitcase next to her, a matching train case too. On her back, her cute face to one side, the brunette pageboy tousled, her magnificent bosom rising and falling, Vera was lost in a deep sleep, clearly exhausted.
I sat on the edge of the sofa and wondered why I wasn’t irritated with her. For some stupid reason, I was glad to see her. Maybe that she was a gorgeous girl of nineteen or so, asleep in my apartment after driving cross- country to see me, had something to do with it. Maybe if I couldn’t have the former Miss Chicago on my sofa, the almost Miss California would make a sweet substitute.
She didn’t wake till after dark. I’d been sitting in my easy chair, with a lamp on, reading the afternoon papers, when she purred and, moving sinuously, stretched and yawned and cracked her neck this way and that. Blinking a few times, she finally noticed me and beamed.
“I’ll bet you’re mad at me,” she said.
“Furious.”
“I bet you wonder what I’m doing here.”
