him were his two cronies, Irving Bitz and Salvatore Spitale, proprietors of the speak, which was suitably dark, smoky and crowded. Most of the crowd was reporters, which made sense, because the joint was right behind the New York
Spitale was perhaps forty, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-complected, with a round face that didn’t match his slender frame, and a suit just as expensive as Rosner’s. His partner Bitz was a smaller, fatter version of Spitale only with a cheaper suit, jug ears and dumb, hooded eyes.
The three men were conducting an informal press conference; reporters juggling notebooks and beer mugs were tossing the trio of hoods questions, but not too hard: underhand softball pitches.
“Mickey,” one reporter said, “you interviewed a prisoner at the Tombs last night, for Colonel Lindbergh. What did you learn?”
“Not at liberty to say, fellas,” Rosner said, and he bit off the end of a fat Havana.
“What about the rumors you’re holding secret talks with a top underworld figure, who’s currently in prison?”
Rosner shook his head no, lit up his cigar, waved the match out.
Another reporter said, “Come on-weren’t Spitale and Bitz in Chicago a few days ago?”
“Yeah, Salvy,” another said, turning his attention to Spitale. “How ’bout it?”
“No comment,” Spitale said, and grinned at Rosner and then at Bitz.
“Mickey,” another newsman said, “how in hell did
Rosner’s smile disappeared and he gestured with the fiery end of the cigar. “I’m a respectable businessman, gents. You know that-I deal in real estate.”
There were some muffled laughs and some laughs that weren’t so muffled.
“Mickey,” said a reporter, a disembodied voice out of the swirling smoke, “why are we here? I mean, we appreciate the free suds-but you haven’t given us jack shit.”
Rosner grinned again. “Maybe you ain’t asked the right questions.”
There were mutterings and moans, mostly good-natured, from the well-lubricated press contingent.
Another reporter tried a question-for Spitale, this time. “Hey, Salvy-what’s this about the cops dropping a couple bootlegging beefs against you guys? Did Lindy pull some strings?”
Spitale laughed. “I won’t dignify that with a response.”
“Well, tell us about your role in the Lindbergh case, then.”
He splayed a hand to his chest. “It’s this way, boys-I was asked to use my influence in getting the kid back. If professionals have got a hold of him, they know where to get in touch with me in five minutes, day or night, rain or shine. Right, Irv?”
Bitz nodded dutifully.
Then Spitale continued: “But I’m not a cop, see? Get it straight-I’m no cop; I don’t go snooping around.”
“You almost sound sorry you got involved.”
He shrugged facially. “I am kinda sorry I got mixed up in this thing, yeah. You guys are printing pictures of my kids and my family, and my policy of keepin’ out of the papers has been knocked for a loop. Can’t you fellas cover something else-like the Shanghai War, or wherever?”
“Have you found any trace of the baby, Salvy?”
“Well, to be honest, I have not. In fact, I’m a little discouraged.”
Rosner cut in. “
The reporters glanced around at each other, their expressions saying,
“The baby is alive and well,” Rosner said, flicking ash off his cigar onto the floor. “I give you my personal assurance that the baby is about to be returned to his folks.”
Even Spitale and Bitz seemed surprised by that.
The reporters began hurling questions at Rosner, hardballs this time, but he held up a hand in a stop gesture; the hand glittered with diamond rings.
“What I’m saying don’t represent my
“Are you negotiating the return of the baby?”
“If I was, saying so would put those efforts at risk, right? So let’s cut this off right here, okay? Thank you, fellas.”
He rose and pushed through the reporters, leaving a confused Spitale and Bitz to field the rest of the questions. Rosner was heading toward the men’s room; nobody bothered following him.
Except me.
I’d driven into Manhattan midmorning, to check in with IRS man Frank Wilson and to meet with Breckinridge after work. The plan was to spend the evening with the attorney and the eccentric Dr. Condon at the latter’s Bronx bungalow, waiting to see if the ad that ran today (“Money is ready-Jafsie”) got a response.
Among a handful of other things I wanted to do while I was in New York City was check out Spitale and Bitz’s speakeasy; I’d stopped in for the free lunch, heard the scuttlebutt about the “press conference” and hung around nursing beers for two hours waiting for Rosner and company to show.
Now Mickey was standing at the urinal. He and I had the small room to ourselves; I hook-and-eye latched the door, waited for him to finish, and as he turned, buttoning up, he sneered.
“What the hell are you doing here, Heller?”
“What do you think, Mickey? Checking up on you.”
He started to brush past me. “Stay out of my way.”
I took him by the arm. “You didn’t wash your hands, Mickey. Stick around a second, and wash your hands.”
He jerked loose of my grasp. “I’ll wash my hands of you, flatfoot.”
But I was blocking the way. “Tell me, Mickey. What was that bullshit about being sure the kid was safe? That he’d be returned any second now?”
He straightened his suitcoat, tried to summon some dignity. “Just tossin’ the newshounds a bone.”
“Are you, or any of your people, negotiating with Capone?”
“Maybe.”
I unbuttoned my coat, put my hands on my hips, letting him get a look at the nine millimeter under my shoulder. “That’s not much of an answer, Mickey.”
“Fuck you. You don’t know who you’re messing with. You can wake up dead, messing with me.”
I grabbed him by his tailored lapels. “Don’t get tough with me, you greasy little fucker. You’re going to spill, or drown.”
“Drown?”
“Guess how.”
Rosner licked his lips, and said, “I don’t know a goddamn thing, goddamnit! Now, back off, Heller-or I’ll tell Lindy you been shovin’ me around.”
I let him go, roughly.
“Why don’t you do that?” I said. “And I’ll tell him why.”
I let him pass. He never did wash his hands.
I’d met with Wilson earlier; the T-man had had little to report on his end: no news on Capone’s missing man Bob Conroy; Agent O’Rourke had infiltrated the Marinelli/Sivella spiritualist church, but had nothing yet to report.
I’d filled the agent in about Condon, and he was furious Lindbergh hadn’t brought him in on it.
“Maybe you ought to shadow the professor,” I said. “He may be tied in with those spiritualists-unless you think Sister Sarah really did pull the name ‘Jafsie’ out of the spirit world.”
“The Bronx and Harlem are next-door neighbors,” Wilson said, reflectively. “You don’t need a Ouija board to get from one to the other.”
“If Lindbergh finds out I tipped you, I’ll be persona non grata. So keep it under your hat.”
Condon lived in the Bedford Park section of the Bronx, just west of Webster Avenue, in a neat, modest two-
