I shrugged a little. “Back in Chicago, I heard rumors that you guys are having some problems with the Kingfish.”
He laughed silently. “Interesting, how word travels. How is it you happen to be working for Long as a bodyguard?”
I explained about hitting it off with Huey at the Chicago convention in ’32, and how Huey had offered me a job when I delivered a package to him recently.
“I just thought if there was any package
He twitched a smile; his eyes were hooded, near sleepy in a face almost movie-star handsome. “I see. That’s white of you.”
“I just wanted you to know where my loyalty lies. That if you need any help, in any way, you have but to ask.”
“That is generous. But I hope it won’t be necessary,”
“But it
He seemed to be tasting the little smile; he shrugged his shoulders, Cagney-like, and leaned on the walking stick. “I admit there have been…problems with the former governor. When he invited us down here, I expected the hospitality to be longer lasting.”
“And it hasn’t been?”
He shook his head, no. “Problems have arisen, due to Senator Long’s lack of control over the local municipal administration. We discovered, too late, that Sam Carolla had much more influence, in that regard, than the Senator.”
“Huey promised something he couldn’t deliver, you mean.”
“That’s a minor irritation. With Diamond Jim’s help, we were able to iron things out. Senator Long agreed to provide political protection, statewide, to Mr. Carolla’s various…business activities. Prior to this, New Orleans had been Sam’s sole bailiwick.”
“Well, then, what’s the problem?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “The problem is that the redoubtable Kingfish, who had agreed to a very reasonable piece of the action…ten percent…recently upped the ante.”
“To what? Fifteen? Twenty?”
His lips pursed in amusement. “He wants a flat fee, Mr. Heller…Nate. He wants three million a year.”
“That’s a lot of dough….”
He gestured around the room, where the truck was nearly unloaded now. “This is not a huge operation, Nate. By the end of the year, we’ll have six hundred machines around town-in drug stores, saloons, cigar stores.”
“Lucrative…but not lucrative enough for a three-mil yearly payoff.”
“Correct. Just a moment. Carlos!”
One of the well-dressed workers who’d been uncrating the slot machines turned and looked our way. A dark-haired, hook-nosed bucket-headed tough, short but burly with a face that seemed set in a permanent scowl, young Carlos lumbered over sullenly, though his voice was respectful.
“Yes, Mis’ Kastel?”
“I appreciate you and your brother helping out, with this physical labor.”
“T’ink nuttin’ of it, Mis’ Kastel.”
“Would you pay off these truckers, and see about getting our little Indians into the designated locations?”
“Dey be in dere by midnight, Mis’ Kastel.”
If I’d thought Moran’s Italian-Louisianian accent was something, this kid was something else.
Carlos wandered back and, reaching for a wad of dough in one pants pocket, began peeling off bills and handing them to the grinning truckers, who’d finished unloading.
“Well, you’ve obviously got work to do,” I said, heading to the door. But I made the point one more time: “If you need anything done-from gathering inside information to, well,
“If Frank Nitti trusts you,” he said quietly, “that’s all the reference necessary.”
He shook my hand again. “Where are you staying?”
“Tonight, the Roosevelt, here in town. After that, back to the Heidelberg in Baton Rouge.”
He walked me to the door; he used the walking stick, but didn’t seem to have any sort of limp. “Well…we’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”
“Nice meeting you, Mr. Kastel.”
“Call me Phil.”
I was back on the street; he filled the doorway. His smile was as charming as it was meaningless.
“And, uh, Nate-you didn’t mention any of this to Diamond Jim, by any chance? Your willingness to…help with the Kingfish problem, I mean.”
“Why, no.”
“Good.”
“Why is that?”
“Oh, because he’d very likely kill you. A very loyal boyo, our Mr. Moran.”
And he shut the door.
9
Normally, I don’t like playing any kind of game with mobsters; too many characters who underestimated the likes of Diamond Jim and Dandy Phil wound up dead in a ditch.
Nonetheless, I figured I’d put my scam across, and didn’t feel terribly intimidated. Or maybe the dangling carrot of the Kingfish’s ten-grand bonus was just clouding my normally conservative (where my skin is concerned) judgment.
Whistling “Anything Goes,” I strolled into the Roosevelt’s lavish, story-and-a-half lobby feeling pretty good about how I’d handled myself. That was when I spotted a familiar Chicago face. Seated between a potted palm and a marble column was Frank Wilson-dark-haired, jug-eared, round-jawed, the dour Wilson, with his black horn- rimmed glasses and baggy suit, might have been a schoolteacher.
But he wasn’t. He was a fed-specifically, one of the IRS team that, in tandem with Eliot Ness and his Capone Squad, had put Big Al away.
Feeling a little cocky, I sauntered up and said, “Hiya, Frank-what brings
His long face got longer and the eyes between the round lenses flared.
Whoops….
Wilson was on his feet in a fraction of an instant and his hand clamped on my forearm and he whispered, harshly, in my ear: “Keep your mouth shut, Heller…. We’re goin’ for a ride.”
This was a new one: getting taken for a ride by a G-man.
But I was in no position to argue. I let him walk me quickly along to the corner doors and out onto the street, where in a few paces we were at a parked-at-the-curb black Ford that he indicated was his by shoving me toward the rider’s door. He got in. Me, too.
Wilson, glancing behind him like a getaway driver pulling away from a just-robbed bank, swung the Ford out onto Canal.
“To answer your question,” Wilson said tightly, “yes: I am here investigating Huey Long’s taxes.”
“Hey, Frank…it was just a smart-ass remark….”
“Whatever, you hit the bull’s-eye.” He stopped at the light, glanced over at me. “Sorry about the bum’s rush. But I’m undercover.”
This guy couldn’t have looked more like a fed if he tried.
“Ingenious disguise,” I said.
