exploding cigars-apparently somebody thought the way to take down a Marxist was to employ Marx Brothers techniques. In the meantime, less amusing events had challenged Cuba-United States relations, like the Bay of Pigs fiasco and the missile crisis. All in all, I was happy not to have played a bigger part in any of these travesties and tragedies.
Only now my unhappy role as an occasional intermediary between the warring Kennedy and organized crime camps had been stirred up to the surface by Jack Kennedy’s frat-boy lust, giving me a sleepless night worthy of the object of that lust.
At least Hoffa was safely in Detroit and couldn’t summon me to his presence. With Giancana you never knew, since he had his own Hollywood fixation and was lately banging the cutest of the cloying McGuire Sisters, Phyllis.
I don’t know when I finally got to sleep, but I didn’t wake up till almost noon, so I skipped breakfast and went straight for lunch at the Polo Lounge. By the time I parked the Jag downtown in the garage near our office, it was pushing 2:00 P.M.
At the Bradbury Building, on the southeast corner of Third and Broadway, we had expanded to four suites on the fifth floor. Two were for our agents (the current term for operative), another for my partner, Fred Rubinski (who ran the branch), with my office in back and a conference room in front. We’d done away with the open bullpen approach for our eight male and two female agents, who used cubicles now, to give clients some semblance of privacy.
We certainly could have afforded more modern accommodations-the five-story brownstone dated to 1893-but I dug the old digs. In fact, the baroque Bradbury was so perfect for our line of work that Hollywood kept using it for crime pictures. We had rented out my office, which sometimes sat vacant for months anyway, for half a dozen films, including I, the Jury and Double Indemnity -the latter a laugh because my partner looked like a bald, slightly less homely Edward G. Robinson.
Directors and cameramen loved the interior of the Bradbury with its ornamental wrought-iron stairwells and balconies, globed light fixtures, open brick-and-tile corridors, and caged elevators with all their ancient mechanical innards on display. My favorite touch didn’t show up in black-and-white (they never seemed to shoot color here): a huge skylight that for much of the day would bounce golden white light off the echoey lobby’s glazed floor.
I looked like a business executive in my lightweight gray Botany 500 suit and coffee-colored Churchill snap- brim; but the ancient Bradbury almost made me feel, at least momentarily, like a private eye again.
We were looking to add two more agents, and Fred had been interviewing prospects all morning. When I got there, he corralled me to join in on four more interviews, after which we sat in my office and reviewed the notes and files on the candidates and settled on two, neither ex-LAPD. One was late of the military police and the other had been on the San Diego force. We had standards.
I was behind my desk, and the windows were open, except for one hugging a bulky air conditioner, currently silent since the day was nicely cool. The office reminded me a little of my first office at Van Buren and Plymouth in Chicago. All that was missing was the El noise.
Cannonball Fred, in a dapper brown suit and brown-and-yellow striped tie, not narrow enough to suit current fashion, was plopped on my couch blending in with the brown leather. His feet were up on the armrest and he was contemplating smoke rings he was blowing, courtesy of a fragrant cigar.
“Somebody should kill that fuckin’ Castro,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
His eyes locked onto me, unblinking in his homely mug. “Do you know how much these smuggled Havanas cost me? Ten bucks apiece!”
“I’m glad we’re doing well enough to support your habit.”
He blew another ring and watched it dissipate. “You have business left to do out here? If you’re in the mood, I can line you up with a famous client or two. They all want you on the case, since that Life magazine spread.”
“No,” I said. “I’m already doing a little job for Marilyn.”
“Miss Monroe?” His grunt had something lascivious in it. “You’ve always had a thing for her.”
“Who doesn’t? I’m using Roger Pryor on it.”
“Wanna tell me about it?”
“Naw. Nothing. Wants her phones tapped. She’s having studio trouble.”
Fred’s smirk gave him a froggy look. “Yeah, so I been reading. Those cocksuckers in Fox publicity are tearing her down better than they built her up in the first place.”
“My money’s on Marilyn.”
“I dunno. Never bet against utter bastards.”
He grunted again as he hauled his squat self off the couch, and shooed cigar smoke toward an open window. I didn’t mind the expensive smell and told him so.
“So when are you heading back?” he asked, at the door to the conference room.
“Not sure. Few days maybe.”
“If you change your mind, I can always use you around. Just take meetings with our more illustrious clients, then we’ll turn the real work over to the youngsters.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said.
Fred nodded and trundled out, shutting the pebble-glassed door behind him.
I guess I sat there for half an hour trying to figure out if there was anything I should be doing for Marilyn, and not getting any farther than I had in my insomniac state last night. Maybe it was time to book my flight back to the land of stockyards and deep-dish pizza. But first I reached for the phone to call my ex-wife, and arrange to see Sam one more time before heading home.
The girl manning our phones next door informed me there was no answer, and I was hanging up, glumly, when two big guys in dark brown suits came in, hats in hand. They were both at least six foot, and together were working on a quarter ton, beefy but not fat, with perpetual five o’clock shadows. They had frequently broken noses and ears that stopped short of cauliflower but showed signs of battering.
Yet I had a hunch neither one had ever been a prizefighter. And I didn’t suppose they were extras from some crime picture being shot here, either, wandered in looking for the catering table.
You told them apart mostly by their hair-one had a butch and a bright expression while the other had what the Vitalis commercials called greasy kid stuff, slicked back. And dumb eyes.
The bright-looking one stepped forward.
“We didn’t make an appointment, Mr. Heller,” he said apologetically.
His voice was surprisingly mellow, just as his suit was surprisingly well-pressed and not cheap. His friend with the dumb eyes was similarly well-attired.
“No breach of protocol, gents,” I said, rising behind my desk. “I don’t have a secretary out here. This is just an office I use when I’m in town. What can I do for you?”
The leader said, “We wondered if you would be available sometime this afternoon to meet with somebody.”
His associate chimed in: “We can wait till five, should you want.”
They looked like thugs, yes, but nicely dressed thugs, and if I was being taken for an old-fashioned ride, this was the most polite attempt ever.
“Would you like to sit down, boys?” I asked, gesturing to the client chairs. “And tell me about it?”
“No thanks,” the leader said. “We got a parking place right out front. We can wait.”
“Fellas, I’m confused…”
The wide forehead beneath the butch crinkled. “Uh, could I ask you something, Mr. Heller?”
“Okay.”
“Is it safe to talk in here?”
Truthfully, at this point, I wasn’t sure. I motioned him over with a curled finger, and-after tearing off a page with a couple of scribbled phone numbers-pushed my scratch pad across, then pointed to the pencil nearby.
He nodded, took it, and on the pad wrote two words: Mr Hoffa.
So much for safely in Detroit.
I motioned for him to return the pencil, he did, and I wrote: Wants to see me?
And he nodded. The guy with the dumb eyes was frowning, as if this entire exchange had been something mysterious.
