Max Collins - Target Lancer

“Nothing.”

Ruby talking to me at all meant he’d suspected I’d been there to back Tom up, or Hoffa and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. But I didn’t point that out.

I went on: “Jake always did run his mouth. He was bragging to this kid that I’d been a Marine hero, that kind of bullshit. Showing off. That’s how Cuba came up. Telling this kid how I was the guy that first put things in motion.”

A john flushed. A guy came out, used the sink, left.

Hoffa was studying me. “You’re saying … this was a straight-up bodyguard job. Your friend had all that cash, got jumpy about it, and wanted some protection. That simple?”

“That simple. Jim, I don’t know why Tom gave that envelope to Ruby, and I don’t want to know. Not interested. And neither is Tom.”

“… Okay.” He did the Cagney shoulder hunch again. “Might as well piss while we’re here.”

“Might as well.”

So we stood at the metal trough and pissed …

… though I was a little surprised I could, figuring it had already been scared out of me.

The game never turned into anything special, but the Bears did win-16 to 7. That made seven wins and one loss.

Still in contention.

That evening Helen and I sat in a booth at Pizzeria Uno and shared a small tomato pie.

“How long will you be in town?” I asked her.

We were both eating slices with forks-the stuff was just too formidable to do otherwise, half the sauce on the North Side piled on the little pie, on top of just as much cheese.

“I was thinking maybe a week,” she said, with a little shrug. “If you can get me meetings at the Chez Paree and Empire Room, and something comes of it … a little shorter stay. Otherwise, I plan to make the rounds of the other spots.” She made a face. “And there’s always the strip joints.”

“Well, even so, we can’t have you staying at the Lorraine.”

“Oh, I don’t mind it, Nate, really. Lot of nice girls there.”

“Why don’t you bunk in at my place? You can take the client apartment downstairs. You’ll have your own key. That way you can come and go as you please, and spend as much time with me as both our schedules allow.”

“That’s generous. That does sound nice.”

“And taking all these cabs, you’ll go broke. The A-1 has a small fleet of half a dozen cars. You can have one for the week. There’s room for it next to my Jag in the old horse stable I use for a garage, behind my building.”

Her eyes were moist. I thought for a second there this hard-boiled dame might cry on me.

“Nathan … this is very sweet of you. I hope I can repay you in some way.…”

“I don’t bother with straight lines that obvious,” I told her.

We were having coffee when she brought Hoffa up.

“He surprised me,” she said.

“Shorter than you figured.”

“That, and he … seemed so nice. So affable. Just a regular fella, although, you know … larger than life, no matter how short he is. I noticed he didn’t drink. There was beer and booze flasks all around, but all he had was Pepsi.”

“He’s a teetotaler like you, Helen.”

She sipped her coffee, thinking. “Tell me, Nathan-is he a bad man?”

“Depends.”

“Explain.”

“I think he genuinely cares about the working stiff. But he’s also fine with lining his own pockets, and if you’re his enemy? Let’s just say some of those nice women you were sitting gabbing with, this afternoon, have husbands who have committed some of the most vicious murders Chicago has ever seen. And Chicago has seen some.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Well, they say he’s a crook, and I don’t have anything good to say about unions myself, so I can’t say any of that surprises me.”

But she had surprised me. “You’re against unions? An old bleeding-heart FDR liberal like you?”

She waved a hand like a child bidding good-bye. “Never had a union be anything but trouble for me, on the road. The entertainment unions either side with the management, or tell me I can’t play someplace ’cause it’s blacklisted, or side with one of the little dancers I travel with on some pay dispute.”

“Sounds like showbiz has taken its toll.”

Shaking her head, the piled-up blonde curls bouncing some, she said, “No more bleeding heart for me, Heller. Strictly a free-enterprise girl these days. Hell, Kennedy was the first Democrat I voted for since Roosevelt. I like seeing his brother go after a bent union.”

I gave her a kidding grin. “If you’re turning so reactionary in your second childhood, Helen, why didn’t you vote for Tricky Dick?”

She shuddered. “Didn’t you see the debates? All that sweat and five-o’clock shadow. Nixon looked like half the fucking club owners I deal with.”

That made me laugh.

“Anyway,” she said, “Jack Kennedy is cute.”

“You make me so proud we gave you girls the vote.”

“Still a wise guy. You haven’t changed much.”

She shook her head, smiled, and began fishing in her purse for her cigarettes.

“Your life, Nate, even now, it’s still like something out of, I don’t know, Sam Spade. Last night, when you grabbed your gun and went running outside, bare-chested? I was frightened, Nate, but also … excited. Reminded me of the world’s fair days. Kind of thrilling to know a man like you.”

“Ah, well, everyone thinks so.”

A tiny laugh. “Even after all these years, you still live on that dangerous edge, don’t you?”

“Not by choice.”

A bigger laugh, as she lit up a Lucky. “Well, certainly by choice. You don’t have to hang around with people like Jimmy Hoffa.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I grinned at her. “Okay, smart girl. Those tickets last night? You think they were a gift?”

“Weren’t they?”

“No, Helen. They weren’t.”

“What were they, then?”

“A summons.”

We slept together that night, with no interruptions from any dese-dem-and-dozer wanting to kill me or offer me tickets to a sporting event, either. My world seemed peaceful, damn near idyllic with Helen back in my life (and bed), an existence not at all dangerous, and it only took me about half an hour before I got to sleep wondering what it was about Jack Ruby and that packet of cash that had made me the object of Jimmy Hoffa’s Sunday-afternoon attention.

Monday, October 28, 1963

At the first hint of a ring, I snagged the receiver off the bedside phone before Helen could be disturbed. The few bedroom windows had venetian blinds, which were drawn nice and tight, making it easy to sleep in, and that’s what we were doing.

Not an infrequent practice of mine, after a late night out with a lady-a privilege of age and rank. Unless I had an appointment, I didn’t bother going in to the A-1 till around ten, and the only thing scheduled on this Monday was a staff meeting at 2:00 P.M.

I felt awake enough, if sluggish after an excessive nine hours-the clock radio read 9:45 A.M. But my thick, whispered hello-actually “Yeah?”-must have been a tip-off.

A familiar voice on the other end of the line said, “Don’t tell me you’re still in bed.”

“Gimme a second.”

In just my boxers, I carried the phone on its long cord across the room, out of consideration for the slumbering Helen.

“I’m an executive, Dick. I go in to work when I please. Anyway, I didn’t know I had to clear it with you.”

Dick was Chief Richard Cain of the Cook County Sheriff’s Special Investigations Unit.

“Well, rise and shine and get over to the Pick-Congress, toot sweet. Room 318.”

“Any special reason?”