Max Collins - Target Lancer

Lou grinned.

“I really don’t know what Tom meant by that,” I said.

“Tom meant that you have your own sense of justice. Your own way of doing things. That people you don’t like have been known to … just kind of go away.”

Lou stopped grinning.

I could have dissuaded her. I’m not sure why I didn’t. I could have said those were silly rumors, and just talk, people’s imaginations running away with them.

But I didn’t.

“Let me just say,” I replied gently, “that if the long arms of the law prove a little … short … I might sometimes find a way of evening a score. In certain situations.”

Lou’s eyes were wide. He was obviously surprised by what I was saying-not by the content of it, but that I uttered it out loud.

“I like the sound of that,” she said.

“You need to understand that I wouldn’t be able to tell you about it. And it might take years. Sometimes many years, before a score can be settled.”

“But maybe you could call me on the phone some night.”

“Maybe.”

“And just say, I don’t know, something like, ‘I think Tom would be pleased.’ Just something like that.”

I half smiled at the new widow. “I think that’s a phone call I might be able to make. Someday.”

She smiled back at me.

Then she lifted her chin, her expression regal now. “Well, I would very much like to hire you, Nathan. Things are obviously a little topsy-turvy right now, but I feel confident I’m well off. Tom has a big insurance policy, you know, his business is flourishing, and-”

I raised a stop hand. “Jean, no. This investigation was already paid for, by Tom.”

“No, I insist-”

“I’ll let you pay any expenses I incur. How’s that?”

“… All right.”

“And I’ll need your full cooperation. If any of my people come around wanting information about Tom or access to his private papers or anything at all, you have to provide it.”

“All right.”

“Good,” I said, rising. “I need to discuss the particulars of this assignment with Mr. Sapperstein … so for now, I’ll just show you out.”

I came around and helped her out of her chair, and she looked up at me and her lower lip began quivering. “Please, Nathan. Do something about this.”

“Count on it,” I said.

I walked her through the bullpen, which had cleared out by now. Lou trailed after. Gladys was framed in her office door, watching.

The reception area was empty, just a faint hint of Mildred’s perfume remaining-Joy, Jackie Kennedy’s favorite.

“Do you need someone to drive you?” I asked.

“No, I’ve done quite well today.”

“You have. But it’s going to hit you.”

“Oh, I know,” she said.

She took my hand, squeezed it, and-the picture of composure-stepped out into the hall, shutting the door behind her.

Lou was at my side suddenly. “Somebody should drive her back to Milwaukee. You want me to?”

“She says no. She seems strong.”

That was when I heard something fall.

I went into the hall and she’d collapsed, she was curled up against the wall, one shoe off, the purse discarded, weeping, moaning, grief coming up out of her in wrenching wails. I picked the little thing up in my arms like a bride and crossed the office’s threshold and rested her on the reception-area couch.

I sat next to her and she crawled over and hugged me, hard, and wept into my clothes.

“I’ll drive her,” Lou said.

“You do that,” I said. “We’ll talk later.”

Anyway, I had someone to see.

The big, burly Bismarck Hotel, on the corner of LaSalle and Randolph, hadn’t changed much since it was rebuilt in 1926. Oh, during World War II its celebrated dining room became the Swiss Chalet, but then even the Berghoff turned magically Swiss when Hitler suddenly made Wiener schnitzel unpatriotic.

Squatting on the edge of the Loop near the northwest corner of the El tracks, the venerable Bismarck had seen the city around it shift. German Square, over which it once ruled, was a term nobody used anymore, the deutsche shops, steamship office, and clubs largely gone. And the real downtown center of social activity was a few blocks away-famous restaurants, ritzy hotels, movie palaces, and legit theaters.

Yet the Bismarck survived and even thrived. Located across from City Hall as it was, the hotel made the perfect place for politicians, businessmen, gangsters, union leaders, and assorted combinations thereof to hold meetings or maybe lunch in the Walnut Room or (for you out-of-towners) even book a room.

The overcast sky decided to spit at me as I walked over to the old hotel; I just tugged my hat brim down and hunkered, walking against the wind like a goddamn mime. At only six-thirty, the darkening sky made it seem like night was getting impatient, and maybe something bad was coming.

I wasn’t heeled, as we of the lower class used to say, my nine-millimeter and shoulder holster back in my bedroom, and I hadn’t availed myself of any of the other artillery in the A-1 safe. My suit wasn’t cut for hardware, anyway. And why would I need a firearm to protect myself in the Bismarck Hotel?

On the other hand, Tom Ellison could have used one at the Pick-Congress.

I nodded to George the doorman in his Victor Herbert operetta uniform, got a hat-touch nod back that said I mattered, spun through the revolving door into the modest entryway, and trotted up the double-width, red-carpeted stairs into the wider world of the lobby. My raincoat wasn’t wet enough to climb out of, but I did take off my hat and shake some droplets off. Then I moved across the high-ceilinged, elaborate chalet-like chamber, dodging overstuffed chairs and potted plants, footsteps echoing off marble.

The elevator I shared with half a dozen others, a mix of tourists and business types. When you pushed a floor button, a sultry female voice talked to you: “Lobby … second floor…” This was a relatively new feature, and I hadn’t decided yet whether to be amused or spooked.

I went up to seven, took a left turn down the carpeted hallway to the Presidential Suite. The gentleman I was calling on usually stayed here, though sometimes you would find him in the Conrad Hilton’s Presidential Suite, which at a thousand dollars a night was twice the rate here, such a bargain.

Anyway, I had called the Bismarck first, and got lucky. I had not asked to be connected to this famous guest’s room, merely saying I needed to have something messengered over to Mr. Hoffa, and was he in?

He was.

At the end of the hall was a little vestibule with a door within that said 737 over a small golden plaque that read PRESIDENTIAL SUITE. The numbers and plaque looked new, but their predecessors had read the same, back when I would come to this suite in the 1930s and early ’40s to call on another powerful man-Frank Nitti, Al Capone’s successor and my sometime benefactor. Gone since 1943 but a presence still felt.

I’d met with Hoffa here a couple of times before, so the resonance of this having been Nitti’s suite was nothing new. But somehow, this evening, it seemed more pronounced.

There was a gold knocker. I used it.

I stood and waited while, presumably, a guardian of the gate eyed me through the peephole. The door cracked open, the night latch in place. A part of a chubby face with half a flat nose and half a mouthful of bad teeth revealed itself. Also in that lineup was a bulgy orb (under a hairy eyebrow) that stared out at me like I was an apparition. Maybe the Virgin Mary, or the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“Nate Heller,” I said. “To see…” Shit, I damn near said Mr. Nitti. “… Jimmy.”

“You don’t have no appointment.”