Max Collins - Target Lancer

The rough-hewn low-pitched voice was familiar. I believed this was the put-upon lackey who had delivered my football tickets the other night.

“Tell Mr. Hoffa I apologize for coming unannounced,” I said, the “Jimmy” familiarity not having worked, “but that it’s important.”

“You gotta have an appointment.”

“If I leave? Be sure not to tell Jim I was here, and you sent me away, because he’ll kick you in the ass.”

The bulgy eye blinked. The door shut. I waited. The door opened.

It was indeed my pal from the other night. He was in a brown suit that was too baggy with a blue tie that was too short. I figured the bagginess was to make the gun under his left shoulder not show. You’d think the Teamsters could afford a decent tailor.

“Nice to see you again,” I said with a nod, as he opened the door, stepped aside, and I went in. “The game was lousy, by the way.”

“You gotta stand for a frisk.”

“I’m not armed.”

“Rules is rules.”

Before I let him pat me down, I gave him my damp raincoat and hat to dispose of, just out of general disrespect, thinking this would have been an excellent time to shoot him, if that was why I was here.

As he did his job, I glanced around the spacious suite. The living room still had a Victorian look, as in Nitti days, but had been remodeled, and they’d brought in new fake antiques about five years ago. In all its incarnations, the suite maintained a lavish, gold-leaf look that would impress politicians and whores, if you’ll forgive the redundancy.

Two thugs also in baggy suits and ill-knotted ties were sitting on a fancy couch reading Ring magazine and Modern Man respectively. A versatile pair, they were also watching a rerun of My Little Margie. Same model color TV as I had, I noticed. But Margie remained in black-and-white. They looked up at me, wishing I were room service.

I was wondering if I should find something fancy and uncomfortable to sit on in there when I heard Hoffa call, “ Heller ! Nate! Come on in here. Come on, come on, come on.”

I followed the machine-gunning voice into a lavish bedroom with its own color TV. On the bed, like the Invisible Man taking a nap, a suit was laid out-just a standard off-the-rack pinstriped blue business suit, with a white shirt on a hanger inside the coat. Some well-shined shoes were on the floor nearby, a pair of the white socks he always wore waiting next to them.

Hoffa was in the bathroom, with the door open, shaving with a straight razor, about half the lather on his face gone. Black head of hair bristling with butch wax, the broad-shouldered little man was in an athletic-style T-shirt that showed off his massively muscular arms, and yellow-and-white-striped boxer shorts that revealed somewhat less muscular legs. He was in his bare feet.

“I have to meet some fuckin’ lawyers downstairs at seven,” he said, chin out, shaving his neck. “We don’t have much time to talk. But it must be important, or you wouldn’t barge in on me like this.”

And the blade paused for the half-lathered face to turn and grin at me, to take the edge off; but I knew he was kidding on the square.

I stood near the bathroom door, not too near. “I apologize for busting in on you, Jim. But it is important.”

As he watched himself shave, now and then his Chinaman eyes would flick toward me, catching me in the mirror. “We got maybe ten minutes, kiddo. Go, man, go.”

“Jim, are you aware of what happened to Tom Ellison?”

“No. What happened to Tom Ellison?”

Okay. So that was how he was going to play it. He didn’t know about it.

But the hell of it was, maybe he didn’t. I had seen the papers, and only the afternoon editions had anything about Tom’s murder, and those had been squibs, buried deep.

If Hoffa was innocent in this thing, he really wouldn’t know.

“Tom was murdered last night, Jim. In his hotel room.”

If he was acting, he was good. The razor jogged, then froze, and when he wiped the lather from his face, I saw a little blood come away on the towel. He hadn’t really finished the shave, but he threw some water on his face, toweled off, stuck a little piece of toilet paper where he’d nicked himself, and exited the john.

“I do not mean to downplay the import of this thing,” Hoffa said, “but you talk while I get ready.”

He got dressed, initially sitting on the edge of the bed to pull the white socks on. He’d motioned me to sit across from him, which took pulling a chair around, which I did. I gave him a condensed, factual report, including the police suspecting a hooker robbery gone awry, and my own feeling that this was a horseshit theory, and that in all likelihood a man had committed the act. Hoffa was ready for his dinner engagement by the time I finished.

But he didn’t stir. He just sat on the edge of the bed facing me, big hands on his small knees.

“I’m gonna save you the trouble,” he said. His face was serious, even somber, his eyes hard but not cold. He gestured with a karate chop. “I can see where you could think this thing may be related to that other thing.”

Apparently Hoffa was not convinced the Bismarck was free of bugs, and I don’t mean bedbugs.

“It seems suspicious to me, yes. You were unhappy with Tom, because he hired me to go along on that handoff.”

I was doing my best to be cryptic myself, in case cops or FBI were listening.

“I think you have a valid concern,” Hoffa said.

This surprised me.

Then he stood, gave me the finger crook like Gladys (not as ominous, strangely, coming from him), said, “In my office,” and I followed him back into the bathroom.

He turned on both faucets, all the way, letting them run hard and loud. He gestured to the toilet, which had the seat down. I sat. He stood near the sink with his arms folded and a piece of toilet paper on his face.

Well, it appeared once again we were going to talk in the can.

“If Tom became a loose end that somebody decided to cut off,” he said softly but forcefully, “it was done without my knowing, and is not something I would have approved. Something like that when I am in town, doing business? Jesus H. Fucking Christ. I have already seriously reprimanded the individual who involved a civilian in this thing in the first place.”

“Jim, a reprimand doesn’t go far with a widow and two young kids.”

“No, it don’t.” He looked grave. Nothing seemed phony about it. “If I gave you, say, ten grand for the family, would you pass it along?”

That was funny. Well, not hilarious, but sick-joke funny: that had been the amount of cash in the envelope Tom gave Ruby at the 606.

He cocked his head, raised an eyebrow. “You would have to accept that it comes out of genuine concern for the family of a trusted business associate, and is not in no way an admission of guilt. Nate, I swear on my mother’s grave I had nothing to do with this goddamn thing.”

“That’s good to hear.” I had no idea if he was telling me the truth or not.

“That will come out of my personal funds,” he said, tapping his chest, allowing himself just a touch of magnanimity.

The running water seemed to be shushing us.

“I’ll get the ten grand to them,” I said. “I’ll say it’s from an anonymous friend of Tom’s.”

“Good. I would appreciate it.”

I’d keep the ten grand. Jean Ellison wouldn’t accept it, and I could use it to fund the investigation. That way I could spare her the expenses.

He rocked on his heels; standing there in that suit, he might have been a cut-rate after-dinner speaker, or the headwaiter at a hash house.

“What are your intentions in this thing, Nate? Are you going to let this thing lie?”