Max Collins - Target Lancer

The sink noise wanted to know, too.

I met his unblinking gaze, wondering if my life depended on my answer.

“Here’s what I’m thinking of doing, Jim-I will put agents on the case here and in Milwaukee, and see if this murder really was a robbery gone wrong, whether a hooker or some asshole robbing hotel rooms. I’ll also see if there’s anything else going on in Tom’s life that could have got him killed. You never know-some people have secret lives. He could have a girlfriend who had a boyfriend who decided to get rid of the competition. He could have a business partner who is embezzling that wanted him gone. Anything’s possible.”

Hoffa said, “Anything’s possible.”

“But if you tell me not to look into this, I won’t. I don’t want to be a loose end, Jim.”

I might have been lying about the former, but I was telling the God’s honest truth about the latter.

And after several moments’ thought, Hoffa said something interesting: “Would it make the little woman feel better, you looking into it?”

“I think it probably would … unless I come up with an answer that doesn’t sit well.”

“Another woman kinda thing.”

“Right.”

He shook his head, made a sympathetic clicking sound in his cheek. “I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t do this investigation and bring some peace of mind to the little lady.”

“All right.”

“But I can’t promise you this ain’t connected.”

That shook me but I tried not to show it. “No?”

“No. Sometimes subordinates do things that they think they should do-you know? Sometimes these sons of bitches think too much on their own. They take the goddamn fucking initiative, the ass-kissing jackasses. Guys like me, you know how it is, Nate-we’re insulated. So I will not lie to you. It is possible Tom getting killed was a by-product of that favor he did.”

I wasn’t sure I should ask, but heard myself saying, “Would you be willing to ask around? If some subordinate of yours was responsible … and you’re unhappy with him … maybe I could … fire him for you.”

That got a big smile out of Hoffa. “Kiddo, you are one of a kind. You always never fail to surprise me. Goddamn right, I will ask around. Anything else? I’m five minutes late. I fucking hate being late.”

I raised a hand, gesturing for just another moment. “There is one other thing. If somebody under or … over you? If there is such a person? If somebody considers me a loose end that needs tying off, would you … please discourage them?”

He nodded with a big, reassuring smile, and he patted the air with his palms to indicate, No problem .

Then he added, “If I can’t discourage them, how about I warn your ass?”

“Please.”

“Okay? We done?”

“I can see taking a guy like Tom out,” I said, ignoring the dismissal. “I hate it, and I don’t think it was smart or necessary. But he was a civilian, and the mistake was enlisting a civilian.”

“I one hunnerd percent agree.”

“I don’t know what makes that little bagman exercise at the 606 worth killing somebody over.…”

“We don’t know that it was,” Hoffa reminded me.

I rose from toilet lid. “Right. But if it was worth killing somebody over? I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know why, and I don’t want to know what it’s about. I don’t want to know anything about it. I just want to live long enough to happily retire and see my son grow up and get rich enough to support me in my old age.”

The running water sounded like applause now.

“I hear ya!” he chortled. “Come on, come on.”

Then he turned off the faucets, slipped an arm around my shoulder, and showed me out of his “office.”

“I’m not a civilian, Jim,” I said, as he escorted me into the living room. “Look back over my history, and think about everything I’ve seen, everything I know, and see if you can find me ever testifying about any of it.”

He didn’t need to know about all the information I had, once upon a time, passed along to Bobby Kennedy and the rackets committee.

“You do know where the bodies are buried,” he said pleasantly, getting bored with me.

My hairy-eyebrow doorman and the two other baggy-suit thugs were playing nickel-dime poker now, at a card table in a corner of the Victorian living room. Seeing me, the doorman threw in his hand, scurried to get my coat and hat, gave them to me, and scurried back to the game.

Hoffa and I went down in the elevator together, having it to ourselves. None of his bodyguards had made the trip, probably because their boss was dining in the hotel, with those lawyers, and there was no need.

He was rocking on his heels again, looking at the floor indicator, having forgotten I was there, though I was at his side.

I said, “I wouldn’t ever insult you with that old wheeze, of course.”

Hoffa frowned. “What old wheeze?”

“Oh, that I’ve written a bunch of stuff down and left it with my lawyer or in a safety deposit box … or both. If something should happen to me. You know, the original one place, the carbon another?”

He had the expression of a clown that just got hit by a pie.

I patted him on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t insult your intelligence that way, Jim.”

The elevator said in its seductive female voice, “ Lobby floor.… ”

I headed quickly across the lobby’s marble expanse, but when I glanced back at him he was standing near the elevator, possibly waiting for his party, or maybe I’d slowed him down a little.

I called out, “Jim! If you’re eating at the Swiss Chalet, and you never tried the pork shanks and sauerkraut? Do.”

Tuesday, October 29, 1963

When I rolled in at just past ten, I found Lou Sapperstein-as ever, in shirtsleeves, suspenders, and wire-frame glasses-seated in our little break room off the bullpen. This was just a glorified cubbyhole with counter, coffee machine, sink, a few cabinets, and refrigerator. The bulk of the space was taken up by a Formica table whose centerpiece was a cardboard container offering the remnants of what had undoubtedly once been a proud selection of pastries and doughnuts. Lou sat drinking coffee, nibbling on one of the latter.

I joined him, but just for talk-I’d had juice and toast at home. “You get Jean Ellison home okay?”

It was one of those questions you knew the answer to but had to ask.

He nodded, chewing. He swallowed. “I drove her in her car. Gladys followed in ours. We were back by midnight.”

“Appreciate that. How did Jean do?”

“She was very quiet. No more crying, at least not that I saw or heard. She was turned away from me, resting against her window. Think maybe she even slept a little. You could transcribe our conversation on the head of a pin.”

I leaned back in the kitchen-style chair. “She’s brave and she’s smart, but this would be a rough one for anybody.”

He sighed, nodded again. “Her parents were at her place. They seem pretty solid. Kids were already in bed. There was no melodrama.”

“None is needed when you got actual drama.” A sigh seemed called for. “I appreciate you handling that, Lou.”

“Sure. But I’ll stop short of saying ‘my pleasure.’”

“I’ll need you to represent the A-1 at the funeral.”

“No problem.” He sipped his coffee. “Your pal Dick Cain called right at nine. Said he had a big meeting this morning, something about Kennedy’s visit this weekend, and might not be free for a while, so I should give you a message.”

“So give.”

“Said to tell you the latent print guys say the drinking glass with the lipstick traces was otherwise clean-probably wiped clean. Interesting, huh? Somebody takes the time to wipe off a glass but leaves the lipstick?”