Max Collins - Target Lancer

Before long Eben asked, “Ever hear Muddy Waters?”

“Heard of him. Plays the blues on the South Side?”

“Yeah. After we catch these pricks, I’ll take you there. Joint called Smitty’s. Nothing against Ray Charles, but you haven’t lived till you heard Muddy.”

“Smitty’s, huh? South Side? Is it safe?”

“Well, I won’t get killed.”

That made me smile.

“Looking forward to it,” I said.

And the boring afternoon officially began.

Because the Secret Service office was so undermanned, Eben Boldt and I sat surveillance at the rooming house near Clark and Division till after seven P.M. We witnessed the return of the Cuban tenants at around five-fifteen-they parked a green Pontiac Bonneville on the street, a recent model and a nice ride for guys staying in a rooming house. They snagged a spot maybe half a block from the old Victorian structure, not a bad parking place, considering. It was a Cook County license plate, which Eben wrote down.

They were clearly the Gonzales and Rodriguez of the photos, though the younger man, Gonzales, had been bearded in his surveillance shot and now was clean-shaven, with a wiry look not obvious before. Rodriguez, on the other hand, had a formidable build and a mangy ball of black, slightly graying hair to go with his Zapata mustache-the effect made his head look damn near as big as the carved pumpkins on porches.

The two Cuban pals were smiling, joshing, with an easygoing spring to their step, and both were smoking-cigarettes, not cigars. They wore zippered jackets over sport shirts, and chinos and sneakers.

They went up into the rooming house. There hadn’t been a kitchenette in their flat, not even a hot plate or little refrigerator, so I figured they had to come back out and eat somewhere, sometime. But it didn’t happen on our watch.

And the two white guys, the rest of the supposed hit team, never made an appearance.

Around six o’clock, trick-or-treaters started their assault, kids (with poor or maybe cheap parents) in homemade hobo getups or sheets that made them ghosts, as well as the gaudy but cheap-looking store-bought outfits, among them one Howdy Doody, two witches, and three Lone Rangers, but not a single Tonto.

By the time we got back to the Secret Service office, and reported in to Martineau (who would be working even later than we had), it was well after eight; and by the time I’d collected my Jag from the Federal Building lot, and made my way to my Old Town town house, nine was looming. The trick-or-treating in my neighborhood was winding down, the cowboys and princesses and cartoon characters replaced by older kids just wearing masks, eager as thieves to fill their brown-paper bags with goodies.

I did not park in back, in the former stable, having called Helen from the office with my plans, which were to drive us somewhere nice for a late supper. Maybe Riccardo’s. She had landed a January booking at the Silver Frolics, and we had that to celebrate, plus she was leaving for California tomorrow; so I wanted it to be a special night.

Luck was with me and I found space at the curb right in front. My raincoat loose and open, I climbed out into the cool evening-the squeals of kiddie laughter and padding feet on pavement seemed distant and a little hysterical, as the spoils of Halloween were taken home for sorting, eating, and puking. Down the street, candlelit pumpkins watched me, flickering their eyes and jagged teeth, as the sugarcoated bacchanal wound down.

I headed up the walk. After this long day, I wanted to go in and shower and change clothes before going out for what was left of the evening. Helen must have been watching for me, because she opened the door to the safe-house apartment and was just stepping out-in another of those Peter Pan-collar dresses-when I heard the footsteps behind me.

Heavy ones that didn’t belong to trick-or-treaters.

A low-pitched voice said, “Heller,” and when I turned, the nine-millimeter was in my hand.

Behind me I heard Helen scream, “Nate!”

“Helen, get inside!”

I heard the door close behind me.

Standing before me, maybe five feet away, were the two scariest night creatures Chicago could ever hope to conjure on this All Hallows’ Eve. One could only hope that these were two older high-school kids with a sick sense of humor and a big enough allowance to put on an incredible masquerade.

Either that, or I was facing Chuckie Nicoletti and Mad Sam DeStefano, the two most dangerous killers in Chicago. I could add, Outfit killers, but there were no non-Outfit killers to match them, unless maybe some young mad scientist was cooking up a batch of black plague in a basement lab in DeKalb or something.

Chuckie-at my left-was a big man, maybe six two, broad-shouldered and with hands so big they looked swollen, his features handsome but with an over-ripened look. In his late forties, he was sharply dressed-that was a tailored suit, dark enough to blend with the night, and the tie was silk, black-and-gray striped.

Chuckie Nicoletti, when he was twelve, killed his first man, his father; currently he was Sam Giancana’s killer of choice. The in-between you can fill in yourself.

His smile was faint, but genuinely amused, as he said, “You don’t need that rod, Heller. Put it away.”

What a ridiculous thing to call a gun! Didn’t he know this was 1963? Edward G. Robinson didn’t play gangsters any more, Bogart was dead, and this was real fucking life, where a guy ate and slept and sometimes even peed. Christ, I wished I didn’t have to pee so bad right now.

The man standing next to Chuckie must have thought calling my Browning a rod was funny, too, because he was giggling uncontrollably. Of course, his nickname was Mad Sam, so that might have something to do with it.

Maybe five ten and in his fifties, Mad Sam had an unruly head of dark graying hair, reminiscent of Larry in the Three Stooges; his close-set eyes, lumpy nose, and unhealed wound of a mouth gave him the look of a demented clown. He wore an off-the-rack black sport coat over a white shirt, a skinny loose noose of a red tie, baggy gray trousers, and what looked to be bedroom slippers.

Mad Sam DeStefano had not killed his own father. He had killed his own brother, in part to save his sibling from a life of drug addiction, in part because he’d been hired to kill him. A free agent, Mad Sam made his money off loan-sharking, doing his own enforcing. Still, he remained tight with Giancana and could be hired on for any job, as long as it required a sadistic maniac.

Right now Chuckie’s smile had turned kind of sideways and he held his oversize hands up chest-high, palms out, as if in surrender.

“This is a friendly call, Heller.”

“Is it?”

“Mr. Rosselli would like to see you.”

And he sent these two killers to tell me?

Mad Sam stopped giggling long enough to say, “You’re supposed to come wid us. We’re gonna drive you over so’s you and Johnny can talk.”

I wasn’t pointing the gun at them-I’d allowed it to drift down, but not quite at my side. I was still giving serious thought to just shooting them both.

Chuckie said, “Heller, you stand around on the sidewalk, pointing guns at people, somebody may call the cops.”

I said, “And that’s a bad thing? Anyway, this is my private walk and it’s only one gun.”

Mad Sam slapped Chuckie on the back and roared with laughter. “Tough talk, but look at his eyes! He’s gonna piss himself! I swear he’s gonna piss himself!”

So he was nuts and psychic.

Chuckie gestured slow and casual as he said, “That Lincoln over there? That sweet ride across the way? We’re just supposed to escort you over to Agostino’s, where Mr. Rosselli is waiting. To talk. Just to talk.”