Max Collins - Ask Not

“Or a terminal dose of getting their skulls crushed by a car after getting shot in the head. Would you like a list of the people we talked to? Other than Rose Cheramie?”

He wrote the names down, then said apologetically, “There is no way or manner I can offer all these individuals protection... but if I see any incidents involving them, I will get right on it.”

“And inform me, please. By the way, I’ll be in New Orleans for a few days, starting two weeks from today. I’ll be at the Roosevelt if you need me, or come up with anything.”

“Got it. Take care now, in Louisiana. That’s a foreign country, pardner.”

“Pardner, huh? Havin’ a little fun with me, Clint?”

“A mite.”

When I’d hung up the phone, I sat there staring at it as if it might be able to give me the advice that Lou said he couldn’t. Starting on the plane trip back, I’d been brooding over whether to fill RFK in on what I’d learned about his brother’s murder. On some level, I’d been working for him in Dallas — on the investigating side, sure, but also keeping tabs on Flo and what she discovered.

But if I reported everything we’d learned to Bobby before Flo had a chance to get her story or book out there, Jack Kennedy’s sibling might reach out with his considerable clout and squelch her efforts, even while plundering them for information. Still vivid in my memory was Flo’s bitter disappointment — and mine — when the work we’d done uncovering the truth of Marilyn’s murder had been spiked by her editor due to Kennedy family influence. It had created a rift between Bobby and me that had only recently sealed over.

I was still looking at the phone when it rang, which for just a second gave me a start, as if I had willed that to happen.

Millie was on the line: “Mr. Heller, I have a call here from New York, a gentleman who is not on our list. He sounds very upset, and is insistent on talking to you, but I can follow procedure and refer him to Mrs. Sapperstein if you prefer.”

“Who is he?”

“Frank Felton.”

I sat up. “Put him through.”

Flo’s husband. He’d been an actor once upon a time, and if Millie were ten years older, she might have recognized the name. Might.

“Nate, this Frank. Flo’s Frank.”

Though we’d only met a few times, his warm baritone, a trifle slurry, was immediately recognizable: he’d played Johnny Dollar on the radio for a while.

“Yes, Frank. Is everything all right? I watched the show last night, so I know Flo got back safely.”

“She did, but I have... Nate, I have...” Damn, was he crying? “We lost her, Nate... she’s gone.”

“Gone?” My stomach tightened, as a sick feeling flowed through me. “She’s... dead, Frank?”

“The damn booze mixed with pills. Damn booze and pills. How many times did I tell her... Listen, I can’t really talk... I have a number of calls to make, but I know you were close. That you were just with her. She thought the world of you, Nate.”

“Jesus. Frank, I’m sorry. So sorry. Hell. Was there any sign of foul play?”

“Foul play? No! Why would you...?”

“Sorry to bring it up. You do know what story she and I were working on in Dallas, right?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Well, then I don’t have to tell you she was exploring very dangerous territory. Very.”

“No. You don’t.”

“When is the funeral?”

“Not till later in the week. To give her friends from around the country... around the world... a chance to get here, if they... they choose.”

“Frank — was there anything disturbed? Anything missing, any signs of struggle or possibly anything indicating a search of her things?”

“No! Nate... she died in her sleep last night, just hours after What’s My Line? She guessed two of the occupations, how... how about that? My little Florrie Mae.” His pet name for her. He was crying again.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “These are inappropriate questions right now. Forgive me.”

“I... I understand. She ’s an investigator, too. Her mind works like that.”

She was still in the present tense for him. Me, too.

“Frank, would you approve my coming out there tomorrow? Talking to me, and giving me a chance to kind of look things over?”

“I don’t know, Nate... There are so many arrangements to make... people to talk to... and...”

“Just let me come out there and give me even half an hour.”

“I... I suppose that would be all right.”

“Tomorrow afternoon then?”

“Yes. All right. Fine.”

“Frank, do you know what happened to the tapes she made on our trip? The interviews?”

“No, but I can check where she keeps such things.”

“Do you have anywhere secure to keep whatever you find? A wall safe, locking file cabinet, something?”

“Well, yes, probably. Why?”

“Take whatever you can find from the Dallas trip, tapes, notes, and hide them away. Please. Do that one thing for me.”

“All right, Nate. I’ll... I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

We said our good-byes. He had stopped crying.

My turn to start.

West Side Ford New and Used on West Cermak Road in Riverside was indistinguishable from scores of other such dealerships in the Greater Chicago area. Its best shot at standing out from the rest of the pack would have been advertising a certain probable off-the-books custom job.

Back in May of 1962, the cops checked out a parked ’62 Ford sedan where two individuals were spotted ducked down on the floor of the backseat. The two individuals turned out to be notorious mob hit man Charles “Chuckie” Nicoletti and his frequent backup, Felix Alderisio. The officers discovered switches under the dash, one enabling the driver to disconnect the taillights (aiding in avoiding pursuit), the other opening a compartment in the center front-seat armrest fitted to hold shotguns and rifles. Reporters dubbed the vehicle the “hitmobile.” Asked to explain why he and Alderisio were crouching in the backseat, Nicoletti said, “We were waiting for a friend.”

Nicoletti grew up in poverty, his first killing (at twelve) that of his abusive father, then dropped out of school to join the slum delinquents known as the 42 Gang, whose members included “Mad Sam” DeStefano and Chuckie’s current boss, Sam Giancana. In Outfit circles, Nicoletti was perhaps best known for cold-bloodedly eating his spaghetti while Anthony “the Ant” Spilotro squeezed Billy McCarthy’s head in a vise till an eye popped out of its socket.

As to why I’d assume West Side Ford New and Used had done the hitmobile customizing: Chuckie Nicoletti was a co-owner and assistant manager there. This was essentially a cover story for the cops and FBI, of course, but Nicoletti was a charming guy for a psychopathic Mafia murderer, and got a kick out of selling cars.

And there he was on the lot, tall, affable, handsome for a hood, talking to a young couple in their early twenties about a shiny new red Mustang convertible. Several other salesmen in the brightly lighted lot — it was approaching closing time, eight o’clock — were similarly occupied. When I walked into the showroom, nobody was there but a busty brunette secretary on the phone at her desk, talking to her boyfriend. I walked past the various empty offices, found the central one labeled CHARLES NICOLETTI, ASSISTANT MANAGER, then went over to the brunette at her desk up front between showroom windows.

Smiling, I raised a finger, indicating I just wanted a brief word. She told her boyfriend to hold a second, covered the mouthpiece, and looked up at me with very big brown eyes, her lipstick a startling pink. She had a bouffant hairdo you could have bounced bullets off of, which considering who her boss was might come in handy.