“Nate Heller,” he said. “The man who doesn’t return my calls.”
“Can I join you, Lee?”
“Please. Please…. Linda, this is Nate Heller.”
She offered her white-gloved hand. “I recognize him…. Mr. Heller, you make the papers now and then.”
“So do you—Miss Robbins, isn’t it?”
She was pleased I knew her name, and she seemed genuinely impressed with a local celebrity like me. Shallow girl. I filed her away for future reference.
Mortimer was born and raised in Chicago, but he left in the twenties for New York, where he’d become a gossip columnist at the Mirror. I had ducked him when he was in town researching his Chicago Confidential book, and I’d been ducking him lately, too.
“What can I do for you, Nate? Not that I owe you any favors, rude as you’ve been.”
“You want me to be one of your sources, Lee…but I have a relationship with another columnist, and besides, you have Bill Drury in your pocket.”
The mention of “another columnist” perked him up. “Are you and Drew Pearson friendly again? I heard you were on the outs.”
“We patched it up. He paid his back bills, gave me a new retainer, and I forgave him his sins.”
“Chicago-style penance.”
A waitress brought Mortimer and the brunette a martini and Manhattan, respectively; I’d brought my rum and Coke along for the trip.
“You know, Lee, I just might give you an interview, at that.”
His hooded eyes seemed languid, but they didn’t miss a thing. “Really? Including information that I can’t get from your associate?”
“If by my ‘associate,’ you mean Bill Drury, he doesn’t work for me anymore.”
He plucked the martini’s toothpick from the drink and ate the olive. “I heard you met with Halley and Robinson today.”
“Am I supposed to be surprised you know that, Lee? It’s not ‘confidential’ that you and Kefauver are thick as thieves.”
He sipped the martini. “We aren’t anymore.”
“Why not?”
A sneer twisted the sensual mouth. “That son of a bitch Halley has come between us.”
“How so?”
“Chief Counsel Halley advised Kefauver against hiring me as an official investigator for the committee—me, whose book, whose original research, only inspired the goddamn inquiry!”
Mortimer’s desire to work for the committee in an official capacity was, of course, laughable: Kefauver could hardly hire a member of the press.
But I humored him. “What a crock…. I understand Halley didn’t want Drury or O’Conner hired, either—not officially, anyway.”
“Right! And those two know more firsthand about the Chicago underworld than almost anyone alive—and Halley says they’re not viable because they were ‘fired’ from the force—fired!
Rooked off the crookedest department in the country, because they were honest, fearless—”
“You’re right. Doesn’t make sense.”
He blew a smoke ring and sent me a sly look. “It does if you realize Rudolph Halley is as dirty as Tubbo Gilbert.”
I grunted a laugh. “That’s a tough one to buy.”
“Listen—Halley’s law firm represents a railroad that the New York Syndicate boys hold scads of stock in. And I spotted the bastard at the El Morocco, cozying up to movie company executives—who are his firm’s clients, now. You don’t see Kefauver going after the Hollywood connection, do you?”
“No. Of course you know, I’m close to Frank.”
His upper lip curled in contempt. “Frankie boy? I know you are. You should have better taste.”
I swirled my drink, idly. “I’ve gotten friendly with Joey Fischetti, too. Maybe I can find out something about Halley and his Hollywood connivings for you.”
His eyes and brow tightened. “You’d do that?”
“Sure. We can talk about it later. Only, right now you have to do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Leave.”
“What?”
“Lee, you and I both know you’re here just to rankle Sinatra, to get under that thin Italian skin of his.”
Mortimer’s sneer turned into a sort of smile as he puffed on the cigarette-in-holder. “I paid the cover charge. My pretty friend and I have a right to be entertained.”
“You leave, and maybe we’ll do business. Otherwise forget it.”
Mortimer thought about it. “All right. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Fine. Call me at my office…. Pleasure, Miss Robbins.”
The brunette smiled and said, “Pleasure, Mr. Heller.”
I slipped out of the booth as Mortimer was paging a waiter to get his check. Then, nodding to Joey (sitting in the booth quietly with Jackie, who appeared calm), I headed backstage, where a couple of thugs who were Sinatra’s current retinue recognized me and showed me into the great man’s spacious dressing room. In addition to the usual makeup mirror, there was a couch and several comfy-looking chairs, as well as a liquor cart and a console radio.
Frank—still wearing that silly Gable mustache—was seated at the makeup mirror in his tux pants and a T-shirt; he looked lean and fairly muscular, not quite as skinny as many thought him to be. He sat hunched over the counter, smoking a cigarette, with a glass of whiskey nearby. His face had a ravaged look—hard to believe that, not long ago, he’d been the idol of countless girls and women.
“I’m not going out there, Nate—I’m not doing it. Not as long as that fucking fag cocksucker is in the house. No way, man. No fucking way.”
Lee Mortimer had blasted Sinatra countless times in his columns. Frank claimed it was because the reporter had once tried, unsuccessfully, to sell the singer a song (“a piece of shit!”). Mortimer had had a heyday running the story about Sinatra accompanying Rocco and Joey Fischetti to Havana for the big confab with Lucky Luciano in ’47, attended by a rogues’ gallery of mobsters. As a celebrity who could travel unhindered, Frank had reportedly carried a bag filled with tribute, the greenback variety. Though Frank attended none of the business meetings, he hobnobbed with Luciano in the casino of the Hotel Nacional, and even had his picture taken with the deported ganglord.
A while back Sinatra had spotted Mortimer in Ciro’s, and attacked the reporter, who won an out-of-court settlement from Frank, when Louis B. Mayer forced him.
I pulled up a chair. “I got rid of Mortimer, Frank. He’s gone.”
Sinatra looked up, the famous blue eyes taking on a startled-deer aspect. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“How did you manage it?”
“I had to promise you’d blow him. I hope you don’t mind.”
He looked at me blankly, and then he burst out laughing. He laughed until he cried, and I laughed some, too.
Smiling, standing, he said, “You’re not kidding—he is gone?”
“I’m not kidding…”
Sinatra looked relieved.
“…you do have to blow him.”
Sinatra grinned, shook his head. “You fucker…. He’s gone?”
“Out at home plate. A ghost. A distant bad memory.”
As he got into his shirt and tie, Sinatra said, “You’re just the guy I wanna see, anyway.”
“Yeah?”
“What I said out in Hollywood, at Sherry’s—it still goes. I want to hire you. I can have a thousand-buck retainer for you at your office in the morning.”
“For what?”
“I want you to fly out to D.C. and talk to this son of a bitch.”
“Kefauver?”
“No! Fuck Kefauver. It’s McCarthy I’m sweating, man. If they label me a pinko, I really am washed up. You said you know the guy—through Pearson, right?”
“I know McCarthy. He’s a good joe to drink with.”
“Well, find out what it’ll take to get him off my ass. See if he wants money, or if he wants me to sing at a fundraiser or what the hell. But I got to put a stop to this shit. Mortimer’s starting to spread that pinko crap around, already. People thinking I maybe have some gangsters as friends is one thing—they think I’m a Commie, man, I’m dead. Capeesh?”