The afternoon was bitterly cold, snow on the ground but not snowing, as I sat parked in my sporty ’32 Auburn across the street from the drug store, over which was the union hall where Jake said to meet him. The Scrap Iron and Junk Handlers Union, he said. I didn’t know there was one. They had unions for everything these days. My pop, an old union man, would’ve been pleased. I didn’t much care.
I went up the flight of stairs and into the outer office; the meeting room was adjacent, at my left. The place was modest, like most union halls-if you’re running a union you don’t want the rank and file to think you’re living it up-but the secretary behind the desk looked like a million. She was a brunette in a trim brown suit with big brown eyes and bright red lipstick. She’d soften the blow of paying dues any day.
She smiled at me and I forgot it was winter. “Would you be Mr. Heller?”
“I would. Would you be free for dinner?”
Her smile settled in one corner of her bright red mouth. “I wouldn’t. Mr. Rubinstein is waiting for you in Mr. Martin’s office.”
And she pointed to the only door in the wall behind her, and I gave her a can’t-blame-a-guy-for-trying look and went on in.
The inner office wasn’t big but it seemed bigger than it was because it was under-furnished: just a clutter-free desk and a couple of chairs and two wooden file cabinets. Jake was sitting behind the desk, feet up on in, socks with clocks showing, as he read The Racing News.
“How are you, Jake,” I said, and held out my hand.
He put the paper down, stood and grinned and shook my hand; he was a little guy, short I mean, but he had shoulders on him and his grip was a killer. He wore a natty dark blue suit and a red hand-painted tie with a sunset on it and a hat that was a little big for him. He kept the hat on indoors-self-conscious about his thinning hair, I guess.
“You look good, Nate. Thanks for coming. Thanks for coming yourself and not sending one of your ops.”
“Any excuse to get back to the old neighborhood, Jake,” I said, pulling up a chair and sitting. “We’re about four blocks from where my pop’s bookshop was, you know.”
“I know, I know,” he said, sitting again. “What do you hear from Barney these days?”
“Not much. When did you get in the union racket, anyway? Last I heard you were a door-to-door salesman.”
Jake shrugged. He had dark eyes and a weak chin and five o’clock shadow; make that six o’clock shadow. “A while ago,” he allowed. “But it ain’t really a racket. We’re trying to give our guys a break.”
I smirked at him. “In this town? Billy Skidmore isn’t going to put up with a legit junk handler’s union.”
Skidmore was a portly, dapperly dressed junk dealer and politician who controlled most of the major non-Capone gambling in town. Frank Nitti, Capone’s heir, put up with that because Skidmore was also a bailbondsmen, which made him a necessary evil.
“Skidmore’s got troubles these days,” Jake said. “He can’t afford to push us around no more.”
“You’re talking about the income tax thing.”
“Yeah. Just like Capone. He didn’t pay his taxes and they got ‘im for it.”
“They indicted him, but that doesn’t mean they got him. Anyway, where do I come in?”
Jake leaned forward, brow beetling. “You know a guy named Leon Cooke?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“He’s a little younger than us, but he’s from around here. He’s a lawyer. He put this union together, two, three years ago. Well, about a year back he became head of an association of junkyard dealers, and the rank and file voted him out.”
I shrugged. “Seems reasonable. In Chicago it wouldn’t be unusual to represent both the employees and the employers, but kosher it ain’t.”
Jake was nodding. “Right. The new president is Johnny Martin. Know him?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“He’s been with the Sanitary District for, oh, twenty or more years.”
The Sanitary District controlled the sewage in the city’s rivers and canals.
“He needed a hobby,” I said, “so he ran for president of the junk handler’s union, huh?”
“He’s a good man, Nate, he really is.”
“What’s your job?”
“I’m treasurer of the union.”
“You’re the collector, then.”
“Well…yeah. Does it show?”
“I just didn’t figure you for the accountant type.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Every union needs a little muscle. Anyways, Cooke. He’s trying to stir things up, we think. He isn’t even legal counsel for the union anymore, but he’s been coming to meetings, hanging around. We think he’s been going around talking to the members.”
“Got an election coming up?”
“Yeah. We want to know who he’s talking to. We want to know if anybody’s backing him.”
“You think Nitti’s people might be using him for a front?”
“Could be. Maybe even Skidmore. Playing both ends against the middle is Cooke’s style. Anyways, can you shadow him and find out?”
“For fifteen a day and expenses, I can.”
“Isn’t that a little steep, Nate?”
“What’s the monthly take on union dues around this joint?”
“Fifteen a day’s fine,” Jake said, shaking his head side to side, smiling.
“And expenses.”
The door opened and the secretary came in, quickly, her silk stockings flashing.
“Mr. Rubinstein,” she said, visibly upset, “Mr. Cooke is in the outer office. Demanding to see Mr. Martin.”
“Shit,” Jake said through his teeth. He glanced at me. “Let’s get you out of here.”
We followed the secretary into the outer office, where Cooke, a man of medium size in an off-the-rack brown suit, was pacing. A heavy top coat was slung over his arm. In his late twenties, with thinning brown hair, Cooke was rather mild looking, with wire-rim glasses and cupid lips. Nonetheless, he was well and truly pissed off.
“Where’s that btard Martin?” he demanded of Jake. Not at all intimidated by the little strongarm man.
“He stepped out,” Jake said.
“Then I’ll wait. Till hell freezes over, if necessary.”
Judging by the weather, that wouldn’t be long.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Jake said, brushing by him. I followed.
“Who’s this?” Cooke said, meaning me. “A new member of your goon squad? Isn’t Fontana enough for you?”
Jake ignored that and I followed him down the steps to the street.
“He didn’t mean Carlos Fontana, did he?” I asked.
Jake nodded. His breath was smoking, teeth chattering. He wasn’t wearing a topcoat; we’d left too quick for such niceties.
“Fontana’s a pretty rough boy,” I said.
“A lot of people who was in bootlegging,” Jake said, shrugging, “had to go straight. What are you gonna do now?”
“I’ll use the phone booth in the drug store to get one of my ops out here to shadow Cooke. I’ll keep watch till then. He got enough of a look at me that I don’t dare shadow him myself.”
Jake nodded. “I’m gonna go call Martin.”
“And tell him to stay away?”
“That’s up to him.”
I shook my head. “Cooke seemed pretty mad.”
“He’s an asshole.”
And Jake walked quickly down to a parked black Ford coupe, got in, and smoked off.
I called the office and told my secretary to send either Lou or Frankie out as soon as possible, whoever was available first; then I sat in the Auburn and waited.
Not five minutes later a heavy-set, dark-haired man in a camel’s hair topcoat went in and up the union-hall stairs. I had a hunch it was Martin. More than a hunch: he looked well and truly pissed off, too.