“Where?”
“Chicago.”
“Can you be a little more specific, Michael?”
“I will be, after you arrive.”
“Then I’ll fly out tomorrow — first thing.”
“I’ll only talk to you and Hughes. Nobody new. Understand, Harry? I spot any backup, I’m vapor.”
“Understood.”
“Do you have a regular hotel?”
“Usually the Drake. Give me a second, Michael — let me check the plane schedule...”
“If you’re trying to trace this call, Harry, I’ll be annoyed.”
“No, no, no... Assuming no airline delays, I’ll be at the Drake no later than two thirty p.m.”
“I’ll call you there at that time.”
And Michael had, giving Shore detailed instructions about meeting him at Unity Temple, including attending the final tour of the day, and lagging behind in the sanctuary.
Now the last visitor had trailed out — actually around, because the entrance was behind the structure, which had no doors on the street, another stated avoidance of cliché by the architect, probably in reality an effort to evade nearby El noise.
Across the way, Michael waited and watched another ten minutes, tucked behind some trees next to a church as Gothic as the Wright structure was modern. His post provided him a necessary catercorner view, since that rear entrance could be approached from either side.
As he jaywalked over to the Temple, Michael — in a brown sport jacket, yellow pullover, and lighter brown slacks — might have been another tourist, albeit not one with a camera, rather a .45 Colt automatic in a shoulder holster. He followed the sidewalk back to a bank of wood and stained-glass doors — adorned with Wright’s usual geometric designs — that joined the two wings of the modernistic monument. He unbuttoned his sport jacket, for easier access to the weapon, as he entered beneath the bold bronze words:
Michael had already thoroughly scoped the building out, and arranged for the use of the auditorium. He’d said (truthfully, as far as it went) that he needed to talk to some gentlemen from the government about the welfare of his daughter, and wished to do so in the privacy of this spiritual, sacred space. Michael’s sincerity — and a one-hundred-dollar contribution — convinced the reverend, who would be off having his supper with his family in the parish house.
The low-ceilinged, almost dreary foyer, with typical Prairie-style high-backed wooden chairs, did not provide direct access to the inner church — corridors at left and right led around it, to various entrances... Apparently Frank Lloyd Wright didn’t want worshipers in search of something meaningful finding it too easily. Michael chose left, continuing on a journey that — from street to sanctuary — took seven turns and a walk equal to twice the building’s length.
A short flight of dimly lit steps rose into the brightness of the sanctuary, a mode of entrance designed to allow latecomers a discreet arrival — not a bad thing for Michael, under the present circumstances. He emerged at the rear of the worship area, a sort of glorified box of cool pastel planes with dark horizontal and vertical wood trim, with room enough for hundreds yet as intimate as a tea room, double tiers of balcony on three sides, and a front-and-center pulpit facing a handful of central pews, four rows divided by an aisle.
In the second pew from the back, seated as per Michael’s instructions, were Shore and Hughes, the two feds staring up in awe at the ceiling’s grid of wooden beams with countless inset squares of stained-glass skylight. Even in late afternoon, sunshine streamed down, turned amber by the leaded windows, whose geometric shadows made their presence known as well.
Michael slid in behind them. “Gentlemen.”
Shore and Hughes slid left and right, respectively, and turned toward their host. Against the brown suit with brown/rust/yellow paisley tie on a tan shirt, bald Shore looked puffy, pale, and annoyed, his eyes slitted behind the big heavy frames and buggy lenses. Hughes, on the other hand — in a dark blue suit with blue-and-white polka-dot tie against pale blue shirt — seemed detached, the Apache-cheeked, light blue — eyed marshal still taking in the unique architectural surroundings.
His tone both soft and tight, Shore said, “Before we begin, Michael, tell me you didn’t hit Sam Giancana last night.”
“I did not,” Michael said. Lies had been told in churches before. Offhandedly he added, “But I did go see him and talk to him.”
Now Michael had Hughes’s arched-eyebrow attention, too. “And you didn’t whack the son of a bitch?” Then the marshal winced, remembering where he was, whispering to Shore, “Sorry.”
“I talked to him,” Michael said, matter of fact. “Got some interesting information. But I didn’t kill him.”
Shore sighed heavily, eyes rolling behind the magnifying lenses. “We can’t do business if you did. You do understand that, don’t you, Michael?”
Their voices echoed somewhat, in the resonant room.
“I understand. But I saw the papers, the TV, like everybody else — so I know what went down there last night, after I left. You tell me, Harry — would I have shot Mooney with some kind of half-assed silenced weapon... What did they find again?”
Hughes said, “A Duromatic .22.”
“What,” Michael said, “a target pistol?”
Shore nodded. “With a silencer out of shops class. Admittedly not your style.”
“That was a mob hit,” Michael said, with a dismissive shrug. “Would I have shot him, how many times?”
“Six,” Shore said, eyes glued to Michael.
“Back of the head, then five times in the jaw, to rip his tongue apart? Outfit symbolism for a squealer, right? What would I have done, Harry?”
“Once in the head,” Shore said, locking eyes with Michael. “Looking right at him.”
“Using what?”
Hughes half-smirked and said, “That .45 of yours.”
Michael smiled genially. “Fellas, we see eye to eye on this.”
Hughes said, “Giancana’s old buddy Butch Blasi was seen in the neighborhood, not long before that caretaker upstairs found the body. Chicago PD and FBI both like him for it.”
“Butch works for Aiuppa now,” Michael said, “but Giancana would’ve still trusted him. Makes sense.”
Shore made a face as if tasting something sour; his usual smiles were nowhere to be seen. “This has Accardo written all over it.”
“No argument,” Michael said.
Hughes was still taking in the multileveled but simple sanctuary with its tinted glass, natural colors, abstract designs. “Why this place?”
“I wanted someplace public,” Michael said, “where we could talk in private.”
Hughes frowned as he looked around. “Yeah, but what’s the deal with this crazy-house, anyway? What the hell kind of church is this?”
Shore frowned, too — but at Hughes. “Be respectful.”
But Michael answered him, “As I understand it, they believe in peace, respect, and justice. Hey, you’re Justice Department guys. What better place?”
Vaguely irritated with this line of chitchat, Shore said, “It’s sort of... nondenominational.”
“I’ve made a contribution to the church,” Michael said, “so that we can talk without interruption — for at least an hour.”
Shore said, “Our business won’t take that long. You’ve convinced me that you had nothing to do with Giancana’s murder. And the Outfit scum you encountered at your house in Paradise Estates, and the other two lowlifes at the Cal-Neva parking lot, prom night... well, that was clearly self-defense. So WITSEC feels it can welcome you back into the fold, Michael, open arms.”