“But you don’t specifically remember recommending me to anyone?”
He shrugged, smiled like a pixie. “Sorry. I’d love to be of help. And I’ll certainly keep you in mind, for future referrals. I do, however, have a permanent investigator on staff.”
“I see. Do you know a John Howard?”
Piquett thought, then slowly shook his head. “Can’t say as I do.”
“He’s a traveling salesman.”
Piquett shook his head slowly, no.
“Works for a feed and grain company. Whose bosses gave him your name.”
Piquett shook his head slowly, no.
I described my client; Piquett shook his head.
“This isn’t good,” I said.
“Why is that?”
“I appear to have been used to set somebody up.”
“How so?”
“Mr. Piquett, my guess is that you already know the answer to that question.”
His round face took on a cherubic innocence that would’ve fooled most any jury.
He said, “I really don’t know what you mean, Mr. Heller.”
“You don’t.”
“I do not. I haven’t the slightest idea what point you’re trying to make.”
“Well, I’m no orator. That’s not my line. I’m just a detective who doesn’t like being played the fool.”
“No one does, Mr. Heller.”
“I understand you’re representing John Dillinger these days.”
With a tiny smile, Piquett said, “That’s correct.”
“The first time I ran into you, you were defending Leo Brothers — a man accused of killing Jake Lingle... a friend of yours. In fact you were one of the last to see Jake Lingle alive. And yet you defended the man accused of killing him.”
“Everyone deserves representation under the law, Mr. Heller. That’s the American way.”
“And on that job I did last year for you — your client was Al Capone.”
A small noncommittal shrug. “Yes.”
“And now you’re representing John Dillinger. Don’t you ever represent anybody who isn’t a gangster or a thief?”
Hands folded on his desk, he smiled like a child and said, “They’re the only ones who have money these days, Mr. Heller.”
“What I don’t get is why you’re helping set up your own client. The reward money’s substantial, but Dillinger himself ought to be pretty well fixed by now...”
Piquett stopped smiling. “If you’re implying that my client, Mr. Dillinger, is in some danger at the moment, that’s hardly news. Every lawman in the country is gunning for him. But I would hardly betray my own client, Mr. Heller. And if you have knowledge of any... conspiracy to do him harm, why, I’d be grateful for details.”
“You’re a slick one, I’ll give you that.”
“You flatter me, Mr. Heller.”
“Do I. Let me tell you something, Piquett — I got off the force and into private business because I was sick and tired of being pulled into this scam and that one. I got good and fed up with being up to my butt in graft and bullshit. And I didn’t — and don’t — like being played a patsy, particularly where setting somebody up for a kill is concerned. So I’m not taking kindly to being pulled into this setup, whatever the hell it’s really about.”
“I thought you said you weren’t an orator, Mr. Heller.”
“I’m not. But whoever decided to use me in this one made a bad mistake. Because I’m pulling the rug out from under this whole damn deal. Got it?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion of what you’re talking about.”
“Do you know Anna Sage?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Martin Zarkovich?”
“Not familiar with the name.”
“Polly Hamilton? Jimmy Lawrence?”
“No... no...”
“I see. You’re going to play it cute and innocent. Fine. And that traveling salesman who came to me just happened to use your name...”
Piquett stood, glanced out the window, down at City Hall; then moved around from behind his desk and sat on the edge of it. With a patient smile and a run of his hand over the salt-and-pepper pompadour, he said, “Mr. Heller, I am a public figure. Just because someone walks into your office and invokes the name Piquett, that doesn’t make Piquett a part of anything.”
That actually was pretty convincing; I tried not to show it in my face.
But he caught it. And went on: “Futhermore, I may very well have mentioned you as a reliable investigator to several people, who may have passed your name along to this Howard fellow. Yes, it seems to me I have mentioned your name to several other lawyers and a number of other professional people as well...”
Now he’d gone too far; I knew he was faking.
I said, “Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on? Maybe if you cut me in, I’ll play along. Otherwise, I’m liable to blow off the whole deal.”
Hands folded over his vested belly, he sat perched like a leprechaun and said, “What deal?”
I stood. “Think about it, Louie.”
“About what?”
I was going out the door, when he called out, “Always nice to see you, Mr. Heller. Drop by anytime.”
The secretary-receptionist gave me an icy look and I walked out of the office, wondering if I should talk to Captain Stege about this, or maybe try to get through to Cowley — he’d seemed anxious enough to hear my story. Purvis I wanted to avoid at all costs; he was just too damn eager to bag his man.
The elevator ride was just as stifling going down, and in fact after the air-cooled comfort of Piquett’s office seemed even worse. The elevator operator didn’t smell so good.
I slipped out of my coat, when I got outside, LaSalle Street or no, and slung it over my shoulder.
That was when two big guys in suits and ties and hats came up to me and smiled. They looked like they could play catch with a Ford. They both nodded to me.
But only one of them spoke.
He said, “Mr. Nitti would like to see you. Just walk along with us, okay, Heller?”
13
It wasn’t much of a walk to the Capri Restaurant on North Clark Street. Just a block up. Like Piquett’s office, the Capri was close to City Hall, and its large, smoky, air-cooled dining room — the walls paneled in an unfinished oak, the booths covered in brown leather — was crowded with judges, city officials, attorneys, theatrical folk, strictly male. A few of them were heavies: in a booth nearby, Jake Arvey was animated as he chewed Pat Nash’s ear, while Nash seemed more intent on chewing his corned beef and cabbage. I thought I saw Rudy Vallee sitting at a table back in the far left corner, chatting over steaks and chops with a couple of men I didn’t recognize, theatrical agents or producers I supposed.
But I didn’t see Frank Nitti, even though it was widely known that he owned the Capri and held court here.
My two burly escorts escorted me politely to the left, through a glass door into a little tiled waiting area by an elevator. One of the pair, a guy with smile dimples so deep they stood out when he wasn’t smiling, pushed the button for the elevator. It came down and the cage door was opened from within by an elevator operator wearing a suit and tie and a bulge under his left arm.
“Better pat him down,” the elevator operator said.
The other escort, a guy without smile dimples but with several facial moles, said, “He don’t have his coat on, fer crissakes. Where’s he gonna keep a gun?”
As he was saying this, the other guy was patting me down. I didn’t have a gun. Or a knife or a bomb. Just my car keys and a money clip with ten bucks, a five and five ones. These he had me remove from my pockets, however, and examined them and handed them back, laughing a little at the money clip, smile dimples deepening.