Target Lancer by Max Allan Collins Page A

stopped and talked with us,” I said, figuring I better not leave anything out.
    “This kid have a name?”
    “Osborne, I think.”
    Hoffa shrugged. “Don’t mean nothing to me.”
    Some guy came in and entered a stall. We moved to the other side of the chamber—for privacy, not to avoid potential unpleasant odor.
    Hoffa’s eyebrows went up, his expression indicating that if I hadn’t been entirely straight with him, now was the time.
    “Heller, you’re saying nothing you talked to Ruby about had anything to do with your Milwaukee friend. With the … favor he done us.”
    “Nothing.”
    Ruby talking to me at all meant he’d suspected I’d been there to back Tom up, or Hoffa and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. But I didn’t point that out.
    I went on: “Jake always did run his mouth. He was bragging to this kid that I’d been a Marine hero, that kind of bullshit. Showing off. That’s how Cuba came up. Telling this kid how I was the guy that first put things in motion.”
    A john flushed. A guy came out, used the sink, left.
    Hoffa was studying me. “You’re saying … this was a straight-up bodyguard job. Your friend had all that cash, got jumpy about it, and wanted some protection. That simple?”
    “That simple. Jim, I don’t know why Tom gave that envelope to Ruby, and I don’t want to know. Not interested. And neither is Tom.”
    “… Okay.” He did the Cagney shoulder hunch again. “Might as well piss while we’re here.”
    “Might as well.”
    So we stood at the metal trough and pissed …
    … though I was a little surprised I could, figuring it had already been scared out of me.
    The game never turned into anything special, but the Bears did win—16 to 7. That made seven wins and one loss.
    Still in contention.
    That evening Helen and I sat in a booth at Pizzeria Uno and shared a small tomato pie.
    “How long will you be in town?” I asked her.
    We were both eating slices with forks—the stuff was just too formidable to do otherwise, half the sauce on the North Side piled on the little pie, on top of just as much cheese.
    “I was thinking maybe a week,” she said, with a little shrug. “If you can get me meetings at the Chez Paree and Empire Room, and something comes of it … a little shorter stay. Otherwise, I plan to make the rounds of the other spots.” She made a face. “And there’s always the strip joints.”
    “Well, even so, we can’t have you staying at the Lorraine.”
    “Oh, I don’t mind it, Nate, really. Lot of nice girls there.”
    “Why don’t you bunk in at my place? You can take the client apartment downstairs. You’ll have your own key. That way you can come and go as you please, and spend as much time with me as both our schedules allow.”
    “That’s generous. That does sound nice.”
    “And taking all these cabs, you’ll go broke. The A-1 has a small fleet of half a dozen cars. You can have one for the week. There’s room for it next to my Jag in the old horse stable I use for a garage, behind my building.”
    Her eyes were moist. I thought for a second there this hard-boiled dame might cry on me.
    “Nathan … this is very sweet of you. I hope I can repay you in some way.…”
    “I don’t bother with straight lines that obvious,” I told her.
    We were having coffee when she brought Hoffa up.
    “He surprised me,” she said.
    “Shorter than you figured.”
    “That, and he … seemed so nice. So affable. Just a regular fella, although, you know … larger than life, no matter how short he is. I noticed he didn’t drink. There was beer and booze flasks all around, but all he had was Pepsi.”
    “He’s a teetotaler like you, Helen.”
    She sipped her coffee, thinking. “Tell me, Nathan—is he a bad man?”
    “Depends.”
    “Explain.”
    “I think he genuinely cares about the working stiff. But he’s also fine with lining his own pockets, and if you’re his enemy? Let’s just say some of those nice women you were