Target Lancer by Max Allan Collins Page B

sitting gabbing with, this afternoon, have husbands who have committed some of the most vicious murders Chicago has ever seen. And Chicago has seen some.”
    She lifted her eyebrows. “Well, they say he’s a crook, and I don’t have anything good to say about unions myself, so I can’t say any of that surprises me.”
    But she had surprised me. “You’re against unions? An old bleeding-heart FDR liberal like you?”
    She waved a hand like a child bidding good-bye. “Never had a union be anything but trouble for me, on the road. The entertainment unions either side with the management, or tell me I can’t play someplace ’cause it’s blacklisted, or side with one of the little dancers I travel with on some pay dispute.”
    “Sounds like showbiz has taken its toll.”
    Shaking her head, the piled-up blonde curls bouncing some, she said, “No more bleeding heart for me, Heller. Strictly a free-enterprise girl these days. Hell, Kennedy was the first Democrat I voted for since Roosevelt. I like seeing his brother go after a bent union.”
    I gave her a kidding grin. “If you’re turning so reactionary in your second childhood, Helen, why didn’t you vote for Tricky Dick?”
    She shuddered. “Didn’t you see the debates? All that sweat and five-o’clock shadow. Nixon looked like half the fucking club owners I deal with.”
    That made me laugh.
    “Anyway,” she said, “Jack Kennedy is cute.”
    “You make me so proud we gave you girls the vote.”
    “Still a wise guy. You haven’t changed much.”
    She shook her head, smiled, and began fishing in her purse for her cigarettes.
    “Your life, Nate, even now, it’s still like something out of, I don’t know, Sam Spade. Last night, when you grabbed your gun and went running outside, bare-chested? I was frightened, Nate, but also … excited. Reminded me of the world’s fair days. Kind of thrilling to know a man like you.”
    “Ah, well, everyone thinks so.”
    A tiny laugh. “Even after all these years, you still live on that dangerous edge, don’t you?”
    “Not by choice.”
    A bigger laugh, as she lit up a Lucky. “Well, certainly by choice. You don’t have to hang around with people like Jimmy Hoffa.”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    I grinned at her. “Okay, smart girl. Those tickets last night? You think they were a gift?”
    “Weren’t they?”
    “No, Helen. They weren’t.”
    “What were they, then?”
    “A summons.”
    We slept together that night, with no interruptions from any dese-dem-and-dozer wanting to kill me or offer me tickets to a sporting event, either. My world seemed peaceful, damn near idyllic with Helen back in my life (and bed), an existence not at all dangerous, and it only took me about half an hour before I got to sleep wondering what it was about Jack Ruby and that packet of cash that had made me the object of Jimmy Hoffa’s Sunday-afternoon attention.

 
    CHAPTER 6
    Monday, October 28, 1963
    At the first hint of a ring, I snagged the receiver off the bedside phone before Helen could be disturbed. The few bedroom windows had venetian blinds, which were drawn nice and tight, making it easy to sleep in, and that’s what we were doing.
    Not an infrequent practice of mine, after a late night out with a lady—a privilege of age and rank. Unless I had an appointment, I didn’t bother going in to the A-1 till around ten, and the only thing scheduled on this Monday was a staff meeting at 2:00 P.M.
    I felt awake enough, if sluggish after an excessive nine hours—the clock radio read 9:45 A.M. But my thick, whispered hello—actually “Yeah?”—must have been a tip-off.
    A familiar voice on the other end of the line said, “Don’t tell me you’re still in bed.”
    “Gimme a second.”
    In just my boxers, I carried the phone on its long cord across the room, out of consideration for the slumbering Helen.
    “I’m an executive, Dick. I go in to work when I please. Anyway, I didn’t know I had to clear it with