The Talk Show Murders (26 page)

“Even before he heard the offer?”

“Jeb, my agent, Jeb Matthias, is probably a little conservative, but he’s not a big fan of Webber’s.”

“He have a specific problem?”

“He doesn’t trust the guy.”

“Is that because of the stuff Pat Patton said about Webber?”

“Not at all. Nobody with any intelligence paid attention to Patton’s rants. But speaking of Patton, that’s gonna be one hell of a story when they find out who killed him. I bet it’s Mob-related. Even way back, when I was starting out at the
Trib
, there were rumors that Patton was in Joe Nagall’s back pocket.”

That name rang a not-too-distant bell. Mantata had mentioned that Louis Venici, the man who’d killed Paul Lamont, had worked for Nagall. I longed to ask Mitry about Paul’s death, but I didn’t want him to wonder about my interest. Instead, I asked how Patton managed to keep moving up in the CPD.

“Like I said, there were rumors, no proof. And he wasn’t the only cop on the … I think your assistant is looking for you.”

I turned to see Kiki charging toward us. “Damn it, Billy, don’t make me keep chasing you. It’s ‘Goofy News’ time.”

That was one of my newer segments, prompted by a friend of our
CEO who mentioned over dinner that the news was simply too dreary. To combat that, and just maybe to grab some of that successful
Daily Show
vibe, I was now, in addition to my other duties, the “Goofy News” reporter, essentially a voice-over chore accompanying odd people, things, and events captured on film. Edward R. Murrow would be proud.

“Gotta go, Willard,” I said, “but I’d like to continue our conversation. Any chance you might be free for lunch?”

“I’m on Gemma Bright’s show at noon, but I’ll be out around one.”

“Great,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the studio.”

The news was not particularly goofy that morning. A dog and a duck did a dance. A Brunhilda-type opera singer fell into the orchestra pit in the middle of an aria. A robber making his getaway from a bank tripped on his shoestrings, fell, and knocked himself out. Though to some it may have been the apex of hilarity, it didn’t do much to counteract the real news about another rise in unemployment, more discord in the Middle East, and more gridlock in Congress.

But, looking at the positive side, it completed my work for the day.

Kiki was alone in the mini-office. “It’s a lovely morning, don’t you think?” she asked.

“Bright and beautiful,” I said, staring at her.

“Sorry if I seemed angry before.”

“No problem,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“Going on? Oh, you mean your schedule tomorrow.” She consulted a sheet of paper. “At six-fifteen, you’re interviewing a sausage maker named Armand Hutner.”

“I mean what’s going on with you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s the first time, to my knowledge, that you’ve ever apologized for anything. I’m guessing you’ve met someone new.”

“No. Well, Richard did call and invite me to dinner tonight.”

“Richard being the guy who picked you up at the hotel?”

“I wish you wouldn’t put it that way. But yes. That Richard.”

“Good. I’m happy for you. Did you say I’m working at six-fifteen tomorrow morning?”

“With a sausage maker.”

“Then I’m not booked on
Hotline Tonight
?”

“The whole show is going to be about the floods in California,” she said.

“Floods in California?”

“Don’t take this as criticism, Billy, but you could pay a little more attention to the news.”

“Lady, I’m the go-to guy for news. Of course it’s ‘Goofy News.’ ”

Ordinarily that would have prompted an eye roll. Instead, she smiled. The power of Richard.

“Where’s Dal?” I asked.

She returned to her notes. “He had to go. Said he’ll call you later.”

“Didn’t say where he was going?”

“Nope,” she replied.

I settled onto the campaign chair and dialed Dal’s number. He answered on the second ring.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I’m at the gallery,” he said. “Somebody broke in during the night. Doesn’t look like anything was taken. Mantata wants me to stick around here and help him go over the place. Make sure they didn’t leave a little surprise.”

“A bomb, you mean?”

“I was thinking a bug. A bomb? Jesus, you’re morbid. You finished there?”

“Let me find out.” I looked at Kiki. “Am I finished here?”

“Meeting at ten,” she said. “Then free as a bird.”

I passed that news on to Dal, telling him I’d call when the meeting wound down.

Since our ratings hadn’t had the surge our visits to Chicago had experienced in palmier days, it was less a meeting than an ass chewing. It lasted until after eleven, at which time I phoned Dal.

“Hiho’s gonna pick you up, Billy. He’ll be on the corner of Michigan and Randolph in fifteen minutes.”

I’d been looking for a big white Escalade. Hiho had to hit the horn of the sleek, maroon Nissan to get my attention.

“Zeke did a good job,” I said, buckling up on the passenger seat.

“Always does,” the diminutive Portuguese said.

He was dressed in tan. Tan suit, pointed tan suede shoes, tan-and-white checked shirt. And a chocolate velvet hat with a tan band. “See something funny?” he asked.

“No,” I said, squelching a grin.

Neither of us said another word for the rest of the drive.

The door at the rear of the gallery was locked. “When I left, was a guy here changing the lock,” Hiho said. “Guess we gotta go around to the front.”

As we circled the building, he added, “Gallery closed for the day. Mantata sent everybody home, except me and Dal. And the less-than-worthless guard.”

The front door was locked, too. A sign echoed Hiho’s comment about the gallery being closed. The security guard Dal had called Oakley was sitting at his desk near the glass door, staring at his cellular phone.

Hiho knocked on the door.

Oakley looked up, scowling. He stayed seated.

“Lout bastard,” Hiho shouted. “Get off yoah ass and open the fucking door.”

Begrudgingly, Oakley rose and walked toward us as slowly as if he were doing a Willie Best imitation. He unlocked the door, and Hiho pushed through it, nearly knocking the guard over.

“Little punk ass,” Oakley mumbled.

Hiho wheeled on him, a thin knife sliding from his cuff into his right hand. “I should gut you like a perch,” he said.

“Lose the blade, Hiho,” Dal ordered. He was standing near the door to the gallery’s display area.

Hiho hesitated briefly, then literally made the knife disappear up his sleeve. “Just wanted to show the clown who’s boss,” he said, strutting toward Dal.

“No way that little Karate Kid’s my boss,” Oakley mumbled.

If Hiho heard him, he didn’t react.

Mantata was obviously upset by the break-in.

His white hair was mussed, his lime-colored suit was in disarray, and his mood was testy. “I don’t like this,” he said. “It shows a lack of respect.”

“They came in the back door,” Dal said.

He and Hiho were sitting on the couch. I was on a chair beside Mantata’s desk.

“I didn’t see any damage to the door,” I said.

“There’s the rub,” Mantata said. “There was no sign of force, not even the scratch of a pick. The only conclusion is that somehow the intruders possessed a key.”

“Hell, boss,” Hiho said. “You never even gave
me
a key.”

“There are very few keys extant, which may help in identifying the Judas.”

“Oakley have a key?” Dal asked.

“He’s the kind of fucker who’d do it, boss,” Hiho chimed in.

Mantata raised one white eyebrow. “Do either of you have any substantive reason to think Oakley might be our traitor?”

“He’s got no class,” Hiho said. He hopped from his chair. “Lemme go get the bastard. We’ll sweat the truth out of him.”

“Sit!” Mantata commanded. “If by some chance Oakley is the culprit, it would be foolish to let him know he is suspect.”

“Friends close but enemies closer, huh?” Dal asked.

“Very good. Do you know the source of the quote?”

“Michael Corleone,” Dal replied, with a smirk.

“Perhaps. I would have thought Sun Tzu or Machiavelli,” Mantata said. “In any case, we shall keep an eye on Oakley.”

“It’s possible the intruder didn’t need a key,” I said. “There are lock guys who can open any door without leaving evidence.”

“It’s not just the lock. Only I know the code that turns off the alarm, but the violators knew enough about the system to disengage it by force. And they knew the locations of the security cameras. We have several views of the back of their heads, but not one identifying shot. However, the cameras do tell us that they entered at a little after three and left approximately forty-five minutes later.”

“How many?”

“Two. One short, one tall.”

“Could be the same two who killed Patton.”

“And tried to kill Billy and Patton’s assistant,” Dal said.

“Well, whoever they were, it will be difficult for them to return,” Mantata said. “The locks have already been changed.”

“There was no reason for them to be in any hurry, but they left after only forty-five minutes,” I said. “That seems to suggest mission accomplished. Is there anything missing?”

“Nothing, as best I can tell. Dal and I have found no evidence of bugs. A professional will be here shortly, to make sure.”

He stared at me. “Since the break-in has occurred during a period when my only … extraordinary activity is on your behalf, Billy, I am assuming that to be the reason. The one thing in the building that might add to their knowledge on that point was here in this office, apparently untouched.”

“What is it?”

He plucked something from the coffee table he used for a desk, a
small, thin clear plastic box containing a mini-disk. “This digital recording of a conversation I had with Mr. James C. Yountz.”

“Pat Patton’s lawyer,” I said.

“I was curious about his client’s claim re Mr. Webber’s financing. Mr. Yountz assured me that it was not manufactured out of whole cloth. Mr. Patton told him he had proof that Onion City Entertainment was in part financed by Outfit money.”

“What was the proof?”

“Mr. Patton was not generous enough to provide him with that information. He thought that whatever it was might be in a bin Mr. Patton rented at Secombe’s Storage. The police were sifting through its contents, but, as Mr. Patton’s executor, he—Mr. Yountz—would get a look for himself when they were finished.”

“By then the police will probably have found whatever it was,” I said. “Unless someone removed it shortly after Patton’s murder.”

I told them about the red files that Nat Parkins and Larry Kelsto had removed from the storage bin.

“You’re sure Mr. Parkins actually possesses the files?” Mantata asked. When I nodded, he said, “Well, I assume he is still in need of cash. He’ll call you again. Unless he’s dead, of course. In which case, all is lost.”

I turned to Dal. “Anything new about the two guys you roughed up at Pastiche?”

“Trejean’s running down their addresses,” Dal said. “Heinz moved out of the one on his licenses four years ago. Killinek didn’t strike me as a long-term occupant, either. But you never know.”

“So your associate saw Derek Webber helping them to their car,” Mantata said. “I assume, Billy, you will no longer feel compelled to defend the man.”

“He’s too young to be Gio Polvere.”

Mantata’s eyes flickered to a Post-it on the table, then returned to me. “That is only significant if one believes in fantasies.”

I felt my face heating up. Maybe anger, maybe embarrassment.

“Can you think of any reason Derek Webber may want you dead?”

“No. There’s no past history. I just met the man two days ago. And I like him.”

The old man considered that and changed directions. “It’s nearing lunchtime,” he said, “and I’m feeling peckish.”

I glanced at the Post-it. There was just one word written on it: “flour.”

“I’m thinking a nice submarine sandwich,” Mantata said.

“I have a lunch date in about forty-five minutes,” I said.

“Not with Mr. Webber?”

“No. An ex–
Trib
reporter who’s written a book called
Da Mare
. His name is—”

“I am familiar with Mr. Mitry,” Mantata said.

Of course he was. Mitry had been a crime reporter, and he was currently writing a book on gangland Chicago.

“I am sure you will be the soul of discretion, should my name come up during your luncheon chat.”

“Absolutely. Mainly, I’ll be listening. Mitry says he knows a lot about Patton’s CPD history. He said Patton was taking bribes from Joe Nagall. And, as you told me, Venici worked for him.”

“Nagall,” the old man said and nodded. “Joe Ferriola, a very violent fellow. Very feared and respected.”

“Whoa. How did we get from Nagall to Ferriola?”

“The I-ties all used a variety of names. Joe Ferriola was Nagall’s real name. He was the boss of the Cicero crew.”

A variety of names.

Mantata was smiling, as if struck by a pleasant memory. “Joe was an enforcer for Momo.”

Momo. Sam Giancana. Mantata’s pal. The guy rumored to have won Chicago, and the election, for John Kennedy. But that wasn’t what was piquing my interest.

“Paul’s body was found in Cicero,” I said, “where Louis Venici worked for Ferriola. If these guys had several names …?”

He averted his eyes. “The records have Polvere dying in 1987. Ferriola died two years later. The thing the two men definitely have in common is that they’re both dead. As is everyone involved in Paul’s death, apparently.”

“Then why is somebody trying to kill me?”

Mantata shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Why did I think he was lying?

He turned to Hiho. “Pick up some sandwiches from Graziano’s. Just for you, Dal, and myself. Billy’s got a luncheon date.”

Hiho frowned. “The parking on Randolph …”

“Dal will go with and run in for the food.”

Dal replied with a you-really-want-me-to-be-your-lunch-boy? scowl of disappointment. But he obediently followed Hiho from the room.