Excerpt from The Lex:
Legendary Chicago Daily News columnist Mike Royko just wants a drink — or five — after a rough day. But another Chicago living legend — Mob boss Joey Aiuppa — would like a word with him.
Legendary Chicago Daily News columnist Mike Royko just wants a drink — or five — after a rough day. But another Chicago living legend — Mob boss Joey Aiuppa — would like a word with him.
“Mr. Royko.”
Mike ignored the voice. He pressed down the lock, closed the car door. The saloon was two blocks up, and he set off at a brisk pace.
“Mr. Royko,” the voice said again.
Mike ignored it again. He needed a drink, not a pat on the back from a reader.
“Don’t make me chase you down.”
Mike slowed. That was not the tone of a fan. That was the voice of someone accustomed to people paying attention to him. He turned, and found two men in tailored suits strolling toward him.
“The valet job’s been filled, boys. Sorry.”
The men stopped in front of him. No smiles. The shorter one crossed his arms, cocked his head.
“Mr. Martinelli needs to speak with you,” the short one said.
“Martinelli?” Crap, these were gangsters. “Hasn’t he heard of a telephone?”
“It’s urgent.”
Mike examined the two hard guys lounging against the night breeze. He couldn’t tell if this was a joke. He’d known Big Robbie Martinelli for ages, since Mike was a young reporter on the beat. But he hadn’t seen him in, Jesus, three or four years at least. Why would Robbie want to see him — and why would he send two jamokes to get him?
“So, what, you’ve been following me?” he asked the men.
“Would you prefer we knock on your door? Sit with your wife until you come home from your … wanderings? I must say, your home does look comfortable.” He turned to his bigger companion. “Didn’t you think so, Mr. Smith?”
Mr. Smith nodded.
Mike felt a jolt of panic in his gut. “Big Robbie sent you?”
The diminutive thug must have clocked the confusion on Mike’s face, his resistance to coming along quietly. “Not exactly,” the man admitted. “We figured using his name would put you at ease. Old friends and all.”
“What are you talking about then? What is going on here?”
“It won’t take long.” The man exuded calmness, an obvious affectation. He eased back his coat to show a gun stuck into the waistband of his pants. “I must say, you look just like your picture in the paper.”
“What do you mean, ‘Not exactly’?”
“The boss, actually, is the one who would like a word.”
Mike gawked at the man. “The boss?”
Neither of the thugs allowed a flicker of anything to cross their faces.
Mike’s feet felt like they had swelled inside his shoes. He couldn’t tell if he still had toes. “Are we talking the same language here? Joey Aiuppa would like to talk to me?” As Mike uttered the name, the sphincter in his ass slammed shut so hard he felt the reverberation in his skull. The boss of the Chicago Outfit wanted to talk to him. The man who’d shoved the legendary Sam Giancana out to pasture. Mike glanced at the other thug, the one who hadn’t said a word. The guy was younger than the talker, built like a tank. Mike was now confident these boys were not playing a practical joke on him.
“How …” Mike paused as he realized sweat was gliding down the sides of his torso. His vision warped. “Uh. How long will this take?” His voice shook. He sounded like W.C. Fields.
The talker shrugged.
Mike nodded. “Okay.”
The men turned, and Mike fell in between them, the chatty one in the front. Mike’s mind churned but settled on nothing. A large hand on his shoulder guided him into the back seat of a black Cadillac.
No one spoke during the car ride. The gangsters, riding in the front, put the radio on hippie music, which surprised Mike. He figured the situation called for Sinatra, or maybe Darin. Mack the Knife. Instead, he got blaring electrified instruments. It sounded like a James Bond theme song for freaks. “Eww-eww-eww, yeah, I been flying,” the singer keened. Mike wanted to ask them to switch it to 67-Q — he could at least catch some hockey scores before they conked him on the head — but he couldn’t bring himself to speak up. He sat with his hands tucked under his thighs to ward off the shakes. He stared out the window, watching storefronts flash past.
The Cadillac pulled up to the Palmer House, and the door next to him swung open as the car was still gliding to a halt. Mike climbed out of the backseat and nodded at the uniformed doorman. He noticed the vehicle’s front doors bounce open and thought about making a run for it. He’d be gone from sight in seconds. Across the street, around the corner. He was still fast — at least for short bursts. He could probably make it to City Hall before his lungs gave out. Would they chase him down and drag him away in front of dozens of onlookers? No way. People would recognize him. They’d come to his aid. He was Mike Royko! He swallowed, the slug of saliva scratching down his dry throat, as the big gangster rose from the car and indicated with a hand that Mike could go inside the hotel. Running was pointless, Mike told himself. They knew where he lived. What was he going to do, go on the lam? Put Carol and the kids under round-the-clock police protection? He wiped at his forehead as he watched his feet moving in front of him. Inside the building now, he gazed at the high ceiling. The lobby’s red carpeting and gilded touches calmed him, tripping memories. He and Carol had seen Peggy Lee perform here, in the Empire Room. That was in February too, he recalled, almost exactly four years ago. Peggy was as elegant as ever that night. No gimmicks, no razzmatazz. Just Lou Levy on piano and Peggy belting out the hits: Come Back to Me, You’ll Remember Me, Fever. He hummed to himself.
“Mr. Royko. Nice to see you.”
Mike looked up. He was standing in a suite, a big one. Expensive-looking furniture. Elegant lighting. A middle-aged man in a dark suit sat on a gray, modern couch. Mike glanced behind him. Huey and Dewey stood there, arms crossed. He turned back to the man on the couch. Was this Joey Aiuppa, the infamous Joey Doves? Mike couldn’t be sure. The Mob boss was photographed about as often as Howard Hughes. Mike decided it couldn’t be him. This was what you had flunkies for, interrogations like this. Besides, the guy on the couch looked a little too on-the-nose: a permanent grimace on a round head, no neck, a big bent schnoz, hooded eyes.
“Have a seat,” the maybe Mob boss said.
Mike realized he was standing next to a large, white chair. He eased in front of it and carefully lowered himself. It was plush, deep. It enveloped him. In any other circumstance, he could fall asleep in this chair.
The man running the show crossed his legs and leaned back on the couch. “A little birdie tells me you’re writing a column about the unfortunate demise of Nicholas Abruzzio,” he said.
“Little birdie? Is that your pet name for Martinelli?”
The mobster coughed — or maybe it was a chuckle. “No. I haven’t spoken with Mr. Martinelli.” He examined the manicured nails on his right hand, then raised his eyes until they came level with Mike’s. “You may answer the question now.”
“I have no plans to write about Nick Abruzzio. What is there to say about him?”
“That’s right. What is there to say? Nothing.”
“Are we done then?” Mike rocked forward, as if he were about to stand.
“I don’t think we are, no.”
Mike pushed the heels of his brogues flat on the thick carpet. Fear pulled at him, sparking a twitch in an eye, both eyes. But one thing he knew from growing up on Milwaukee Avenue: You could never let anyone know how scared you were.
“Mike — I hope you don’t mind that I’m being familiar; I read your column and I feel like I know you.”
Mike shrugged obligingly.
“Mike, there might be a problem that you can help us with. We’re hoping you’re interested in helping us.”
“Anything for a loyal reader.”
“Very good. Your associate, Miss Carlson, has been spending time with a man who goes by the name of Gerald Rivers. A New York man.”
“Brigid? I don’t think so. She likes New Yorkers even less than I do.”
The mobster held up a stubby finger and tapped his mouth with it. “No more interruptions, Mike.” The finger retreated into a fist and the hand fell from sight. “Now, this Rivers fellow, we’re still figuring out who he is. What we do know is that he came out here to meet with Nicholas Abruzzio. That meeting did not happen. However, he hasn’t gone back to New York. Do you know why that is?”
“I have no idea,” Mike said. “I don’t know him. And Miss Carlson shouldn’t be of any concern to you. She works for me. She only does what I tell her to do.”
“You don’t know Gerald Rivers?”
“No.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yeah.” Mike was getting mad. He’d been clear: He didn’t know the guy. “Look, I’m telling you —” he stopped. The name had clicked in his head. He thought he was having an aneurysm. Rivers. Shit. The kid with the mustache.
“Wait,” he said. “Gerry Rivers. Yes, I have met him.” Did the Chicago Mob already know he’d met Rivers? Mike’s mind reeled as the thought took hold. “I remember now,” he said. “He approached me at a bar. Wanted to talk about the mayor. Why? Who is he?”
“Now you admit you know him.”
“I met him. In passing. At a bar. You know how many people come up to me at bars and restaurants?”
Mike watched Joey Doves, or whoever he was, staring at him. The silence buzzed around the columnist’s head until it slipped inside. It built toward a crescendo; Mike worried his ear drums might shatter. He pushed his glasses up, found the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, and squeezed. The room tilted, and Mike realized he was spinning. His eyes flew open. One of the goons — it had to be the larger one — had grabbed his shoulders from behind. The man jerked Mike out of the chair and slammed him onto the floor. He pressed Mike’s right hand to the carpet, palm up, and held it there with a foot. The thug pulled out a switchblade and held it aloft. Mike screamed, but no sound came out.
“Would you still write your column if you were missing a thumb?” Big Boy growled.
Mike gasped. His throat had stopped working. He feared he was going to choke to death, that he was going to suffocate on his panic. His voice returned in a spasm: “I’m telling you I don’t know him!”
“Let him go,” the boss of the room snapped. “Let him go now!”
Mike didn’t hear the order, not really. He was waiting for the pain, imagining it. The knife sawing at flesh. Veins shredding. Blood spurting. His thumb swinging backward like a gate, his mouth cranked open and a horrible sound coming out. The goon released him, and Mike turned over and rose onto elbows and knees, heaving. Mike felt a large droplet of sweat on the tip of his nose. He swallowed but the saliva didn’t go anywhere. His torso jolted as a racking cough stuttered through him. Tears came to his eyes. He blinked hard, willing himself to get control of himself, to be a man.
“I apologize, Mike,” the boss said. “This — physicality — is unacceptable. Impulse control. Something that cannot be taught. We are making no threats.”
You could have fooled me, Mike thought, but he said nothing. He spotted his eyeglasses on the floor, reached out and grabbed them.
The man on the couch threw a look at Big Boy.
“I am sorry,” the thug said to Mike. “For manhandling you.”
The man who might be Joey Doves leaned back again, recrossed his legs. “So, you do not know Gerald Rivers?” he said, starting the questioning over. “He didn’t tell you anything about himself?”
Mike lifted himself back into the chair. He held his reply until he was confident he could speak without throwing up. “He’s from New York,” he said. “Hates the mayor.” Mike stared at the ceiling. Pressure pulsed in the back of his neck. The stippling on the ceiling began to rotate.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. He said he might be seeing me again. That was all. He left the Goat. The bar. I haven’t seen him since.”
“I believe you, Mike,” the Mob boss said.
Mike flexed his right hand, verifying it was still intact. He let out an involuntary, shuttering groan. “What now?” he said, his voice patchy and wan.
The mobster smiled at Mike Royko. He tossed an arm behind his head. Relaxed but alert. “The message I’d like to impart is this,” he said. “Abruzzio was a fool, and whatever information he promised to you, or your young associate, or anyone else, was garbage. No truth to it whatsoever. The man needed money, and, in my experience, people who need money will say almost anything. There’s nothing here for a reporter to look into.”
“Got it.” Mike nodded and straightened his spine, trying to find some shred of dignity. “You don’t want me to waste my time.”
“Exactly. You should be spending your time on the tales of Slats Grobnik, not Nicky Abruzzio.”
Mike smiled inwardly. Did this guy believe his fictional Chicago Everyman was real? “There is still much to tell about the life and times of Slats Grobnik,” he said.
“So I have your word there will be nothing more about this unfortunate death in your newspaper.”
Mike’s head had cleared. He’d done okay, he decided. He hadn’t embarrassed himself. They were going to cut his goddam thumb off, and he didn’t scream, didn’t release his bowels. John Wayne — the real John Wayne, in real life — wouldn’t have done any better. And what did Mike promise? That he wouldn’t write about a dead minor-league gangster nobody cared about. He’d never had any plans to write about him. That was true. He was pretty sure.
“Well?” the mobster prompted.
A surge of indignation rolled through Mike. The Daily News — his newspaper — couldn’t be bullied. “I don’t speak for the newspaper,” he told the man. “Look, if it’s news, it’s going to be in the Daily News. Okay? That’s the way it works. And if it’s not news, it’ll probably be in the Sun-Times. That’s what they’ve got Kupcinet for.”
“Kup’s looking at this?”
Mike sighed. Was everybody an idiot? Could no one recognize a joke anymore? He could just imagine Kup in this situation, sitting across from a dead-eyed killer. He would be stuttering like Porky Pig. Mike hated Irv’s silly column, but he didn’t want to get the old man hurt. “No,” he said. “I was kidding. He does that ‘scene around town’ crap, that’s all. Like Herb Caen.”
“Doris Day is staying at the Palmer House, Sinatra took in a game at Comiskey. I’m familiar with Kup’s work.”
“I rest my case.”
“Well, then,” the gangster said, slapping his knee and rising to his feet. He thrust out his right hand.
Mike lifted himself up. He discovered his legs would indeed hold him. He shook the man’s hand.
“I look forward to reading your next column,” Mike’s interrogator said. “That Slats Grobnik — I’d like to buy him a steak dinner.” He raised his arm, indicating the way to the door.
Out on the street, Mike looked around, trying to orient himself. He knew exactly where he was, but he also felt unmoored, lost in the backwash of what had just happened. This was the perfect excuse for a drink. One after the other. But he’d decided on the ride down in the elevator that he wasn’t going to drink tonight. He was going back to the office.
He had a column to write.
Mike ignored the voice. He pressed down the lock, closed the car door. The saloon was two blocks up, and he set off at a brisk pace.
“Mr. Royko,” the voice said again.
Mike ignored it again. He needed a drink, not a pat on the back from a reader.
“Don’t make me chase you down.”
Mike slowed. That was not the tone of a fan. That was the voice of someone accustomed to people paying attention to him. He turned, and found two men in tailored suits strolling toward him.
“The valet job’s been filled, boys. Sorry.”
The men stopped in front of him. No smiles. The shorter one crossed his arms, cocked his head.
“Mr. Martinelli needs to speak with you,” the short one said.
“Martinelli?” Crap, these were gangsters. “Hasn’t he heard of a telephone?”
“It’s urgent.”
Mike examined the two hard guys lounging against the night breeze. He couldn’t tell if this was a joke. He’d known Big Robbie Martinelli for ages, since Mike was a young reporter on the beat. But he hadn’t seen him in, Jesus, three or four years at least. Why would Robbie want to see him — and why would he send two jamokes to get him?
“So, what, you’ve been following me?” he asked the men.
“Would you prefer we knock on your door? Sit with your wife until you come home from your … wanderings? I must say, your home does look comfortable.” He turned to his bigger companion. “Didn’t you think so, Mr. Smith?”
Mr. Smith nodded.
Mike felt a jolt of panic in his gut. “Big Robbie sent you?”
The diminutive thug must have clocked the confusion on Mike’s face, his resistance to coming along quietly. “Not exactly,” the man admitted. “We figured using his name would put you at ease. Old friends and all.”
“What are you talking about then? What is going on here?”
“It won’t take long.” The man exuded calmness, an obvious affectation. He eased back his coat to show a gun stuck into the waistband of his pants. “I must say, you look just like your picture in the paper.”
“What do you mean, ‘Not exactly’?”
“The boss, actually, is the one who would like a word.”
Mike gawked at the man. “The boss?”
Neither of the thugs allowed a flicker of anything to cross their faces.
Mike’s feet felt like they had swelled inside his shoes. He couldn’t tell if he still had toes. “Are we talking the same language here? Joey Aiuppa would like to talk to me?” As Mike uttered the name, the sphincter in his ass slammed shut so hard he felt the reverberation in his skull. The boss of the Chicago Outfit wanted to talk to him. The man who’d shoved the legendary Sam Giancana out to pasture. Mike glanced at the other thug, the one who hadn’t said a word. The guy was younger than the talker, built like a tank. Mike was now confident these boys were not playing a practical joke on him.
“How …” Mike paused as he realized sweat was gliding down the sides of his torso. His vision warped. “Uh. How long will this take?” His voice shook. He sounded like W.C. Fields.
The talker shrugged.
Mike nodded. “Okay.”
The men turned, and Mike fell in between them, the chatty one in the front. Mike’s mind churned but settled on nothing. A large hand on his shoulder guided him into the back seat of a black Cadillac.
No one spoke during the car ride. The gangsters, riding in the front, put the radio on hippie music, which surprised Mike. He figured the situation called for Sinatra, or maybe Darin. Mack the Knife. Instead, he got blaring electrified instruments. It sounded like a James Bond theme song for freaks. “Eww-eww-eww, yeah, I been flying,” the singer keened. Mike wanted to ask them to switch it to 67-Q — he could at least catch some hockey scores before they conked him on the head — but he couldn’t bring himself to speak up. He sat with his hands tucked under his thighs to ward off the shakes. He stared out the window, watching storefronts flash past.
The Cadillac pulled up to the Palmer House, and the door next to him swung open as the car was still gliding to a halt. Mike climbed out of the backseat and nodded at the uniformed doorman. He noticed the vehicle’s front doors bounce open and thought about making a run for it. He’d be gone from sight in seconds. Across the street, around the corner. He was still fast — at least for short bursts. He could probably make it to City Hall before his lungs gave out. Would they chase him down and drag him away in front of dozens of onlookers? No way. People would recognize him. They’d come to his aid. He was Mike Royko! He swallowed, the slug of saliva scratching down his dry throat, as the big gangster rose from the car and indicated with a hand that Mike could go inside the hotel. Running was pointless, Mike told himself. They knew where he lived. What was he going to do, go on the lam? Put Carol and the kids under round-the-clock police protection? He wiped at his forehead as he watched his feet moving in front of him. Inside the building now, he gazed at the high ceiling. The lobby’s red carpeting and gilded touches calmed him, tripping memories. He and Carol had seen Peggy Lee perform here, in the Empire Room. That was in February too, he recalled, almost exactly four years ago. Peggy was as elegant as ever that night. No gimmicks, no razzmatazz. Just Lou Levy on piano and Peggy belting out the hits: Come Back to Me, You’ll Remember Me, Fever. He hummed to himself.
“Mr. Royko. Nice to see you.”
Mike looked up. He was standing in a suite, a big one. Expensive-looking furniture. Elegant lighting. A middle-aged man in a dark suit sat on a gray, modern couch. Mike glanced behind him. Huey and Dewey stood there, arms crossed. He turned back to the man on the couch. Was this Joey Aiuppa, the infamous Joey Doves? Mike couldn’t be sure. The Mob boss was photographed about as often as Howard Hughes. Mike decided it couldn’t be him. This was what you had flunkies for, interrogations like this. Besides, the guy on the couch looked a little too on-the-nose: a permanent grimace on a round head, no neck, a big bent schnoz, hooded eyes.
“Have a seat,” the maybe Mob boss said.
Mike realized he was standing next to a large, white chair. He eased in front of it and carefully lowered himself. It was plush, deep. It enveloped him. In any other circumstance, he could fall asleep in this chair.
The man running the show crossed his legs and leaned back on the couch. “A little birdie tells me you’re writing a column about the unfortunate demise of Nicholas Abruzzio,” he said.
“Little birdie? Is that your pet name for Martinelli?”
The mobster coughed — or maybe it was a chuckle. “No. I haven’t spoken with Mr. Martinelli.” He examined the manicured nails on his right hand, then raised his eyes until they came level with Mike’s. “You may answer the question now.”
“I have no plans to write about Nick Abruzzio. What is there to say about him?”
“That’s right. What is there to say? Nothing.”
“Are we done then?” Mike rocked forward, as if he were about to stand.
“I don’t think we are, no.”
Mike pushed the heels of his brogues flat on the thick carpet. Fear pulled at him, sparking a twitch in an eye, both eyes. But one thing he knew from growing up on Milwaukee Avenue: You could never let anyone know how scared you were.
“Mike — I hope you don’t mind that I’m being familiar; I read your column and I feel like I know you.”
Mike shrugged obligingly.
“Mike, there might be a problem that you can help us with. We’re hoping you’re interested in helping us.”
“Anything for a loyal reader.”
“Very good. Your associate, Miss Carlson, has been spending time with a man who goes by the name of Gerald Rivers. A New York man.”
“Brigid? I don’t think so. She likes New Yorkers even less than I do.”
The mobster held up a stubby finger and tapped his mouth with it. “No more interruptions, Mike.” The finger retreated into a fist and the hand fell from sight. “Now, this Rivers fellow, we’re still figuring out who he is. What we do know is that he came out here to meet with Nicholas Abruzzio. That meeting did not happen. However, he hasn’t gone back to New York. Do you know why that is?”
“I have no idea,” Mike said. “I don’t know him. And Miss Carlson shouldn’t be of any concern to you. She works for me. She only does what I tell her to do.”
“You don’t know Gerald Rivers?”
“No.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yeah.” Mike was getting mad. He’d been clear: He didn’t know the guy. “Look, I’m telling you —” he stopped. The name had clicked in his head. He thought he was having an aneurysm. Rivers. Shit. The kid with the mustache.
“Wait,” he said. “Gerry Rivers. Yes, I have met him.” Did the Chicago Mob already know he’d met Rivers? Mike’s mind reeled as the thought took hold. “I remember now,” he said. “He approached me at a bar. Wanted to talk about the mayor. Why? Who is he?”
“Now you admit you know him.”
“I met him. In passing. At a bar. You know how many people come up to me at bars and restaurants?”
Mike watched Joey Doves, or whoever he was, staring at him. The silence buzzed around the columnist’s head until it slipped inside. It built toward a crescendo; Mike worried his ear drums might shatter. He pushed his glasses up, found the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, and squeezed. The room tilted, and Mike realized he was spinning. His eyes flew open. One of the goons — it had to be the larger one — had grabbed his shoulders from behind. The man jerked Mike out of the chair and slammed him onto the floor. He pressed Mike’s right hand to the carpet, palm up, and held it there with a foot. The thug pulled out a switchblade and held it aloft. Mike screamed, but no sound came out.
“Would you still write your column if you were missing a thumb?” Big Boy growled.
Mike gasped. His throat had stopped working. He feared he was going to choke to death, that he was going to suffocate on his panic. His voice returned in a spasm: “I’m telling you I don’t know him!”
“Let him go,” the boss of the room snapped. “Let him go now!”
Mike didn’t hear the order, not really. He was waiting for the pain, imagining it. The knife sawing at flesh. Veins shredding. Blood spurting. His thumb swinging backward like a gate, his mouth cranked open and a horrible sound coming out. The goon released him, and Mike turned over and rose onto elbows and knees, heaving. Mike felt a large droplet of sweat on the tip of his nose. He swallowed but the saliva didn’t go anywhere. His torso jolted as a racking cough stuttered through him. Tears came to his eyes. He blinked hard, willing himself to get control of himself, to be a man.
“I apologize, Mike,” the boss said. “This — physicality — is unacceptable. Impulse control. Something that cannot be taught. We are making no threats.”
You could have fooled me, Mike thought, but he said nothing. He spotted his eyeglasses on the floor, reached out and grabbed them.
The man on the couch threw a look at Big Boy.
“I am sorry,” the thug said to Mike. “For manhandling you.”
The man who might be Joey Doves leaned back again, recrossed his legs. “So, you do not know Gerald Rivers?” he said, starting the questioning over. “He didn’t tell you anything about himself?”
Mike lifted himself back into the chair. He held his reply until he was confident he could speak without throwing up. “He’s from New York,” he said. “Hates the mayor.” Mike stared at the ceiling. Pressure pulsed in the back of his neck. The stippling on the ceiling began to rotate.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. He said he might be seeing me again. That was all. He left the Goat. The bar. I haven’t seen him since.”
“I believe you, Mike,” the Mob boss said.
Mike flexed his right hand, verifying it was still intact. He let out an involuntary, shuttering groan. “What now?” he said, his voice patchy and wan.
The mobster smiled at Mike Royko. He tossed an arm behind his head. Relaxed but alert. “The message I’d like to impart is this,” he said. “Abruzzio was a fool, and whatever information he promised to you, or your young associate, or anyone else, was garbage. No truth to it whatsoever. The man needed money, and, in my experience, people who need money will say almost anything. There’s nothing here for a reporter to look into.”
“Got it.” Mike nodded and straightened his spine, trying to find some shred of dignity. “You don’t want me to waste my time.”
“Exactly. You should be spending your time on the tales of Slats Grobnik, not Nicky Abruzzio.”
Mike smiled inwardly. Did this guy believe his fictional Chicago Everyman was real? “There is still much to tell about the life and times of Slats Grobnik,” he said.
“So I have your word there will be nothing more about this unfortunate death in your newspaper.”
Mike’s head had cleared. He’d done okay, he decided. He hadn’t embarrassed himself. They were going to cut his goddam thumb off, and he didn’t scream, didn’t release his bowels. John Wayne — the real John Wayne, in real life — wouldn’t have done any better. And what did Mike promise? That he wouldn’t write about a dead minor-league gangster nobody cared about. He’d never had any plans to write about him. That was true. He was pretty sure.
“Well?” the mobster prompted.
A surge of indignation rolled through Mike. The Daily News — his newspaper — couldn’t be bullied. “I don’t speak for the newspaper,” he told the man. “Look, if it’s news, it’s going to be in the Daily News. Okay? That’s the way it works. And if it’s not news, it’ll probably be in the Sun-Times. That’s what they’ve got Kupcinet for.”
“Kup’s looking at this?”
Mike sighed. Was everybody an idiot? Could no one recognize a joke anymore? He could just imagine Kup in this situation, sitting across from a dead-eyed killer. He would be stuttering like Porky Pig. Mike hated Irv’s silly column, but he didn’t want to get the old man hurt. “No,” he said. “I was kidding. He does that ‘scene around town’ crap, that’s all. Like Herb Caen.”
“Doris Day is staying at the Palmer House, Sinatra took in a game at Comiskey. I’m familiar with Kup’s work.”
“I rest my case.”
“Well, then,” the gangster said, slapping his knee and rising to his feet. He thrust out his right hand.
Mike lifted himself up. He discovered his legs would indeed hold him. He shook the man’s hand.
“I look forward to reading your next column,” Mike’s interrogator said. “That Slats Grobnik — I’d like to buy him a steak dinner.” He raised his arm, indicating the way to the door.
Out on the street, Mike looked around, trying to orient himself. He knew exactly where he was, but he also felt unmoored, lost in the backwash of what had just happened. This was the perfect excuse for a drink. One after the other. But he’d decided on the ride down in the elevator that he wasn’t going to drink tonight. He was going back to the office.
He had a column to write.
