“Then why does the FBI see him as their prime suspect?”

He was so worked up, he’d forgotten his food. “The FBI! Those Ivy League losers think the Mafia doesn’t exist. Hoover thinks Cosa Nostra’s the latest dance craze! The FBI. You know better, Nate.”

“You told your wife that Joe Costello wound up with that money.”

He had the hamburger back in hand, but now he put it down. This was serious. “First of all, she’s my ex-wife. Second of all, she is one lying vengeful bitch. She would like nothing better than to wrap me up in that crime and make me look bad. Doesn’t need to be able to prove anything, just spread vile talk! I’m a labor organizer, Nate! I deal with rank-and-file folks, guys with families, salt-of-the-earth solid working Americans. She would love to smear me with those good people.”

“Okay. A woman scorned. I’ll keep that in mind.”

His smile split the difference between friendly and menacing. “Who’s your client in this, Nate? You don’t work for free. You’re not some bleeding-heart crusader. Is it that punk silver-spoon Kennedy kid? Let me point something out to you—if Jimmy Hoffa was some kind of gangster, some kind of cold-blooded, brutal asshole, why are you still alive? I will tell you why. He respects you. You have never ratted out any of your Outfit friends. In fact, sometimes I wonder if you’re really working in that committee’s best interests. Maybe you have Jimmy’s welfare at heart. Your old man was a union guy, right?”

“My old man was a ‘union guy,’ yes, but he would’ve been disgusted with the tactics of corrupt men like you, Barney, and our friend Jimmy.”

He did something astonishing—he pushed his unfinished food aside. “Well, my friend, back in the early days, people could afford to be idealistic. Could go through life being unrealistic. But we know nothing is black-and-white, don’t we? We got to deal with how gray things are, right?…I gotta toddle off. Where can I catch you in town?”

Not sure I wanted to be caught, I nonetheless told him where I intended to stay, which amused him.

He gave me a wave. “Make sure you stop and see me before you leave St. Loo.”

The big man with the tiny head took the napkin from his collar, dabbed his mouth delicately with it, and tossed it on the tabletop. He snatched up the check, said, “I’ll get this,” as if my Coke was a real factor in his burger banquet, and headed for the register.

I tossed the straw aside and finished my Coke like a man. It would appear Barney suspected I was Hoffa’s double agent on the Rackets Committee, but apparently hadn’t had that confirmed by Hoffa—possibly hadn’t even broached the subject. Which was interesting, since he and Hoffa were tight. That could mean a number of things, including that Hoffa didn’t trust Barney, or simply that the union president knew the wisdom of keeping my inside man status to himself.