“I’ll handle it.”

The waitress positioned the dish of spumoni on the table between us. With two spoons. I was on my feet.

“Work on this,” I said, putting the colorful ice cream in front of her and handing her a spoon. “Save me some. I’ll be back before it melts.”

“Don’t be fooled by his nice-guy bull! Vitale’s a smiling snake. And goes everywhere with bodyguards.”

“They all do. Anyway, what’s he going to do to me in a big busy dining room?”

The Red Bird Room was big, all right, adorned with red velvet drapes on one wall and on another a mural of Cardinal ballplayers in action. Busy it wasn’t, however: it was entirely empty but for two central tables. At one, a couple of thugs were eating a spaghetti and meatballs dinner; they wore cauliflower ears and off-the-rack suits, the jackets a little too big, to help conceal their armaments. A table was between them and where sat two men both about fifty, well-dressed, in sharp suits and ties. They were either waiting for their meals or, more likely, had already eaten; they had a carafe of coffee with cups for each, sugar and cream handy.

I recognized these latter two, from the papers. The more conservatively attired of the pair was Morris Shenker, the mob lawyer of choice in St. Louis and a counselor utilized nationally by the Teamsters union. The other was John Vitale, whose heavy black eyebrows recalled those of Lou Shoulders, but otherwise reminded me of that smiling, pleasant, deeply self-interested straight-man, Bud Abbott. If only Joe Costello from Ace Cabs was here, we’d have the full team.

Both men stood as I approached—the two thugs just kept eating—and I shook hands first with the smiling Vitale, a warm lingering grasp, and then with the unsmiling Shenker, a quick catch and release.

As I sat and the two men resumed their seats, Vitale said, “I don’t believe we ever met, Mr. Heller, but we got many mutual friends in Chicago. I hear you knew Frank Nitto well.”

This insider’s use of Nitti’s actual last name seemed purposeful to me.

“We got along,” I said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Vitale?”

He threw a casual wave. “I won’t keep you long, Mr. Heller. I’ll let you get back to your pretty companion.”

He didn’t say whether he recognized that pretty companion or not.

“But actually,” Vitale continued, leaning in chummily, “this is about what I can do for you.”

“Oh?”

He nodded, then the black eyebrows lifted. “Coffee or a drink or maybe wine?”

“No thank you. Please go on.”

He grinned, shrugged. “I like to pride myself on bein’ on top of things in my little corner of the world. Uh, excuse me, I don’t mean to be rude or anything. This is my attorney, Mr. Shenker.”

I gave Shenker a nod and got back half a nod for my trouble. Then, risking a grin, I said to Vitale, “I hope you don’t feel you need legal counsel, chatting with me.”