“If I don’t wear a hat,” Frank “Buster” Wortman said in a second tenor, “I get sweat in my eyes. I know it looks stupid, but you know what? It’s my house.”

That was his greeting to me.

He gestured toward the side wall with a cigar he had going, its smoke mingling with the steam. “Take a load off.”

The seating right next to him was taken up by a folded towel over something that made a lump. I had an idea that it might be a .38 caliber lump. On the other side was a phone on a long cord and an ashtray.

I sat on the second tier on the side wall to his left. You could have fit a dozen guys in here comfortably. And frankly, I’m not sure why, but the heat felt good. Seemed to make my splitting headache recede.

“I know it was bad manners,” he said, “pulling you in, in the middle of the night. Thanks for coming.”

Thanks for coming? Bad manners?

“Sure.”

“I don’t think we ever met.” He leaned over and offered a hand and I met him halfway and we shook; then he and his loin-wrapped towel settled back where they were.

“I know it sounds stupid,” he said, “but this cools me down when I get hot. And I got very damn hot, earlier, and I suppose I tied one on a little.”

That didn’t seem to call for a response.

“You were a friend of Frank’s,” he said.

The “were” meant Nitti not Sinatra, or anyway I was pretty sure it did.

“I was.” I played a card that wasn’t entirely an exaggeration. “I was fond of Mr. Nitti. He could be like a second father to me.”

“I know you been here a couple days,” he said, “asking about the Greenlease money.”

I gave him a nod.

“Who are you working for?”

No hesitation: “Jimmy Hoffa.”

That impressed him. He didn’t even try to hide it. “No shit. He’s, uh, concerned about these rumors that half the Greenlease ransom wound up in the Teamsters Pension Fund. Am I right?”

“You’re not wrong.”

Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Did the fellas show you around at all?”

The fellas?

“Did you get a look at these digs?” He gestured with the cigar like it was a magic wand. “Too bad it’s after dark. Even with outside lighting, you miss things. And I got a twelve-horse stable, a swimming pool out back. Rathskeller in the basement.”

“Impressive.”

“I hardly ever leave this place. Since my divorce, I let the world come to me. This steam room is perfect for meeting with other guys in my line of work, and with politicians and local business leaders. I got a phone in every room, including this one.”

“I noticed.”

He went on: “The steamfitters piped in a heating system no hotel could beat—those union guys are great—and since not everybody loves me…hard to believe I know…they put in a steel plate. Not in my head!” He laughed. “Coverin’ the roof, I mean. People drop things from planes these days, y’know. So. I made this place like a castle ’cause I’m the king of my little kingdom.”