I folded my arms. Tried to do so as casually as had Pearson. “An interesting theory. Or is it more than a theory?”

His shrug was as slow as his nod. “More than a theory, but less than a fact.”

“This is a story you’re working on.”

He nodded.

I got up. “I wish you the best of luck with it. It was a tragic goddamn affair. A little boy died—this isn’t petty politics. But my role is covered by client confidentiality and there’s nothing I can share with you about it.”

His eyes popped. “Sit down, man! I’m not asking you to share anything. Didn’t I say this was an errand? A task? Sit down!”

I sat. But I was on the edge of my chair—partly in the way a kid does in a scary movie, partly to enable a hasty exit.

His voice was studiously calm. “You are acquainted with a gentleman…and I use the term loosely…by the name of John Oscar Hagan. A former cab driver from St. Louis, I believe.”

Jesus Christ! How much did Pearson know?

I remained on the edge of my seat. Did not say anything, but stayed put.

He sat forward, elbows on his desk now. “My investigation into the unrecovered Greenlease money has hit something of a snag. No, I’m not asking you to re-open the case. Not asking you to personally dig in. But we believe that Hagan holds the answers to questions that will lead to the missing money…or at least where it went. If James Riddle Hoffa knows about this, he is finished. And what a gift to America that would be.”

“Have you talked to Bob Kennedy or his brother about this?” Both Bob and Jack were on the Senate Rackets Committee.

“Premature,” the journalist said. “If I can get Hagan to talk—after he’s given me an exclusive interview, of course—I’ll hand him over to that committee of yours with my blessing.”

I’d been working for Bob on that committee, on and off, for several years. Mostly on Chicago aspects, but sometimes farther reaching—I had L.A. and New York branches now, after all. Its formal title was the United States Senate Select Committee on Improper Activities in the Labor or Management Field.

You know—rackets.

I asked, “What’s the task?”

“I want you to offer Hagan $25,000 for his exclusive, on-the-record story.”

Now my eyes were popping. “Twenty-five grand? Since when do you pay twenty-five cents for a story? First of all, it’s against your highfalutin journalistic ethics. Second of all, we both know you’re the cheapest goddamn bastard on the face of the earth.”

He frowned and he had a lot of forehead to do that with. “Now, that was uncalled for!”

“Hell it was! What is going on, Drew?”

His wave tried to be conciliatory but came off as slapping the air. “All I’m asking you to do is approach Mr. Hagan with the offer. We have his address in Los Angeles—he moved there from St. Louis several years ago. He’s living in rather dire circumstances. You have a, shall we say, certain cachet with him that perhaps no one else does. After all, you were in that motel room with Hagan and Carl Hall…Carl Hall, the kidnapper?”