Out of the gate, Bob blindsided the witness: “What did you say to Sol Lippman about having him killed?”

“Killed?” Hoffa asked. What cookie jar?

“Killed. Did you say that you could have him killed right there in your office and nobody would ever know?”

Hoffa’s chin jutted. “I did not.”

Bob’s words flew. “Did you say that Mr. Lippman could be walking down the street and be shot one day?”

Hoffa leaned against his folded arms on the table, his words as staccato as a telegram. “I…did…not.”

“Did you say anything to the effect that juries treated you very well?”

Tiny dismissive smile. “Now, that’s pretty ridiculous, isn’t it, Mr. Kennedy?”

“Did you say anything generally on the subject of having Mr. Lippman killed, murdered, shot?”

Hoffa took a moment, shifting in his chair. “Mr. Kennedy, I know you want to make this dramatic, but the answer is no.”

“Nothing along those lines?”

Attorney Bennett cut in: “I don’t see that this repetition is doing any good.”

“Bring Lippman around here,” Hoffa demanded. “Have him say it to my face!”

That was the highlight of the afternoon’s sparring. Despite the fireworks, Bob’s frustration and even weariness was showing. Hoffa, however, wasn’t showing much of anything. But his cool didn’t fool me—I knew he was mentally dismembering his tormenter.

I slipped out mid-afternoon before the capacity crowd could turn into a human traffic jam and took a cab to the Mayflower, where in my room I called the A-1 in Chicago, just to check in. I had no further D.C. business with Bob Kennedy or Drew Pearson and was ready to get back. After I hung up, I was about to change my plane reservation from tomorrow morning to a red-eye tonight when the phone rang under my hand.

“Duke Zeibert, Mr. Heller.” I recognized the friendly, midrange voice and its Catskills lilt. “Just confirming you for tonight at five.”

All of that was odd. First, Duke Zeibert was the owner of a restaurant called, well, Duke Zeibert’s. He seemed always to be in attendance, usually at the door greeting his frequently famous guests—politicians, executives, sports figures, stars of Broadway and/or Hollywood. But even if you were one of those, Duke himself didn’t call to confirm your reservation.

Also, I hadn’t made one. And while I might be an unrefined Midwestern yokel, I nonetheless did not dine at restaurants at five.

“Don’t be late,” Duke said, and hung up before I had a chance to ask a question. I might have called the restaurant back, but I felt pretty sure Duke wouldn’t be handling reservations.

I took one precaution. I was still getting specially tailored suits from Richard Bennett, and my Browning in its shoulder holster was in my suitcase. So I took a quick shower and headed out, in my sharp suit with its tucked-away nine-millimeter accessory, and caught a cab to Seventeenth and L Street NW.

The restaurant with its looming white-on-black neon sign, fieldstone facade and red-and-white canopy served up Jewish cuisine inside. Nonetheless, Duke Zeibert’s was Washington’s equivalent of Switzerland—it had been Truman’s favorite restaurant and Nixon’s; the Kennedy brothers dined here and so did J. Edgar Hoover.