Part of my original agreement with Bob last year was that I would not turn over Hoffa’s payments to the committee for a bribery case to be made against the union leader. My position was that if it ever came out, no client would ever trust me again. Bob had thought I was just trying to find a way to keep the money. I told him that to show how little I cared about money, I would not accept the four hundred dollars a month the committee was offering.

His response had made me wonder what kind of language they were teaching these blue-blood kids these days. But I kept Hoffa’s money, and the federal government held onto theirs. A fair arrangement, I thought.

I said, “Bob—what do you know that I don’t? Has Drew Pearson been feeding you tidbits from that article he’s writing?”

“What article?” His smile was mocking. “Did you have a good time in L.A.?”

“Yeah, I saw Zorro, Annette and a taxicab driver who’s scared out of his mind. Answer my question—how much do you have?”

He lifted a shoulder and set it back down. “Not much. We interviewed Barney Baker’s ex-wife, who told us that he had something to do with the missing Greenlease ransom money. That, she claims, is all she knows.”

“A bitter ex-wife?”

“What other kind is there?”

I studied him. “You were fishing yesterday at the hearing—with Barney.”

The grin was boyish, too—much toothier than Hoffa’s. “I was. And Baker would be a hell of a big fish to haul to shore. He’s working with the Teamsters in St. Louis now, and he’s been personally close to Hoffa for years. Has been his bodyguard at times. Good ol’ Barney has Chicago ties as well, which you probably know better than I. He’s the perfect conduit for that money to go into Teamster pension fund coffers.”

“Christ. That would sink Hoffa.”

This shrug was more elaborate. “Of course, it could have gone right to Chicago.”

I nodded. “And it may never have left St. Louis. It’s possible our little-lamented kidnapper Carl Hall buried it before he met his maker, as Barney Baker would say. And you’ve got taxi czar Joe Costello and crooked-cop-of-the-year Lou Shoulders in the middle of things. The proprietor of that No-tell Motel, the Coral Court, may have got his hands on the missing half of the ransom and used his own resources to launder it. But if that tainted blood money Baker talked about yesterday could be tied in any way to Hoffa.…”

The grin flashed again; so many teeth. Like a cute shark. “Here’s an idea, Nate.”

“What?”

“Go to St. Louis and find out.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Robert F. Kennedy and James R. Hoffa agreed on one thing: they both wanted Nathan Heller to go to St. Louis.

But before I could undertake a mission for two clients whose best interests were clearly contradictory, I first needed to confer with a client whose claim on me preceded theirs.