Hinges
By Stockton Davies

For some reason that I can’t for the life of me get my head around, those schmucks who sign my paychecks actually want me to do some work. Go figure, right? Well, Eddie (for those of you who don’t read the rest of the Times, just my lonely atoll in the brutal sea of ignorance, Eddie Marsh is my editor), I guess that last interview with old Jack Rubenstein, a bootstrappy fellow who managed to overcome childhood poverty and a rather underperforming cock to be this country’s leading importer and distributor of Hungarian and Soviet-era child pornography wasn’t enough. How about that time I went halfway around the world to interview El Hajj Malik El-Shabazz and his exodus from the Nation? That not good enough for you, Eddie boy? (Editor’s note: While interesting articles, Mr. Davies turned both in over a month behind schedule and we were forced to fill his space with previously published articles, in effect paying for them twice).

Well, then, guess I have something for you here that might be of interest to you and the readers of that two-bit piece of (expletive deleted) you call a newspaper. The other day I woke up bright and early at about four in the noon time when there came a heavy knock on my door. As I have detailed several times in this and other publications, I can be rather paranoid when there comes to be a heavy knock at my door, so I always make sure to keep a classic Louisville Slugger within reaching distance of the peephole. Well, glancing through that wonder of optical design I saw a fellow in a suit that cost more than three month’s worth of rent in the dilapidated, rat infested (expletive deleted) that only my (Editor’s note: how about “landlord”?) would dare call an apartment. This was a big fellow, too. Now, considering that Louisville Slugger, I very well could have grabbed at that point, you have to keep one thing in mind: when someone with a suit that nice comes knocking at a door in a part of that that (horrible), you can bet your last (expletive deleted) that gentleman is packing.

It’s taken me a few trips to the hospital and a few very lovely doses of morphine to come to the conclusion that bringing a baseball bat to a gunfight really isn’t a good idea.

The fellow at my door, whom I politely greet, offer to take his coat and offer him any of the legal and illegal substance at hand he is in the mood for, tells me his name is Sammy the Bull. The Bull isn’t actually his last name, but that’s not really important right now. The important thing is that Sammy is one of the many Cosa Nostras who went legit following the big war many years back. Sammy tells me to grab my coat and my recorder and to come with him. When a fellow who was known in previous years for having no real problem and some great skill for putting people in the hospital or the grave asks you to do something, I’m thinking you’ll do the same as me.

Down on the street, we get into the back of a cherry Towncar, and between us on the backseat is a small, wrapped bottle. “What’s this?” I ask the Bull. “A birthday present.” “Oh, that’s nice. Whose birthday is it?” “Senator Giancana’s.” As it turned out, the Honorable Salvatore Giancana, former Senator of Illinois, was on this day, June fifteenth, 1985, turning seventy-eight years old.

“Should I have gotten him a present?”

“That’s your present. It’s a bottle of whiskey. When you see him, be respectful.”

“Well, yes, of course.”

For some reason, on Salvatore Giancana’s seventy-eighth birthday, the old man wanted to see me. I asked the Bull why it was my presence had been requested, and the reformed enforcer informed me I would be getting a gift that night.

“Well, that’s nice. What is it?”

“A (expletive deleted) Pulitzer.”

I was quiet through the end of our ride. We headed towards Wrigley Field, and the car put us out in front of Vega’s, a renowned steakhouse where I have never managed to get a table. Inside, my eye immediately went to the mahogany bar that was lined with ivory. Three men in suits as nice as the Bull’s sat in a booth to the back of the oddly empty restaurant. When they saw me enter, one man came from the back table and greeted me. He had the build and crooked nose of a former boxer, with thinning black hair and a strong jaw. He led me back to the table, to the birthday boy.

“Mr. Davies,” the Senator said. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The honor is all mine, sir,” I said, turning on the charm and handing over the bottle. “I hope this would please you on your birthday, sir.”

“A good bottle is always pleasing, my man. And thank you. Please be seated,” he said, pointing towards the empty chair in front of him. “My friends here will be close by, but not too much,” he said, indicating the boxer-type and the other man, who was smaller than the first but not one I would enjoy a fight with.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, taking the seat. The two of them nodded and went over to the bar. “Are you ready to begin, sir?”

“Whenever you are.”

From my bag, I took the manila folder and the tape recorder. Fresh tape inside and full batteries inside, I pressed “Record” and went to it.

“May I ask first, sir, what exactly it is you expect of me?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m 78 today. It’s been a long life, and I’ve done a lot in it, some good and some bad. I’m not an idiot, but my abilities with regards to the telling of stories are pretty lacking. That’s where you come in: I want you to help me tell my story. We can start with a simple article, but I would like you to help me write my memoirs.”

“Most of the time, when people want to do memoirs, they go through a whole series of people trying to find the right person for the job. Are you sure I would be suitable for the job?”

“Stockton, my friend, you’re the only person capable. I knew so when I read that article you did on Malcolm Little some years back.”

“El Hajj Malik El-Shabazz?”

“I’m not too good with names, but yes. I was very surprised with that article. He has had quite a few written up about him, but yours was different. Most, they talk about his dealings with the Nation of Islam, or that group of fools who follow him about. Yours? You talked about the man. You cut through the bullshit and got to him. It was a remarkable article, and I’m still surprised you didn’t win an award because of it.”

“I’ve burned some bridges in my time.”

“The man who doesn’t, is a coward and a fool. Me? I’ve burned more than most. I’ve hurt people and if I hadn’t have been lucky, I would be rotting in prison right now.”

“You were a part of the Mafia before you joined the Senate, is that correct?”

“The Chicago Outfit, but yes, I was. Things were different back in those days. People like me came over to this country and needed a hand. We helped our own start businesses and make names for themselves. Sure, some folks had to get hurt, but we were looking after those who needed it, those the cops sure didn’t want to look after.”

“Do you have any regrets from that time?”

“No,” he said, his eyes like steel; sharp.

“How did you get into politics?” I asked, trying not to squirm under his sight.

“Charles Luciano paved the way. He and his boys got in with the government during the Second Great War, closing ports off to the Nazis and Axis. After that, we got in good with the government. Charles became Secretary of State under John Kennedy.”

“The first Kennedy helped you politically, didn’t he?” I asked.

“It was the least he could do. I helped him get elected.”

“How did you know him?”

“We met in the late fifties. We were fucking the same woman, apparently,” he said with a thin smile.

“Really?”

“Yeah, but Frank introduced us in late 1958.”

“Frank?” I asked.

“Frank Sinatra. You know who he is, right?” he asked in a joking manner, that thin smile spreading even more.

“Of course. You two were friends?”

“Yes.” He held up his right hand, where there was a sapphire stone in a silver ring. “He gave me this right after I got elected. Back to how I got into politics: In 1958 I did the government a favor and then I helped get the vote out for Johnny, getting some of the labor unions to organize for him.”

“What sort of favor did you do?”

He sat for a moment, his blue eyes drifting out over the bar. “You ever hear about the 26th of July Movement?”

“Can’t say that I did.”

“Few have. Well, in 1953, a group of militants attacked some barracks in Cuba, trying to overthrow President Batista. The plan failed. Their leader was arrested and then deported to Mexico. He came back and they were trying to get a whole damn movement going. They asked me to make sure it failed again.”

“What’d you do?”

“Well, the leader and his brother were found in the woods where their camp used to be. It was razed, and they were bound and someone had shot them in the back of the head.” I reached to the tape recorder and was about to stop it, to warn him, but with a wave of his hand, the sapphire gleaming in the pale light. “Don’t worry. I’ve got enough favors saved up that I’ll be fine. Keep rolling tape.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I always think about those guys, the way the last thirty years would be completely different. Communism would have gotten a foothold in the Western hemisphere and we probably wouldn’t have been able to choke it dead like we did. They had a decent nuclear program, dropped a 50 megaton bomb early in Johnny’s first term. Had they been able to get going in our area, who knows what would have happened? Maybe they would have lasted into the eighties.”

“So you helped JFK get elected his first term and in return he helped you get voted in. When was your first term?”

“1962. Towards the end of that stretch, while Johnny was wrapping up his second term, we started getting the organized for Bobby’s run. I campaigned with him in this area and, as I’m sure you remember, he came in on a landslide. In 1979, I had already decided to get out the political game, but they asked to help with Edward’s run, and we got him in. It’s amazing, three brothers all get elected President, and three go for two terms.”

“Were you still involved in the Chicago Outfit then?”

“I ran it from 1957 until just before my first term. ”

“Are you still involved with the Outfit?” I asked, not sure where the boundaries for our conversation lay, but he did not hesitate to answer.

“My voice isn’t as strong as it used to be, but I still am involved, yes.”

“You’re the consigliere, am I correct?”

“Yes, but as I said, my voice isn’t as strong anymore.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“There are some in my organization, some who want what I do not, and so they have managed to push me and my opinions to the back.”

“What do they want to do that you don’t, if you don’t mind my asking?”

His thin smile spread, showing his pure white teeth between the lips, up to his eyes. “That question is why I asked you here today. I fear we must cut our conversation short for the night.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled a folded sheet of paper. He held it in his slender fingers and passed it over to me.

On the paper was several names, some I recognized, like Sam Battaglia, John Cerone; most of those on the list were local figures in the mafia. Battaglia was the current head, Cerone figured as his successor. Some of the names were prominent in business, and some in politics, like the National Security Advisor Robert MacFarlane, Oliver North, a high-up in the Pentagon, and even the head of the CIA, George Bush. Arrows were drawn between the names, from the name at top, Bush, down through MacFarlane and North to the names from the Outfit. At the bottom was the word “Kennedy”.

Maybe I would win a damn Pulitzer. “Is this what I think it is?” I asked.

“We hear all this about conspiracies, in movies and books, but here, when faced with one, we’re not apt to see the truth. This is why I wanted you. Sure, I’ll get my memoirs written. I’m aware of my position in history. Some could say history acted through me, that I was but its agent. There are moments that all of history hinges on, that decide how everything else will turn out. I believe this is one of those moments. You’ve two options, as I see. You could have my friend James drive you to your paper’s office and you can publish this tory bright and early tomorrow morning, or you can call the authorities, and have them put a stop to it. It’s all about what you think is best. Perhaps, perhaps you’re such a mind that you have a third, or even a fourth option. I would hurry up in making your decision. President Kennedy will be heading to Dallas this weekend, and there are plenty of opportunities in that area for some things to go wrong.”

“Are you sure of this stuff?” I asked, barely able to get the words out.

“It’s as true as anything else.”

“Are you going to be okay if this stuff gets out?”

“Like I said, I’ve more than enough favors saved up to ensure my survival. Would you like James to give you a ride?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, the decision not a difficult one to make. I began to gather everything up, placing the slip of paper with all the history on it secure in my shirt pocket. Giancana raised a hand and one of the boxer-types, the one that greeted me earlier, came over.

“Would you give my friend here a ride to his office?” the Senator asked.

“Of course. Are you ready?” he asked me.

“Yeah, yeah I am.” I started to leave but turned back to Giancana. “When would you like to meet again for a more in-depth interview?”

He smiled, his perfect teeth shining despite the weak light. “How does a week from today sound?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything. I hope you had a good birthday.”

“Thank you,” he said, and I believe he meant it.

James led me out the backdoor to a flawless black Cadillac sedan. While we drove, neither of us spoke. I looked over the slip of paper many times, and I knew it was the truth.

Traffic was light during the late hour, so we crossed town relatively fast. He let me out on the curb with a nod. I wished him a good night.

Old Eddie Marsh was gone for the night, and he sounded upset when I called from the secretary’s telephone. When I told him the story was big, that it would double our numbers, he said he would be there in ten. I sat at his desk and used an old typewriter he kept in good order to scratch out the article, making sure to hit all the notes, getting everything I could gleam from the Senator’s gift out onto the page.

Eddie yelled, “Now what the happy (expletive deleted) (Editor’s note: I didn’t say that.) is all this about?” right when I finished up a good draft. He was wearing brown pajama bottoms under a black coat. I pulled the paper from the typewriter and shoved it in his face. He took a minute to read it, another for a second go, and then he looked up at me and asked, “Is this the truth?”

“Got it straight from the Senator. If it’s not, I’ll take all the blame, but you know it won’t come to that.”

“Front page. I’m bumping Woodward’s story about the mayor.”

“He’ll be pissed,” I said. I was smiling so big, oh, you should have seen it.

“(Expletive deleted) the little worm.” He took the article down to the nighttime editor to make sure it got in. When he came back, I was sitting on the small couch he kept in the office. He took off his jacket and threw it over his chair before sitting down. “What’s next?” he asked.

“I say you should call the Feds. Tell them, if they get off their collective asses, they can push a warrant through and have these guys in jail by breakfast.”

“What’re you going to do?” he asked.

“I’m heading down the street. Got enough time for some drinks.”

(Author’s note: Now how the happy hell did I not get a Pulitzer for this one?)