Counting to Infinity

by J. L. Abramo

  “How long will that take, Jake?”

  “I have no idea, Darlene. Maybe I’ll get lucky, I’ll go visit Max Lansdale and he won’t remember who I am or he’ll tell me it was all a joke. I can’t simply ignore it; I can’t sit here waiting for the phone to ring or for Ralph Battle to pop back in.”

  “You’re going to need help, Jake.”

  “I can’t think of anyone who’s available right at the moment, unless you think that taking Vinnie along is a good idea.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Yes, Darlene.”

  “I wish Joey Russo wasn’t down in the Islands. You know that if you called him he’d come running. I’m sure Vinnie knows how to get in touch with Joey, in the event of a basil-plant emergency.”

  “I’ll be all right, Darlene. Just keep on your toes while I’m gone. I’ve got Tom Romano keeping an eye out for Sally; if you want I can ask him to look in on you.”

  “That’s okay; I have my trusty guard dog.”

  “Funny. Make sure you have Tom’s number handy just in case.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “I’ll fly into Chicago later today, get a car and a motel, and get started first thing in the morning.”

  “And you’ll see Sally before you go?”

  “Yes. I will. Thanks,” I said. “And now I have a few phone calls to make.”

  I picked up the coffee mug and went back to my desk to check in with Tom Romano, make airline arrangements, and find out if Sally French was free for lunch.

  “That was quick, Jake,” said Tom Romano when I rang him up at his office. “How did it go down in L.A.?”

  “Not very well for me, a lot worse for Riddle. He told me what he was supposed to tell me and then someone, I’m guessing Lansdale, shut him up for good.”

  “Dead?”

  “Extremely.”

  “Did you get with Boyle?”

  “It’s a long story, Tom. And if I took the time to tell you everything I know, then there would be two of us holding a lot of worthless information.”

  “Gotcha. So what can I do for you?”

  “The names Joe Clams or Rosario mean anything to you?”

  “Chicago?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “There was a Louie Clams I’ve heard tell of, came up in the Capone organization, or at least what became of it after Frank Nitti killed himself. I don’t know where the nickname Clams came from, just that he butted heads with the Giancanas a few times and then disappeared. No one knew if he left crime, left Chicago, or left the planet,” Romano said. “This was way back in the fifties, like ancient history.”

  “Any real name to go with the alias?” I asked.

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “Could it have been Rosario?”

  “Could have been anything. I’ve got a friend in Chicago, Eddie Hand. He does what we do for a living, if you can call this living. Eddie is a student of Chicago history. If you gave him a call, he might be able to fill in the blanks.”

  “He wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” Tom said. “Eddie loves to talk.”

  “Sure. Let me have his number, maybe I’ll look him up when I get up there.”

  “You’re going back to Chicago?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Want me to keep keeping an eye on Sally?” Romano asked.

  “I’d appreciate it, Tom. And I know it’s a lot to ask, but maybe you could do the same for Darlene. After what happened to Stan Riddle, I’m not feeling any better about there being goons like Ralph Battle on the loose.”

  “No problem, Jake. I have enough time and extra help to watch out for the women. Just watch your own back. Let me know if I can do anything else.”

  I thanked Tom and called to reserve a seat on a late-afternoon flight to O’Hare.

  Then I called Sally to ask if she could meet me at Black Cat for lunch.

  Black Cat had gone through a number of reincarnations during its three years nestled between the strip joints on Broadway.

  The latest was as a French bistro, a little touch of Paris not far from my office in North Beach. Sally said she could meet me at one, so I walked over fifteen minutes early to try to grab a table in back.

  Sally was wearing white, and watching her glide across the black-and-white-tiled floor was mesmerizing. She gave me a peck on the cheek before taking her seat and got right down to brass tacks.

  “What’s the occasion, pal?” she said.

  “Wine?” I asked.

  “Only when all else fails.”

  The waiter brought menus and I ordered two glasses of chardonnay.

  We decided to share the crab stew, with sides of pommes frites with garlic aioli and broccoli rabe.

  Between spoonfuls I told her about Max Lansdale’s threats.

  “That’s not happy news,” Sally said. “Is this guy seriously dangerous?”

  “Recent events in Santa Monica would indicate so.”

  Sally French’s biggest complaint about my work, once she got past the stage of considering it life-wasting, which was unfortunately after our two-year marriage ended in divorce, was the danger involved. I continually assured her that what I did wasn’t all that risky.

  Having to tell Sally that she might be in peril was no fun.

  “I’m off to Chicago in a few hours to see if I can somehow straighten it out,” I said. “In the meanwhile I’ve asked Tom Romano to keep an eye on you. Don’t worry about Tom; you won’t even know he’s watching.”

  “That’s a comforting thought.”

  “You have no idea how sorry I am about this, Sally,” I said.

  “I have some idea,” she said. “I’d have a better idea if you would order the crème brûlée.”

  “If I throw in the orange profiteroles with caramel ice cream and fudge sauce,” I said, “can I get a ride to the airport?”

  Seven

  I landed at O’Hare just before eight and walked toward the terminal exit. I had taken only as much as I could carry on, actually the same bag I had packed for the trip down to Santa Monica that I had never dipped into. All I had added to my wardrobe was the knee-length Harris Tweed, which I had dug out of the back of my closet. The heavy wool coat had been referred to, depending on the San Francisco neighborhood where I sported it, as everything from a lovely piece of vintage outerwear to a horse blanket. To me it was simply my father’s topcoat.

  When I reached the unsafe side of the security area, a tall, handsome fifty-something character straight out of a James T. Farrell novel walked directly to me and asked if I was Jake Diamond. Either the man recognized me from a B film I’d done in my short Hollywood career, or he was there to meet me.

  Since he wasn’t holding out a pen and paper for an autograph, and since he didn’t fit the physical profile of someone that Max Lansdale might send to welcome me back to Chicago if Ralph Battle was occupied breaking someone’s thumbs, I confessed.

  “Lucky guess?” I said.

  “Eddie Hand,” he said, reaching out an arm. “Do you have anything to pick up at the luggage claim?”

  “This is it,” I said, accepting the handshake.

  “Good man,” he said. “Let’s beat it out of this place.”

  I nearly had to skip to keep up with him.

  I followed Hand out to a gold 1986 Pontiac Bonneville coupe in the short-term parking area and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Where to?” I said, though I thought he should have been asking.

  He threw the turbo-glide transmission into drive.

  “I have a spare bedroom in my house that you can use while you’re up here,” Eddie said. “I insist.”

  Eddie’s small stucco two-story house was on Seminary Avenue between West Eddy and West Cornelia streets in north Chicago, less than two blocks south of Wrigley Field. I followed him up the stone steps and into the front room.

  “Yours is the bedroom on the left,” he said, indicating the stairs. �
�Drop your bag up there, lose the coat, and I’ll fix a couple of drinks. George Dickel on ice sound okay?”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  Tom Romano had come through for me in a big way.

  “I’ve got some homemade lentil soup heating up on the stove,” Eddie said when I came back down. He handed me a drink and invited me to sit on one of two overstuffed armchairs in the living room and took the other. “While we wait, I hear that you’re interested in the life and times of Louie Clams.”

  The story went like this.

  Louis Vongoli grew up in Cicero, just east of Chicago, where members of the Capone crime family had located to avoid the law of the big city, where Chicago mayor Big Bill Thompson and later Mayor Anton Cermak waged war against organized crime, not to stop it, but to gain control of its rewards.

  After Capone was imprisoned, Frank Nitti took control of the Chicago mob. Although Nitti kept an office on North LaSalle in downtown Chicago, he made his home in Riverside just east of Cicero. In December 1932, Chicago detective Henry Lang, a member of Mayor Chermak’s “Special Squad,” attempted to assassinate Nitti at the North LaSalle office. Nitti took six bullets but he survived. Testimony later revealed that the hit was ordered by Mayor Cermak in an attempt to take over the entire syndicate that Capone and Nitti had built.

  Cicero and Riverside became safe havens for Nitti and his men, while Cermak and his partners stepped up their assault on the Italians with all the resources of the Chicago Police Department.

  In February 1933, while Cermak sat in an open car with President-elect Franklin Delano Roosevelt during a parade in Miami, a gunman fired five shots at the limousine, hitting four people and the mayor. Although the incident was reported as an attempt on the life of Roosevelt, the fact that the shooter was an Italian immigrant named Giuseppe Zangara suggested the possibility that Cermak had been the target. Cermak died three weeks later, and Zangara was electrocuted just thirteen days after Cermak’s death.

  Giovanni Vongoli worked in the train yards in Cicero. Vongoli was killed in an accident while unloading cargo in 1934. Giovanni’s only son, Louis, was fourteen years old.

  To help support his widowed mother, Louis ran errands, shined shoes, washed windows, swept bars and restaurants, and sold newspapers on the streets of Cicero.

  Louie also began a life of petty crime, from stealing coal from the train yards to heat their small apartment to stealing food from restaurant kitchens accessed from back alleys.

  One day Louie was nabbed by one of Frank Nitti’s men after grabbing a large porterhouse from the kitchen of a mob-operated steakhouse. Louie was given two choices: have his legs broken and his mother thrown out on the street, or pick up and deliver numbers bets. So at fifteen, Louie began running numbers. Since vongoli is the Italian word for clams, Louie soon had an official nickname.

  “The soup should be hot enough,” Eddie said. “Let’s move into the kitchen.”

  At the kitchen table, Eddie and I ate soup and drank bourbon. Eddie took breaks between mouthfuls to continue.

  “In 1943 Frank Nitti was facing a prison sentence. Nitti had been imprisoned before, for tax evasion, and swore he would never be locked up again. He committed suicide. With the disorganization that Nitti’s death caused, Louie Clams took the opportunity to go out on his own.”

  “By the late forties, Louie had built a very profitable numbers racket in Cicero with a small group of handpicked cohorts. At the same moment, the Giancana family was also taking advantage of the world war and Nitti’s demise and establishing a stronghold in Chicago. It was only a matter of time until they turned a greedy eye to all of the money that was being made in Cicero. Louie Clams tried to resist a takeover, but wasn’t strong enough. When one of Louie’s men killed a favorite of Sam Giancana’s, word came down that Louie Clams was marked for death and that his family was in danger.

  “Louie Clams took his wife and his small son and fled to California, changing his name before settling in San Francisco.”

  “Changing his name to what?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” Eddie answered.

  “But Carla Rosario was his daughter.”

  “Carla was born after the family left Cicero. Rosario was her mother’s maiden name. She took it when she came to Chicago for law school. I doubt that anyone made the connection until after she was killed, when the name Joe Clams came up in the case of Randolph Lansdale’s murder. How about some coffee?” Eddie asked, carrying the empty bowls to the sink. “I have some good Italian espresso.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said.

  Eddie started a flame under the pot of coffee on the stove top. He uncovered a large tin of anisette toast and carried it over to the table. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn that my mother had shipped it over.

  “It will be very difficult if not impossible to find Joe Clams, Jake, unless he wants to be found. The name he grew up with has been a secret for fifty years. I understand you came to try to buy more time from Max Lansdale, but I’m afraid that no amount of time will be time enough. And Max Lansdale is not a patient man, and he’s pretty well connected.”

  “I thought his old man severed those connections.”

  “He more or less did, but apparently Max Lansdale was approached around the time of his father’s death and he has been involved ever since,” Eddie said, pouring the coffee into demitasse cups.

  “But I was told that Max hired Harry Chandler to find out if his brother Randolph was picking up where his father had left off.”

  “Randolph was like a carbon copy of his father, and totally devoted to the old man. If Simon Lansdale told Randolph to stay clear of the Italians, Randolph wouldn’t have dreamed of going against his father’s wishes,” Eddie said. “Max Lansdale, on the other hand, was less interested in the position his father had risen to and more fascinated by the means that his father had used to get there to begin with.”

  “Then Max hiring Chandler to investigate his brother doesn’t make sense.”

  “Not to me, but this is the first time I’ve heard it,” Eddie said, “and a PI from L.A., like Chandler, wouldn’t see the contradiction.”

  “But why would Max Lansdale throw suspicion on his brother in the first place? Why open up a can of worms?”

  “Good question. Here’s another. I was watching a movie the other night and one of the characters brought up an interesting point. You’ve seen King Kong, right?”

  “A hundred times.”

  “The islanders built a tall wall around their village to keep Kong out. So why did they put a door in the thing large enough for the ape to walk through?”

  “I’ll have to think about that one,” I said.

  “You must be very tired,” said Eddie Hand. “I know I am. I have an idea or two about how to approach Lansdale; we can pick this up in the morning. There are clean towels in the linen closet outside the bathroom. Go on up and get some sleep.”

  “Thanks for everything, Eddie,” I said. “Your generosity is overwhelming.”

  “Tom Romano assured me that you’d do the same.”

  “Anytime,” I said, and started for the stairs.

  “Sleep well,” Eddie said.

  “I don’t know about that—I’ll probably be up all night thinking about Fay Wray.”

  Eight

  The following morning, Eddie and I walked over to the Salt and Pepper Diner on North Clark, a block from Eddie’s house and that much closer to Wrigley Field. We sat at the counter. I was working on a very decent bacon and Swiss omelet and Eddie was tearing toast into small squares and mixing the pieces into his bowl of soft-boiled eggs.

  “How do you like living so close to the stadium?” I asked.

  “Love it. I grew up in that house. My father was head groundskeeper at Wrigley. I’ve got a basement full of autographed baseballs; my Ernie Banks’ would flood the market. We used to play Little League on a grass field on North Wilton, and we could hear the fans at Wrigley singing ‘The Star-Spangl
ed Banner’ before their game.”

  “What do you know about the Randolph Lansdale shooting?” I asked him after we’d polished off the food.

  “The basics,” Eddie said. “Chandler, the PI from L.A., was identified from a photo. The Chicago PD reached out to L.A. and Chandler was killed in a shoot-out with the LAPD.”

  “Did that close the Lansdale murder case up here?” I asked.

  “For all practical purposes. Of course there was no trial or conviction, and all they had was a photograph and testimony from Lansdale’s brother and the receptionist, but it seemed to be enough to move the Chicago cops on to other cases. I’m sure that there’s still a file somewhere in the bowels of the department, and it should be public domain if you wanted to check it out. Have you thought about how you’re going to approach Max Lansdale?”

  “Some,” I said, “but you mentioned that you had an idea or two of your own and I’m wide open.”

  “Okay. I’m going to make assumptions based on talking with Tom Romano,” Eddie said. “First, I’m guessing you’re more concerned about the safety of your women friends than you are about your own safety.”

  “That would be correct,” I said.

  “At the same time, you wouldn’t mind getting your head off the chopping block. At least for a while.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Third,” said Eddie, “you’re probably thinking that it wouldn’t hurt to know a little more of what Lansdale isn’t telling you.”

  “You’re batting a thousand.”

  “And you’d be a lot more comfortable, for lack of a better word, if you could chat with Lansdale without Ralph Battle hovering over your shoulder.”