Max Collins - Majic Man

“I guess I can’t blame you for being bitter, but I think your husband really does need some help. Or anyway, a good long rest-and maybe a little understanding.”

She laughed, once. “Excuse me while I fucking puke, Judge Hardy! I like you better when you’re doing Bogart. Jim made his own bed; let him fuck and lie in it.”

“Did you ever consider maybe he really is under surveillance?”

Her eyes and nostrils flared as she leaned forward. “You mean, like I was? By the Reds? See, that’s typical; typical! A woman says that, and she’s a goddamn maniac! A man, a powerful man like Jim, well there’s either something to it, or maybe he just needs a little resty-bye. And understanding.”

“Jo, it’s not Jim’s imagination that Drew Pearson’s been out to get him. Is your maid working today?”

“No. It’s her day off.”

“Make some excuse and fire her. The girl’s feeding information to Pearson’s guy, Jack Anderson.”

“What? Fuck!” She flew to her feet and hurled her glass against the wall, narrowly missing a framed Currier amp; Ives, taking a chunk out of the painted plaster. It wasn’t anywhere near me, but I ducked reflexively, anyway.

“That little nigger bitch!” she shrieked. “And to think I treated her like a daughter!”

The Filipino houseboy, summoned by the crash of glass, peeked his head around the corner, observed the cursing Mrs. Forrestal, and disappeared like a turtle into its shell.

She raved and ranted as she crossed the Axminster carpet to a liquor cart, building herself a martini, surprisingly heavy on the vermouth. Then in mid-rant she stopped, turned and said, with no apparent irony, “I don’t mean to be a shitty hostess. Can I get you something to drink, Nate?”

“No thanks.”

“You think I won’t drink alone?”

She was drinking before I got here, but all I said was, “Just a little early in the day for me. Don’t let me stop you.”

“I’d like to see you try to stop me,” she said acidly, strolling back to her chair, sipping from the tumbler. “That fucking Pearson, anyway. You have a gun, don’t you?”

“Not on me.”

She sat again, tucking her legs back under her. “Well, you’re on the job-why don’t you go get it and do the world a favor and shoot that evil cocksucker.”

“That’s extra.”

She laughed hysterically at that, tears rolling down her apple cheeks.

“It wasn’t that funny, Jo.”

“I know,” she said, and her laughter stopped cold, like a switch had been thrown. Her face tightened with rage, but she was controlled as she said, “Do you know what that son of a bitch Pearson said about me? That I was a snob for enlisting Mainbocher! A snob!”

“Who’s Mainbocher?”

“You are hopelessly unschooled, aren’t you? Mainbocher is only one of finest purveyors of fashion in the world, you dumb fucking cluck. And I got him to help me design new uniforms for the Waves! Which are so much more chic than those Wac rags; but that bald bastard Pearson has the balls to criticize me for it!”

I was vaguely aware that Forrestal had attempted to involve Jo, to make her feel she had a role in Washington, and the war effort; and it didn’t surprise me that Pearson had crucified her for it.

Her eyebrows rose and the big eyes got huge. “You know what I was being paid to be a consultant to the Waves? Nothing! Not a red fucking cent! So I quit…. I told Jim he could fight the goddamn war by himself, and Pearson and the rest of the columnists could kiss my ass!”

“Was that columnists or Communists?”

Her expression froze, and then she broke out into brittle, near-hysterical laughter. Holding her stomach, rocking in the easy chair, laughing. I was a riot today. Maybe Jack Benny needed a new writer.

“Oh, I could use you around here, Nate. You would definitely cheer me up. You wanna go to Florida with us?”

“Jim wants me to, but I’m not sure …”

“We have separate bedrooms down there, just like up here. You can slip into my room late, and fuck me till my eyes pop out of my head.”

“Well, that’s nice to know …”

“And no one the wiser, not that anyone would give a shit.” She rose and wobbled over to me and sat in my lap. “Of course, there’s always right now-upstairs. Jim won’t be home till after that banquet tonight, and I’ll be long gone, on my way to Florida.”

She was long gone now.

Her hands were locked behind my neck as she wiggled her bottom into my lap. “Or are those awful little men of yours still snooping about?”

The scent of Chanel No. 5, and her still slenderly appealing figure, almost made it tempting, no matter how drunk she was. But in a way I still thought she was bluffing: those years of “open marriage,” with Forrestal banging half the good-looking broads in D.C., were a one-sided affair. That was my instinct, anyway.

“Jo, you’re a lovely woman,” I said, not exactly lying. “But let’s not rush things.”

“Why? Which of us is getting younger?”

I kissed her, tenderly, and it wasn’t half bad. “Let’s wait for a better moment.”

She shrugged. “All right,” she said, in a small voice, slipping off my lap. But once she got on her feet, she bellowed, “It’s your fucking loss!”

Then she wheeled and pointed a finger right at me; remarkably, it didn’t tremble at all. Auntie Jo wanted me.

“Did it ever occur to you, shithead, that maybe I had the idea people were after me because my husband made me think that? He’s been nuts longer than I have! He was the one who saw Reds under the bed! I just caught the sickness from him, I just didn’t wear it as well as he did … still waters running deep and all. Because I’m a little more outgoing than he is, because I’m a mother and got concerned about my children being kidnapped, because I believed the paranoid rambling fucking delusions of a man who was supposed to be a goddamn fucking tower of strength, a powerful man who oughta know whether somebody’s out to fucking get us or not, well then … what was the question?”

“I don’t think I asked one.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Don’t mind if you do what?”

“Have another drink.”

And she ambled over to the liquor cart and built herself another one; again, the vermouth outdistanced the gin, but that didn’t help much, as many as she was throwing down.

“So,” she said, falling into the chair but not spilling a drop, “is anybody really trying to kill the great former Secretary Forrestal?”

“I don’t believe so, no…. I, uh, think I’m gonna see how my men are doing.”

“You do that. You do that.”

I did that, and when I came back, she’d fallen asleep in the chair. Her tumbler-which was empty-I plucked from her hands and set on the coffee table.

When she woke up, a little over two hours later, with a kind of spasm, eyes snapping wide open, she asked, “What time is it?”

“Three-fifteen,” I said, checking my wristwatch.

I was sitting on the sofa, reading an old issue of Time with her husband’s picture on it. Bob Hasty and Jack Randolph had pronounced the residence free of bugs-at least the electronic kind-and were fifteen minutes gone.

“Shit!” She slapped the arms of the easy chair. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Was I supposed to?”

She jack-in-the-boxed to her feet, glaring at me. “My flight’s in an hour; cab’ll be here any minute.”

She hustled off, almost ran up the steps, and came down several minutes later, with a flowing black jacket over her white blouse and black slacks; she’d added some jewelry-black-and-white round earrings, a jeweled brooch, some rings-and had freshened her makeup. It wasn’t hard to remember that she had once been extremely beautiful, enough so to pose for Vogue.