Max Collins - Majic Man

“That sounds like a friendly gesture to me.”

“I don’t think it was. Leva said Symington told Jim, emphatically, ‘There’s something we must talk about.’”

“So what did they talk about?”

“Leva doesn’t know; Symington insisted on privacy. But James was a different man after that ride-Symington must have said something that shattered whatever remained of James’ defenses, that double-dealing son of a bitch.”

A crazy thought flitted through my mind: Symington, as the Secretary of the Air Force, would surely know about the Roswell incident. Could that “something important” he had to discuss with Forrestal have had to do with a recovered flying saucer and the bodies of little green men?

And, having had that thought, who the hell was I to question Jim Forrestal’s sanity?

Eberstadt was saying, “I’m really worried about James. Can you stay there with him?”

“Sure.”

“You know, this assistant of his, Leva, called me over at the Capitol, had me paged, really concerned. After sitting there for an hour or so, like you’re witnessing-just staring and muttering, ‘You’re a loyal fellow’-James finally asked Leva to call for his car; he wanted to go home. And that was a problem.”

“Why?”

“James doesn’t have an official car, anymore. It’s Louis Johnson’s now; and Leva was afraid if he called a cab, it might upset his boss. So I got Vannevar Bush to send over his chauffeured limo.”

“Who?”

“Bush, Vannevar Bush.”

Christ-Bush was one of the Majestic Twelve! That atom bomb scientist Pearson mentioned who, with Forrestal, was part of the top-secret research and development group supposedly investigating the “flying saucer problem.”

Maybe Jo Forrestal was right: maybe paranoia was catching.

“I can’t get away for half an hour, at the least,” Eberstadt was saying. “Will you stay with James, till I can get there?”

“Won’t let him out of my sight.”

“Good man.”

I hung up, went back into the living room, where Forrestal’s posture hadn’t changed.

“Take off your hat and stay awhile,” I said, gently.

He gazed at me, gray-blue eyes in a gray face; there was something lizardlike about it.

Gently, I removed his hat, tossed it next to mine on the coffee table. Then I sat opposite him and said, “I need to make my report. Jim, are you listening?”

He blinked, several times. “Nate Heller,” he said, obviously noticing my presence for the first time.

“Hi, Jim. All right with you if I let you know what I came up with?”

His nod was barely perceptible.

“You’re aware that we did a full sweep of the house for electronic surveillance, yesterday? You got the note I left to that effect?”

Another barely perceptible nod.

“Well, I used the best men in the city; they didn’t find a damn thing. On the other hand, I have learned that Pearson was bribing one of your household staff-Della Brown-for any tidbits of personal gossip; I told Jo yesterday, and, obviously, recommended firing the girl.”

He said nothing; but at least he did seem to be listening.

“Now, I’ve learned that the Secret Service has been keeping your home under surveillance. That’s not because they wish you ill, quite the opposite. They learned of your fears that someone was trying to ‘get’ you, and-much as I have-they investigated.”

His eyes left my face, dropping to the silver bowl, where he could stare at his reflection, and it could stare back at him.

“So, you were right, Jim-you were being watched; and your suspicions about Pearson were, to some degree, well placed. But I’ve found no indication at all that your life is in any danger.”

The single line of his mouth twitched in something that was almost a smile. “Really?” He rose, as fluidly and slowly as Bela Lugosi waking up in his coffin. He crooked his finger. “Come with me.”

I followed him to the window across the room; he parted a blind and said, softly, “On the corner.”

On that same bench I’d inhabited not so long ago, in front of the weathered gray-brick colonial house with the tours and the coffee shop, sat a couple of pasty-faced kids in their early twenties wearing colorful but soiled T-shirts and dingy jeans and tennis shoes. They were either out of work or avoiding it, and when the next cop came along, they’d no doubt be told to shove off.

“Russians,” Forrestal said ominously, and let the blinds snap shut.

“I kind of doubt that, Jim,” I said.

His head swiveled and he fixed narrowed eyes upon me. “They were waiting for me when I got home.”

The doorbell rang and he jumped; but hell, so did I.

The houseboy, moving quickly, went to answer it. Couldn’t be Eberstadt already, could it?

“I know you mean well, Nate,” Forrestal said quietly, taking me by the arm, “but you haven’t found the truth. They’re after me, they’re still after me.”

“Who?”

“All of them. All of those I’ve opposed.”

“A conspiracy, you mean?”

He squeezed my arm. “Exactly. Commies, Russians, Jews, as well as certain … parties in the White House. That’s why they’ve fooled you: you’re looking for one villain. But it’s all of them-in concert.”

Maybe I could start my new investigation at the Water Gate band shell.

“They’ve united against me,” he said, “their common enemy.”

I could hear the muffled sound of the houseboy dealing with somebody at the front door.

Still latching onto my arm, Forrestal whispered into my ear: “They’re probably in the house right now, some of them.”

“They’re not in this house, Jim.”

“Keep your voice down. Don’t you know this house is wired?”

“It’s not wired. My men went over it, I told you, stem to stern.”

His eyes tightened and so did his grip on my arm. “If you don’t lower your voice, I’ll be forced to ask you to leave.”

Remy stood nervously at the archway. “There is a man want to see him.”

The houseboy was addressing me, pointing to his boss.

Forrestal clutched my arm, desperately. “I won’t see anyone.”

I extricated myself, gently, saying, “I’ll talk to him, Jim. Just take it easy.”

The man on the front stoop was short, plump, with a receding hairline, wire-frame glasses, and though it was a cool afternoon, sweat beaded his round face. He wore a crumpled-looking brown off-the-rack business suit and a blue-and-red tie and carried a battered briefcase.

“I need to see Mr. Forrestal,” the man said in a thick Southern accent.

“That’s impossible right now.”

“I’m Phil Dingel-from North Carolina?”

Oh, well, hell-that changed everything.

“Look, sir,” I said. “Mr. Forrestal is not available.”

“But he knows me-I was an alternate delegate from North Carolina … at the convention in ’48? And Mr. Forrestal promised he’d throw his support my way for my appointment to postmaster, back home.”

“You want to be postmaster, huh?”

“Why, yes!”

“Then write him a letter,” I said, and shut the door in his face. Fucking political worm.

In the living room, Forrestal was watching at the window, blinds again parted; his face was clenched. “See! You see, Nate?”

I took a look. The plump would-be Podunk postmaster, who had worse timing than a pregnant teenager waiting for her period, had stopped to talk to the two unshaven vagrant kids on the bench.

“You see, he’s one of them,” Forrestal said excitedly. “They’re everywhere!”

“Let me check into it,” I said easily.

Soon I was cutting across the street, approaching the boys on the bench. They were both skinny with greasy hair, bad complexions, and worse attitudes.