Max Collins - Majic Man

Pearson was pretty spiffy himself, wearing a gray homburg, dapperly angled and a shade darker than his striped tropical worsted suit, which was enlivened by a blue tie with a brown-and-yellow bird motif. How he kept his hat on, in the wind his rapid driving stirred up, was a mystery this Sherlock Holmes couldn’t solve-glue? Chewing gum? Masking tape?

“Pull over and talk, and be the prey of some lip-reader?” Pearson asked archly, bulleting through a yellow light. “I don’t think so, Nathan…. Besides, driving relaxes me. Helps me think.”

Though I was on the clock, it was Saturday and I was casually dressed, a brown-and-white checked sportjacket over a ribbed sky-blue T-shirt. My hat, a light brown Southwest Flight, was at my feet, or it would’ve taken flight, southwest or otherwise.

“Yeah, it helps me think, too,” I said. “Like, I think you’re gonna kill us both if you don’t slow down.”

I had stayed underground-in Vegas, with an old girlfriend of mine, who worked in the chorus line at the Flamingo-for three weeks. Checking in on a daily basis with my office, I learned that no inquiries about my whereabouts had come from government sources, or any suspicious sources, for that matter; the office was swept for electronic bugs and phone taps every second day-clean as a freshly bathed baby’s butt. Lou Sapperstein-my former boss on the pickpocket detail, and current employee, a turnabout I never ceased to relish-had determined to his satisfaction that neither the office nor my apartment was under any kind of surveillance.

And, every day when I phoned in, I asked if we’d heard from Maria Selff about where she’d been transferred-and every day, no word from her. I had Lou, pretending to be doing a credit check, call the Walker Air Base hospital, where he learned the nurse had indeed been transferred but requests for her whereabouts would have to go “through channels.”

I wasn’t too concerned about this; Maria was probably distancing herself from me, in case she and her movements (and even calls) were being monitored. When the time was right, I figured, I would hear from her. Our relationship had been brief, yes, but also intense; and something genuine had passed between us, besides bodily fluids.

With Sapperstein’s reassurances that the coast was clear-or anyway, the lakeshore-I’d returned to the A-1 offices in Chicago’s Loop. There, somewhat unnervingly, the first phone call for me on my first day back was from a government source, out of Washington, D.C., no less: it was one of Forrestal’s Bethesda shrinks, Dr. Bernstein, who had added a second reason for me making the trip, beyond reporting in to Pearson.

“You will be pleased to know,” the shrink said, the middle-European accent giving his voice a lilt, “that your former client is doing very well.”

“That is good news.”

“Is there a possibility you’ll be coming to D.C., soon? Mr. Forrestal would be comforted by a visit from you.”

“Well, I do have pending business. In fact, I should be there next week.”

“Good. Excellent. Call me when you get to town, and I’ll see to it that your name is on the visitors list.”

And now, five days later, I was back in our nation’s capital, with our nation’s most feared commentator, aimlessly driving the beautifully paved web of streets in the midst of which the White House sat like a lovely spider. An appointment had been arranged by Dr. Bernstein and I would see Jim Forrestal in his tower room at Bethesda this afternoon, at two.

Pearson had similarly upbeat news about Forrestal to report. “You’ll be pleased to hear that your other client is on the road to recovery. Gaining his weight back. Truman visited him and pronounced Jim Forrestal ‘his old self,’ if that’s a good thing.”

“Would you prefer he stay sick in the head?”

A sneer lifted one waxed mustache tip. “I believe James Forrestal’s been sick in his soul a lot longer. I want him to stay out of politics, but rumor is Truman’s planning to give him some important government post.”

I snorted a laugh, leaning an arm where the window was rolled down. “I doubt that, not straight outa the loony bin. Why don’t you lay off the guy, anyway? Jesus, it’s fuckin’ overkill.”

This only amused my dapper chauffeur, who was guiding the Buick around Dupont Circle, as if rounding a curve at the Indy 500. “Still singing that sad song, Nathan? Overkill’s a necessity in my business; the public has a notoriously short memory-repetition’s the only cure. Anyway, I’m the one you should feel sorry for-I’m the one getting the hate mail.”

“Gee, I wonder why. You really know how to please a crowd, Drew-beating on a guy when he’s down.”

Soon we were on Connecticut Avenue, with traffic heavy enough to keep Pearson’s speedometer within reason, in the thick of older buildings and homes converted to charming and probably expensive specialty shops-art dealers, antique stores, boutiques, high-class markets and bookstores.

Just north of M Street, we were paused in backed-up traffic next to a bronze statue in the middle of a grassy dividing triangle, a majestic male figure in academic robes seated in a chair with a book in one hand and a pigeon on his head (the latter not a part of the statue proper).

“Longfellow,” Pearson said, noticing me eyeballing the striking statue. “The poet.”

“Didn’t figure him for a soldier or a politician, not that the pigeons care, either way. Reminds me! Pull over there, would you?”

“Why?”

I was pointing to an open parking space in front of Jefferson Place Books. “I need to pick something up.”

“All right, but make it quick-I have a luncheon date, at the Cosmos Club, with Averell Harriman, and you have less than an hour to make your report.”

Before long I was back in the convertible, my purchase in a plain brown paper bag.

“Forever Amber?” Pearson asked with a smirk and one raised eyebrow. “Or I, the Jury” ?

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

As he pulled back into traffic, Pearson took one hand off the wheel to reach over and rustle at the brown paper bag, and peek in. “Poetry? Nathan Heller?”

“It’s a gift-for Jim Forrestal.”

“Touching. You must feel terribly guilty, taking money from the villain who put that patriot in the mental ward.”

Taking money from Pearson never bothered me other than the small amounts involved-but the son of a bitch was closer than he knew. I’d spoken to Dr. Bernstein again, yesterday afternoon, after checking in at the Ambassador, and he had once more stressed how well Jim Forrestal was doing, though he clearly had reservations.

“Both Dr. Raines and I are in general very pleased,” Bernstein had told me over the phone. “There’s been a marked improvement in Mr. Forrestal’s condition; he’s responding well to treatment.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“His moods of depression are still with him, however-he’s fine through the week, but by Saturday and Sunday, he’s descended into a state of nervous agitation and anxiety.”

“Why is that?”

“Consider it yourself, Mr. Heller-what happens on Sunday night?”

I winced. “Drew Pearson’s radio show,” I said. “Don’t tell me you guys let him listen to it!”

“We don’t allow him to listen to the radio at all, Mr. Heller-but on Monday morning, if I do not give Mr. Forrestal an oral summary of the broadcast, he becomes extremely agitated.”

“I wish I could convince Pearson to back off.”

“Mr. Heller, you touch on the very reason why I want you to see Mr. Forrestal.”

“What’s that?”

“You just let slip, yourself, that you and Pearson are in contact.”

“Well, I, uh …”