Max Collins - Majic Man

It had been a long day and I was about to hang it up when an attractive young mulatto woman, in her mid-twenties, exited a side door of Morris House, near the garage. She had a nervous manner: nothing extreme, just occasional furtive glances as if afraid somebody was watching her.

Which of course somebody was.

I recognized her, because I’d questioned Forrestal about his small household staff; this would be Della Brown, the maid. The others were a colored cook, Leon Parker, a Filipino houseboy (Remy something), and a white butler, Stanley Campbell, all live-in help. The Brown woman, who had this evening off, looked prepared to step out on the town, a milk-chocolate Veronica Lake in her clingy pink-and-black dress with pointed collars and keyhole neckline and bright nosegay at her waist; high heels and black patent leather clutch purse, too.

So why was she looking around like a kid sneaking down a rainspout?

A dish like this, going out on Saturday night, surely had a date; but nobody was picking her up. Maybe that was frowned on in this white neighborhood, a colored boy picking up a colored gal after work. Whatever the reason, she was on foot, crossing Prospect Street at the moment, and walking directly toward where I was parked.

I remained motionless as the Lincoln Monument, in my feigned nap, and she walked on by, pretty legs flashing under the pink-and-black dress. In my rearview mirror, I could see her rear view and it was like watching kittens wrestle in a burlap bag. If she was trying not to attract attention, she needed to find a whole new way of walking.

At the end of the block, she cut right, onto N Street, and when she’d disappeared around that corner, I followed; the night was cool and I’d thrown on a tan sportcoat. With so little traffic on the street and no other pedestrians, I could have been spotted by Helen Keller, so I had to play tiptoe anarchist and keep to the bushes and duck behind trees, staying a good half block behind her, on the opposite side of N Street as she made her way down, her high heels clicking like castanets. Fortunately, there were plenty of trees on this well-shaded street with its handsome Federal-style townhouses, but it was an endless block and made for nerve-racking work, particularly since she was glancing behind her now and then.

Finally she turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, leaving the residential neighborhood for the heart of Georgetown’s commercial district, where cafes, restaurants and bars were courting the remaining tourist trade. Now I had pedestrians to blend in with, storefront windows to catch her reflection in and otherwise conduct a normal tail; and before long she had headed into Martin’s Bar, which surprised me some.

I knew, from previous jobs I’d worked in this town, that Martin’s was Georgetown’s favorite political watering hole-more New Deal policy had been made over beers in this unpretentious joint than at cabinet meetings. What was Forrestal’s maid doing, dropping by the place where Tommy the Cork and Harry Hopkins changed the world while Georgetown students got boisterously blotto around them?

In Chicago, New York and Hollywood, barroom walls are festooned with photos of movie stars, stage actors and recording artists. The dark-paneled walls of Martin’s, like those of any respectable D.C. gin mill, were adorned with framed presidents, generals and cabinet officers.

The place was not hopping-this wasn’t a Saturday-night kind of bar, even lacking a jukebox-and for a moment I thought Miss Brown had made me, and ducked in here to slip a quick exit through the alley door. But then I spotted her, sitting in the farthest back booth, opposite a young guy in a brown suit, yellow tie and white skin.

Georgetown was looser than the rest of Washington about coloreds and whites mixing; but this was fairly bold. The emptiness of the bar was in their favor-in other booths, a few couples were having a drink after dinner or before a show, the bar stools empty, except for the one I perched myself on.

Was this the reason for Miss Brown’s furtive manner? A date with a white guy, a well-dressed, respectable-looking white guy at that….

I watched them in the mirror behind the bar. The red-vested bartender, a pudgy thirtyish guy with thinning brown hair and a name tag that said Tom, came over to take my order.

“Coke,” I said.

“Living dangerously, huh?”

“Not as dangerously as some.”

Tom caught on that I was watching the mixed-race couple in the back booth.

“Hey, we mind our own business around here.” But he had a gentle tinge of Southern accent that called his comment into question.

Tom went away to get my Coke and I watched the couple in the mirror. There was nothing lovey-dovey about it; the man-his face was an intelligent, not unpleasant oval dominated by a strong nose-seemed to be asking questions and Miss Brown seemed to be answering them. Their expressions were equally blank, though occasionally Miss Brown shrugged and her companion leaned forward and tightened his eyes and tried again.

The bartender brought my Coke and said, “Anyway, it’s not what you think.”

“It isn’t?”

He was whispering; and I was whispering back. That was how it was done in D.C.

“Naw. That guy’s a straight arrow. Hell, he’s a damn Mormon. Notice he’s not smokin’, plus he’s drinkin’ what you’re drinkin’.”

“Mormon, like in multiple wives?”

The bartender smirked. “He’s engaged to a nice white gal….”

“Just one?”

“You know who that is, sittin’ over there?”

“Lena Horne?”

“I mean the guy.”

“No. Who?”

“That’s Jack Anderson.”

“Who’s Jack Anderson?”

Tom shook his head and half-smiled. “You are from outa town. He’s Drew Pearson’s legman.”

“Oh, the columnist, you mean.”

“Yeah. The colored babe’s probably just a source. Anderson talks to all sorts of people, in here-generals, congressmen, you name it.”

“And usually on Saturday night, I’ll bet.”

Tom frowned a little. “How did you know that?”

“It’s the only night this joint isn’t crawling with politicos-also, Pearson’s weekly broadcast is Sunday night.”

Now he gave me the other half of the smile. “Maybe you’re not from outa town.”

Anderson was handing Miss Brown an envelope. She tucked it in her purse and exited the booth without a goodbye; he watched her go with the thin, world-weary smile of a priest exiting a confessional. Through the front colonial bay windows I watched her pink-and-black dress hike pleasantly up as she raised an arm to hail a taxi; soon she headed off to her real date, with some lucky colored fella, no doubt.

Drew Pearson’s man was still in that back booth, with his notebook out and pencil in hand, doing what many a good investigator does after a sensitive interview: taking down his notes afterward.

I took my Coke with me and wandered over.

Flipping his spiral notepad shut, he glanced up with a guarded blankness and, in a rich baritone that had some edge to it, asked, “Do I know you?”

I was leaning against the side of the booth. “No, but we have a mutual friend … or anyway a mutual boss.”

His eyes were a deceptively placid light blue, the cool blue of a mountain stream; they fixed themselves on me, unblinking. “Do we.” It wasn’t exactly a question.

“I did a job for Pearson in Chicago a while back,” I said. “When he did that rackets expose. My name’s Heller.”

The thin skeptical line of his mouth curved into something friendlier. “Nate Heller…. Drew’s mentioned you.”

“And you’d be Jack Anderson.”

He was nodding as I extended my hand, which he took and shook, firmly but not obnoxiously.