Max Collins - Majic Man

“Mind if I sit with you for a few seconds?” I asked. “I know you’re probably up against deadline, getting ready for the Sunday broadcast …”

His smile was almost boyish as he nodded and gestured for me to take the seat across from him in the booth. “Yeah, I’ll really be burnin’ the midnight oil. I’m tied up with church all day Sunday-like every Sunday-and have to get my work done tonight, to make sure my contribution to the show’s up to date.”

Settling in across from him, I saluted him with my Coke glass. “You must be good, if you don’t work Sundays and Pearson hired you anyway. Either that or you work cheap.”

He grinned. “Little of both. What brings you to Washington, Mr. Heller?”

“We’ll make it ‘Nate’ and ‘Jack,’ if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure,” he said, still somewhat guarded; he was young, but he was a newsman.

I said, “I’m doing a job for Jim Forrestal.”

His grin froze, then melted a little; something around his eyes tightened. “Really. What sort of job?”

“I don’t know if I should be giving Drew Pearson’s man that information. I mean, for months now, your boss has been dragging poor ol’ Forrestal by the short hairs behind your ‘Washington Merry-Go-Round.’”

Which was the name of Pearson’s syndicated column.

Anderson thought that over; for a young guy, he had a lot of poise. Finally he asked quietly, with just a hint of menace, “Does Jim Forrestal realize he’s hired an investigator who once worked for Drew Pearson?”

“Probably not. And I didn’t think it was … ‘politic’ is the word, isn’t it? Politic for me to mention it.”

Those light-blue eyes were examining me like X-rays. “Why did he hire you? Guy from Chicago like you. Why not somebody local, with Burns or Pinkerton?”

“Why not just use the FBI, if you’re Jim Forrestal? No, Jack, this job requires an outsider.”

A tiny nod. “Sometimes an outsider’s the only kind of man you can trust.” There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

I sipped my Coke. “Do you think Forrestal can trust me, Jack?”

He sipped his Coke. “According to the boss, you’re a man who likes money.”

“That Scrooge you work for thinks anybody who wants more than a cup of gruel is a greedy bastard.”

That made Anderson chuckle. “Sometimes I do feel like Bob Cratchit, at that.”

“You think Forrestal’s getting a fair shake from Pearson?”

For the first time Anderson’s gaze dropped, his eyes avoiding mine; his voice sounded troubled as he said, “The boss says Forrestal’s the most dangerous man in America.”

“What do you say? Ever interview him yourself?”

Anderson nodded. “I’d call Jim Forrestal a genuine public servant, dedicated, with an enormous expertise; we were lucky as hell to have him, during the war. And the inside word is he has a capacity for firm, clear judgment, that he can appreciate the complexity of any situation. They say he’s never fallen prey to the ruthlessness that this town almost always engenders in the powerful.”

Like the sort of ruthlessness Drew Pearson indulged in.

I said, “Sounds like you admire the guy.”

Anderson shrugged. “I don’t admire some of what he stands for.”

“Like what?”

“The boss calls him ‘the archrepresentative of Wall Street Imperialism.’”

“I thought we were talking about your opinion.”

He flinched a frown. “Hey, I’m like you-I’m just a paid investigator.”

“Yeah, but you spend Sunday in church. I’m more likely to sleep in with a chorus girl. What’s so dangerous about Forrestal?”

Anderson ticked the topics off on his fingers. “His anti-Israel stance, his ties to Big Oil, his anti-Russian sentiments … hell, his investment firm practically bankrolled Hitler!”

“Yeah, if you believe what you read in your boss’s column.”

Anderson laughed once, harshly. “What, are you my conscience, Nate? From what I hear about you, you make an unlikely Jiminy Cricket.”

“I’m not your conscience, Jack. I’m just the guy who tailed that cute colored maid of Forrestal’s to this bar and saw an information/money exchange transpire.”

The blood drained from his face.

“What, did you think I just happened into this place, at this moment? Shit, you’re not young-you’re a fuckin’ fetus.”

Suddenly Anderson seemed to be tasting something foul. He said, “You know I can’t work out anything financial with you without the boss’s approval.”

“I don’t remember asking for money.”

His fingers drummed on the spiral notepad. “You gonna tell Forrestal about his maid?”

“Maybe not. Why would I want a good-looking kid like that to get in trouble, lose her job or something?”

Anderson smiled again but it was nasty, this time. “Well, then, why don’t you negotiate with her, directly?”

I laughed. “Don’t believe everything Pearson tells you about me. He’s still pissed off that I squeezed a fair wage out of him.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to tell your boss I’m in town-at the Ambassador. Have Drew call me there, so I can set up a meet with him.”

His eyebrows were up. “So you can sell out Forrestal?”

“Now you’re my conscience. Look, kid-I know you must be pretty good or Pearson wouldn’t take you on. But listen to the voice of experience-don’t meet with a colored girl in a white joint, unless you think attracting attention is a good thing for investigative work. Don’t be interviewing your sources in Georgetown’s favorite political gathering place, either, even if it is Saturday night-that bartender gave me your life story and all I did was buy a damn Coke from him. Listen to your Uncle Nate and maybe you’ll last in this town … but I doubt it.”

From the look on his face, you’d think I’d passed gas. Hell, maybe I had. Anyway, he didn’t say anything as I got up, deposited my empty Coke glass on the bar, tossed Tom the bartender a half dollar, and trundled out of the place.

Out on the street, I pondered whether to take a cab to my car in that M Street parking garage, or just hoof it; I was fairly well beat, though feeling pretty good about myself. I had discovered the leak on Forrestal’s staff and found where it led-no murder plot, just good old-fashioned betrayal of your employer mixed in with sleazy yellow journalism, All-American stuff.

And I had determined, to my satisfaction, that neither Uncle Sam nor the Zionists, not even the Commies, were staking out Forrestal’s place, for purposes of assassination or anything else, for that matter.

I was just raising my arm to hail a cab when the finger tapped my shoulder.

Thinking it was probably Anderson, I turned and started to say something wise, but nothing wise or otherwise got said: I was staring into the coldly businesslike mug of a guy perhaps thirty in a nicely tailored dark gray suit with a dark blue tie; his hair was black and trimmed military short, and he had a blandly handsome face with hard dark eyes.

“Secret Service, Mr. Heller,” he said, holding up his wallet with five-pointed silver star and photo-credentials for my perusal. “If you’ll just come with me, please.”

He was whispering, but there was nothing soft about the grip on my arm as he shoved me past the yawning door into the backseat of the black sedan that waited at the curb to take me away.

Because, after all, that’s how it’s done in D.C.

As we rolled down Pennsylvania Avenue at night, the White House loomed to our right, bathed in spotlights like a theater hosting a premiere, only the star here was the structure. Was the Executive Mansion where these Secret Service boys were taking me? Perhaps the President of the United States wanted to consult the President of the A-1 Detective Agency; you know, maybe Harry wanted me to see if Bess was shacked up at the Rockville Shady Rest with Ike or MacArthur or somebody.