Max Collins - Ask Not

“Nate, on the phone, you asked about foul play. There were no signs of that downstairs, and nothing disturbed in here or anywhere in the house. But when you start talking about this Kennedy thing, you... well, you’re scaring me, man.”

I kept my voice calm, but did not duck the subject. “She’s been publishing pieces on the assassination for over six months. Were there any repercussions? Any trouble of any kind?”

He frowned but the wide eyes didn’t narrow. “Well, after she started publishing that Warren Commission material, about that Ruby character? We had FBI agents crawling all over the place.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “They had a search warrant, but didn’t find anything. They interrogated her down in the Black Room, like a suspect in a crime. They badgered her about the identity of her source and she told them...” His complexion paled to pink. “... told them she would rather ‘die than betray a source.’”

I put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He swallowed. Closed his eyes.

I removed the hand and said, “Tell me about this young man assisting her. Would he have ever worked with her here in the Ebb?”

“Oh, yes. When I said no one was ever in here but Florrie Mae, I don’t mean people assisting her. She had a number of protégés over the years. This one’s name is Mark Revell. He’s an entertainment writer for a paper in Indianapolis, Indiana, of all places. She met him on a movie junket of some kind and took him under her wing.”

“Was it serious?”

“No.” His smile was melancholy. “She was a romantic, Nate. Do I have to tell you that? That’s the bad side of having an open relationship with a woman. A man can go from this one to that one, and it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just physical. She had to be in love... at least at the moment.”

“Is Revell in Indianapolis now?”

“No, I believe he’s staying over for the funeral. He’s at the Regency.”

So was I — the hotel was at Park Avenue and Sixty-first and an easy walk to Flo’s town house off Park and Sixty-eighth.

“What about the hairdresser?”

“Julian Rusk? He lives in the Village. I’ll get you his phone number.”

“Thanks.”

Now, finally, his frown was deep enough to make the eyes narrow. “Nate, you can’t think Flo was a murder victim...”

“Circumstances undetermined, remember? The CIA has its own in-house Dr. Feelbad who can use drugs to simulate heart attacks or accidental deaths or you name it.”

“You’re saying someone came in, with me in the house, and did that, without my knowing?”

“It’s five floors and a lot of rooms, Frank. You have that back entrance for the servants, with a stairwell giving access to everything. These spooks have pulled off much more complicated stuff.”

“I can’t believe it. No. That’s far too Ian Fleming. That’s as crazy as suicide!”

“You’re not against me looking into it a little, are you, Frank?”

He flinched, as if I’d raised a hand to strike him. “No. Not in the least. Oh, those tapes and notes you mentioned?”

“Yes?”

“No sign of anything.”

He showed me the top right-hand desk drawer that she kept locked — using a key from her center drawer to open it (not the greatest security) — and revealed it as empty. Had the Ruby tape been in there? If so, someone knew about the handy key, because the drawer showed no jimmy marks.

“Now,” he said, “she might have hidden them away in one of her filing cabinets — there’s a separate room for those, ten four-drawer files. It would take hours to go through them.”

“Would you mind if I did that?”

“Could it wait till after the services?”

“No,” I said. “I need this done as soon as possible. I’ll make a call and have a man or two join me, from our Manhattan branch. In the meantime, if you’ll show me to the file cabinets, I’d like to get started.”

“Well, then, uh... I guess it’ll be all right. There’s family coming in, as you might imagine, and... but all right. Those tapes are Flo’s legacy of sorts, and if you find them, that will be a good thing.”

“If they are here,” I said, “everyone in the house will be better off having them removed.”

The puffy reddish face went blank with thought. Then he said, “Look — if you do find the tapes and notes, promise you won’t give them to that kid Revell. He’d write his own book. When the time comes, maybe you can give that material to Flo’s friend Bennett Cerf, and he can assign some real writer to it.”

“That’s fine,” I said.

But the two A-1 agents and I did not find the Dallas tapes or notes. The cabinets were brimming with publicity releases and 8-by-10’s, as well as clippings of Flo’s columns carefully arranged by month and year, and coverage by other journalists of her own celebrity. It was not dull — “Hey, Mr. Heller... take a look at this Marilyn shot! Miss Cheesecake 1951!” — but it was also not fruitful.

One small piece of luck came my way when I got back to the Regency around eight P.M. The red-vested bartender in the hotel’s chichi red-and-brown basement piano bar had been on duty Sunday night when Flo stopped in for that after-TV-show drink. She’d seemed cheery and “maybe a little high,” he said, and had joined a nice-looking younger man in a dark-corner banquette (her regular spot), drinking gin and tonic, staying around till almost two A.M.

“Did you recognize this younger man?”

Bald, bulky, the bartender in his forty or so years had seen it all. “The gentleman had been in here before with Miss Kilgore, yes.”

“Was he a hotel guest? Did he sign the tab to his room?”

“Miss Kilgore was paying, sir.”

I made my way through the layers of subdued lighting and drifting cigarette smoke to a Negro piano player in a tux, noodling Cole Porter with a nice jazzy edge. He’d also been there Sunday night. Had Flo met a date at the club? Of course, man! Real lady like Miss Kilgore wouldn’t come listen to me play by herself. Was Miss Kilgore’s date a regular? Couldn’t say, man, couldn’t say.

Apparently all ofays looked alike.

Soon I was sitting in Flo’s favorite booth with a nice-looking younger man of my own. He wore a collarless black suit with a gray button-down shirt, no tie — apparently he was in mourning, too — and his black hair was Afro-style, though this was apparently a perm, since he was white. Hell, he was pale. A slender five ten, he had the finely carved features of a male fashion model.

“I appreciate you coming up here to talk to me, Mr. Rusk,” I said.

“Julian, please, ” the hairdresser said, with an English accent that might have been real. “And do you prefer Nate or Nathan?”

“Either is fine,” I said. “Something to drink?”

He liked that idea, and I waved a waitress over. He ordered a gin and tonic (“In honor of my late and very much lamented client”), and I had a vodka gimlet. On the phone, he’d known immediately who I was — familiar with my minor celebrity courtesy of magazines and tabloids, and aware that I was a good friend of Flo’s.

Despite the possibly faked English accent, there was nothing effeminate about him — he was as masculine as Rock Hudson. But it was clear he was gay — something undeniably flirtatious flickered in his manner.

His eyes, which were a dark green, flashed and he smiled just a little. “Are you looking into her murder? I hope.”

“Murder? My understanding is the coroner leans more toward accidental death.”

“ He didn’t find the body, did he?” Rusk sipped his drink. “I could have told you my story on the phone, couldn’t I? But you wanted to talk to me in person. Why? So you could look at me when I answered your questions. To what end? So you can size me up as a witness, or possibly a suspect.”