Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 11 by Majic Man (v5.0) Page A
Authors: Majic Man (v5.0)
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than—an egg; his eyes crowded a strong, prominent nose and his mouth was no wider than his well-waxed, pointed-tipped mustache. A white shirt and maroon-and-black tie peeked out from under the smoking jacket.
“What a cutie-pie,” Pearson purred, looking toward where Anya had exited.
The sleeping cat echoed him with its own purring.
“You lucky bastard,” I said.
He stood, rising to his full six three, and extended his hand over the messy desk and the tidy cat. “Nice to see you, too, Nathan. Jack said you were in town.”
“I hear he’s a Mormon,” I said, shaking his clammy hand. “Is he a Mormon like you’re a Quaker?”
Raised in that faith, Pearson only used the “thee” and “thou” routine at dinnertime with family, and while he didn’t smoke, he had a reputation for hard drinking.
He lifted an eyebrow, as he sat back down. “You understand this is broadcast day. I can only give you a few minutes.”
Ignoring that, I prowled his office. The dark-painted plaster walls wore framed original newspaper cartoons featuring Pearson, and photos of him with various political figures, including the last two presidents. A primitive rural landscape in oil—a relative’s work, apparently—hung near a portrait of a man who might have been his father; snapshots were lined up along the mantelpiece of a working fireplace, and the window-sills were piled with books and papers.
“Why don’t you buy yourself a new typewriter?” I asked, nodding toward the battered Corona on the typing stand. “Live a little.”
“That machine was given to me by my father”—and he nodded toward the portrait, confirming my suspicion—“in 1922. It’s my pride and joy; take it with me on trips, and nobody touches it but me.”
“How do you get away with that?”
“When it breaks down, I simply get it fixed at a certain small machine shop—”
“I was talking about the blonde.” I shook my head. “Right under your wife’s nose?”
His wife, Luvie, was an elegant, model-thin blonde; his second wife, actually—he’d stolen her, like his column, from a close friend.
“Well, she’s at the farm today,” he said, “but she doesn’t mind my dalliances. Boys will be boys. She understands my appetites.”
“Does she have a sister?”
“Who? Luvie or Anya?”
I pulled up a chair and sat. “Where’s the blonde from, anyway? Transylvania?”
“Yugoslavia. War refugee.”
“You are a public-spirited son of a bitch. And open-minded by not insisting that your secretary speak or write English. You’re in arrears three hundred bucks, by the way.”
Pearson tilted his chin and looked down his considerable nose at me. “Your expense account was outlandishly out of line. We’ll call it even—or you could always sue, though you’d have to take a number.” He was smiling; he smiled a lot, a smile that creased his eyes into slits.
“Didn’t do General MacArthur much good, did it?”
“None whatsoever,” Pearson chuckled. He had a quiet, gentlemanly manner, and the chilly, aloof bearing of an ambassador to some unimportant country. “By the way, does your current client know of our past association?” He posed this mildly, sitting forward, stroking his cat, its back arching.
“No,” I admitted.
In the mid-thirties I’d done a few jobs for Pearson, having been recommended to him by another former client of mine, Evalyn Walsh McClean, wife of the publisher of the Washington Post, owner of the Hope diamond, and a prominent if eccentric D.C. socialite and party-giver. Evalyn was a friend of Pearson’s first wife and her mother.
The initial work I’d done for the columnist had been so long ago, it well predated my relationship with Forrestal, and had apparently not made my FBI file, or Baughman would have rubbed my face in it, the other night.
And the government apparently wasn’t aware that, as I’d mentioned to Jack Anderson, I’d done some work in Chicago for Pearson, not long ago, despite
“What a cutie-pie,” Pearson purred, looking toward where Anya had exited.
The sleeping cat echoed him with its own purring.
“You lucky bastard,” I said.
He stood, rising to his full six three, and extended his hand over the messy desk and the tidy cat. “Nice to see you, too, Nathan. Jack said you were in town.”
“I hear he’s a Mormon,” I said, shaking his clammy hand. “Is he a Mormon like you’re a Quaker?”
Raised in that faith, Pearson only used the “thee” and “thou” routine at dinnertime with family, and while he didn’t smoke, he had a reputation for hard drinking.
He lifted an eyebrow, as he sat back down. “You understand this is broadcast day. I can only give you a few minutes.”
Ignoring that, I prowled his office. The dark-painted plaster walls wore framed original newspaper cartoons featuring Pearson, and photos of him with various political figures, including the last two presidents. A primitive rural landscape in oil—a relative’s work, apparently—hung near a portrait of a man who might have been his father; snapshots were lined up along the mantelpiece of a working fireplace, and the window-sills were piled with books and papers.
“Why don’t you buy yourself a new typewriter?” I asked, nodding toward the battered Corona on the typing stand. “Live a little.”
“That machine was given to me by my father”—and he nodded toward the portrait, confirming my suspicion—“in 1922. It’s my pride and joy; take it with me on trips, and nobody touches it but me.”
“How do you get away with that?”
“When it breaks down, I simply get it fixed at a certain small machine shop—”
“I was talking about the blonde.” I shook my head. “Right under your wife’s nose?”
His wife, Luvie, was an elegant, model-thin blonde; his second wife, actually—he’d stolen her, like his column, from a close friend.
“Well, she’s at the farm today,” he said, “but she doesn’t mind my dalliances. Boys will be boys. She understands my appetites.”
“Does she have a sister?”
“Who? Luvie or Anya?”
I pulled up a chair and sat. “Where’s the blonde from, anyway? Transylvania?”
“Yugoslavia. War refugee.”
“You are a public-spirited son of a bitch. And open-minded by not insisting that your secretary speak or write English. You’re in arrears three hundred bucks, by the way.”
Pearson tilted his chin and looked down his considerable nose at me. “Your expense account was outlandishly out of line. We’ll call it even—or you could always sue, though you’d have to take a number.” He was smiling; he smiled a lot, a smile that creased his eyes into slits.
“Didn’t do General MacArthur much good, did it?”
“None whatsoever,” Pearson chuckled. He had a quiet, gentlemanly manner, and the chilly, aloof bearing of an ambassador to some unimportant country. “By the way, does your current client know of our past association?” He posed this mildly, sitting forward, stroking his cat, its back arching.
“No,” I admitted.
In the mid-thirties I’d done a few jobs for Pearson, having been recommended to him by another former client of mine, Evalyn Walsh McClean, wife of the publisher of the Washington Post, owner of the Hope diamond, and a prominent if eccentric D.C. socialite and party-giver. Evalyn was a friend of Pearson’s first wife and her mother.
The initial work I’d done for the columnist had been so long ago, it well predated my relationship with Forrestal, and had apparently not made my FBI file, or Baughman would have rubbed my face in it, the other night.
And the government apparently wasn’t aware that, as I’d mentioned to Jack Anderson, I’d done some work in Chicago for Pearson, not long ago, despite
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