Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 09

by Damned in Paradise (v5. 0)

  He sighed, shook his big bucket head, the gray comma over his eye quivering. “What you fail to grasp, Nathan, is that I don’t blame those who have been embittered by race prejudice. Bigotry is something that’s bred into a man.”

  “I know, I remember. I heard you lecture often enough, when I was a kid. And back then it sounded pretty good to me—‘No one deserves blame, no one deserves credit.’ But me, I like to pretend I have some control over my life.”

  “Nothing wrong with pretending, son. It’s healthy for a child’s imagination.” He waved a red-jacketed waiter over. “Would you tell Mother Sardi that Mr. Darrow would like two cups of her special coffee?”

  “Yes sir,” the waiter nodded, with a knowing smile.

  Then Darrow turned his attention back to me. “When I was first approached with this matter…frankly…I did turn it down because of the racial issue—but not out of moral indignation.”

  “What, then?”

  He shrugged; not so grandiosely, this time. “I was afraid that if my clients expected me to argue on their behalf by invoking the supposed inferiority of the colored races, they would be…disappointed. I let my prospective clients know that I would not allow myself to argue a position in court that was at variance with what I felt, and what I had stood for, over all these years.”

  “What was their response?”

  Another little shrug. “They wrote me that they thought I was right in my position on the race question, and that they wanted me to maintain that attitude in court. And that, furthermore, complete control over their defense would be mine; I would call all the shots.” And yet another little shrug. “What could I do? I took the case.”

  The waiter brought over two cups of steaming black coffee. Darrow smacked his lips and snatched his cup right off the waiter’s tray. I sipped mine; it had something in it, and I don’t mean cream or sugar.

  “Brother,” I whispered, and tried not to cough. “What did they spike that with?”

  “Something brewed up last night in a bathtub in Hell’s Kitchen, no doubt.”

  Funny thing about Darrow: I didn’t remember ever seeing him take a drink, before Prohibition. Back in the days of the Biology Club, the “study group” Darrow and my father belonged to, jugs of wine would be passed around and Darrow always waved them off. Liked keeping a clear head, he said.

  Once the government told him he couldn’t have a drink, he couldn’t get enough of the stuff.

  I took another sip, a more delicate one this time. “So—where does a Chicago cop fit in with your Hawaiian case?”

  “You’re on leave of absence, aren’t you?”

  “Not really. On assignment is more like it.”

  His eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I can get you on leave of absence. I still have a few friends at City Hall….”

  That was an understatement. He’d defended crooked politicos in both Mayor Thompson’s and current Mayor Cermak’s administrations, and plenty of administrations before that.

  “I thought you hated detectives,” I said. “You’ve done your own legwork, ever since…”

  I let it hang. Back in 1912, Darrow had nearly been convicted of bribery on the evidence of a private dick he’d hired to (if the dick’s testimony could be believed) buy off jury members. Many of Darrow’s leftist pals had dumped him, thinking he might have plea-bargained his anarchist defendants out to soften the blow of the inevitable bribery trial.

  My father was one of the few friends who had stuck by him.

  Ever since that time, Darrow was widely known to do most, if not all, of his own investigative work. He liked talking to witnesses and suspects himself, gathering evidence, gathering facts. He had a near-photographic memory and could interrogate casually, conversationally, without taking notes, before or after the fact.

  “I told you,” Darrow said gently, “my legs aren’t what they used to be. Neither is this, I’m afraid….” And he tapped his noggin with a forefinger. “I’m afraid that, out on the street, my mind might not click with the old vigor.”

  “You’re looking for a leg man.”

  “More. A detective.” He leaned forward. “You deserve better than a life on the…” And he spoke the words like bitter obscenities. “…police department. You deserve a better destiny than that shabby circle can give you…. When you were a boy you wanted to be a ‘Private Consulting Detective,’ like Nick Carter or your precious Sherlock.”

  “I make out all right on the force,” I said, trying not to sound as defensive as I felt. “I’m the youngest guy who ever made plainclothes….”

  And I let that hang.

  We both knew how I’d managed my quick promotion: I’d lied on the witness stand to let a Capone-selected patsy take the rap for the Jake Lingle shooting.

  “I’m not a judge,” Darrow said gently. “I defend. Let me be your defender. Let me parole you from a life sentence of empty corruption.”

  I swallowed. That eloquent son of a bitch. I said, “How?”

  “Walk away from that graft-ridden pesthole of a department. Your father hated that you took that job.”

  “He hated me for it.”

  He shook his head, no, no, no. “No, I don’t believe that, not for a second. He loved his son, but hated this bad choice his son made.”

  I gave him a nasty smirk. “Oh, but C.D.—I didn’t make that choice, it chose me, remember? Environment and heredity ganged up on me and made me do it.”

  The smile he bestowed on me in return was plainly patronizing. “Ridicule me, if you like, son…but what you say has truth in it. Outside forces do shape our ‘destiny.’ So, all right, then—prove me wrong—make a choice.” He leaned forward and there was fire and urgency in the gray eyes. “This case, this Massie matter, it’s no isolated instance. My lovely Ruby doesn’t know it yet, but her husband is getting back in the game.”

  I blinked. “You’re going back into full-time practice?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Criminal and radical law?”

  He continued to nod.

  “You’re saying you would take me on as your full-time investigator?”

  And still nodding.

  “But C.D.—you’re going to be seventy-five before the month is out.”

  “Thanks for remembering, son.”

  “No offense, but even Clarence Darrow can’t live forever…”

  “Perhaps not. But two or three years of working as Clarence Darrow’s ace investigator would be a splendid foundation for either a private practice, or a similar relationship with another top attorney…wouldn’t you say, son?”

  I had thought about leaving the department and putting out a private shingle; I had thought about it more than I dared tell Darrow. The stigma of how I’d got my detective’s shield was like a mark of Cain, even in a corrupt cesspool like the Chicago PD; especially, there…. Every time I turned around some dirty cop assumed I was like him, and could be trusted to cover some shit up, or would jump at a chance to go in on some lousy scam or another….

  “I still have an obligation to Colonel Lindbergh,” I said.

  “And I’m a week away from leaving for Honolulu. You have time to think it over.”

  “What does it pay?”

  “A fair question.” He gestured with an open hand. “For this initial assignment, what I had in mind was making sure the PD kept you on salary during your leave of absence. Look at it as a vacation with pay.”

  “As opposed to looking at it as you getting my services for free.”

  “I thought we’d agreed that money wasn’t everything.”

  Then Darrow settled back, and his eyes shifted. I turned to look at what he was looking at, and saw that the same waiter who had led me over was now guiding our awaited guest to Mr. Darrow’s booth: a tall, slender gent in a dark blue suit that would have cost me a month’s pay, and a lighter blue about-a-week’s-salary tie. His eyes were like cuts in an oblong face dominated by a strong nose and a wide thin mouth that exploded into a winning smile upon
seeing Darrow.

  Who half-rose to meet our distinguished, enthusiastic guest and his eagerly extended hand; the old boy seemed vaguely amused as the younger man worked his arm like a water pump.

  “Glad you could make it, Mr. Leisure,” Darrow said quietly.

  “You know,” Leisure said, grinning, shaking his head, “I thought this might be a practical joke.”

  “What? Sit down, please, sit down.”

  Leisure, who had not yet acknowledged my presence, or my existence for that matter, slid into the booth opposite me.

  “Well, when you called this morning,” Leisure said, “saying you were Clarence Darrow, and wanting to meet me at Sardi’s for lunch, I…frankly, my friends know what an admirer of yours I am. They’ve heard me say how ‘one of these days’ I’m going to get back to Chicago—I attended the University of Chicago as an undergrad, you know—and how I was going to look you up and talk with you, the greatest man in my chosen profession, one on one.”

  “I’m flattered,” Darrow said. “This is Nathan Heller. His late father ran a radical bookshop on the West Side, near where I used to live. I’m sort of an eccentric uncle to Nate, I’m afraid.”

  “He used to be an eccentric rich uncle,” I said, “till the Crash.”

  Leisure, clearly embarrassed, half-stood and reached his hand across the booth to shake my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, Mr. Heller. I’m…it’s just…well, frankly, I’m a huge fan of Mr. Darrow’s.”

  “Careful,” I said. “C.D.’ll hit you up for the check—even if he did invite you.”

  “I’d be glad to pay,” Leisure said.

  “Nonsense,” Darrow said. “Let’s order, and then we can talk….”

  He waved the waiter back over. It was amusing to see how flustered this urbane Wall Street attorney was around his idol. And somehow I had a hunch, even if Darrow was picking up the check, this was one lunch Leisure was going to pay for….

  “I’m about to try a case in Honolulu,” Darrow said, picking at his plate of broiled kidneys, Irish bacon, and boiled Brussels sprouts. The Sardi’s menu was an unlikely combination of English dishes and Italian; I was having the spaghetti and so was Leisure, though he was barely touching it.

  “As a matter of fact,” Darrow continued, “I’m trying to convince Nate to come along as my investigator…. He’s out here working on the Lindbergh case, you know.”

  “Really,” Leisure said, suddenly impressed. “Tragic goddamn affair. Are you a private operative, then?”

  “Chicago PD,” I explained. “Liaison with Colonel Lindbergh. Because of the Capone linkup.”

  “Ah,” Leisure said, nodding. The Chicago gangland aspect of the case had been widely publicized.

  “I’m hoping Nate will take a leave of absence for a month and work with us,” Darrow said.

  Leisure’s narrow eyes narrowed further; but what little could be seen of them gleamed at the possible meanings of the word “us.”

  “At any rate,” Darrow continued, “I’m about to try this case in Honolulu, and I understand you successfully handled the Castle family’s litigation there last year.”

  “That’s right.” Leisure was clearly pleased, and a little amazed, by Darrow’s knowledge of his work.

  Chewing a bite of kidney, Darrow said, “Well, I’ve never tried a case there, and I thought perhaps you’d be willing to talk to me, tell me something of the nature of the procedure in that jurisdiction.”

  “Why, I’d be more than happy to…”

  “Clarence!”

  The eyes of this jaded, celebrity-strewn eatery were turned upon the jaunty little figure, sharply attired in gray pinstripes with gray and red tie and matching gray spats, who was striding through the room like he owned the place.

  He didn’t, but did—for the time being, anyway—own the town: he was Jimmy Walker, a sharp-featured Damon Runyon character who happened to be mayor.

  “What a nice surprise!” Darrow again half-stood, and shook Walker’s hand. “Can you join us, Jim?”

  “Maybe just dessert,” Walker said.

  Big-shot Wall Street lawyer or not, Leisure was looking at this casual encounter between the mayor of New York and the country’s most celebrated criminal lawyer with wide-eyed awe. I was impressed by how cocky and cool Walker was when everybody knew he was currently under investigation for incompetence and graft.

  A waiter had already brought a chair over for Hizzoner, and Darrow made introductions. Mentioning my connection with the Lindbergh matter caught Walker’s attention and the mayor was full of questions about the case, and about Colonel Lindbergh. When it came to Lindy, the mayor seemed as starstruck as Leisure over Darrow.

  All talk of Hawaii and lawyering got sidetracked, while we talked Lindbergh and ate cheesecake.

  “This graveyard ransom drop,” Walker was saying. “It was a complete hoax?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge certain aspects of the case, Your Honor,” I said, “but, frankly—between us boys—it doesn’t look good.”

  Walker shook his head, gravely. “I feel for Slim,” he said, meaning Lindbergh. “Celebrity ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, kids, lemme tell ya.”

  “Short of getting a table without a reservation,” Darrow said, “I can’t think of a single advantage.”

  “There’s one helluvan idea,” Walker chimed. “Why don’t we catch the matinee over at the Music Box? Of Thee I Sing—hottest ticket in town—but I’ll betcha a buncha celebrities can wangle seats!”

  Darrow turned solicitously to Leisure. “Could you get away for the afternoon, George?”

  “Certainly,” Leisure said.

  So in the company of the dapper little mayor—who left his limo and driver at the curb on West 44th, proceeding with no retinue other than Darrow, Leisure, and myself—we cut down Shubert Alley over to the Music Box on West 45th.

  This was my first Broadway show, but I’d seen snazzier productions on Randolph Street. It was a silly musical comedy about a presidential race; there were some nice-looking girls, and Victor Moore was funny as a dippy Vice President. Nonetheless, mediocre as it was, it remains one of the most memorable shows I ever attended—though that had nothing to do with what went on, onstage.

  The mayor, like a glorified usher, had led us to our seats in the front of the orchestra, and a ripple had gone through the audience that turned into a near roar. Walker grinned and waved at the crowd, but it wasn’t him the audience was reacting to, even though the orchestra was graciously playing the theme song Walker had penned himself (“Will You Love Me in December as You Do in May?”).

  The fuss was over Darrow—he’d been recognized.

  Soon the old boy was swamped with autograph-seeking admirers (Walker seemed mildly miffed by the lack of attention), and this went on till the lights dimmed and the overture began.

  I was sitting next to Darrow who was sitting next to Leisure who was sitting next to the mayor. Throughout the entire play—which I understand was a Pulitzer prize-winner by George Gershwin, though I couldn’t hum you a song from it if you put a gun to my head—Darrow sat whispering to Leisure. Their sotto voce dialogue continued through intermission to the finale, as Darrow filled the young lawyer in on the facts of the Massie case, as well as his theories and plans concerning same….

  Mayor Walker ducked out before the final curtain call, and as we were walking out onto West 45th Street, where a cool spring breeze nipped at us, Darrow was saying, “You know, George, I’ve been retired from practice some time now, and haven’t been regularly engaged in courtroom work for several years…”

  “There’s no better man for this job.”

  “Well, thank you, George, but I’m afraid I’m getting on in years…” Darrow stopped, flat-footedly, as if he had suddenly run out of gas. “Frankly, I would be very pleased to have a younger man accompany me on this trip. I wonder…would it be possible for you to go to Honolulu with me?”

  “I would be honored and thrilled,” Leis
ure blurted.

  “Of course, I have to warn you that the fee involved will not be great. In fact, I can promise you little more than your expenses…and the experience of a lifetime.”

  “I see…”

  “Will you be my associate counsel, sir?”

  Leisure thrust his hand out. “With pleasure!”

  The two men shook hands. Leisure said he would need to inform his partners, and Darrow requested that Leisure—and his wife, if he so desired—join him in Chicago within a week, to make final preparations; they would talk on the phone in a day or so, so that Darrow could book passage.

  Back in Sardi’s, at another booth, with Leisure on his way home, Darrow and I had coffee again—unspiked, this time.

  “I’m impressed,” I said.

  “It was a good show,” Darrow said.

  “It was a good show, all right, and I’m not talking about Of Thee I Sing, baby. Not a moment of which you witnessed, by the way.”

  Darrow just sipped his coffee, smiling.

  “How much was Dudley Malone going to soak you as co-counsel?” I asked him.

  “Ten grand,” Darrow admitted.

  “And you got one of the top lawyers on Wall Street to do the job for you, free.”

  “Not free. Expenses, and probably a modest fee. And priceless experience.”

  “He’s not exactly a damn law clerk, C.D.” I shook my head, laughed. “And how’d you manage getting the mayor to drop by?”

  “Are you suggesting that was prearranged?”

  “Playin’ Walker for a sucker, aren’t you, C.D.? I bet that poor bastard thinks if he gets on your good side, you’ll defend His Honor at the inquiry into his administration.”

  Darrow shrugged. Definitely not a grandiose shrug.

  “Does Gentleman Jimmy know you’re going to be in Hawaii when he comes under the gun?”

  “The mayor of New York stops by for cheesecake and a pleasant social afternoon of theater,” Darrow said, “and you make a conspiracy out of it.”

  “How much are you getting?”

  “For what?”

  “For what do you think—the Massie defense.”

  He thought about ducking the question, but he knew enough not to lie to me. I was a detective; I would find out, anyway.