about that, let me tell you.
So Paladin, you just relax and leave everything to your Uncle Alex. Let me do my job. If this guy Nimmo was really on your case, he'd be in Boston, right? Anyway, none of this shit will matter after January nine. You'll be out of the country, spending some of that money you've got saved. People like Giancana, Rosselli, Nimmo, O'Connell, Kennedy, they'll be just a fucking memory to you. You will have earned a well-deserved vacation. Not to mention a lot more money. We both will. So, take it easy and I'll see you on January five. Okay?'
Yeah, okay. And a Happy New Year to you, too.'
Chapter 23
Nocturne
After spending his own Christmas Day alone at the Shelburne, Nimmo's lack of success began to seem oppressive. Giancana kept calling to remind Nimmo of what he already knew, which was that Kennedy's arrival in New York was now just a few days away. A lot of the time he stayed out of the hotel to avoid having to tell Giancana about his lack of progress. He decided it was time to show his hand.
At Lenox Lanes he handed Quinton Hindrew the picture of Tom Jefferson and told him that he was a private investigator working for a smart firm of Miami attorneys, who were looking to pay Jefferson a substantial legacy. But even with a free buck in his greasy pocket, Hindrew just shook his head and swore he'd never seen the guy in the picture before, which was enough to make Nimmo think he was lying. He tried the same thing with Joie Dee, but with a sawbuck that was supposed to be for a lot of other things as well. Joie said that Jefferson's was an interesting face, being completely symmetrical, like a Rorschach ink blot, she said, and that it didn't remind her of anything or anyone, but if she did see anyone who looked like him -how much was that legacy? - then maybe she'd tell Nimmo, and out of gratitude Jefferson would marry her, because she could sure use a rich husband. With the accent on use, she laughed.
New York was a very different city at night. But contrary to the popular prejudice, in most parts of the city it was easier to talk to strangers by night than by day. People had more time. The all-night deli owner would stop cleaning his chill cabinet to discuss Kennedy's cabinet choices. Was Bobby really up to the job of being Attorney- General? The twenty-four-hour baker would put down a tray of fresh-baked bagels and tell you why he thought Penn State beat Oregon so overwhelmingly in the Liberty Bowl: Dick Hoak was, and always would be, a better quarterback than Dave Grosz. Even a cop who, irritably spinning his night-stick like a bandleader's baton, might tell you to move on by day, would walk a block with you by night, to show you the 66th IRT subway stop, or simply shoot the breeze: Broadway is not theatre now, it's movie lines.
Nimmo spoke to them all. He knew he was taking a risk that word of his search might reach the invisible ear of Tom Jefferson, and spook him to run for cover. But Nimmo was desperate now. Giancana was right. There was not much time. Kennedy was flying to New York on 2 January. Nimmo was desperate enough even to contemplate going back to Lenox Lanes and maybe beating some information - any information - out of Quinton Hindrew. Besides, he did not think that Jefferson running for cover could make much of a difference. The man could hardly remain more hidden than he was already.
It was a risk he had to take and, fortunately for Quinton Hindrew, it was a risk that, all of a sudden, seemed to pay off. A cab driver outside the Prelude recognised Jefferson from the picture Nimmo showed him, and said that just before Christmas he had taken him from Reid's Barber's Shop on Lenox to an electronics store on Broadway. In Broadway Radio, near 77th, a Mr Lewis looked at Jefferson's picture and said that a guy very like him had come in the day before Christmas, and bought a radio.
And not just any radio,' Mr Lewis explained. A Hallicrafter. That's probably the best short-wave receiver you can buy. It's got a waveband that goes from fifteen-fifty kc to thirty-four mc. With that kind of width you can eavesdrop on just about anything, or anyone, you want. Mind you, this level of sophistication doesn't come cheap. They retail for almost one seventy-five, but I can do you one for a hundred and sixty bucks.' Seeing Nimmo's incredulity that anyone would pay that kind of money for a radio, Mr Lewis added, For twenty-five cents I can let you have a record that shows you just how good a radio it is, if you want.'
Nimmo took the record and looked at the sleeve of The Amazing World of Short-Wave Listening' narrated by Alex Drier, radio-TV Man on the Go: Hear these authentic recordings of dramatic events. The President's voice from outer space! Actual capture of a desperate criminal! Radio amateur at Little America! Ships at sea! Aircraft in action!' He handed over his quarter. The record sleeve had told him all he needed to know about why anyone would have bought this kind of radio, but the information seemed worth at least twenty-five cents. Nimmo grinned. His luck really seemed to be changing.
He had money to spend, that guy. Cash money.'
Did he say why he was buying it?'
He said it was a Christmas present, to himself, because he knew his wife was getting him socks and handkerchiefs.'
Socks and handkerchiefs sounds okay to me,' confessed Nimmo, who knew he would not be getting anything, except a telephone call, and maybe a card, from his daughter. And probably only because he had sent his grandson a Teddy bear from FAO Schwarz.
Anyway, I said he must have been a good boy this year, if Santa was bringing him something like the Hallicrafter, and he laughed and he said he'd been a very good boy indeed. You ask me, mister, he doesn't need any legacy. He paid cash. New bills, too, from a fold in his back pocket that was as big as a paperback.'
You know what they say,' remarked Nimmo, having thanked the man for his help. To them that have, yea more shall be given.'
Nimmo had something himself now, almost as good as socks and handkerchiefs: the certainty that he was not in New York on some wild goose chase. Tom Jefferson was here. Maybe New York was where he planned to make the hit, after all. It was not much, but having been given this, he was quickly given more. Perhaps it was the good mood this small break had put him in, but that night he ended up in Chez Joie spending even more than was usual. And pleased to see such a display of largesse, Joie Dee was moved to respond in kind.
Let me see that photograph again,' she said. Joie was wearing a dress of compelling interest, consisting of some thoroughly transparent netting and a few sequins, just to make sure you didn't miss the high points of her voluptuous figure. Nimmo handed it over and let her make a show of pretending to remember the face, although it was obvious that she had known the face all along. You know,' she said, now I come to see it again, it seems that perhaps I do recall this guy. About two or three times a year, I think he's a regular here for maybe a week to ten days. Then he's gone again. He told me he was some kind of salesman, but he didn't look the type to be going door to door with brushes in his hand, or pushing memos around a desk. And his name wasn't Jefferson, it was Van Buren. Martin Van Buren.'
Van Buren?' Nimmo frowned. Are you sure?'
I know my American presidents. Hey, the guys who come in here give themselves all kinds of names and claim they're in all sorts of professions. Actors, doctors, movie producers. We get a lot of them. We even get the odd guy who claims he's a private investigator. Anyway, Marty was quiet, polite, well behaved and generous with his money. Just the way I like them. He never said very much. And there was one girl he seemed more fond of than most. Summer McAllum. Summer was a really beautiful girl. He liked to party with her, and only with her. A lot of guys in here used to feel that way about Summer McAllum.'
Used to?'
I had to kick her ass out of here. For one thing and then another. It's just possible that's why Marty hasn't been back here. Which is a shame, because he was a good customer. You know, if I was looking to find him, Summer'd be the one I'd want to speak to.'
Do you know where I can find her?'
Someone told me, someone I consider to be reliable, that she was working in the lower mid-town area. At the Britania Cafe. That's on Eighth Avenue and, I think, Twenty-eighth. She's a belly dancer, if you follow my meaning.'
Oh I do, but what makes that different from what happens here, upstairs?'
I employ waitresses and hostesses, not street-walkers. All I do is pay them to talk a little and wear less. If they want to arrange a party with a customer, that's their own affair, not mine. Their own money, too. People expect more from a girl on Eighth Avenue. Like maybe twenty per cent.'
Nimmo glanced at his watch and saw that it was well past midnight.
Joie said, Most of those places are open until four a.m. Tell her I said hello, and she's welcome back here if
