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…”
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?
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.
