Flying Blind

Dimity picked up the introductions from Margot, gesturing to the other man, saying, “And this is James Forrestal, late of Wall Street.”

“Make it Jim,” Forrestal said, stepping forward to present a small hand for me to shake. His grip tried a little too hard to impress.

He was much smaller than Dimity, and in fact was shorter than Margot, yet his frame was slimly athletic within a pinstriped vested gray serge suit with four-in-hand black-and-gray-striped tie, apparel that made no allowance for the Southern California weather.

“And I’m Nate,” I said.

Forrestal’s spade-shaped face had a combative Irish look, dominated by the flattened nose of a pug; but his features otherwise reflected business-executive restraint: intense blue-gray eyes, thin lips compressed into an uncompromising line, and a ball-like cleft chin. His iron-gray hair was cut short and swept neatly back.

His small hard eyes appraising me, Forrestal asked, “Are you a Jewish fella, Nate? You don’t mind my saying so, you have an Irish cast.”

“So do you, Jim,” I said. “My looks are my mother’s fault. The name’s my father’s, but he wasn’t raised Jewish and neither was I.”

“Were you raised in your mother’s faith?” Forrestal asked. “Are you a Catholic, then?”

Margot and Dimity were clearly embarrassed by this line of questioning.

“No, Jim,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m not much of anything. The only time I pray is when I’m in a jam, and then it’s pretty nondenominational.”

“Like most people,” Mantz said with a nervous chuckle.

“I’m not a religious man myself,” Forrestal said, rendering our conversation even more oblique.

Mantz gestured toward the grill, which was sparsely populated this time of day. “Shall we find a table?”

Soon, our drink orders placed, we were gathered at a red Formica-topped table, settled on chrome-tubing chairs along a beige-drapery-flanked wall of mirrored Venetian blinds that allowed us to watch the world pass by along Hollywood Boulevard; Grauman’s Chinese was just across the way, that grandiose pagoda with movie star foot-and handprints at its gates, the mysteries of the East Americanized into a tourist mecca. I sat near the window with Mantz beside me; Forrestal was directly across from me, his gaze unnervingly steady, Dimity next to him. Margot sat at the head of the table, facing the mirrored blinds.

She tented her fingers—the nails of which, I noticed, were the same cherry red as her lipstick—and began: “As I’m sure you know, Nathan, Mr. Dimity…”

“Elmer,” he interrupted cheerfully. “I can’t be the only ‘mister’ at the table.”

“Well,” Margot said, touching his hand, “I’m going to call you Mr. Dimity because you’re my boss…. And Mr. Dimity is my boss, Nate, and a wonderful one—I’m working full-time for the Amelia Earhart Foundation, as executive secretary.”

“This little whirlwind is our only full-time employee,” Dimity added. “And the only person on the payroll. I’m the chairman of the board, and strictly a volunteer. Jim here is a board member, though he’s asked not to have his name on the letterhead, so that there’s, uh…no misunderstanding.”

That was provocative; but I let it go for the moment.

“Mr. Dimity is also founder of the Foundation,” Margot said proudly.

“Swell,” I said, getting a little weary of this mutual admiration society. “What is it?”

“The Foundation?” Dimity asked. “Well, our mandate is to ‘inspire the study of aeronautical navigation and the sciences akin thereto.’”

“Ah,” I said, as if that had answered it.

A white-jacketed waiter brought us our drinks. Actually, I’d held onto my rum and Coke, but Mantz was onto a second martini. Dimity had ordered a Gilbert, Forrestal a whiskey sour, and Margot a stinger.

Then Dimity jumped back in: “But our primary objective is to conduct an expedition to clear up Amelia’s disappearance.”

“An expedition?”

“Yes. We hope to send a search and rescue team to the Pacific to discover whether our friend is still alive, and if not, find an explanation to the mystery of her disappearance.”

I couldn’t tell them what I knew, which was that to find Amy, going into Japanese-held taboo territory would be a necessity.

Instead I merely said, “That would be extremely expensive.”

“Yes, we know,” Dimity said, and sipped his Gilbert. “Tens of thousands of dollars, which we intend to raise. I’m not the only friend Amelia had in business and industry, and in the higher echelons of society and finance. We already have the blessing of Amelia’s mother, and of course Mr. Mantz here, and the President and Mrs. Roosevelt.”

The latter surprised me. Why would the government sanction an excursion into its most embarrassing, top- secret impropriety?

I played a hunch. “Uh, Mr. Forrestal…Jim. What does that mean, exactly—‘late of Wall Street’?”

He lowered his whiskey sour and his mouth tightened into a slash of a non-smile. “I recently resigned as president of an investment banking firm, Dillon, Read, and Company.”

“And what are you doing now?”

Forrestal’s smile froze and he waited several long seconds before replying, “I’m with the administration.”