“No,” Lindbergh said, shaking his head vigorously. “Nate, no. We play it straight.”
I looked at him the way you look at a driver who signals right and turns left. “What do you mean, ‘straight’?”
“Curtis is honest, and reliable. I trust him. I think he can get Charlie back.”
“That isn’t the point!” I was on my feet now, leaning my hands on his desk. “If these are in fact the same sons of bitches who took that fifty grand from Condon, then they’ve
His face was stone.
Breckinridge seemed sympathetic to my stance, or at least his expression said so, even if he didn’t.
I backed away from the desk. I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. Summoned a sense of calm and crawled inside. “Well, then, that’s it, Slim. This is where I get off.”
“I’d like you to stay.” His voice was earnest; his eyes were hurt. “We’re still dealing with bootleggers, rumrunners…we can’t rule out the Capone connection.”
“I don’t rule that out. But I can’t be party to this any longer. It just goes against my grain as a cop. All due respect.”
“If that’s how you feel…”
“It’s how I feel.”
He stood. “I do understand, Nate.” His words were cordial, but his tone was tense. “I…respect what you’re saying. But you know how I feel about getting my son back.”
“I know,” I said, trying to sound at least a little conciliatory. “My point is, you’ve been going about it all wrong.”
A frown grazed his face-nobody talked to him that way-but it was gone as he came out from around the desk. “Then, uh…you’ll be heading back for Chicago soon?”
“I’ll drive Mrs. McLean back to Washington, tonight. I’ll catch the train there, tomorrow.”
“Fine.” He dug in his pocket. “Here’s some expense money.” He peeled off five twenties.
I had a hunch I was supposed to feel insulted. Maybe I did feel a little insulted. But I put the money in my pocket.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’ll stay for supper?” he asked.
“Yes. And we’ll have to talk to Evalyn, about Means.”
“The Means information was a dead end?”
He didn’t know how dead.
“Slim, Means is a completely unreliable go-between. Don’t ask how I know, but any lines of communication he may have had with the kidnappers have been severed.”
He wondered about that, but I’d asked him not to ask how I knew, and he was goddamn good about playing by the rules some other asshole imposed on him.
“What I’d like you to do,” I said, “as a favor to me if nothing else, is encourage Mrs. McLean not to pursue Means as a go-between, any longer. To encourage her to have the son of a bitch arrested, which after all might uncover some worthwhile information. She’s inclined to do that herself already. But she needs to hear it from you.”
“That’s why you suggested I invite her here?” “Yes. That, and I think she deserved to meet you and your wife. To hear you thank her. I think she’s got that much coming, for her hundred grand, rich though she is.” Lindbergh, chagrined, nodded his agreement.
During dinner, amidst my social betters talking about politics and coming-out parties and yachts, I noticed something odd. We were having the usual dreadful English cooking, courtesy of Elsie Whately-mystery stew, tough bread, murky coffee and cardboard pie-and butler Ollie, Elsie’s better half, was serving us. But he seemed very ill at ease. The presence of either Curtis or Evalyn or the both of them seemed to get on his nerves. The table service, which Ollie had set, was missing the knives. Anne Lindbergh herself got up and provided them.
Why in hell would a servant trained in household duties since he was knee-high to a fetus forget so ordinary a piece of table service as a knife?
After dinner, Slim did indeed encourage Evalyn to cut Means loose, turn him in and do her best to get her money back.
It was perhaps eight-thirty when we walked out into a cool, overcast night, Evalyn and I followed by Slim and his pretty Anne, who held hands like young lovers. They looked like the perfect American couple they’d been, not so long ago, the circles under their eyes, the redness of those eyes, the lines worry was etching in their faces, smoothed by the night’s cool half-light.
That was my last image of them, their smiles slight and shining, like slices of the moon, Anne delicate and waving from the hip, her other hand resting gently on the rise of her tummy, where a new child grew, Slim raising a hand in goodbye, shy, modest, his stubbornness not showing.
As we drove away, the ruts of Featherbed Lane challenging even the Lincoln’s suspension, Evalyn seemed at peace; even happy.
“They’re wonderful people,” she said. “Wonderful.”
“They’re nice,” I agreed. “Damn shame.”
“So in love.”
“Definitely.”
We were moving through the dark woods, moonlight filtering through the trees, when Evalyn said, “Pull over. Pull off.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
I did as I was told, the Lincoln’s wheels crunching leaves and twigs as we rolled to a stop. I shut the car off and looked at her; for a woman who’d had a big meal recently, she sure looked hungry. She was unbuttoning the white silk blouse, breathing heavily, her breasts heaving. The fox stole was curled up between us on the seat as if asleep, the black jacket of her suit draped over it like she’d covered it, to keep it warm.
“Fuck me,” she said.
I love it when rich women talk dirty.
Then we were in the backseat, her black dress hiked up, my trousers around my ankles, her silk stockings rubbing smoothly against my bare legs, the sounds of animals outside the car counterpoising the sounds of animals within.
Later, as I drove, she slept much of the time, cuddled up against me. She smelled good; her jasmine perfume was mingling with a natural muskiness from our coupling.
At one point, half-asleep, she said, “How would you like a full-time job?”
“Huh?”
“I really could use a sort of bodyguard, chauffeur, security chief…it would pay nicely, Nate.”
“Well, uh…”
“There’d be fringe benefits.”
“Gee, Evalyn.”
“Double your salary,” she said, and began to snore.
I thought about it all the way to Washington, D.C. Was she serious? After all, I had a career. Hell, I wasn’t some male concubine. I was a cop, I was a detective; not a kept man!
“Evalyn,” I said, the next morning, in her mammoth breakfast nook, drinking coffee from a china cup worth more than any single possession of mine, “I accept.”
“You accept what, Nate?”
“Your offer. I’d love to come to work for you.”
She smiled sadly; she looked older this morning-pretty, but every year her age. She wore a pink silk robe-not her dowdy plaid number. And the Hope diamond was around her neck; it winked mockingly at me. She was sipping tea.
