Majic Man

“Jo did much better when we lived on Long Island,” he said, leaning back in his swivel chair, puffing at his pipe. “She’s a wonderful horsewoman, a frequent prizewinner, and in Manhattan she was able to pursue her various other interests … theater, fabrics, flower arrangement, interior decoration.”

“This was back in your Wall Street days.”

He nodded, then shrugged, barely. “I was busy with my work and she was content to run with her circle, to ‘21’ or wherever. Of course, even before I met her she had quite an array of unusual friends-George Gershwin, P. G. Wodehouse, Eddie Cantor, Bob Benchley, Jack O’Hara.”

I tried not to look impressed.

“So you’ve gone your separate ways for some time now,” I said, trying to lay the groundwork for the inevitable suspicions of infidelity I’d surely been summoned to confirm.

“Yes, and we’ve both liked it that way. The problem is … well, actually, Nate, there are two problems. The first is this town … Washington, D.C. It’s been an enormous strain on Jo, trading in Long Island and Manhattan, horse shows and cafe society, for this dreary parade of politics.”

This didn’t seem to be heading where I expected.

Forrestal was shaking his head, somberly. “Such a different social milieu, here, such a narrow focus-the cocktail and dinner parties in this town don’t dwell on the arts, it’s all public issues and campaign talk.”

“Noel Coward and Cole Porter don’t come up much,” I said.

“Not as regularly as Robert Taft and Wendell Willkie.” This dry reply was surprisingly close to humor. “Jo’s dislike of Washington has exacerbated her other problem … drinking.”

“She had that problem before your move to D.C?”

“Yes-only not to this degree. Not to where it was affecting her … mental capacities.”

So that was it: Jo Forrestal was drinking herself into the laughing academy.

I asked, “How’s all this manifesting itself?”

The slash of a mouth flinched in something that wasn’t exactly a frown but sure wasn’t a smile. “I’d prefer you speak to Jo and learn for yourself. She has a job for you.”

I frowned. “She has a job for me.”

He pointed with the pipe stem. “Yes, and I want you to take it, and take it seriously. If you don’t investigate thoroughly, if we only pay lip service to her concerns, we would be courting disaster.”

Now I was completely confused. “What concerns?”

But he would say no more; he wanted me to hear it from Mrs. Forrestal’s lips.

And I did, the following morning, only not with her husband around. Forrestal was otherwise occupied, off rebuilding the Navy’s fleet or something. The heat hadn’t let up and I was looking like a tourist in my maize sportshirt, tan linen slacks and brown-and-white loafers as I made my way toward a specific picnic table in Rock Creek Park, as instructed.

On my way from where I left the rental Ford off the intersection of the parkway and New Hampshire Avenue, I passed a white marble statue of a heroic figure poised on tiptoes with arms outstretched, as if about to dive over the landscaped bank into the nearby river, where no boats-pleasure or otherwise-disturbed the glassy surface. A memorial to the victims of the Titanic disaster.

I was settling in on the bench at the rustic table, wondering if I’d just encountered an omen, when the gently building sound of hoofbeats announced the arrival of my client’s wife. On the bridle path just below the slope of this picnic area, Jo Forrestal trotted up, or rather the black stallion she was astride did. She pulled back on the reins of the sleekly beautiful animal, bringing it to a stop, and swung her leg over, stepping down with the grace of a ballerina and the confidence of the experienced horsewoman.

Her white blouse with black scarf and black riding breeches and boots bespoke a chic simplicity, her black hair longer than in the vintage Vogue photo, and just as the horse was shaking its mane, she did the same with hers, the black blades of her hair shimmering into place at either side of her pale oval face.

Slender, regal, eerily reminiscent of cartoonist Charles Addams’ Morticia, Mrs. Forrestal walked the horse to a nearby signpost that advised no littering, and tied it there; the stallion promptly deposited several road apples at the sign’s base, whether a token of defiance or sheer illiteracy on the animal’s part, who can say?

She strode confidently toward me, removing her black leather riding gloves, then extended a slender hand, which I took and shook. Like her husband, she had a firm grip, but she didn’t try so hard.

“Jo Forrestal,” she said. Her voice was low and melodious. “And you’re Mr. Heller.”

We were close enough that I would have caught liquor on her breath, if it had been there: nothing. Of course, maybe she was a vodka gal.

“Yes,” I said. “But why don’t we make it ‘Nate.’”

“And ‘Jo.’” A smile tickled lips that were wider than the Clara Bow rosebud of the Vogue photo.

“Step into my office,” I said, gesturing across the picnic table. She sat opposite me, the wind whispering through the row of smoke-colored beeches that stood nearby, disinterested observers.

“Surprisingly cool here,” I said, “for as hot as it’s been.”

She was a handsome woman of forty but looked every year of it; the dark, magnetic eyes had sunken, and drink had etched tiny lines in what was still a fine face.

“It’s always cool in this park,” she said. “Lovely year ’round.” She gestured toward the colorful wild-flowers hugging the feet of the beeches.

“Your husband said you love to ride,” I said. “Must be a godsend to have this park so near your home.”

She nodded. “Thirty miles of bridle paths, even a practice ring and hurdles. Saving grace of this goddamned town.”

“I gathered from Mr. Forrestal that you’re not wild about D.C.”

“I hate this fucking hellhole.”

I was glad I was sitting down; such coarse language was unexpected from so refined and stylish a lady. Shit, what was I to think? On the other hand, she was a former chorus girl.

“Do you have a cigarette on you?” she asked suddenly.

“Sorry, no. I don’t smoke.”

“No bad habits, Nate?”

“Not that one.”

She thought that over, then said, “Jim tells me you’re from Chicago.”

“That’s right.”

“I went to the University of Chicago-briefly.”

I grinned at her. “So did I-the same way.”

“When?”

“I don’t know-’24 maybe? Kinda lost track.”

“You were just after me, youngster. I think it was ’20 when I ran off to New York. There was a town.”

“Chicago or New York?”

“Take your pick. Either one is Utopia compared to this shitbucket.”

These occasional profane eruptions, from so chic a source, seemed calculated to me; she seemed to want my attention. Well, she already had that-her husband had paid for it.

“This burg does seem a little dull,” I admitted. “There’s more nightlife at a monastery.”

Her eyes and nostrils flared. “You are so very right! No theater, no fashion, no art! No one to talk to, or anyway no one worth talking to. Nobody but these hypocritical fucking pompous politicians and petty fucking public officials with one hand in your pocket and the other on your ass.”

From over at the signpost, the stallion whinnied, as if underscoring its mistress’ displeasure.

“Okay, then,” I said. “It’s a dull town. We got that much established.”

She laughed a little, mildly embarrassed. “Sorry. I guess I should’ve brought my cigarettes.”

“What’s really bothering you, Jo?” I asked gently. “Why do you need a detective?”

She swallowed and the confidence vanished; suddenly she seemed trembly as a bird, and the melodious voice took on an unexpected shrillness.

“It’s my boys,” she said. “Michael and Peter. They’re going to kidnap my boys.”

“Who is?”