Majic Man

“Maybe. It’s no less tortuous than some of the other bullshit you people pulled on me.”

Folding her arms and resting them on the considerable shelf of her bosom, she gazed out at the parking lot, the shadows and pools of light separating us from the well-illuminated entrance.

“There was a Steve,” she said, then glanced at me with half-hooded eyes. “And you don’t look a goddamn thing like him.”

“But he was my size.”

“I can think of one place he was bigger.”

Now I grunted a laugh. “He really die at Dresden?”

Shook her head. “Pearl Harbor. He went down on the Arizona.”

“Well, jeez-why’d you change that story? That’s a good one.”

She still wasn’t looking at me, staring out the windshield instead. “It was felt I needed to be more … freshly widowed.”

“To sucker me, you mean? I think you went to too much trouble, baby. With your looks, I’d’ve believed just about anything you told me … hell! I did.”

“You are a little gullible, at that.”

Smiling, shaking my head, I said, “This afternoon, Forrestal told me about his Achilles’ heel, which was his pride, I guess…. Me, I’m a dick with an Achilles’ heel, all right, or is that a heel with an Achilles’ dick?”

That actually made her smile. She said, “Is it all right if I freshen my lipstick?”

“Why, you want to take another stab at me?”

She looked at me with both eyebrows arched, this time, and gestured to the clown-smear of her mouth. “Do you mind?”

I fished the tube of lipstick out. “This doesn’t shoot poison gas or anything, does it, Mata Hari?”

Maria smirked, snatched the lipstick from my hand, turned the mirror to where she could see herself. “Ugh,” she said, looking at herself. “Give me a Kleenex, would you?”

I gave her one and she cleaned off her mouth and reapplied glistening bright red lipstick on the full, sensuous lips. Satisfied, she put the mirror back in place, folded her arms across her bosom again and looked at me like a bored genie.

“What exactly do you hope to accomplish, Nathan? Who are you going to go to? The police? The press? And say what?”

“That Forrestal was murdered would be a good start.”

Now her expression turned impatient. “You are insane. I told you that was a suicide.”

“You almost sound like you believe it.”

“I do believe it, because it’s true. Look-Nathan … I’m not really at liberty to confirm or deny your suspicions about me….” And now, surprisingly, she worked up what seemed to be real indignation: “But I will say this-if you think I’m working against the best interests of my country, then you are sadly-”

“I know what you are.”

“You do.”

“Sure. You’re an undercover agent.”

“Very funny. Working for Russia, d’you suppose? Or the Chinese Commies, maybe?”

I nodded toward the hospital. “I’d say you’re working with Dr. Bernstein in that big white building over there.”

She made a face. “Why should I deny that? It’s not classified information; it’s not top-secret. I’m a nurse assigned to the Psychological Research and Development Department.”

“Which is of course a CIA operation; experimental mind control, via drugs, shock therapy, hypnosis and God knows what else.”

Now she looked at me with new respect-and genuine alarm. Her voice was hushed: “Nathan … sometimes it’s dangerous to know things.”

“No kiddin’. Ask Jim Forrestal.” Despite the open windows, our smoke was wreathing us, now. “Okay, let’s see how much I do know…. How about we start with your part in an elaborate disinformation scenario? Designed to cover up the crash of a strange aircraft in the desert?”

“Is that what you want me to admit? That flying saucers are real?” Her expression was blank now, but her eyes danced with the hope that I’d veered off onto the wrong track.

“Sure they’re real,” I said, laughing at her, “they’re just not from outer space-at least not the one that went down after the Fourth of July, near Roswell. That was a top-secret, experimental aircraft, of an advanced design, courtesy of our Nazi pals at White Sands.”

The blood drained out of her face, and the panic in her widened eyes was very real-the concern in her voice definitely not artifice. “Nathan, listen to me-if any small part is left of how you felt about me, know that I am not lying to you, and listen to me, hear me: you need to just walk away from this.”

I flipped my spent Chesterfield out the window. “I think the scientists involved are probably the Horten brothers, and of course von Braun …”

She gripped my arm. “Jesus Christ, Nathan, stop it! You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into …”

My eyes swung onto hers and locked them. “Do you, Maria? Know what you’ve gotten into?”

Nervous, for the first time vulnerable in a real way, she lowered her gaze, not able to stand up to mine. “I told you … I can’t confirm any of your suspicions about me. Don’t ask me to.”

“But you’re a good American, right? A patriot?”

Her chin jerked up and her eyes flew to mine. “I like to think I am.”

“Who just happens to collaborate with Nazis?”

Her voice was barely audible as she said, “That war is over. We’re in a new one.”

“Lesser of two evils, huh? The Communist threat is so perilous to the American way of life, it justifies climbing in bed with just about anybody-Japs, Nazis … me.”

“Trying to hurt my feelings, now, Nathan?” A tiny smile formed as she popped her cigarette, which she’d smoked down to the last inch, out the window. “Don’t be naive. That doesn’t become you.”

“You’re the naive one, Maria, if you’re really buying Forrestal as a suicide. If you’re not lying about that, then somebody in your little group is cleaning house without permission.”

Her eyes tensed. “Explain.”

I nodded toward the hospital. “Why don’t we let him do the explaining?”

A rather distinguished-looking individual in a brown button-up sweater was exiting, a blond man so pale his face seemed to glow as he stepped away from the well-illuminated entrance and moved briskly across the driveway into the relative darkness of the parking lot. Dr. Bernstein-apparently finished with his interview with Chief Baughman of the Secret Service-was heading into the lot, off to our left.

We watched as he got into a ’49 Cadillac, a dark blue Coupe DeVille sedan; apparently even government doctors were well paid. He started the engine and turned on his lights; they streaked across us like prison searchlights as he pulled out of the lot-but we had ducked down.

Sitting up, I started up the Studebaker. A small, strong hand clutched my forearm.

“You’re going to tail him?”

“One of the tricks of my trade, baby.”

Urgency colored her tone. “He might recognize my car. Listen … I know the way he goes home. I can take you another route.”

“What if he gets there before we do?”

“We want him to,” she said emphatically. “He lives on a very quiet street, on a cul-de-sac. We don’t want to beat him home, trust me.”

“Trust you…. I love you dearly, Maria, but if you’re fucking me over, I’ll shoot you without blinking.”

She studied me for a moment, swallowed and said, “I believe you would, at that, Nathan…. Let’s go-I’ll take you to him.”