I thought Miss Brown had made me, and ducked in here to slip a quick exit through the alley door. But then I spotted her, sitting in the farthest back booth, opposite a young guy in a brown suit, yellow tie and white skin.
Georgetown was looser than the rest of Washington about coloreds and whites mixing; but this was fairly bold. The emptiness of the bar was in their favor-in other booths, a few couples were having a drink after dinner or before a show, the bar stools empty, except for the one I perched myself on.
Was this the reason for Miss Brown’s furtive manner? A date with a white guy, a well-dressed, respectable- looking white guy at that….
I watched them in the mirror behind the bar. The red-vested bartender, a pudgy thirtyish guy with thinning brown hair and a name tag that said Tom, came over to take my order.
“Coke,” I said.
“Living dangerously, huh?”
“Not as dangerously as some.”
Tom caught on that I was watching the mixed-race couple in the back booth.
“Hey, we mind our own business around here.” But he had a gentle tinge of Southern accent that called his comment into question.
Tom went away to get my Coke and I watched the couple in the mirror. There was nothing lovey-dovey about it; the man-his face was an intelligent, not unpleasant oval dominated by a strong nose-seemed to be asking questions and Miss Brown seemed to be answering them. Their expressions were equally blank, though occasionally Miss Brown shrugged and her companion leaned forward and tightened his eyes and tried again.
The bartender brought my Coke and said, “Anyway, it’s not what you think.”
“It isn’t?”
He was whispering; and I was whispering back. That was how it was done in D.C.
“Naw. That guy’s a straight arrow. Hell, he’s a damn Mormon. Notice he’s not smokin’, plus he’s drinkin’ what you’re drinkin’.”
“Mormon, like in multiple wives?”
The bartender smirked. “He’s engaged to a nice white gal….”
“Just one?”
“You know who that is, sittin’ over there?”
“Lena Horne?”
“I mean the guy.”
“No. Who?”
“That’s Jack Anderson.”
“Who’s Jack Anderson?”
Tom shook his head and half-smiled. “You
“Oh, the columnist, you mean.”
“Yeah. The colored babe’s probably just a source. Anderson talks to all sorts of people, in here-generals, congressmen, you name it.”
“And usually on Saturday night, I’ll bet.”
Tom frowned a little. “How did you know that?”
“It’s the only night this joint isn’t crawling with politicos-also, Pearson’s weekly broadcast is Sunday night.”
Now he gave me the other half of the smile. “Maybe you’re not from outa town.”
Anderson was handing Miss Brown an envelope. She tucked it in her purse and exited the booth without a goodbye; he watched her go with the thin, world-weary smile of a priest exiting a confessional. Through the front colonial bay windows I watched her pink-and-black dress hike pleasantly up as she raised an arm to hail a taxi; soon she headed off to her real date, with some lucky colored fella, no doubt.
Drew Pearson’s man was still in that back booth, with his notebook out and pencil in hand, doing what many a good investigator does after a sensitive interview: taking down his notes afterward.
I took my Coke with me and wandered over.
Flipping his spiral notepad shut, he glanced up with a guarded blankness and, in a rich baritone that had some edge to it, asked, “Do I know you?”
I was leaning against the side of the booth. “No, but we have a mutual friend … or anyway a mutual boss.”
His eyes were a deceptively placid light blue, the cool blue of a mountain stream; they fixed themselves on me, unblinking. “Do we.” It wasn’t exactly a question.
“I did a job for Pearson in Chicago a while back,” I said. “When he did that rackets expose. My name’s Heller.”
The thin skeptical line of his mouth curved into something friendlier. “Nate Heller…. Drew’s mentioned you.”
“And you’d be Jack Anderson.”
He was nodding as I extended my hand, which he took and shook, firmly but not obnoxiously.
“Mind if I sit with you for a few seconds?” I asked. “I know you’re probably up against deadline, getting ready for the Sunday broadcast …”
His smile was almost boyish as he nodded and gestured for me to take the seat across from him in the booth. “Yeah, I’ll really be burnin’ the midnight oil. I’m tied up with church all day Sunday-like every Sunday-and have to get my work done tonight, to make sure my contribution to the show’s up to date.”
Settling in across from him, I saluted him with my Coke glass. “You must be good, if you don’t work Sundays and Pearson hired you anyway. Either that or you work cheap.”
He grinned. “Little of both. What brings you to Washington, Mr. Heller?”
“We’ll make it ‘Nate’ and ‘Jack,’ if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure,” he said, still somewhat guarded; he was young, but he was a newsman.
I said, “I’m doing a job for Jim Forrestal.”
His grin froze, then melted a little; something around his eyes tightened. “Really. What sort of job?”
“I don’t know if I should be giving Drew Pearson’s man that information. I mean, for months now, your boss has been dragging poor ol’ Forrestal by the short hairs behind your ‘Washington Merry-Go-Round.’”
Which was the name of Pearson’s syndicated column.
Anderson thought that over; for a young guy, he had a lot of poise. Finally he asked quietly, with just a hint of menace, “Does Jim Forrestal realize he’s hired an investigator who once worked for Drew Pearson?”
“Probably not. And I didn’t think it was … ‘politic’ is the word, isn’t it? Politic for me to mention it.”
Those light-blue eyes were examining me like X-rays. “Why did he hire you? Guy from Chicago like you. Why not somebody local, with Burns or Pinkerton?”
“Why not just use the FBI, if you’re Jim Forrestal? No, Jack, this job requires an outsider.”
A tiny nod. “Sometimes an outsider’s the only kind of man you can trust.” There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
I sipped my Coke. “Do you think Forrestal can trust me, Jack?”
He sipped his Coke. “According to the boss, you’re a man who likes money.”
“That Scrooge you work for thinks anybody who wants more than a cup of gruel is a greedy bastard.”
That made Anderson chuckle. “Sometimes I do feel like Bob Cratchit, at that.”
“You think Forrestal’s getting a fair shake from Pearson?”
For the first time Anderson’s gaze dropped, his eyes avoiding mine; his voice sounded troubled as he said, “The boss says Forrestal’s the most dangerous man in America.”
“What do you say? Ever interview him yourself?”
Anderson nodded. “I’d call Jim Forrestal a genuine public servant, dedicated, with an enormous expertise; we were lucky as hell to have him, during the war. And the inside word is he has a capacity for firm, clear judgment, that he can appreciate the complexity of any situation. They say he’s never fallen prey to the ruthlessness that this town almost always engenders in the powerful.”
Like the sort of ruthlessness Drew Pearson indulged in.
I said, “Sounds like you admire the guy.”
