The Running Kind: A Hector Lassiter novel

by Craig McDonald

  Not looking at Hector, trying instead to look engrossed in the poultry section of the menu, Meg said, “Katy said she had a heart-to-heart with you.”

  “No, that’s not so,” he said bluntly. “Not at all. Kate did all the talking.” Hector sipped his hot tea and then ran his fingers through his hair. “She told me some things.”

  “So you finally got all your answers?”

  “Let’s say I heard some things.”

  “And you’re still talking to me?”

  “You must be very strong,” Hector said. “Very strong, deep down inside yourself. They say it’s the hardest of the addictions to overcome.”

  Meg narrowed her eyes. “Addiction? What on earth are you talking about, Hector?”

  Hector narrowed his eyes.

  Her voice going hard, Meg said, “What did Kate tell you?”

  He told her.

  “That’s not how it was,” Meg said afterward. There was real hate in her tone.

  “Kate seemed to believe it.”

  “I’m sure she does, Hector. It suits her needs. She required a story like that one to rationalize taking another woman’s child. It’s all a monstrous lie.”

  “You and Kate never talked about this?”

  Meg’s eyes flared. “No.” She sipped her hot tea and pulled his jacket closer around her. “I spent maybe six hours with Kate before you and Jim saved us at the hotel. That’s all. Even in that short time, it quickly became clear to me the last thing to do would be to confess any weaknesses to that witch.”

  “Then what’s the real story?”

  “I suppose you have to know that just to ensure you don’t detest me.”

  Hector stretched his legs under the table, pressing his calf against hers. “I don’t have to know, darling.”

  “Yes, you do. You certainly must know, now. I have to have you know if only to offset what you’ve been told by Kate.” She sipped a little more tea then pulled the pot closer and pressed her hands to its sides, warming them. “At first, when Vito learned I was pregnant, he urged me to see what he called a ‘pin doctor.’”

  Hector suppressed a wince: that was indecorous gangster slang for an abortionist.

  “I’d foreseen that demand,” Meg said. “So I waited before telling him. I broke dates, canceled club gigs. I waited until an abortion was out of the question before I let Vito know I was carrying his child. Waited until it was too late to kill our baby. Too late even for a monster like Vito.” She shivered a little. “Well, I suppose he could have decided to kill us both at that point, but that was my gamble.”

  Hector admired her for it. He said, “Katy said her husband decided he wanted an heir.”

  “That was a fall-back position on Vito’s part,” Meg said. “When he saw I was committed to having the baby, he began praying that I’d have a son. It’s every man’s dream, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Hector said. “All that rivalry and Freudian bullsquash? Who has the damned time?” And Hector had evolved a kind of arrogant pride about ending his line in that sense. He’d tried to kid himself he had a hankering to be the last to carry the decidedly vexed Lassiter surname. He figured on being the last Lassiter. And anyway, he’d always proven better at destroying than creating things.

  Except for the writing, of course.

  Hector said, “There is a lot to be said for doting daughters. Little girls to pamper who’ll become dutiful daughters in a man’s dotage.”

  “But what about carrying on the family name?” Meg seemed indomitable.

  He shrugged. “Lassiter is no pretty handle. The man who really raised me, my grandpappy, Beau, hates the name.” He held out a hand. Meg hesitated, then took it. Hers was warm from the tea pitcher. Hector asked softly, “How’d this man end up with your child, Megan?”

  Meg looked up at the paper lantern hanging above their table. Her eyes were wet. Raw voiced, she said, “I sold her, God forgive me. My father was quite ill. He needed a surgery no Missouri farmer could afford. Not even selling the farm—which he ruled out—would have paid that bill.”

  Fair exchange of trade. Right.

  Hector felt sick inside. He said, “Your old man, did he pull through?”

  Meg’s head was bowed. “No. He died on the table. But a deal is a deal. Vito made that clear enough. Those two years Katy described as my drying out period, those two years immediately after my baby was born and taken from me? I had a complete nervous breakdown. I was in an institution, eating myself alive from the inside out for giving away my daughter.”

  Hector didn’t know what to say to her. Fidgeting, he eventually asked, “What would you have called your daughter, Meg?”

  “Shannon is the name I chose. I got just that much. In the hospital, they brought the paperwork to me for her birth certificate. So I gave her the name I wanted. My little gesture.”

  She worked at her eyes with a napkin, trying not to wreck her makeup.

  “It’s a beautiful name. Very Irish.”

  “My grandmother was from County Antrim.”

  “You do actually sing, professionally?” He was awkwardly trying to lighten the mood. “If that’s true, you could duet with Jimmy. Put a few shots of Jameson in him and Jimmy can belt out a killer version of “Carrikfergus”. And his “Minstrel Boy”? That one’ll tear your heart out.”

  “That much is true, I did sing in many of Vito’s clubs.” One of Hector’s still beloved ex-wives, Duff, had been a sometimes singer, too.

  “You sang standards and torch songs, Kate told me. Like those tunes you selected the night we danced in the bar.”

  “I know ’em all,” Meg said. “Are you truly hungry, Hector?”

  “Not so terribly much,” he said. “Not truly.”

  “Then what do you say we get out of here? We have a couple of hours. Spend the money you would have spent on dinner and get us a room somewhere.”

  “Meg…”

  “Please, Hector. Depending on what happens in the next few hours, I may not have long left with you, either.”

  15

  “I’m leaving to go to the rendezvous early,” Hector told Jimmy.

  “To lose those FBI boyos across the street?” Jimmy cast down his cigarette. It sizzled in the snow at the foot of the steps leading up to their loaner brownstone.

  “Well, that is one notion,” he said, still tasting Meg on his mouth.

  “What’s another?”

  “I desperately need a drink.” Flashing on an image of bloated old Eliot, Hector added, “Or really maybe just some fresh, cold air.”

  Jimmy said, “You’re getting quite close to Meg and doin’ it fast. That scares me a bit for Katy in some ways.”

  That brought Hector up short. He said, “What do you mean by that, Jimbo?”

  Jimmy tread carefully. “Just that I get this growing sense that if things really blow to pieces, if the bullets are flying, I begin to think I’ll be the only one trying to keep poor hapless Katy safe.”

  Deny it? Hector really couldn’t.

  This other thing about Jimmy that made things a little frightening for Hector at times—Jim seemed sometimes to have what you might call second-sight.

  16

  The bartender was slicing up lemons and limes. The keep said, “We didn’t believe. All the time Ness has been coming here, we just thought he was some blowhard—a boastful, deluded lush. All that crazy stuff about Al Capone, about how he helped bring ‘Snorky’ down, we thought it all so much bullshit.”

  “Ness fought Capone, for sure,” Hector said. That was face-saving vague and the least Hector could do for Eliot, or more exactly, for Jim. He’d be leaving town soon. He might never get back this way. But Hector figured Eliot would be parking his broadening ass on these very barstools long after Hector was back in New Mexico. It seemed that in confirming Eliot’s exaggerations he would buy Ness some face in his favorite bar, maybe at least earn him some budget-extending, free drinks.

  “Sometimes he puts away ten, twelve dri
nks a night,” the keep said. “You know, like it’s water. Never a sloppy drunk, though. Have to give him that.”

  That seemed not a lot to give. Rubbing his jaw, Hector said, “Eliot has a lot to forget.” As if he really knew. But hell, it might well be true. What else could there be?

  “He also has a lot to lose, sounds like,” the bartender said. “I mean, he wears a wedding ring. He talks an awful lot about this son. Kid’s adopted I think.”

  “Eliot does have one of those,” Hector said. His stomach was sour. He checked his Timex. “Keep my drink here and my stool open, would you, pal? I’ve got to hit the phone booth in back for a quick chat. Shouldn’t be more than five minutes.”

  Hector bee-lined for the phone cabinet in the back. He fished out his little black book and flipped through it until he hit “F” and a man’s name.

  Not “F” for the man’s last name… no, not that.

  “F” for “FBI.”

  Agent Edmond Tilly said, “Holy Christ, Hector, it’s been a spell. When was the last time we talked? That Los Angeles mess, back in forty-seven, wasn’t it? The Short murder?”

  “Maybe,” Hector said, not sure himself. “Probably. January, 1947. The Dahlia.”

  “That mess with Welles was something. You know that cocksucker is still hiding out in Europe?”

  If he was smart, Orson would stay there at least several more years, Hector hoped. Quietly, intently, there were still those in the Bureau who wrongly suspected Welles of the Black Dahlia murder.

  “I have a new issue for you to consider,” Hector said. “It’s another big one.”

  “That shoot-out in Times Square last week? Rumor has it you were on the scene. Jesus, the berserk life you live, Lassiter.”

  “No, not that,” Hector said, grimacing. “And shoot-out is grossly overstating that stuff. There weren’t all that many shots fired.”

  “There’s another rumor too,” Agent Tilly said. “About you having some mob boss’s wife and moll you’re trying to get to Kefauver.”

  Holy God, Did someone take out a double-truck ad in the Times?

  Hector said, “Would those be rumors spread by tails your fussy boss has on me?”

  “Could be. I can’t say much, Hector. Not even to you. You’ve always enjoyed a certain special relationship with the Bureau, because of Spain in thirty-seven and that crazy stuff in Los Angeles in January of forty-seven. You know that the Director has a rare soft spot for you, at least presently. Hell, you’re one of the few non-lefty writers of record out there, and that counts for something here. You’re one of the few we’re not presently eyeballing with intent. You should see the file on that Red Hammett that Mr. Hoover has built. But if you’re calling for help now, well, I’m afraid the answer is a regretful no way.”

  Tilly suddenly lowered his voice; Hector strained to hear it: “You know what the Bureau’s position has been on the mob, Hector. Mr. Hoover is not inclined to do anything to help that grandstander Kefauver’s committee. Every time that bastard serves a subpoena to one of those Dago hoodlums, it’s like a swift kick in the Director’s balls.” Tilly rushed to add, “And don’t you dare try to make a joke out of that last statement.”

  Hector said, “So why do I have these two agents camped out in front of my hiding place now, amigo?”

  “Because we also don’t want a total debacle that can hurt us. You tend to be a lightning rod for certain kinds of mayhem, Hec. You’re also a public figure with a penchant for writing about things you don’t so much invent as much, these years. Those two guys out front are Mr. Hoover’s insurance policy, good men with instructions to involve themselves only under certain circumstances and where they might do so without official entanglement or media presence. Containment is Mr. Hoover’s term for it.”

  “They’re honest, these agents? Not bought off help?”

  “That’s right. So I wouldn’t try to lose them if I was you, Hec.”

  “You seem to know a lot about them and my current situation, Ed,” Hector said. “Almost like you maybe anticipated my call.”

  “Mr. Hoover foresaw you making a contact,” the FBI agent said. “He’s nothing if not a strategist, and he says the same of you. You’re up against it, after all. It was logical you would reach out to the Bureau via me.”

  Bastard.

  Bastards.

  Hector said, “Well, tell old John Edgar he may want to strongly re-evaluate his current policy of non-intervention. I’ve got the IDs and service weapons of a couple of your confederates. They’re on Vito Scartelli’s dole. So this nonexistent mob and its reach extends right down into your hallowed Bureau’s ranks. Run that one by old J. Edgar, won’t you, pal?”

  Silence. Hector sensed Tilly might have his palm pressed over the receiver. There was some rustling and he said, “When you get back to your place, take the guns and the IDs and walk across the street and hand them to the agents there, if you would. We’ll see to those rats.”

  “Sure,” Hector said, “After all you’ve done for me in this time of need, why wouldn’t I want to help you out like that, Ed? After all the favors I did you and damned HUAC three years ago? Why the hell wouldn’t I want to grab ankle again?”

  “Hector, I wish I could do more, I really do, Lass. But the politics of this situation are complex and the possibility of a public relations disaster are unthinkably high. Particularly with a maverick like you testing the fences. Speaking strictly personally, I hope to hell you make it, Hec. I hope you ram it down that Buckeye Don’s goddamn throat, sideways.”

  “Thanks loads, Ed,” I said. “Your support means the world to me.” Hector racked the receiver, seething.

  He checked his watch again. Ten minutes until Ness and the next meeting was to begin. He exited the phone booth and called to the bartender, “I’m claiming this table over here.” Hector then thought of Shannon and said, “Say, do you know how to make a Shirley Temple, pal?”

  17

  Jimmy and the ladies arrived first. Hector pulled out chairs for the girls and scooted ’em in, then moseyed to the bar where Jimmy was ordering drinks. Jimmy nodded and said, “Is it too much to hope our situation has improved in some inexplicable way, Hector?”

  Hector leaned in, elbows on the bar. “Wish I could surprise you, brother. I talked to my FBI guy.”

  “And there’s no help coming,” Jimmy said, “that’s what you’re going to say, isn’t it? It’s in your eyes.” The bartender passed Jimmy his whiskey.

  “Right,” Hector said. “Nada. FBI’s not gonna lift a finger for us, sounds like. Hoover’s got some hard-on over being keistered by Kefauver.”

  The Irish cop shotgunned his Jameson and said, “Given the rumors I’ve heard about Hoover’s sexual proclivities, you may want to rethink that phrasing, Mr. Author.” He made a sour face. “And I’ve heard, as I’m sure you’ve heard, that John Edgar only has eyes for sorry Clyde.”

  “Hoover’s sex drive aside, either way, the upshot is we’re left twisting in the wind.”

  “Let’s see what Eliot can do for us,” Jimmy said. He checked his watch. “He’s late. But then it’s snowing again, and it’s evening rush hour to boot.”

  Hector forked over some bills to the bartender and carried Katy’s gin and Shannon’s Shirley Temple to the table. He made a second trip to pick up a couple of glasses of rum St. James for Meg and himself. Their rum drinks represented another bid on Hector’s part to recapture something by chasing the taste and fire of his old winter-in-Paris favored libation. For some reason, the sentimentalist in Hector seemed to be stirring with a vengeance these past few days. Brinke Devlin loomed large in his dreams.

  Jimmy was still drinking at the bar, perhaps shortening the duration between refills, Hector guessed. “We should think about what we might do if Eliot can’t bring us any assistance,” Hector said.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Jimmy said, tapping his shot glass with two thick fingers to signal his desire for a refill. “Eliot’s not so far gone as t
o not have a few surprises for us.”

  Maybe that would prove out. “You should go easier on that stuff,” Hector said.

  “I can handle it,” Jimmy said. “And let’s face it—if we don’t get some light thrown on all this from Eliot, I see two options. We either make a blind run to Tennessee, or we go to D.C. in hopes of somehow finding the senator. Or we simply run off for parts unknown. We do that until we sense the chase has stopped and we find a place to squirrel those three away. Let ’em live underground, from here to forever.”

  “If you call that anything like living,” Hector said. “I’m the running kind, of course, Jim. A nomad and a rambler at the best of times, sure. But even I couldn’t live all of my life like that. And it’s no way for that little girl to grow up.”

  The little rubber stopper with a bell inside strung over the bar door jingled and some snow squalls swirled in through the widening crack. Eliot brushed snow from his shoulders and shook out his hat. He grinned and said, “Hey there, boys.”

  Sour-faced, Jimmy gestured at the bar and said, “What’ll it be, Eliot?”

  “Gin and tonic,” Eliot said. “What’s the latest news, fellas?”

  “The latest is the FBI officially telling me we are squarely on our own,” Hector said.

  “I wish I could say I’m surprised,” Eliot said. “Huddle close, I’ve got some news.”

  They walked to the end of the bar: Katy and Shannon had their backs to the three men. Meg watched the trio. Eliot said, “I’ve talked to Joseph Gibson, the counsel for Kefauver’s committee. He’s in Dayton presently, and will be there for the next several days. I’ve explained to him what you have and what the woman purports to have. Made it clear that the wife is willing to turn committee’s evidence. Gibson was quite excited by the prospect, as you might expect.”

  “Precisely how excited, Eliot?” Jimmy dipped his head, searching Eliot’s eyes. “How deep does this shyster’s enthusiasm run? We frankly need real and meaningful exuberance.”

  “He’s not excited enough to send you an escort,” Eliot said. He took a sip of his drink and shook his head. “He doesn’t want to risk the black-eye of this star witness being shot or blown up in route. But he agrees that if you can get to Dayton, he’ll then take over security—contingent upon seeing whatever paperwork this woman is carrying.”