“I can wait while you jot that down, Senator. Or is that something you’ve already committed to memory?”
He might have snarled and thrown me out on my ass; but he knew me too well from when I worked for his crime committee in its Chicago phase.
“What are you here for, Nathan? You want something. Everybody in this town wants something. Like the bartenders say, what’s yours?”
I smiled. “First, Senator, I want to remind you that you have made no secret of your distaste and even disgust for Senator McCarthy’s tactics. Second, I have a specific request about a constituent of yours on your witness list who you are poised to destroy in the reckless McCarthy manner.”
“I’m listening.”
I told him how Bettie Page, “a good Tennessee gal who makes her living by showing off the nice figure God gave her,” had been hassled by two investigators claiming to represent him. That they had suggested they would help her with her testimony against publisher Irving Klaw in a manner that suggested suborning perjury. Further, that she was a dangerous witness because she had the kind of Southern-fried charm and brains that could backfire on the committee in a public interrogation.
“Remember when Virginia Hill testified? Usually she has the biggest boobs in the room. But going toe-to-toe with you boys, she made bigger boobs out of the lot of you.”
He sighed. “You want this woman—Bettie Page—scratched from the prospective witness list.”
“Yes. Talk to her as a resource if you have to, but don’t put her on display where she’ll become some kind of grotesque fallen woman for American housewives to rip apart. Also, this guy Klaw has been good to her and she doesn’t want to finger him—not that he’s broken any laws.”
His eyes and nostrils flared. “You’ve seen the filth he puts out?”
“It’s a dumb fantasy where men dominate women and sometimes women dominate men. Whips and ropes and leather union suits and what have you. The national audience for that stuff would fit in this office.”
He put his glasses back on. Sighed again, but smaller. “Okay. I’m somewhat in debt to you, so … okay. Consider her scratched from this race. Anything else, Nathan?”
I grinned. “No, sir. Not unless you can put the fix in for me with the income tax boys.”
He grinned back at me. “Just pay the man, Nathan.”
His phone rang, he answered it, and I was gone from his mind before I’d even cleared the chair.
I had another appointment here in the Senate Office Building.
CHAPTER
15
In one of his standard dark blue ready-made suits with a shades-of-blue striped tie just waiting to be stained, Joe McCarthy was hunkered over his mashed potatoes, green beans, meat loaf, and coffee, with apple pie chaser. I was having the same, substituting iced tea for the drink. We were in the Senate Office Building cafeteria, on the basement level, and at just past noon the place was bustling. Strange knowing that all around me were famous people, while the only faces I recognized besides McCarthy’s belonged to Senator Taft (a newsreel and front-page frequenter) and Jack Kennedy, who I’d once gotten out of a marital jam.
The cafeteria, which might have been in a school or hospital with its white walls and colored help, and institutional food quality to match, took up several interconnecting rooms. A few luncheon conference meetings were under way where two or three or four of the square Formica-topped wooden tables were pushed together.
The senator and I were at a single such table in a quiet corner, where my host sat with his back to the wall, like an Old West gunfighter. The corner was quiet in the sense that the clatter of dishes and the Babel-like conversations surrounding provided the same kind of eye-of-the-storm privacy to be had at that other cafeteria, the Waldorf.
We chatted socially through the meal, him asking about how my boy Sam was doing, me congratulating him on his recent marriage to Jean Kerr. All very friendly, even frothy. Whenever one of his colleagues walked by, he would beam them a squinty-eyed smile and, whether friend or foe, address them loudly by name; in either case, their response would be a strained smile and polite nod.
Then halfway through the apple pie, I said, “I’m a little surprised your mascot isn’t along.”
He knew who I meant.
“I invited Roy,” he said, with that familiar tightening of his mouth that was half smile, half grimace, “but he declined, and sends his regrets.”
“Declined why?”
“Well, he has a full docket right now. Dave Schine, his right-hand man, just got drafted, and we’re trying to make arrangements so we don’t lose an, uh, valuable asset.”
“Schine—that’s the hotel heir? Cohn’s book-burning buddy from the European jaunt?”
McCarthy’s frown suggested hurt more than displeasure. “That’s not fair, Nate.” He sighed heavily. “Frankly, Roy’s absence at this lunch meeting of ours has more to do with him being … embarrassed … than anything else. And I assure you the boy doesn’t embarrass easily.… Bob, hello!… Generally, Roy doesn’t seem to care what people think about him. So take it as a compliment.”
“Is that right.”
The big shoulders shrugged as a bite of pie stalled halfway to home. “He only cares what a person thinks of him if he respects that person.”
Or needed that person to get ahead.
“Joe, Cohn doesn’t like me because he knows I see through him. He’s a conniving little shyster.”
The overgrown eyebrows grew together in a frown. “That’s overly harsh. He’s the smartest boy I ever ran across. I told you before, he’s a bit on the excitable side, and can be rash at times—”
“Like sending Frank Costello’s goons to rough me up.”
His face reddened under and around the blue shadow of his most recent shave. “I talked to Roy about that, as promised. Scolded him severely.… Jack, how’s tricks?… That’s the primary reason he’s embarrassed, you ask me. He knows he misjudged you. You came through for us. I could have told him you would.”
And I could have told McCarthy that I considered Roy Cohn the murderer of Ethel Rosenberg. Instead I forked another bite of apple pie.
He read my silence as the accusation of his absent lapdog that it was. “This Rosenberg case isn’t over yet, Nate. Not by a long damn shot.”
“Well, they’re both dead. That’s pretty over.”
He shook his head somberly. “What they set in motion is alive and well. Remember, some months ago, I mentioned an army base in New Jersey we were looking into?”
“Vaguely.”
“Base in question is Fort Monmouth, where Julius Rosenberg worked as a civilian for the Signal Corps … and set up his wartime spy ring—his fellow Commie Sobell was a part of it.… Bill, how are you doin’, pal?… Two scientists from the base, who took some kind of long-distance powder, were key suspects in the ring. And Roy’s investigation has already connected seventeen current civilian employees at the base to Rosenberg and Sobell.”
I had another bite of pie, followed by a sip of iced tea.
He was ranting in full nasal speechifying mode now: “We have in our pocket an East German defector who has seen fresh information on guided missile systems and radar networks. This extremely dangerous espionage rocks the very foundation of our defense against atomic attack.… Wayne, sorry I missed that vote! Did fine without me, son!… This house of spies is still in operation and allowed to flourish thanks to the Army’s benign neglect … and to subversives within their very ranks.”
“So you’re taking the Army on, as promised.”
The heavy eyebrows rose, the sleepy eyelids forcing themselves wider. “The generals have to take responsibility for their actions, like anybody else. Their inactions, too.”
“I thought you were gearing up to take on the CIA,” I said, just to goad him.
But he shot right back: “As soon as we’re finished with the Army, those birds are next. Actually, that investigation is concurrent and ongoing.… Mark, you look we
ll, fella!… If the CIA had done its damn job, this nest of Reds in New Jersey would have been eradicated during the war.”
I could just imagine how much the administration and many of his fellow senators might relish Tail-Gunner Joe traipsing through CIA intelligence files and personnel records.
I raised a palm as if being sworn in. “This isn’t anything I want to be involved in.”
“I’m not asking you to. Not … precisely.”
“Well, what are you imprecisely asking, Joe?”
He lips peeled back and his eyes narrowed in a particularly ghastly smile. “You may be sitting there thinking I’m naive to have the gall to imagine I can take on the Central Intelligence Agency. Even Dick Nixon has discouraged me, and there are few more vociferous foes of the Commie rats than him. But I say that even the CIA is not immune to inquiry. Should they be allowed to conduct themselves as they please, under a blanket of secrecy?”
“That’s how spying works.”
He shrugged. “Well, I do understand that need … and I certainly wouldn’t call out any active agent except in executive session, and put their operations or even their lives at risk. But this is our country’s baby, and our dirty diapers, and we have got to wash them … and I’m in favor of washing them in public as much as possible.”
“Dangerous line to walk, Joe.”
The nasal public speaking mode was in full sway again: “Nate, the CIA is riddled with Commies and security risks. Right now we know of a homosexual forced to resign from the State Department who is currently a top-salaried man with the CIA. We have so many normal people, so many competent Americans, must we employ so many … unusual men … in government service?”
I made this as gentle as I could. “Joe … meaning no disrespect … but you have been accused of being ‘unusual’ yourself, and so has Roy Cohn. Not that I give a damn, but I think Cohn is queer as a three-dollar bill. But that’s not the reason you’d be wise to get rid of him.”
He was shaking his head as if flies were buzzing around it. “Ludicrous. He’s all man, our Roy. I can’t believe you’d make such an unfounded, scurrilous accusation.”
Said the king of unfounded, scurrilous accusations.
“But,” he said, “that kind of thing does relate to why I asked you to stop by.”
I wasn’t “stopping by.” I had been hired, at double my day rate, to fly at McCarthy’s expense to D.C., where I was being put up at the Mayflower.
“Why did I stop by?” I asked.
The small mouth sneered. “These CIA spooks are ruthless bastards who will stop at nothing. They assemble secret files on people to buy their silence and cooperation. They’re a lousy damn pack of blackmailers.”
“I hear J. Edgar does the same thing.”
“Hoover is not my concern. It’s come to me secondhand that the Agency has a file on me, if you can believe that.… Ernie, great to see you!… with information of a, uh, damaging nature. Don’t ask me what’s in the file, and whether it’s true or not—I don’t know. Just get your hands on that goddamn file, Nate. I can’t go into a full-scale investigation of the CIA without knowing what they … what they think they have.”
“Joe, I don’t exactly have a horde of snitches in the Central Intelligence Agency.”
I didn’t mention that I had a fairly high-up contact in the form of Edward “Shep” Shepherd, since that was none of McCarthy’s business, and anyway, I wouldn’t dream of approaching Shepherd about this.
“Nor do we, Nate. They’re a closed-ranks bunch. But I have a good solid lead that I’d like you to check out—an unhappy civilian scientist at an army base, working for the Agency. He’s a constituent and a supporter of mine from back home.”
“I’m to go to Wisconsin for this?”
“No. He’s an hour from here, in Frederick, Maryland. You can take a train or rent a car.… Lyndon, we need to talk later!… All on expense account. My office can set up a meeting, probably tonight. If he’s not available this evening, you’ll stay over a day or two till he is. I’ll write you out a check upstairs for a thousand-dollar nonreturnable retainer.”
“You’ve talked to this scientist?”
“Twice on the phone. Briefly. He appears to have a lot to report on the Agency’s misbehavior, and you should gather that information, of course. But also pursue him as a source for getting your hands on that file. I can’t go forward in confidence against these people unless I know where I stand.”
“Why me?”
“I’m shorthanded with Schine drafted. Anyway, Nate, I need someone who’s not from D.C. circles to do this thing.”
This sounded straightforward enough. Turning the senator down might make an enemy out of him, particularly considering how Cohn and I didn’t get along. And I preferred McCarthy thinking we were friends.
“All right,” I said, getting out my notepad. “What’s the scientist’s name?”
* * *
Dr. Frank Olson lived in a new-looking ranch-style house on a quiet wooded lot outside Frederick, Maryland, nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians, a little over an hour’s drive southwest of D.C. I arrived, as arranged, at around 7 p.m., pulling my rental Ford into the driveway behind a nonrental Ford, then crossed the lawn to the front door of a cozy nest worthy of TV’s Ozzie and Harriet. I was met at the door by a tall, slender woman in her late thirties, her dark hair in a short perm; she bore a strong, pleasant resemblance to actress Patricia Neal. The smell of a recent meal of liver and onions combined with the warmth of inside came out on the stoop to greet me.
“Mr. Haller?” she asked, her smile wide, her eyes kind. She wore a navy housedress with white trim.
“It’s ‘Heller,’ ma’am,” I said, returning the smile, taking off my hat. I had a Burberry trench coat on over my Botany 500.
She gestured graciously. “Well, please come in. Frank’s in the den. I’ll get him for you.”
I stepped directly into a living room furnished in atomic-age modern, my presence of no interest to three children—a boy nine or ten, a girl eight or so, a boy maybe five—sitting like Indians with their backs to me before a video hearth just to one side of an unlit flagstone fireplace. Mr. Wizard was on.
The Olsons seemed to be getting a jump on Christmas—Thanksgiving wasn’t here yet, but in front of the picture window, a tree with twinkling lights stood guard over an array of brightly wrapped presents.
“Mr. Heller!” a mid-range male voice called. “Frank Olson.”
From a hallway came a medium-size suburbanite with a ready smile and an outstretched hand. His dark blond hair was thinning, which conspired with a weak chin to emphasize the elongated-egg shape of his head; but his pale green eyes were sharp in slitted settings, his nose long and somewhat flattened, as if he’d been a boxer in his youth. He was in the off-the-rack brown suit he’d likely worn to work, but the collar was loose, no tie in sight.
We shook hands. I was still just inside the door and Olson’s wife came up alongside him and said, “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” but her husband shook his head, his full-lipped smile fading.
“I think Mr. Heller and I will take a walk, dear,” he said.
“Oh. Well, all right.” She seemed surprised. I was, too—it was a chilly evening. She beamed at me and said, “Then I’ll have coffee for you when you get back. I’m Alice, by the way.”
“Alice,” I said, shaking the hand she stretched out to me. “And I’m Nate. That coffee will be welcome.”
Olson had slipped away to get a topcoat from the front closet. He stuffed a hat on his head in a half-crushed Jimmy Durante manner and gestured for me to step back out. His smile had returned, though on the porch he whispered, “You never know who’s listening, inside.”
We didn’t walk far, just to a stand of high trees on the lot, the night clear but dark with a slice of moon fingering through mostly bare branches. We stood between cedars and he offered me a cigar from a steel case. I said thank you, no. He lighted up with a match, turning his f
ace orange in the darkness, and puffed till it really got going. The evening was cold enough that you didn’t need a cigar to make smoke, though, your breath doing that just fine.
His smile was winning and wide; he looked a little goofy with that jammed-on hat. “I’m really kind of tickled to meet you. When Mrs. McCarthy called and said you’d be coming, that you were representing the senator? Well, I recognized your name right away.”
“That’s flattering.” Not really surprising that McCarthy had used his wife among his office staff to make the call.
He wet his lips. “Saw you in Life and a bunch of other places. Which is why I didn’t ask to check your ID; I mean, why bother? Brother, have you met everybody and his duck. His Donald Duck!”
“I suppose I have.”
“You know, you might think that scientists are a bunch of stuffed shirts, Nate, but you’d be wrong. Take me—I’m known around the lab for practical jokes. It’s okay I call you ‘Nate,’ right?”
“Right,” I said, hoping this wasn’t one of his jokes. “And you’re Frank.”
“I’m Frank. The one and only. Guys I work with at Fort Detrick, they’re real cards. Wild men. I always kid ’em, saying, ‘You’re all just a bunch of thespians!’ A ‘thespian’ is an actor. It’s different from ‘lesbian.’”
“Sometimes.”
He grinned. In the jammed-on hat he might have been a burlesque comic. “That’s a good one! It’s just kind of funny, you know … ‘thespian,’ ‘lesbian.’ You grab any laugh you can in my kind of work.” His smile became strained. “Because it’s not all fun and games, believe me.”
His life-of-the-party manner did a poor job of hiding his anxiety.
“I’m going to guess, Frank, that a lot of what you deal with is classified.”
“Oh, yeah. A-Number-One classified. Top-secret all the way.”
Better Dead Page 20
