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there.”
“So does everybody in Chicago.”
Baughman’s brow furrowed. “Does everybody in Chicago wander around the house with their hat on, apparently forgetting they have it on? Does everyone in Chicago look directly at their uniformed maid and ask, ‘Where’s my maid?’”
I shrugged. “He’s under great stress, gentlemen. He worked fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, from before the war till today … and now he’s losing a position that was his whole life.”
“We know,” Baughman said gravely. “We also know that, last week, he went to an attorney and made out his last will and testament.”
“And,” Wilson interjected, “he got a prescription for sleeping pills, and filled it to its entirety … enough pills to put an army to sleep—forever.”
“Now you’re saying he’s a potential suicide.”
“I’m convinced,” Baughman said, “that he’s had a total psychotic breakdown, characterized by suicidal features, yes.”
“Are you a psychiatrist?”
“No. But our field data was interpreted by our top staff psychiatrist, and these are his findings.”
“Without this shrink actually talking to Forrestal.”
Baughman shrugged an admission, then said, “Please understand that this is … treachrous, and embarrassing, turf. We can’t ask the Secretary of Defense to submit to such an examination.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It … it just isn’t done.”
“Oh, so you fire him to hell and gone, instead. Hey, that’ll clear up any of his suicidal tendencies in a hurry.”
Wilson sat forward, saying, “Nate, if the press gets wind of this—”
“Gets wind of this! What do you think Pearson will be talking about on his broadcast tomorrow night?”
“Pearson isn’t the news. He’s a phenomenon unto himself. People listen to him, but they don’t take him as seriously as the front page, or even the editorial section.”
“You trying to convince me, or yourself? What do you guys want from me, anyway?”
Wilson glanced at Baughman, who nodded.
“Have you had dinner?” Wilson asked.
I frowned. “Dinner? No.”
“Grab your hat. Uncle Sam is buying.”
Following Wilson out reluctantly, I informed him, “Don’t get the idea if you feed me, you can fuck me. I’m just not that kind of girl.”
“Really,” Wilson said. “I heard you were easy.”
4
Frank Wilson and I rode in back of another black sedan with another young agent for a driver. Chief Baughman did not come along, having to get back to his barbecue; besides, he wasn’t “dressed for it.” He didn’t say dressed for what, and on the way to wherever we were going—skirting Lafayette Square, to head up Connecticut Avenue, D.C.’s version of Fifth Avenue—Wilson spoke not at all of Jim Forrestal, making small talk instead.
“Sorry to hear your marriage didn’t work out,” he said.
“Funny, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“With my randy reputation? And she was the one running around.”
“Hell of a thing.”
“Piece of advice for you, Frank—never screw around on a divorce dick.”
“Yeah?”
“Got pictures of her and that married jerk…. Gave ’em to his wife.”
We were passing the shade trees of Farragut Square.
Wilson sat caught in the awkward moment for a while, then asked, “How’s your boy doing?”
“Fine. His mom treats him right, anyway. For the child support and alimony she’s getting, she should.”
“What’s his name?”
“Nate, Jr. Want to see a picture?”
Wilson said sure and I got my wallet out and showed him.
“Mine are grown,” he said. “But I got grandkid pictures.”
He got his wallet out and showed me.
Then the limo slowed and pulled up in front of the huge Mayflower Hotel, on the southeast corner of De Sales Street and Connecticut; only it turned out we were going to the nearby Harvey’s, one of the city’s best-known, most popular restaurants, seafood a specialty. Wilson led me through the nondescript but packed dining room—where
“So does everybody in Chicago.”
Baughman’s brow furrowed. “Does everybody in Chicago wander around the house with their hat on, apparently forgetting they have it on? Does everyone in Chicago look directly at their uniformed maid and ask, ‘Where’s my maid?’”
I shrugged. “He’s under great stress, gentlemen. He worked fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, from before the war till today … and now he’s losing a position that was his whole life.”
“We know,” Baughman said gravely. “We also know that, last week, he went to an attorney and made out his last will and testament.”
“And,” Wilson interjected, “he got a prescription for sleeping pills, and filled it to its entirety … enough pills to put an army to sleep—forever.”
“Now you’re saying he’s a potential suicide.”
“I’m convinced,” Baughman said, “that he’s had a total psychotic breakdown, characterized by suicidal features, yes.”
“Are you a psychiatrist?”
“No. But our field data was interpreted by our top staff psychiatrist, and these are his findings.”
“Without this shrink actually talking to Forrestal.”
Baughman shrugged an admission, then said, “Please understand that this is … treachrous, and embarrassing, turf. We can’t ask the Secretary of Defense to submit to such an examination.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It … it just isn’t done.”
“Oh, so you fire him to hell and gone, instead. Hey, that’ll clear up any of his suicidal tendencies in a hurry.”
Wilson sat forward, saying, “Nate, if the press gets wind of this—”
“Gets wind of this! What do you think Pearson will be talking about on his broadcast tomorrow night?”
“Pearson isn’t the news. He’s a phenomenon unto himself. People listen to him, but they don’t take him as seriously as the front page, or even the editorial section.”
“You trying to convince me, or yourself? What do you guys want from me, anyway?”
Wilson glanced at Baughman, who nodded.
“Have you had dinner?” Wilson asked.
I frowned. “Dinner? No.”
“Grab your hat. Uncle Sam is buying.”
Following Wilson out reluctantly, I informed him, “Don’t get the idea if you feed me, you can fuck me. I’m just not that kind of girl.”
“Really,” Wilson said. “I heard you were easy.”
4
Frank Wilson and I rode in back of another black sedan with another young agent for a driver. Chief Baughman did not come along, having to get back to his barbecue; besides, he wasn’t “dressed for it.” He didn’t say dressed for what, and on the way to wherever we were going—skirting Lafayette Square, to head up Connecticut Avenue, D.C.’s version of Fifth Avenue—Wilson spoke not at all of Jim Forrestal, making small talk instead.
“Sorry to hear your marriage didn’t work out,” he said.
“Funny, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“With my randy reputation? And she was the one running around.”
“Hell of a thing.”
“Piece of advice for you, Frank—never screw around on a divorce dick.”
“Yeah?”
“Got pictures of her and that married jerk…. Gave ’em to his wife.”
We were passing the shade trees of Farragut Square.
Wilson sat caught in the awkward moment for a while, then asked, “How’s your boy doing?”
“Fine. His mom treats him right, anyway. For the child support and alimony she’s getting, she should.”
“What’s his name?”
“Nate, Jr. Want to see a picture?”
Wilson said sure and I got my wallet out and showed him.
“Mine are grown,” he said. “But I got grandkid pictures.”
He got his wallet out and showed me.
Then the limo slowed and pulled up in front of the huge Mayflower Hotel, on the southeast corner of De Sales Street and Connecticut; only it turned out we were going to the nearby Harvey’s, one of the city’s best-known, most popular restaurants, seafood a specialty. Wilson led me through the nondescript but packed dining room—where
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