Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 08 by Blood (and Thunder) (v5.0)
Authors: Blood (and Thunder) (v5.0)
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was.
I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep when the phone on the nightstand rang, startling me awake.
“Y-yes?”
“Kingfish speakin’. Over at Phil Baker’s place.”
My fingers fumblingly found the switch on the lamp by the bed; I could see my watch, but my eyes weren’t focusing yet.
“Yes?” I said again. It was the best I could manage—my mind was as fuzzy as my mouth.
Huey, on the other hand, was peppy as a pup. “Meet me in the lobby, long ’bout fifteen minutes from now. So we can finish up what we were talkin’ about, before.”
Now my eyes could see the time. “Jesus, Huey, it’s after three a.m.!”
“See ya in fifteen, son.”
I stumbled to the sink and threw some water on my face; powdered up my toothbrush and got the sour taste out of my mouth. Did the Kingfish ever sleep, I wondered? My suit was still damp, but I’d put my lightweight white seersucker on a hanger, and the wrinkles had pretty well hung out.
The lobby was quiet, the coffee shop closed, though a skeleton crew manned the marble check-in, a lone bellboy was on duty, and the newsstand was apparently open all night. I bought a Racing News, just in case I had time to get out to Saratoga while I was in the area.
So I sat reading my paper, minding my own business, chaperoning a potted plant, enjoying the solitude of the nearly empty lobby, when I noticed the guy.
He looked respectable and yet…he didn’t. He was small, pale, brown-haired, probably in his mid-forties, very average looking…except. Behind his thick, almost scholarly glasses, wild eyes flashed; and—despite the air-cooled lobby—that high, intelligent forehead required an occasional mopping with a handkerchief. His mustache was well tended, but his cheeks were stubbly—he needed a shave. His dark suit looked expensive, but it also looked rumpled, and his tasteful striped silk tie was loose. He carried his hat in one hand and a briefcase in the other, and he prowled the lobby like a nervous cat.
Several years before, I had been on the scene when an assassin named Zangara shot Mayor Anton Cermak of Chicago, in Miami, Florida, where the mayor was sharing the spotlight with the supposed intended victim, Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
Perhaps that made me more suspicious than most, even propelled me toward outright paranoia, possibly; but looking at this jumpy, off-kilter character, knowing that Senator Huey P. Long, the Kingfish himself, was not only staying at this hotel but on his way to this very lobby this very instant, made me wonder if I was observing a specimen of that oh-so-special breed: the potential political assassin.
I was trying to decide whether to buttonhole the guy when through the front entry, like a train noisily entering the station, the Kingfish and his retinue rolled in. McCracken was out front, followed by Huey, Seymour and the male aides (the theatrical agent, Irwin, was gone) and that bulldog Messina bringing up the rear.
The nervous little guy with the briefcase perked up, seeing the entrance of the Kingfish, who was moving quickly, his voice echoing as he animatedly expressed some opinion or other to a patient, weary-looking Seymour.
Then Huey stopped at the newsstand, checking out the front pages of several papers’ early-bird editions.
The nervous guy, making a beeline toward Huey, was about to pass by where I sat.
I raised my leg, like the gate of a toll crossing, lowered my Racing News and said blandly, “Something I can help you with, pal?”
“Are you with the hotel?” he asked, annoyed at being stopped this way, eyes tight behind the Coke-bottle glass.
I folded the paper, tossed it on the chair next to mine, rose.
“No,” I said.
There was a flash of fright before his expression turned eager. “You wouldn’t happen to be part of Senator Long’s staff, would you?”
Did he have a bomb in that briefcase?
“Suppose I am,” I said.
He frowned. “Well, are you or not?”
My nine-millimeter was in my
I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep when the phone on the nightstand rang, startling me awake.
“Y-yes?”
“Kingfish speakin’. Over at Phil Baker’s place.”
My fingers fumblingly found the switch on the lamp by the bed; I could see my watch, but my eyes weren’t focusing yet.
“Yes?” I said again. It was the best I could manage—my mind was as fuzzy as my mouth.
Huey, on the other hand, was peppy as a pup. “Meet me in the lobby, long ’bout fifteen minutes from now. So we can finish up what we were talkin’ about, before.”
Now my eyes could see the time. “Jesus, Huey, it’s after three a.m.!”
“See ya in fifteen, son.”
I stumbled to the sink and threw some water on my face; powdered up my toothbrush and got the sour taste out of my mouth. Did the Kingfish ever sleep, I wondered? My suit was still damp, but I’d put my lightweight white seersucker on a hanger, and the wrinkles had pretty well hung out.
The lobby was quiet, the coffee shop closed, though a skeleton crew manned the marble check-in, a lone bellboy was on duty, and the newsstand was apparently open all night. I bought a Racing News, just in case I had time to get out to Saratoga while I was in the area.
So I sat reading my paper, minding my own business, chaperoning a potted plant, enjoying the solitude of the nearly empty lobby, when I noticed the guy.
He looked respectable and yet…he didn’t. He was small, pale, brown-haired, probably in his mid-forties, very average looking…except. Behind his thick, almost scholarly glasses, wild eyes flashed; and—despite the air-cooled lobby—that high, intelligent forehead required an occasional mopping with a handkerchief. His mustache was well tended, but his cheeks were stubbly—he needed a shave. His dark suit looked expensive, but it also looked rumpled, and his tasteful striped silk tie was loose. He carried his hat in one hand and a briefcase in the other, and he prowled the lobby like a nervous cat.
Several years before, I had been on the scene when an assassin named Zangara shot Mayor Anton Cermak of Chicago, in Miami, Florida, where the mayor was sharing the spotlight with the supposed intended victim, Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
Perhaps that made me more suspicious than most, even propelled me toward outright paranoia, possibly; but looking at this jumpy, off-kilter character, knowing that Senator Huey P. Long, the Kingfish himself, was not only staying at this hotel but on his way to this very lobby this very instant, made me wonder if I was observing a specimen of that oh-so-special breed: the potential political assassin.
I was trying to decide whether to buttonhole the guy when through the front entry, like a train noisily entering the station, the Kingfish and his retinue rolled in. McCracken was out front, followed by Huey, Seymour and the male aides (the theatrical agent, Irwin, was gone) and that bulldog Messina bringing up the rear.
The nervous little guy with the briefcase perked up, seeing the entrance of the Kingfish, who was moving quickly, his voice echoing as he animatedly expressed some opinion or other to a patient, weary-looking Seymour.
Then Huey stopped at the newsstand, checking out the front pages of several papers’ early-bird editions.
The nervous guy, making a beeline toward Huey, was about to pass by where I sat.
I raised my leg, like the gate of a toll crossing, lowered my Racing News and said blandly, “Something I can help you with, pal?”
“Are you with the hotel?” he asked, annoyed at being stopped this way, eyes tight behind the Coke-bottle glass.
I folded the paper, tossed it on the chair next to mine, rose.
“No,” I said.
There was a flash of fright before his expression turned eager. “You wouldn’t happen to be part of Senator Long’s staff, would you?”
Did he have a bomb in that briefcase?
“Suppose I am,” I said.
He frowned. “Well, are you or not?”
My nine-millimeter was in my
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