Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 08 Read Online Free PDF Page A

he planned to stab me with it. But we only shook hands, warmly, though truth be told, the Kingfish had a strangely cold, clammy handshake.
    Like shaking hands with a corpse.
    “Well, well, if it ain’t the smart-ass Chicaga boy hisself! Nat Heller!”
    I gave him half a smile. “It’s Nate. But I’m surprised you remember me at all, Senator.”
    Both eyebrows lifted momentarily. “Why, ’cause of them speakeasies we damn near drunk outa business?”
    “Man like you meets a lot of people, Senator.”
    He shook his head. “Not that stands up to me. I scare the bejesus out of ninety-nine out of a hun-erd men, but I guess maybe you’re that other one.”
    “I don’t know. Pay me enough money and I’ll be glad to grovel.”
    His laugh was a howl, and whether sincere or just part of the rube persona he affected, I couldn’t say. He slipped an arm around my shoulder.
    “You know,” he said, “if you didn’t have the same color hair as me, mebbe I wouldn’t cut ya so goddamn much slack….”
    I ran a hand through my reddish-brown locks and grinned. “Maybe there was a Long in the woodpile.”
    This time the laughter was a roar, and he gestured for me to follow him over to a sofa, where we both sat. Seymour took a chair nearby, but sat quietly.
    “Forgive the pajamies, Nate—kinda got to be a trademark with me. People half expect it”
    “If it’s good enough for the German consul,” I said, “it’s good enough for me.”
    “But it wasn’t good enough for that Heinie son of a bitch,” Huey said good-naturedly. “That’s how these things got to be my trademark.”
    We were both referring to a notorious international incident that had made great press for Huey. In New Orleans, at Mardi Gras time a few years ago, the commander of a German cruiser and the German consul called on the Governor of the Great State of Louisiana in the latter’s hotel suite. Huey greeted them in his blue robe, green pajamas and red slippers (he later admitted he’d looked like an “explosion in a paint factory”), unintentionally insulting the dignitaries. The press got hold of it and had a merry time with the story, and ever since, Huey had played up the rustic fool business, probably because it softened his American Hitler image.
    “So,” Huey said, using the Zippo again, “what brings the Chicaga Police Department to New York? Bigger and better graft?”
    “That might do it,” I said. “But me, I went private back in ’32.”
    “Hot damn.” He slapped his thighs. “Hope that means you come here to fin’ly take me up on my job offer!” He shook his head. “Them sorry-ass, shif’less, worthless Cossacks of mine…I can use somebody that don’t think with his fists.”
    “Isn’t Murphy Roden still with you? He’s a good man.”
    His mouth twitched. “’Ception to the rule. He’s drivin’ my Caddy from D.C. down to Baton Rouge for me. He’d be pleased to see you—took a real shine to you.”
    “Huey,” Seymour interjected, “Mr. Heller is here at my invitation.”
    “Really? That’s one good idea you had lately.”
    Seymour’s eyes tightened. “I…I wanted to give you something special. For your birthday.”
    Huey smirked at me, rolled his eyes. “Big day. Big deal. The ol’ Kingfish is gettin’ on in years. So, Seymour. Is Chicaga here my gift? Why ain’t you wearin’ a big red ribbon, Heller?”
    “The cake I was going to jump out of fell,” I said.
    Seymour nodded toward the brown-paper package I had laid next to me on the couch. “I asked him to bring you a present from Chicago….”
    I handed him the crinkly package and he took it eagerly, his smile making his cheeks fat, his eyes those of a greedy child; he tore at the wrapping, but as the contents were revealed to him, his glow turned to glower.
    In the Kingfish’s hands was a thick, bulky tan canvas sleeveless garment, a vest of sorts that would cover its wearer neck to waist.
    Disgusted, he threw the gift at Seymour who caught