He didn’t say anything, just stood there clenching his fists, looking at Jack, raising his eyebrows several times, and giving me a sideways glance, his manner accusatory.
Jack grinned up at the young man. “No, no, no, Lee-this is Nate Heller. He’s one of us. It’ll be fine. Here-take this chair.”
Lee sat next to Jack, gave me a nod. He wasn’t sure he wanted me to be “one of us.”
That much we had in common.
Jack gestured with an open palm. “Nate, this is Lee. Lee Os-”
“Osborne,” the young man said, his voice slightly high-pitched, about a second tenor. He extended his hand. I took it, for a quick, perfunctory shake. The hand was damp, maybe perspiration, maybe rain.
“Nate’s that famous private eye you probably read about,” Jack said.
I winced. You know how modest I am.
Lee shrugged, shook his head. Then he turned to Jack and said, “We should talk.”
“You can talk in front of Nate.” Ruby grinned. He was showing off. “Jesus, Lee-you really don’t know who this guy is!.. This is the fixer who put Mongoose together.”
Jesus! How much did this screwy bastard know?
Lee turned his gaze on me now, the smirk gone, then smiled just a little and half nodded. “Pleasure, sir. Honor. Didn’t mean to be rude or anything.”
“Hey,” Jack said, “you two should get along famously! You’re both Marines.”
I gave the kid a reassuring little smile. “Semper fi, Mac.”
Now Lee grinned. Shyly, but he grinned. “Semper fi. Were you in the big one?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“Where’d you serve?”
“Pacific Theater.”
Jack whispered, “Silver Star, kid. This character won the Silver Star.”
“Shut up, Jack,” I said pleasantly.
“Wow,” Lee said. His expression was somber now. “It’s a real honor, sir. I, uh, served in the Pacific, too, but nothing so … so perilous.”
“Where, son?”
“Japan.” He lowered his voice. “Radar operator. U-2 base.”
“Impressive.” That put this kid in the CIA’s lap. “So you’re, uh … involved in some of Jack’s anti-Castro activities?”
Suddenly Lee’s face blossomed into a smile so boyish, he might have been auditioning to play Henry Aldrich. “You might say that.”
Jack leaned over toward me, chummily conspiratorial. “Let me tell you what this kid is good at, Nate. He goes onto these colleges campuses-University of Illinois, today…”
“Urbana,” Lee put in.
“… and he puts on this big pro-Castro act. Gives out pamphlets, gets in with any pro-Castro student organizations, looks into any leftist student activities at all, and … well, you tell him, kid.”
The smug smile was back. “Let’s just say we come up with a lot of names.”
I frowned. “You care about which students lean left?”
Jack interceded. “It’s more … professors with those kind of leanings.”
“Guys, I hate to spoil the party, but I vote Democrat.”
Jack squinted at me, openly irritated. “This isn’t about Democrat and Republican, Nate. It’s about anti-Communist. Come on, Nate! You of all people.”
A waiter came over and Lee ordered a ginger ale. That was us-just three clean-cut American veterans avoiding liquor in a strip club.
Lee said, “Mr. Heller, I voted for JFK. I admire him. And his family. They’re interesting Americans.”
“I’m sure they’d be flattered.”
Jack said, “Hell, I voted for him, too. I see he’s coming to visit you, Nate.”
That threw me. I knew Jack Kennedy a little, though it was his brother I’d been close to, until we had a falling-out last year. I hardly expected a “visit” from either one of them.
I said, “What do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s been in all the papers. Week from tomorrow, he’s coming to town. Gonna see Army beat the shit out of Navy, at Soldier Field. Be a big motorcade and everything.”
“Is that right?” I said, not really giving a damn. Standing on a crowded street waving at Jack Kennedy was not my idea of a good time.
I nodded at the kid. “Nice meeting you, Lee. Some free advice? I would try not to be led too far astray by this old racetrack hustler.”
“Nate, you never change,” Jack said, smiling, shaking his head.
I slid out of the booth, then paused next to them before heading out. “You gonna be in town long, fellas?”
Jack said, “Few days. Couple more clubs I wanna check out. Lee’s heading back tonight-friend of his has a private plane. Wish I rated. Hey!.. Wish I could afford her.”
Up onstage, the headliner-Evelyn West, “the Girl with the Chest”-was parading around to “Buttons and Bows” in a cowboy hat, riding a kid’s stick horse with her trademarks hanging out.
“Yeah, Jack,” I said, heading to the door, putting on my own non-cowboy hat, giving the pair a little salute of a wave. “Just the kind of class act that’s perfect for you.”
CHAPTER 3
Fall 1960
My limited if key role in Operation Mongoose had, ironically enough, begun just a stone’s throw from the 606 Club on South Wabash, at George Diamond’s Steak House, where businessmen and families dined, with not a stripper in sight.
I was in a back booth with Edward “Shep” Shepherd, and we were studying menus with George Diamond’s mug on the cover, his chef’s hat diamond-shaped against a deep red that I suspected was CIA-style mind control to coerce customers into ordering their steaks rare. Much as I agreed with that philosophy, those means would never have occurred to me if my dinner companion hadn’t been the Agency’s top security chief.
Or I should say the Company’s. That’s what everybody was calling the CIA these days. Back when I’d tangled asses with them, about ten years ago, they were still the Agency. And I’d hated those fuckers, with the exception of Shepherd, who had probably talked his fellow spooks out of tossing me from a high window or poisoning my Ovaltine.
George Diamond’s was a masculine expanse of dark paneling, red carpet, and framed paintings of the sad big-eyed kid and harlequin variety, trying misguidedly for a taste of class. No matter, it was the taste of charbroiled steaks-cooked by colored chefs right in the midst of the place, providing a smoky ambiance where meat trumped tobacco-that made this the most popular steak house in the Loop.
“The filets here are the size of footballs,” I said by way of recommendation.
Shep made a face. He reminded me of Bobby Morse in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, only twenty or thirty years older, but with that same sly gap-toothed charm, his dark blond hair going gray, his dark-blue eyes getting pouchy. Well dressed-light-gray Brooks Brothers, dark-gray tie-he was already on his second Gibson. He always went straight for the pickled onion.
“I suggested George Diamond’s,” he said, a touch of the South in his lilting drawl, “for its vicarious pleasures. You will sympathetically note that I will be ordering the broiled chicken. You have heard of this cholesterol horse shit?”
And it was “horse shit,” as he spoke it-two words.
“I read something about it,” I admitted.
“Well, my doctor says I have it. So I’m off red meat. Least the ol’ pecker still works.”
“Very glad to hear it, Shep. I’ll sleep better tonight knowing.”
He gave me the gap-toothed grin. “If we weren’t in a public place, Heller, I’d suggest you go fuck yourself.”
That made me smile. “Well, prepare to get plenty of vicarious pleasure, Shep, because I’m having the king filet. You can eat salad, can’t you?”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, can I have salad.”
“Well, you’ll want to mix the three homemade dressings they’ll bring.”
“Homemade? Why, do those colored cooks live in the kitchen?” He sighed. “Getting older is a bitch, ain’t it, Heller? But it does beat the alternative.”