Speaking of Chicago heels, I stood rocking on mine, my hands in my suitpants pockets, waiting for Pearson to come up for air and notice my existence. This study had dark plaster walls decorated with photos of Pearson with show business figures (Sinatra among them) and national political luminaries, including a couple presidents and Senator Estes Kefauver; a few political cartoons, lampooning Pearson and his sometimes controversial stands, were framed and hanging here and there, as well. I was thinking about what an egomaniac this guy was until I realized these reminded me of my own office walls.
This was homier than my Monadnock suite, however, cozier — snapshots lined the mantelpiece of a working fireplace, and windowsills were stacked with books and magazines and one sill was occupied by a slumbering black cat. A primitive rural landscape and an oil painting of Pearson’s late father — neither very good — shared wall space with the framed photos and political cartoons.
Pearson stopped typing, heaved a sigh, and flipped the fresh page of copy on a desk lined with paper-filled wooden intake boxes. He had still not acknowledged my presence. He glided over, backward, on his swivel chair and got behind the desk, and turned to me, finally bestowing that foxy grin I knew so well.
“Must you always come by on broadcast day?” he asked, standing to his full six three, extending his hand. Just as he typed rat-a-tat-tat style, he talked the same way, having trained himself to sound like an elitist version of Walter Winchell, for the radio version of “Washington Merry-Go-Round.”
Reaching across his messy desk to shake with him, I said, “Remind me — what
The bustle of the bullpen provided background music.
“No such animal, as you well know.” He gestured for me to sit and I took a hard wooden chair across from him.
Pearson settled back in his chair. He had an egg-shaped head, close-set eyes, a prominent nose, and a wide mouth adorned with a well-waxed, pointy-tipped mustache. Under the purple smoking jacket, a white shirt and brown-and-yellow bow tie peeked out. Gentlemanly, aloof, he would have made a fine British butler.
“Thanks for making time for me,” I said.
His arms were folded; he was rocking gently in the swivel chair. Then he halted in midrock and he reached for a jar of Oreo cookies on the desk, took off the glass lid, and dug himself a couple out; then he told me to help myself.
I passed. This — and cheating on his wife, and not paying me promptly — was his only vice. He was a Quaker and did not smoke, though he took hard liquor, albeit not to excess. He also did not pepper his speech with “thee” and “thou,” which would have been a little hard to take, considering his superior manner.
“I understand you’re not cooperating with my friend Estes,” he said.
Suddenly I felt as if I’d been summoned by Pearson, even though it had been me who arranged the appointment.
“I haven’t even met Senator Kefauver yet,” I said. “But I’m sure you’ll appreciate, Drew, that I don’t intend to compromise the privacy of my clients.”
An eyebrow arched. “You won’t testify?”
“If the committee calls me, I will, sure. But they won’t learn anything except name, rank, and serial number. If you could pass that info along to your ‘friend’ Estes, that would be swell.”
“Your visit does have something to do with the Crime Committee, though,” he said.
On the phone, I had indicated as much, if vaguely. Arguably, I could have handled this — and the other conversation I’d come to D.C. for — over the long-distance wire; but Pearson was one of the most paranoid men in a paranoid town, and refused to talk frankly on the telephone. He had his office swept for bugs on a weekly basis, and made most of his own calls from pay phones.
I said, “Yes — I would appreciate your insights on a couple of matters related to Kefauver.”
His response was to bite into an Oreo. Seeing the chunk of cookie disappear into that prissily mustached mouth was amusing, but I kept a straight face.
“I spoke to Lee Mortimer the other night,” I said.
“Mortimer.” He shook his head disgustedly, chewing his cookie. “What a pathetic little creature.”
“Lee claims he’s been shut out of the Crime Committee’s inside circle. Apparently he deluded himself into thinking they’d take him, a reporter, on as a paid, government investigator... just because he was the guy who inspired Kefauver to look into—”
But I never finished that thought, because Pearson lurched forward, and anger glistened in his close-set eyes. “Mortimer is a self-aggrandizing liar. I am the one who got Estes interested in organized crime — how many exposes have I written over the years, anyway? Louisiana, New York, Chicago... Damn it, Nathan — you contributed your investigative prowess to a number of them.”
“I guess I hadn’t made that connection.”
