I figured long after McCarthy was out of the Senate, Pearson would still be around, destroying careers on the Hill; but I said, “That’s between you and the skinflint.”
The latter made him laugh. “You know, I’d be a hero on the Hill if I could pull a few of his teeth, break his insteps, or maybe bust a few ribs. Say fifteen of ’em.”
“That bat would do the trick,” I said, wondering if he was kidding.
He leaned back, gestured with a big hand. “You know, you could have called me on the phone. You didn’t have to come all this way.”
“Some conversations shouldn’t be sent through the air. Phones can be tapped.”
“I guess you’d know.” He scratched his nose. “A fella in your position can acquire enemies, after all.”
That seemed an odd remark.
But I just said, “That’s true. Not everyone loves me. Listen... I wanted to talk to you about a friend of mine.”
“The pinko singer.”
I sighed. “Joe, he’s no pinko. Frank’s about as political as I am.”
“Is that a good thing?”
Something was crawling at the base of my neck.
“Am I missing something?” I asked.
He selected a file — whether randomly or not, I couldn’t say. He thumbed through it and, either referring to it or pretending to, he said, “I’ve been approached about you. About your background.”
“What?”
“Your father was a Communist, wasn’t he? Ran a Commie bookstore on the West Side of Chicago? You grew up there, among those radicals?”
I felt like I’d been sucker punched in the belly. I managed, “He was a Wobbly, Joe — a pro-union guy. He killed himself, back in ’32.”
“Terrible tragedy. Terrible.”
“He killed himself because I wasn’t like him — I
“That’s the American way.”
My head was swimming. “Jesus — what are you saying to me, Joe?”
He heaved a huge sigh; shook his head, sorrowfully. “There are people... powerful people... good Americans, like my friend Pat McCarran... who would like me to take a hard close look at you, and your background.”
“...Are you saying, somebody’s told you to paint me with a red brush?”
His beady eyes turned into slits. “Let me say this. This fellow Kefauver, he’s like a bull in the china shop. He’s causing trouble for a lot of fine Americans. He’s abusing the system, with these hearings of his — I can’t abide seeing our fine system, the most nearly perfect system of government ever to find a place under God’s blue sky, abused for personal aggrandizement. That Tennessee turncoat will never be president if I have any say in it.”
The panic had been brief, but terrible — I’d had a tiny glimpse of the horror of having your world imperiled by government-sanctioned lies.
But that panic was gone.
“McCarran,” I said, smiling just a little, nodding. “Senator from the great state of Nevada. As in, Las Vegas. Joe — do you have friends who don’t want me to testify in the Kefauver hearings?”
He cleared his throat. “If you’re called, you’ll have to testify. That’s the law. But what you choose to share with these witch-finders, that’s another matter entirely.”
I laughed; the laughter was genuine but tinged with hysteria. The great Commie hunter was mobbed up!
He folded his hands, prayerfully; he had knockwurst fingers. “Nate... I couldn’t let this happen to you. I was so pleased when you called, and wanted to meet. After all, you were friends with Jim Forrestal... another great man Drew Pearson assassinated with his pen.”
That was why Pearson and I had fallen out: the columnist’s unremitting, merciless attacks had contributed to Forrestal’s suicide.
“Jim was my mentor,” McCarthy said. “He was the one who informed me about the Communists high up in our government.”
Forrestal was also a delusional paranoid schizophrenic.
I folded my arms. “Joe, I’ve already talked to the committee, who I basically told to go fuck themselves... and to Charley Fischetti, and Sam Giancana, given them my assurances that I’m not talking.”
“Those names mean nothing to me.”
“Yeah, right. You tell McCarran I’m no problem. And Christ, neither is Sinatra. You’ve got to give that kid a pass, too, Joe. You’ll destroy his career.”
“Mr. Sinatra is also on Kefauver’s list.”
“Oh. Wait... I think I’m finally getting this.” I shook my head, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “You’ll lay off Sinatra, if he doesn’t cooperate with the Kefauver Committee.”
He twitched a humorless smile. “You make this sound like a quid pro quo... I can tell you that Senator McCarran admires Mr. Sinatra, has enjoyed his many appearances in Las Vegas.”
I raised a hand, as if I was being sworn in. “Frank won’t give those guys the time of day — even if they put his ass on TV and embarrass him in front of the entire nation.”
“You can speak for him?”
“I am speaking for him.”
McCarthy thought about that. Then he grinned, and it didn’t seem strained. “Great. Great! Jesus, Nate it’s nice seeing you. You want to go out for beer and steak? I’m ready for a break.”
“No thanks,” I said. “Rain check.”
I was the one with the strained grin, now.
