Nathan Heller [2]
Collins, Max Allan
AmazonEncore (2011)
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Nathan Heller
Nathan Hellerttt
Private Eye Nate Heller trying discover who the gunshot victim was, found next to the Biograph Theatre, the man the FBI confidently identified as John Dillinger. His search for the answer leads him into a confrontation with J. Edgar Hoover.
The Memoirs of Nathan Heller
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright ©2011 Max Allan Collins
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN: 978-1-61218-093-9
For my son Nate
a real Heller
“Let’s do it.”
—Cole Porter
“Let’s do it.”
—Gary Gilmore
Contents
1THE TRAVELING SALESMAN
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
2THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
3WHERE THE BODIES ARE BURIED
Chapter 42
I OWE THEM ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C
HICAGO
, 1934
C
HICAGO
, 1934
S
ALLY
R
AND AT
T
HE
W
ORLD’S
F
AIR
1
Somebody had to burst Sally Rand’s bubble.
And I was elected. I was, after all, the guy she’d hired to find out the truth about the self-professed oil millionaire from Oklahoma who’d proposed to her last Saturday night, after a month of flowers and gifts and nights on the town—though Christ knows where Sally found the time for the old boy, what with her various shows at the Paramount Club, the Chicago Theater and of course here at the Streets of Paris, at the world’s fair.
Sally had
Only that was a press agent’s dream; the fair was its own dream-come-true, and help from Sally Rand was appreciated, but hardly crucial. Chicago had watched through the fall, winter and spring as the art-deco spires rose from eighty-six acres along the lake, and by summer the city was eager to leave hard times temporarily behind to enter the City of Tomorrow. The turnstiles were spinning from the fair’s first morning, and Sally was only one of a small army of exotic dancers who helped fan the latter-day Chicago fire.
Because there was more than naked women to see at the fair. Like silk stockings being woven, and a Gutenberg Bible (and the press it had been printed on); like the Silver Streak streamliner; and an automobile assembly line; and something called television. You could even see a million dollars (at the Federal Building, under armed guard) or a million dollars worth of diamonds (at the General Exhibits building, similarly guarded). And kids of all ages could wonder at Sinclair Oil’s plaster dinosaurs, and the Seminole village where real, live Indians wrestled real, live alligators. And you could see
