Free Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 08 by Blood (and Thunder) (v5.0)

the covered platform, and Huey and Seymour, the bodyguards and aides, too, were huddled around the little publisher’s rep like conspirators.
    Alice Jean and I kept back, staying to ourselves, and after a bit, Seymour broke away from the little group and approached us.
    He pointed off to the left. “The Telegraph office is just a couple blocks away. We’re gonna hoof it over there, for a conference…you two wait in the station.”
    I nodded, and escorted Alice Jean inside; a newsstand separated us from the cavernous waiting room area, and baggage was off to the far right. But at left there was a diner-style coffee shop, where we parked ourselves in a booth and drank coffee.
    “You snore,” she said.
    “Don’t spread the news,” I said. “People might misinterpret how you came by the information.”
    “You’re kind of a flirt, aren’t you?”
    “Do you mind?”
    She shrugged. “Not really. Shall we take advantage of the time?”
    I nodded, and she continued with her background briefing, shifting from the Square Dealers to Standard Oil; it took about forty-five minutes, with me interrupting only occasionally as I jotted down a few pertinent facts in my pocket notebook.
    “The man you should talk to, the lobbyist I was referring to,” she said, “is Louis LeSage. You can call him at the refinery.”
    And she rattled off the phone number.
    I took it down in my notebook.
    A remarkable girl, Alice Jean. She may have been Huey’s mistress, but she was no tramp, or at least not a stupid one. She was, as Huey himself had indicated, one sharp cookie.
    “Could I ask you a question, Miss Crosley? Alice Jean?”
    “Why, certainly.”
    “Are you really the Secretary of State of Louisiana?”
    She pursed her mouth into what might have been a kiss but was really a smile. “You find that hard to buy, Mr. Heller? Nate?”
    “Not really. With your brains, you could be governor. I just wondered how you managed it.”
    “You mean, how Huey managed it. Mind if I smoke?”
    “Not at all.”
    She took a pack of Chesterfields from her purse and tamped one down and lighted it up with a Zippo identical to the one I’d seen in Huey’s bedroom at the New Yorker.
    “Actually, I’m not Secretary of State anymore…I haven’t been since ’32. Who told you that…Seymour?”
    I nodded.
    “He’s a jealous S.O.B., Seymour is. Always has resented me. Fact is, I was only appointed to serve out the term of a poor gentleman whose heart expired.”
    “Oh. So now you’re out of a job?”
    “Oh no. Huey appointed me Supervisor of Public Accounts and Collector of Revenues.”
    That meant Huey’s mistress controlled the purse strings of the state’s economy.
    “Shall we have a sandwich, Nate? Who knows when we’ll be catching that next train.”
    So I took luncheon with Louisiana’s Supervisor of Public Accounts—bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwich for her, a fried-egg sandwich for me—and pretty soon moved into the third and final phase of the trio of possible Huey murder plotters: the Syndicate, specifically, Frank Costello, with whom Huey had recently gone into the gambling business.
    “You’ll want to talk to Costello’s man in New Orleans,” Alice Jean said blandly, as if referring me to a tailor. “‘Dandy Jim’ Kastel…he has a suite at the Roosevelt. Don’t write that down: just remember it.”
    “All right,” I said. I checked my watch. “We’ve been sitting here for at least two hours. You want to take a walk or anything? My butt’s getting sore.”
    “I wouldn’t mind.”
    “Maybe we could find a nice quiet saloon. I could use something stronger than coffee. How about you? Ready for some hair of the dog?”
    She smirked and nodded. “I sure am. But what if Huey comes back…?”
    “I’ll check at the ticket counter and see when the next train to St. Louis leaves. That’s our next stop.” Funny how that hard little mouth could transform itself into such a soft, sweet smile. “You are a detective,