The Body Looks Familiar (7 page)

DAVE CORDAY was enjoying a sensation he had never felt before. It was as though his nerves had been cleaned with something refreshing and cooling—perhaps cologne or pure alcohol. Everything that came to him—sight, sound, smell—made more of an impact on him than it ever had before.

This is success, he told himself. This is what it feels like to be a successful man. The world, the air, the very pavement is made to comfort a successful man.

The difference between being a district attorney, he thought, and being one of the deputies—even the chief deputy—is the difference between being a prison guard and being one of the trusties, even the chief trusty, if there is such a thing.

After I take office, I will look back at my jealousy of Latson and wonder at it. Because he will be nothing compared to me; he’ll be a cop among cops and I will be the only one of my kind in the whole city.

He regretted for just a moment the killing of Hogan DeLisle, and then put the thought firmly away from him. He had not killed Hogan DeLisle. He had not! Nor had Jim Latson. A man named Ralph Guild, alias a couple of unpronounceable strings of Czech syllables, had shot the girl. The only thing unusual about it was Frederick Van Lear’s offer to defend Guild. And that could be explained by Van Lear’s need for publicity, the rumor strong around town that the corporation lawyer wanted to be governor. Losing a popular case was as good as winning one for that purpose; the point was to get known by the public.

He had arrived at the Zebra House. The doorman opened the door snappily; the maitre d’ hurried forward to greet him. “Your party’s waiting for you in the Turf Club Room, Mr. Corday. Just this way, sir.”

The man was helping him off with his coat, handing his hat to the checkgirl. “You won’t need a check, Mr. Corday. Freda could hardly forget you, could you, Freda?”

The girl was pert in velvet toreador pants and a white blouse, open far enough down. She shook dark hair at him, blinked dark eyes. “Certainly not, Mr. District Attorney.” Hugging his coat to her expensive looking bosom, she danced to hang it up, deposit his hat on a high shelf.

He straightened his cuffs and followed the maitre d’. Long before the padded, brass-studded door was opened for him he could hear the happy hum of the party; his party, the one gotten up to welcome him to the big leagues.

Then the door was opened; a cloud of expensive cigar smoke and alcohol fumes and lemon juice came pouring out. He went in, and the maitre d’ followed him and murmured, “Your drink, Mr. Corday? I’ll get it myself.”

“Bourbon and branch water.”

“Tout de suite.”

A hand was grabbing his elbow. Dan Dryce, the State Commissioner of Motor Vehicles. “Dave, ol’ boy.”

“Didn’t know you were in the city, Dan.”

“Drove down with the governor. We made it in an hour and twelve minutes, from the Mansion to the State Office Building here.”

Dave whistled politely. It was ninety-two miles, exactly; he’d turned it in on mileage reports often enough, before he had a county-owned car check issued to him. “Who was driving?”

“The governor. You know how he is on martinis.”

There was a surge, and the two men were separated. Chuckling, Dave moved into a group of brass from the Highway Department. One of the men told a story about three capons and a hen, and the resultant laughter increased the crowd; suddenly Dave found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with Jim Latson.

Another highway man started a story. Latson said, “I’ve heard that one,” and turned away. Dave Corday went after him, and found him holding out his glass to the bartender with one hand, using the other to point to things on the buffet; a waiter was piling a plate for him.

Dave Corday said, “Give me one of everything Mr. Latson takes. And a bourbon and branch water.”

Jim Latson’s sardonic face creased into a grin. He peered down at Dave Corday; a haze of blue cigar smoke curled around his face. “Thought you were a vitamin drinker, Dave. Bloody Marys and long, cool Collinses.”

Dave Corday said, “Tastes change.”

Jim Latson chuckled. “Men don’t,” he said. “Thanks, Lawrence.” He took his plate and shoved his chin at the waiter’s burden. “Take your food, Dave.”

Dave Corday did. With a drink in one hand and the plate in the other, he found himself hopelessly tied up. He looked over at Jim Latson. The chief’s long fingers were functioning perfectly: thumb and forefinger of his right hand held the plate, the other three fingers hooked around the glass.

But Dave Corday’s fingers were short and stubby. In desperation he gulped his drink and set it down on the edge of the buffet.

Jim Latson popped a caviar-covered cracker into his mouth, picked up Dave’s glass and put it on the bar; the barman promptly refilled it and held it out to Dave Corday. He took it, while Jim Latson ate a deviled egg and washed it down with scotch and soda.

“I hear the D.A.’s gonna be our next governor,” he said.

“I also hear that Frederick Van Lear’s going to oppose him,” Dave said.

Latson peered at him. The big banquet room was getting smoky. “You can hear anything,” he said. “Fred Van Lear’s not affiliated with any patty. He could belong to ours as well as the opposition… A man of great stature, serving the public weal,” he intoned, and grinned his devil’s grin.

Dave Corday said, “You mean he might run against the D.A. in the primaries?” He frowned. The district attorney was not likely to resign unless he was sure of the nomination.

“Between you and me,” Latson said, “I talked to Van Lear this afternoon. Your boss is a shoo-in for the party nomination; stop worrying about that.”

Dave Corday’s embarrassment fell away. He set the full glass down, ate a stuffed celery stalk, picked up his glass and took a swallow, then put the glass down again. He was the next district attorney. It didn’t matter if he used part of the public buffet for a private table; what might have looked like hick manners in an assistant prosecutor was eccentricity in an important man.

“So they tell me,” he said. “Now, if the police chief would just resign, Jim, you and I would have the running of-this town to ourselves.”

Jim Latson shook his head. “Not me, buddy. The chief’s a fine front for my nefarious practices. I run the department, he takes the credit. What I take is cash.”

Dave Corday felt himself goggling. It was a bad habit; he thought he’d broken himself of it when he was a clodhopping freshman at State U. “You’re mighty frank.”

“Sure,” Jim Latson said. “Tell the truth and nobody believes you. Anyway, there’s no one here but friends, damn it.”

“Damn it?”

“I like to see the enemy. In other words, women, dames, girls. Man’s natural enemies, aren’t they? God bless them.” He laughed and half turned. “Hi, son.”

Ronald Palmer, Dave Corday realized with sudden perception, was a man who had studied as hard to get where he was as Dave Corday had. There was no telling now where Ronald Palmer had started; but at one point in his career he must have had the slick servility of a waiter, and then the insinuating friendliness of a maitre d’. (A phrase Dave Corday had only learned a couple of years ago.)

But now, look at him, in a tweed suit, a blue shirt and a very narrow tie. You would be a very clever man to know that he managed this place; just an occasional sideways look at the waiters and the bartenders gave him away.

He said, “Gents, are you festive?”

“Hilarious,” Jim Latson said. “Bubbling over.”

“Any complaints, don’t bring ’em to me,” Ronald Palmer said. “This is my day to howl. I’m just another guest, eh, Oliver?”

The passing waiter heard his name, and pulled up gently, did a right face, took Palmer’s glass and Jim Latson’s and headed for the bar with them. Before he left, however, he murmured, “Certainly, Mr. Palmer.”

Ron Palmer said, “You don’t come in here nearly often enough, Dave. And, by the way, I like the way you handled that Arnaux case. If a case of champagne shows up at your apartment some time, don’t have me indicted for bribery.”

This was big-league stuff. Dave Corday laughed, and said, “I’ll keep it down to a misdemeanor.”

Jim Latson said, “Dave’s a bright man, Ronald. The governor was saying all kinds of nice things about him before. Wheelhorse of the party was the mildest one.”

Dave Corday felt himself getting red in the cheeks. He didn’t know when he’d enjoyed a party more. He said, “Ron, you interrupted Jim just when he was giving a speech on Topic A. He’s the professional lady-killer of the administration, you know.”

Ronald Palmer said, “I know, Dave. I know. Lord, he’s in here so often with so many little beauties, I can’t keep track. I’d hate to be put on one of your witness stands and told to identify any of your escorts, Jim.”

“Just as well,” Jim Latson said. “Especially the one I had in here last Tuesday. The little snitzel told me she’d never been married, and two days later I see where her husband’s bringing suit against her. And speaking of the devil—”

“What? What?” It was the governor. His appearance was just as famous as his name; he had the sort of face that would appear well on a silver coin, he had the walk and stature of success. “What’s all this about the devil?”

“You, Governor,” Jim Latson said. “I was just talking about you, and here you are. I was telling Dave Corday how highly you thought of him.”

The governor nodded. A couple of state capital men were bustling around him, one getting his glass refilled, the other ordering a plate for him. Those well-packed cheeks of his demanded constant stoking; the Governor’s appetite was notable. “That is a fact, Dave. Jim was telling me what a good man you are, and I was outdoing him in your praise—Thanks, boys.” He crammed his mouth and chewed carefully, getting every bit of nourishment out of the food. When his mouth was empty, he absentmindedly drained his martini glass.

“Teamwork,” Dave Corday said. “Without it we’d none of us be anything, Jim’s department gives us good cases. My staff works up clean, hard cases. When I go to court, that battle’s almost over.”

“Your staff?” The governor looked puzzled for a moment. “That’s right, you’re chief trial deputy, aren’t you…?” He didn’t look at his glass as it was taken away and a new one put in his hand. He drained that one, too, said, “Gives a man an appetite,” and his short, blunt fingers went working around the plate, carrying samples of the different kinds of tidbits to his happy mouth. Around a large stuffed olive, he said, “Let’s see. You’re pretty close to Donald Munroe, aren’t you?” He posed a toothpick load of sour-cream herring in front of his mouth, told it, “A fine man, Mr. Munroe,” and ate his audience.

The liquor, the high company, the luxurious air of the place, all this was having its effect on Dave Corday. He said, “Mr. Munroe’s been a good friend to me. He’s from my home town, you know, downstate. I had a letter to him when I first came here, a green punk out of law school. Well, Governor, he said he could get me placed with the law firm that does his corporate work; but when I said I was interested in politics, he offered to use his influence with the administration, and I became an assistant district attorney; about the least experienced one the office has ever seen.”

The governor accepted another martini, and held out his plate to be refilled. “Made it down here in seventy minutes, door to door,” he said. “Man, we were really balling the jack. What I wanted to see you about, Dave, was—how much do you think Munroe’ll go for in the next election? We’re going to need a sizable war chest, if we want to make a sweep of it—and we do.” He grinned. “I’m up for senator, you know.”

Dave groped in his mind. “Last general election he contributed five thousand.”

“Not enough,” the governor said, put his martini glass down, waved his hand over it to forestall a refill. The blue eyes under the noble brow were suddenly cold, and the firmly chiseled lips narrowed meanly. “Not nearly enough.”

Jim Latson said idly, “He gave the opposition that much last time, too.”

Dave Corday cleared his throat. “Mr. Munroe has very wide interests.”

“What the hell does that mean?” the governor asked. “He’s with us, or, hell, we clobber him next time he wants something. And those rich bastards always want something.”

Jim Latson said lightly, “We can get ten out of him easy, Governor, maybe fifteen. He owns some lots over in Traffic Three, and he wants an exception made to the zoning. You know, over there you have to have parking facilities for one and a half cars per apartment. He wants to build a two-hundred-apartment building. He’ll deal. Just think how much land it takes to park three hundred cars.”

His Excellency said, “Handle it, Jim,” and the blue eyes gleamed again, the lips expanded from cracker-barrel waspish to toga-wearing classic. “Hey, I’m out of drinking liquor.”

“That we can fix,” Ronald Palmer said, and snapped fingers at the bar.

The governor said, “Old Dave Corday. Dave, it’s men like you on whom the structure of our party rests. I was telling the attorney-general the other day, an assistant like you is worth ten of these shadow-boxers he sends into court.”

Dave Corday nodded. He wondered if the governor would take offense if he went to the bar for a drink. He needed one, but he hardly dared move away.

“You heard there’s going to be a change in the D.A.’s office?”

Dave Corday said, “Yes,” but he hesitated first. Was he supposed to know?

“Yep,” the governor said, “a big change. Old Fred Van Lear’s decided he’s made his pile in private practice; he’d like to hold office for a while. He’ll make a wonderful D.A. for you. If I were your age, Dave, I’d give anything for a chance to work under Fred for a few years. He’ll round you off, boy, put a polish on you.”

Dave Corday swallowed, and turned, and walked to the bar. He set his hands on the edge of the bar, and said, “Double rye on the rocks.” When the drink came, he swallowed so fast he got a chunk of ice in his mouth; it rolled against one of his back teeth, and a shock went up his temple; he’d have to have his dentist look back there.

After he left the bar, the governor was telling a new group of admirers how he came down from the capital building in sixty-eight minutes. “The sirens were howling like wolves in a burlesque show. The head of my escort told me later it was the first time he’d ever had his motorcycle wide open.”