The Body Looks Familiar by Richard Wormser Page B

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