Without seeming to discern Haskell’s hesitation regarding the last number, Sol came right back with, “Does this number ring any bells: 555-1212?”
“Are you being funny? That’s the number for time of day.”
“Just wanted to see if you knew any phone numbers.”
“What’s all this nonsense about, anyway?” Haskell asked.
“Just a hobby, old telephone exchanges.”
“I haven’t got time to play games.” He started for the door.
“Mr. Haskell, just a couple of more questions, please,” I said.
He stopped moving and glanced at the ten pounds of gold on his wrist that held his watch. “Make it quick.”
“Did Frank Byron, the Los Angeles District Attorney back then, keep your family fully informed during the investigation?”
Haskell shrugged. “Sure, why wouldn’t he?”
“Then Byron left public service and picked up a cushy job with your big rich foundation?” Sol asked.
That seemed to give him pause, although only briefly. “What do you want from me, anyway? I had nothing to do with all of this. Christ!”
“Maybe you killed Vera,” Sol said. “You said she tried to pull a scam on your father. Maybe you decided to take care of the situation. Be a tough guy in the old man’s eyes. He liked tough guys. Is that how it went down, Haskell?”
Sol practically accused him of murdering Vera and he just shook his head with a tight, thin-lipped smile stretched across his angry face. “You’d say a thing like that! I was a war hero. I went toe-to-toe with those Nazi bastards. Flew a B-17 in World War II, shot down over Germany, taken prisoner. Toe-to-toe! I risked my life for this country. You son-of-a-bitch.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? Your old man was a crook,” Sol said, “and so are you.”
So much for keeping it light. But Sol was pissed, and so was I-the cold bastard.
“Roberts spent the war playing the piano. He’s a bum and he murdered that woman. How dare you!”
“Your father was a slimy son-of-a-bitch, owned the largest illegal wire service in the nation. Big-time operator with ties to the mob. His company fed bookmaking parlors across the country race results in real time. Against Federal and state law.”
The pretense of a smile faded. “Hold it right there, you son-of-a-bitch-!”
“Let me finish. Your old man’s thugs put the squeeze on the poor bastards who owned the joints until they had to pay more than they could afford. He even had a few bookies bumped off when they didn’t cough up the dough. Good for business. Needed some examples. The basis of your fortune, Haskell, is steeped in blood.”
Haskell ran his hand through his silver mane. “There’s a rumor to that effect, but I wouldn’t know. I was barely twenty-eight when Father died. And who gives a damn about all that rubbish now?”
“Maybe, I do,” Sol said.
“Now you listen to me; I came back from the war in ’45, worked hard and built a one-hundred percent legitimate business empire-publishing, banking, real estate, oil. My refinery in Long Beach employs over a thousand people-”
Sol moved in closer to him. “Big fuckin’ deal. You got the money to start your company because your old man killed people for it.”
“I made more money than my old man could even dream about, all on the up and up. And now I’m giving it away: underprivileged kids, hospitals, you name it. With my money they may find a cure for cancer someday. What have you done with your life, Silverman? You’re just a fancy peeper. A snoop in a pinstripe suit looking in bedroom windows.”
Haskell turned away and muttered something. Though barely audible, I’m sure Sol heard the anti-Semitic remark the empire builder had expressed.
“Yeah, you built a business with your old man’s dirty money and Mafia connections, all right. Took all the bows, your name on buildings. People kissing your ass all over town. But there’s one problem. One really big problem.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“The money wasn’t yours. It was your brother’s. He was the first-born, first in line for the inheritance, and he died only a month before your old man croaked. Very convenient.”
“Bullshit!”
“Suppose you had a hand in your brother’s timely demise. Could’ve happened that way. You could’ve hired someone to do the deed.”
I jumped into the fray. “And suppose Frank Byron buried the evidence like he buried Roberts away in a cell for almost thirty years. Suppose he made your brother’s death just appear to be caused by a heart attack.”
“No statute of limitations on murder,” Sol said.
“What the hell’s the matter with you two?” Haskell’s face turned cherry-red. “You’re playing with fire talking like that. I could break you-”
“You’re a crook, just like your old man. Stole your brother’s inheritance and continued to do business in the same sleazy manner as your old man. Except you were smarter. You bought off Byron back then and you probably have the current DA in your pocket as well.”
The way Sol and Haskell were posturing, I expected that at any moment peckers would be whipped out and measured.
“Silverman, you piece of shit, if you breathe just one word in public of what you’re saying here, I’ll haul your ass in court and sue you for slander. I’ll own everything you got.”
He continued his tirade. We’d struck a nerve, and he couldn’t stop shouting.
“And you, O’Brien.” His fists were balled, like he was going to take a swipe at me, but silver-haired empire builders didn’t partake of such crude behavior. “Goddamn you, I didn’t murder anybody. My brother Charles died of a heart attack just as it said in the autopsy report. And suppose you tell me why are you concocting this outlandish fantasy now? Roberts will be released in a couple of days. That’s all that should concern you.”
Wait a minute. How did he know about the deal to release Roberts? Rinehart, the DA told him, of course. So much for secrets. But he was right-why bring it up now? We were through here. Sol got what he came for, the opportunity to vent at the big enchilada, a tycoon who happened to be a hypocrite and a liar.
I now knew that Haskell had been in bed with Frank Byron when he framed Roberts. He hadn’t admitted it out loud, but when he said he knew his brother had died of natural causes, he implicated himself. Only the District Attorney back in ’45 had known that Charles Haskell had died of a heart attack and that Roberts hadn’t clubbed him, that the wound on the head had happened postmortem.
It was obvious now why Joe Rinehart had pressured Governor Reagan to release Roberts. He was protecting Haskell. With Roberts out of prison and gone for good, who’d bother to check “ancient history”, as Raymond Haskell referred to the events that happened so long ago?
But as I told Sol when he first brought up tonight’s dinner, my job was finished. Roberts would finally get his freedom and that would be that. There was one thing that still troubled me, though. It annoyed me like an itch you couldn’t scratch.
Who murdered Vera?
Haskell had menace in his eyes as he continued to rant. “I’m warning you, O’Brien. You don’t know who you’re screwing with. You just made one huge mistake-!”
But before any more could be said, the restroom door swung open and one of Haskell’s goons stuck his head in. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Haskell. But the governor’s out here. Wants to take a piss.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes, you fuckin’ moron! Let him in!”
Sol and I turned to leave. We brushed by Reagan as he came through the door. Sol cranked his head toward Haskell and said to the governor: “It’s hard to believe that guy’s a war hero. The money must’ve changed him.”
Reagan gave Sol a perplexed look. “Yes, it did. Made him richer,” he said as he rushed to the urinal.
Over Bavaria, March 1944
Capt Raymond Haskell, squirming in the B-17 pilot seat, pinched his throat mike. “Watch it, Earl! Coming at you at nine o’clock,” he said to his wai
st gunner.
“I see the bastards!” Two black specks in the sky at the nine o’clock position relative to the gunner’s sights grew larger by the second. “They’re coming fast!” The clattering burst of the .50 caliber machine gun was Earl’s next statement.
S/Sgt Earl Lee Sims, the right waist gunner, swore wildly. He stood facing out the opening on the side of the plane, swiveling his machine gun from side to side, trying to get a bead on the enemy aircraft. He saw the popping flashes, like the rapid blinking of an incandescent eye, coming from the fighters as the Kraut pilots fired their guns, the hot lead zinging around him like angry mutant wasps. He fired another short burst, missing completely.
“God damn, three more at twelve o’clock, high!” another voice shouted urgently, his voice coming through the interphone.
“I’m on ’em,” Sgt. Al Mathis, the top ball-turret gunner responded.
“Two more at ten o’clock, low. You see ’em, Jake?”
The planes whizzed by at 350 miles per hour, firing their cannons, before vanishing beyond the horizon.
T/Sgt. Jake Shapiro, the gunner in the ball turret, which hung from the belly of the plane, hadn’t seen the two fighters coming at the B-17 from below. He was dead. His body had been shredded, cut to pieces by the exploding rounds of the 13 mm machine guns fired from the previous pair of ME-109G’s that had made a run at the bomber.
Capt. Raymond Haskell, pilot and commander of the Flying Fortress, oblivious to the chaos, steadfastly held his assigned course-82 degrees to the IP, then veer left to a heading of 312 and proceed fifteen miles directly to the target, the Messerschmitt factory at Augsburg.
“Heads up, men, we’re going toe-to-toe with those Nazi bastards. And for God and country we’re gonna send them all to hell.” “Toe-to-toe!” Haskell announced to the crew.
The other five planes in the lead squadron and the fourteen planes in the low and high squadrons behind him would follow his course. No snafus, or the mission would fail; all twenty bombers would miss the target. Each warplane carried 6,000 pounds of armor-piercing and incendiary bombs. If the mission was a success, they would level the enormous airplane plant and what was left of it would burn.
The heavy bomber shuddered and jerked violently to the right. Two more German fighters scored several direct hits, projectiles from their 200 mm cannons blowing out the B-17’s right outboard engine. The loose play in the rudder pedals and the uncontrollable gyration at the tail of the aircraft indicated the horizontal stabilizer had been severely damaged, as well. But the plane labored on incessantly. Several more ME-109 strikes hit home. Each one sent shockwaves through the plane, jolting it like a hard earthquake.
“I think the belly-gunner’s been hit. Jake’s not firing his guns,” the captain said. “Garcia,” he added, addressing the radio operator, “check it out. If he’s dead, take his position.”
“Roger, Cap.” T/Sgt. Alex Garcia left his radio table and made his way through the crawl space to where the belly turret was located. He almost puked when he opened the turret hatch and saw what remained of his crewmate.
Earl Lee Sims felt the bitter cold on his face as he peered out through the large gun opening on the side of the ship. He could see the gut-wrenching flames streaming from the blown out engine. His throat mike transmitted his voice: “Hey Cap, we’re on fire! The engine’s blazing and the wing is glowing red. We gotta turn back!”
The plane swung slowly to the left, back on course, a straight line to the initial point.
“Hook your chutes and prepare for flak. We’re at the IP,” the pilot announced, ignoring Earl’s warning. “Pilot to bombardier. You got the plane, Joe, it’s all yours,” he said, as he set the auto-pilot, linking it to the Norden bombsight. He then leaned back and removed his hands from the yoke.
They were now on the bombing run. The bombardier, 1st Lt. Joseph Capuano, squirmed in his seat located in a plastic bubble at the nose of the plane, one level below the cockpit. From now until the completion of the bomb run he would, in essence, be flying the plane.
As the heavy bomber bounced and jerked from side to side, Capuano peered through the eyepiece of the bombsight, zeroing in on the target as the city’s buildings and roadways raced across his line of sight 20,000 feet below. By manipulating several knobs attached to the device he could control the heading and altitude of the big war bird. The auto-pilot held the airspeed.
Capuano took his responsibility seriously. Earl knew that the bombardier would feel a tinge of guilt when he thought about the civilians that had to die today because of the duty he performed. But so what? Earl also knew Capuano would not turn tail. He’d steer the plane directly over the Messerschmitt factory without hesitation. He would fly straight and level and would not deviate even one degree from his course until the bombs were away. There would be no evasive action. Capt Haskell demanded that they keep moving toward the target no matter what. The son-of-a-bitch would keep on going until they were blown out of the sky.
Earl gripped the twin handles of the Browning with both hands. His body shook and rattled from the recoil as he fired the gun haphazardly, until it ran out of ammo. If by a miracle they did get back, Earl swore he’d get even with Haskell somehow, somewhere, some dark night…
The German fighter planes now turned away and the crew suddenly became silent. The interphone chatter stopped as the nine men watched the hundreds of deadly puffs of black smoke fill the daytime sky. Anti-aircraft shells exploded in the midst of the formation.
Every few seconds a piece of shrapnel tore through the aircraft’s fuselage, ripping jagged holes in the thin aluminum skin. But the plane didn’t falter. It kept moving toward the target.
The noise was deafening. Earl could feel every vibration and every pounding beat generated by the remaining three engines in his bones. His ears were filled with the screech of tearing metal and his nostrils took in the acrid stench of burning aluminum.
With both hands covering his ears, Earl screamed in a terrified voice, “We gotta turn back! To hell with this bullshit.” But no one heard him, of course.
Scared out of his wits, he turned to grab his parachute.
Across the way he saw the left waist gunner, a guy named McKee, braced against his gun mount. Sgt. Bernie McKee stared at Earl with wide eyes. He clutched his torso with his hands, covering the place where his stomach should have been, his guts seeping through his fingers. The plane bounced in the turbulence and the gunner fell forward, dead.
Earl dropped to his knees. How much more could he take? The air quivered when another large chunk of hot metal blazed over his head and tore through the fuselage, blowing a basketball-sized hole in the side of the plane as it exited.
He closed his eyes tight, and as the bomber lumbered through the sky he could almost see the German ack-ack guns on the ground firing at the formation of bombers-shell after shell, endlessly exploding all around them.
He looked out again. “Oh God, there goes Luscious Lady,” he said into his throat mike. Luscious Lady, a bomber in the high squad, was named by the pilot, Bobby Buck, as a tribute to his lovely red-headed wife, Irene. They’d been married two days prior to his induction.
With her nose pointed down, Luscious Lady spun rapidly out of control heading toward the ground at a tremendous rate of speed. Pieces separated from the airplane and chucks of metal fluttered in the air. Most of the plane’s left wing was missing.
An urgent voice came through the interphone: “Look for chutes, everybody.”
“C’mon, Buck, bail out, goddammit! Get out of the goddamn plane,” someone else said.
“Anybody see any chutes?” Captain Haskell asked in a calm voice.
But none were visible. The Lady crashed and exploded with all hands on board. Nine more letters would go out tonight. Each signed by Col. Edmonson himself. He would write to the airmen’s loved ones back home, telling them how sorry he was for their loss and how courageous Johnny had been.
The floor under Earl bucked violently.
He bounced and hit his head against one of protruding ribs securing the skin of the plane. His vision blurred, but for only a moment. Maybe he felt the pain, but maybe he didn’t care. He pulled his parachute pack from its storage position and snapped on both sides of it to the harness straps that clung to his body.
Standing on shaky legs, he hung on to his gun mount for support and vomited. The aircraft continued to bounce and jerk violently as it moved through the sky. An artillery shell exploded close by. The plane heaved, rolled on its side, then leveled out again and continued on its heading.
Wild thoughts raced through Earl’s mind. We’re gonna die. We’re all dead men up here. We’re on a suicide mission to Hell.
He looked toward the front of the plane, toward the crawl space leading to the radio compartment. He saw fire! At the same time he heard three short rings of the alarm bell. “Prepare to bail out.”
Earl knew he should wait for the one long bell that signified “Abandon the aircraft.” He knew he should stay with the plane and the crew until the last possible moment. He knew he should grab the fire extinguisher and fight the blaze coming from the radio compartment. But he couldn’t move.
He had to jump now.
Not a second to waste.
The plane is gonna blow up.
To hell with the crew. Earl didn’t know these guys, never partied with them at the base, and hardly spoke to the men at all. He was a replacement. This was only the second combat mission that he flew with this gang. He didn’t owe then a goddamn thing.
He didn’t like the officers, or the rest of the enlisted men, hardly knew their names. And he hated the commander-that rich bastard, Raymond Haskell, with his spit-polished manner and by-the-book attitude.
Everyone around the base kissed his ass. Like they thought that maybe Haskell would part with some of his old man’s dough. Like he’d give it up just for the asking. Sure he would…what a laugh. Earl doubted that the son-of-a-bitch would ever help a crewmate out until payday when he ran a little short. Haskell never gave Earl a damn thing.
Haskell had snubbed him when Earl shook his hand at their first meeting. He knew Haskell had grown up in the snooty Bel Air section of Los Angeles. When Earl mentioned that he was from a jerk-water town back east, Haskell just nodded once. He didn’t say anything but Earl could tell from the look in his eyes that Haskell thought he was scum.
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