Flashing lights ahead. Hector cursed softly. “Afraid we’re coming to a full stop. Looks like some wreck up ahead. They may just overtake us on foot then.”
Cassie said, “How do we get around that?”
From the safety of their CBS broadcasting studio, Orson and fellow actor Frank Readick were describing the huge metal cylinder embedded in a New Jersey field, the canister containing the first of waves of Martian invaders.
Not wanting to scare Christopher anymore than the tension in their voices might already be doing, Hector spun the radio dial, looking for Charlie McCarthy’s show. Instead, there was some middling singer there. Hector turned off the radio. It was now about fifteen minutes after the hour.
Traffic was definitely slowing to the complete stop Hector had feared. Desperate, he palmed the wheel, cutting off an oncoming Packard. The driver hit his horn and shook his fist out the window as Hector blocked his path, skidding toward an alley.
The Chevy slid into the narrow channel between buildings, its right fender chipping bricks before buckling in a flurry of sparks. Hector righted the car, smiling at the horn blasts behind them—presumably those of the Germans now, still surely several car lengths away from replicating the suicide turn Hector had barely executed.
“We’ll make one more turn up there,” he said. “You three will get out after. Find a store or a bar and stay well out of sight. I’ll give those Germans something to chase once they finally get untangled from all that traffic. In fifteen minutes—no more—we’ll meet up again.” Hector glanced over at Cassie. “Remember, no later than eight-thirty p.m.”
Cassie checked her watch. Hector continued, “Question is where do we meet? You seem to know Harlem, Cass. Give me a destination. I do know there’s a police station on 123rd Street. We’re close to that, aren’t we?”
“Sure, and that’s great if you trust the police,” Cassie said. “I know you love your churches for everything but worship, Hec. There’s a parlor church maybe five doors down from that cop shop. How about we meet in there instead?”
“There then. Just keep them safe.” Hector rolled curbside. “Skedaddle now.”
Cassie said, “Please don’t let them catch you, darling.”
***
With the girls out of the car and the Germans again attempting to pursue him, Hector found mounting commotion on the streets around him. Even here, blocks from where he’d dropped the girls, traffic was beginning to become congested again. There were yells, screams. Some families clutching or leading pets were scrambling onto the streets, trying to wave down cabs or passing cars, begging for rides.
Frowning, Hector switched back on the radio, turning the dial until he thought he heard Franklin Delano Roosevelt, presumably breaking some very bad news which must be contributing to the growing terror on the streets. That famous voice said, “Citizens of the nation, I shall not try to conceal the gravity of the situation.”
Hector checked his watch again. Eight thirty—he was looking to be late making his rendezvous with Cassie and the Welles women.
A family—a man, a woman and two children—stepped in front of Hector’s stolen car. The author cursed and stood on the brake, wincing and waiting for a terrible series of thumps. But the brakes and the Chevy’s Safety Silvertowns did their jobs. The man ran around the Chevy and beat on the driver’s side window. He begged, “Please, mister, a ride for my family out of here? There isn’t any time left! They’re already crossing the river. For God’s sake, say you’ll take us from here. Won’t you please do that?”
Hector had already decided to abandon his heisted wheels and make his way to the agreed-upon church on foot. Hector also figured if the German’s caught up to the car and saw it occupied by this particular family, they’d sensibly push on with no more violence.
Cops, though, were likely another matter. He said, “The ride is yours if you want it, brother. But know this—it is stolen, a hot ride.”
“I was going to steal one myself if need be,” the stranger said. “Law don’t matter none now, I figure. Not anymore.”
The man’s face was a confusion of gratitude and uncertainty. He said, “But don’t you want to come along? To maybe drive? Mister, nobody should die this way and staying here means surely dying.”
More confused than before, Hector slid from the car and shook his head. “If you need the car pal, it’s yours. Drive it like you stole it, because like I said, I did that very thing. Don’t get caught.”
The man slid behind the wheel as his family piled in. He said, “Figure this time tomorrow, there won’t even be cops, not if the army doesn’t start doing better against these things. Thanks for the wheels, mister. We’ll never forget what you’ve done here.”
Brows knitted, at that moment—based on the panic around him and Roosevelt’s brief statement—Hector was convinced Hitler must have invaded some other country, and in doing so, at last somehow dragged the United States once again into the turgid and bloody waters of feckless European hostility. Hector wished Roosevelt in hell, knowing the fey Democrat must somehow be responsible for all this fear and chaos. FDR seemed to be a master at cultivating a culture of fear, Hector thought.
From his surrendered car’s radio, a last bit of described terror: “I’m speaking from the roof of the Broadcasting Building, New York City. The bells you hear are ringing to warn people to evacuate the city'…”
The man who had accepted Hector’s stolen car gunned the Chevy and took to the sidewalk with peels of rubber, sending other panicked pedestrians scrambling from his path.
As he tried to lose himself in the crowd, to get his bearings and find the right church, Hector heard more snatches from other car and window radios: “Streets are all jammed. Noise in crowds like New Year’s Eve in the city. Wait a minute…Enemy is now in sight above the Palisades.”
Hector pushed through crowds running the other direction, people streaming in and out of shops and buildings. A woman cried out, “Nobody should die like this! Nobody!”
More confused than ever, constantly looking over his shoulder, Hector made his way to one particular little church.
A lone voice calling from an abandoned car’s radio, its sound receding behind him: “2X2L calling CQ… 2X2L calling CQ…New York… Isn’t there anyone?”
CHAPTER 19
HEART OF DARKNESS
Voices heard on the street, all of them talking about invasion, about mass deaths in New Jersey and some imminent threat to New York City. A woman cried out to another, “Don’t you know, New Jersey is destroyed by the Germans? It’s on the radio!”
How in hell had the Nazis struck a blow to the east coast of America, Hector wondered, and more piercingly, was this somehow his fault?
Was it tied in some way to the German pursuit of the medallion and the Spear of Destiny?
Hector saw police come running out of the precinct house, waving arms and yelling, “Calm the hell down! It’s a goddamn radio show people, that’s all! It’s just a silly damn radio story!”
The novelist only half-registered the cop’s screams. He pushed through more panicked citizens and police, bursting through double doors into the church only to find a congregation on its knees, pleading for mercy from “the invaders.”
Dear God, was all this really the result of Orson’s silly-ass radio show?
Hector could not quickly find or catch sight of Virginia or Christopher Welles, who, he cynically figured, would most easily stand out in present company.
Then he spied a familiar silhouette—a particular overcoat and hat. Hectored cupped a hand on her shoulder and said, “Cass? Where are the—” Cassie began to slump leftward. Hector just stopped her from tumbling from the pew. With a shaking hand, he felt for a pulse, found one and muttered, “Thank God.”
A note was pinned to Cassie’s coat. Looking around a last time, convinced calls for help would be lost in the congregation’s doomsday hysteria, Hector instead ripped off the note and shoved it in his pocket. He lifted Cassie in h
is arms and kicked open the double doors, staggering out into the still crazier tumult of a Harlem neighborhood on edge of complete collapse. He made his way toward the nearby precinct house, figuring it was his best shot at securing fast medical attention for Cassie.
Something about the chilly air started to bring her around. Hector set Cassie down on a bench and stroked her face. “Are you okay? What in hell happened?”
She coughed and pressed her fingers to her temple. “My God but my head hurts. Chloroform, I think. There was something pressed to my mouth, then…” She looked around, said, “Oh God, Virginia, Christopher?”
“Yeah. Figure this will tell us.” He pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket he’d found pinned to Cassie’s chest.
It was written in shaky English script, the hand of a man writing in something other than his native language. “Phone HEM lok-7342 by ten p.m. or the little girl dies first.”
“I’m surely not waiting until ten o’clock,” Hector said. “Can you walk? Should I call you an ambulance?”
That earned him a look. He helped Cassie to her feet, said, “That coffee shop…”
The joint was empty for the moment—not many in this topsy-turvy neighborhood evidently wanted to spend their last minutes swilling java while waiting for death to arrive in the form of Martian gas weapons.
To that point, a voice on a counter top radio confided, “I’m obsessed by the thought that I may be the last living man on earth.”
The attendant gratefully took orders for coffee and Danishes for Hector and Cassie. He jacked a thumb at the street and said, “Can you believe those idiots falling for this crazy Halloween gag? Jesus H. Christ, but some people are stupid.”
Hector smiled in rueful commiseration and stepped into a mahogany payphone cabinet. He fed in coins, told the operator the number. An elderly woman answered. Hector said, “So what are you, lady, the New York arm of the German American Bund?”
She hissed, “Who is this?”
“Lassiter. I’m an hour early because I don’t like the idea of my friends in the hands of your twisted friends any longer than necessary. So I’m giving you a heads up. If you haven’t figured out already, get to a radio—this drama of Orson’s has caused real mayhem in the streets. I expect Orson may well end up arrested for inciting panic before the night’s up. I tell you this because I want your bosses or friends or whatever they are to you to understand things just went in crazy directions for all of us. This is something beyond the beyond. It’s a complication none of us could sanely plan for. Patience and calm heads are called for now. Pass that along.”
“I’ve had inklings of what you speak about. But no promises, Herr Lassiter. Call back at ten as you were instructed.”
Seething, Hector folded back the phone cabinet’s door and settled on a stool next to Cassie. As he warmed his hands against his coffee mug, a rare Welles’ mea culpa was being offered up to a rattled world by the “Boy Genius” as his program’s hour wound down.
Sounding more than a little shaken himself, the precocious impresario said, “This is Orson Welles, ladies and gentlemen, out of character to assure you that the War of the Worlds has no further significance than as the holiday offering it was intended to be.”
The dark-skinned counterman said, “I told all those fools before they ran out of here it was just a silly old radio show.” He wiped down the counter, tsk-tsking.
Still shaken by Virginia and Christopher’s kidnapping—by his initial thought that Cassie had been slain—Hector sipped his black coffee and lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. He glanced over and saw Cassie wanting a light, too. He struck a second hotel match with his thumbnail and got hers going.
Hector drained his coffee and asked for a refill. Some announcer was promising the Mercury’s coming Sunday production would be a trio of short stories. Hector wondered if the law would actually allow that show to come off.
The streets seemed to be calming just a bit—people getting word at last it was some hoax or confusion caused by those who’d joined Orson’s program already in progress, missing all the disclaimers and the fact established at the onset that the story had been set one year from now, in a 1939 that promised a better economy and fewer war fears than this sorry year. Hector thought, If only…
Under the counter, Hector pressed a palm to her thigh. Cassie placed a warm hand over his, pressing it higher and harder up against herself. A little sexual shiver of carnal hunger on her part; on his, too. He wished he could do something about that. Instead he said to her, “If you think you can do it, we need to get to the studio. We need to get to Orson before the rest of the world lays claim.”
CHAPTER 20
FOLLOW THE BOYS
As their cab rolled up at 485 Madison Avenue, Cassie and Hector found the CBS headquarters engulfed by reporters from rival stations and myriad newspapers and news agencies.
Some bottom-feeding rag had already managed to get out a half-assed early edition with scream headlines. A young boy hawking the papers screamed, “Orson Welles—con man of the century!”
A pretty-enough female reporter, buxom and brunette, recognized Hector as he stepped out from the hack and paid their cabbie. She said, “Mr. Lassiter, I’m Anna Donaldson from the Sun. I love your stories. Tell me, please, did you have a hand in writing tonight’s broadcast?”
Taken aback, Hector said, “Lord no. I’m just a friend of an actor inside. Are you all really here because of that silly show? I saw firsthand it caused a bit of a stir in Harlem, but I figured that was just an isolated misunderstanding.”
The reporter shook her head firmly. “In Harlem… In New Jersey. Across other parts of New York… There are reports of more terror as far west as Oklahoma, if wire accounts are to be believed. This is the story of the century. This time tomorrow, I expect they’ll be calling for Orson Welles’ head, and maybe Bill Paley’s, too. Tonight’s broadcast may have fooled thousands. There are reports of attempted suicides all over the country. Bomb threats against this place have been made now that people know it was a hoax.”
“It was a radio show, not a hoax,” Hector said. “Hell, go ahead and quote me on that if you want. This was meant to be a silly entertainment.”
“Drama, hoax—same difference now,” Anna said. “Perception is reality. Isn’t that the saying?”
***
Forcing his way into the lobby and throngs of shoving reporters, hand tight on Cassie’s arm, Hector said, “What kind of goddamn fools believe a rocket could be fired from Mars—assuming there was anything actually capable of living on that rock—and reach the earth and conquer our armies, doing all of that in the space of twenty or so minutes? I mean, Jesus Christ, talk about suspension of disbelief.”
Hector felt as though he was losing his mind. That even a handful of people had confused Orson’s potboiler radio melodrama with reality was staggering to the novelist. The prospect many thousands might actually have been taken in—that some might have even chosen suicide in the face of alien domination or annihilation—that was beyond reason. Hector couldn’t begin to get his mind around that terrible thought.
Cassie, clearly thinking along similar lines, said, “I can’t believe it either. This is more than insane.”
They were stopped by an elevator operator who put his hand to Hector’s chest. “Mr. Paley’s orders. Nobody allowed upstairs right now.”
“I’m not a reporter,” Hector said. “I was part of the writing team. Phone up Mr. Welles and tell him Mr. Lassiter is here. He’ll vouch for me.”
“Mr. Welles is pretty busy right now, as you might guess,” the man, said. “I don’t care if you’re H.G. Wells himself, you’re not going up there now, and I don’t have access to a phone.”
Angered, Hector dug around through his pockets and pulled out an honorary badge given him by a film connection back in L.A., one who worked hand-in-glove with the L.A.P.D. in shaping his B-movie police procedurals.
Hector flashed his fake badge at a different elevator
operator but met with a different obstacle. “Sorry, officer,” the man said, “but the whole crew is under lock and key somewhere upstairs, away from the actual studio. Christ, we’re getting death threats, bomb threats, you name it. Hell, there’s talk of you guys arresting Mr. Welles, for Christ’s sake. It was just a damned radio show you know, nothin’ deeper.”
From outside, the call of more news hawks: “Riots in Harlem! Suicides across the country!”
Somehow knowing it would be picked up this time, Hector again found a pay phone and called the number for the Welles girls’ kidnappers.
A voice, German, but a bit more facile with English than the rest, said, “Mr. Lassiter?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry for the witch, but she struggled—she was armed. At least we didn’t kill her, which would have been within the rules of war, you surely must agree.”
“This is no war. Not yet. Are Virginia and the little girl alive?”
“Alive and quite well, if in a state of terror. But how could that be otherwise, Mr. Lassiter? Where is Mr. Welles? We require you two, together, to bring us the medallion.”
Hector said, “We don’t have it, but let’s say we did have the medallion. You must know that Orson’s not available now, and may not be for some time. You are aware of what happened tonight? I asked that traitorous old bitch who answered your phone to see you were all up to speed on tonight’s events for this very talk. Hell, I can’t even get near Orson at this moment and we’re in the same damned building.”
Hector was sharply jostled. Some short, bespectacled reporter broke the connection and tried to pull the phone from Hector’s hand. The little man said, “Sorry brother, Fifth Estate. Breaking news trumps civilian need every time.”
No hesitation at all—Hector put the man down with a single short, sharp blow. He flashed his badge at the reporter whose nose was now gushing blood. Hector said to Cassie, “Detective Smith, please see to this cretin. Get this joker booked for obstructing official police business.”
The Great Pretender: A Hector Lassiter novel Page 11