RED RAG BLUES
RED RAG BLUES
Derek Robinson
An imprint of Quercus
New York • London
© 2006 by Derek Robinson
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ISBN 978-1-62365-330-9
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.quercus.com
Novels by Derek Robinson
THE R.F.C. TRILOGY*
Goshawk Squadron
Hornet’s Sting
War Story
THE R.A.F. QUARTET*
Piece of Cake
A Good Clean Fight
Damned Good Show
Hullo Russia, Goodbye England
THE DOUBLE AGENT QUARTET**
The Eldorado Network
Artillery of Lies
Red Rag Blues
Operation Bamboozle
OTHER FICTION
Kentucky Blues
Kramer’s War
Rotten with Honour
NON-FICTION
Invasion 1940
*Available from MacLehose Press from 2012/13
**To be published in ebook by MacLehose Press
For Sheila
Contents
Not in Those Shoes
The Volcano Dropped Off
Because That’s Where the Money is
Sweet Cheat
An Oscar for Irony
I Kid You Not
The Worst Idea so Far
Traitors Abound
Stupid is Dangerous
Catch the Wind or you Crash
A Demolition Job
All Sorts of Freaks and Weirdos
A Mick from the Sticks
Fake Earthquake Warnings
One Ball, at Least
How Can you Fight Death?
A Barrage of Bombshells
Time the Cossacks Rode to the Rescue
Purgatory Should be a Piece of Cake
The Little Sod Guessed Right
Boundless Damage
Author’s Note
NOT IN THOSE SHOES
1
In 1953, the average New York hoodlum took no interest in current affairs. Sammy Fantoni was different. He read the New York Herald Tribune from end to end, every day. “Improve your mind,” his uncle, who was also his employer, told him. “Feed your brain. Learn about the country you love. What you don’t understand, ask me.”
Sammy was surprised by how much he understood. Of course he took a professional interest in violent death, and 1953 had its fair share of bad blood between the other New York families: Gambino, Colombo, Bonanno, Genovese, Profaci. The Trib did an excellent job of reporting Mob killings. And one day he saw a piece in the national news about lynching. “Nobody in the US got lynched last year,” Sammy said. “First time that’s happened since they kept records. What’s up?”
“One is tempted to blame the sudden rise of television,” his uncle said. “Arkansas has ceased to make its own entertainment.”
Sammy gave it five seconds’ thought and moved on. “How about the Yankees? If they win the Series again, that’ll be the fifth straight year. Some sports writers say it’s gettin’ boring.”
“Americans have no concept of eternity,” his uncle said. “That’s why they invented baseball.”
Sammy didn’t understand that either. Probably a joke. The hell with it. Plenty other stuff in the Trib, good reassuring stuff.
Eisenhower got sworn in as President, in ’53, and the Trib told Sammy that Ike said the US Seventh Fleet would no longer prevent Nationalist China from attacking Communist China. Sammy looked at the map. The Nationalists had Taiwan. The Reds had all the rest. So it was like giving Puerto Rico permission to invade America. Sammy relaxed. He was thirty, he’d done his stint in the military, he didn’t want to go back into uniform. He’d voted for Ike to end the Korean War, not to start a new one. He liked Ike, an American through and through, a guy who wouldn’t take any subversive crap from anyone, like belonging to the Communist Party of America, which just got thirteen punks tossed in jail. He read about Loyalty Review Boards and the hard work they did, all across the country, making pinko people disprove that they were disloyal, or else they lost their jobs. Damn right! Why wait for tomorrow’s traitors to betray America when you could flush out the bastards today? You know it makes sense. The Trib said the dollar was strong, ’53 was looking good, the country was on the up.
Only thing Sammy disagreed with the Trib about was when it reported a smart-ass called Charles E. Wilson of Detroit, who said what was good for General Motors was good for America. Well, it sure as hell wasn’t good enough for this American. Sammy took his brown Pontiac convertible to a man who customized cars. “Beats me why I bought this heap,” he said. “No class. No tailfins. No difference.” And the guy agreed.
Now, on a sunny summer’s morning, he was driving west across Manhattan in his blood-red Pontiac, the top down, two hundred pounds of added chrome shouting class at the world, and sitting beside him was Julie Conroy, a piece of feminine beauty that turned his voice husky every time they met. He had picked her up at her apartment. She wore a tailored two-piece of cream linen that made the mailman drop a couple of letters. No hat. Black hair curled like a dark sea in a light breeze, a phrase he remembered from a movie review in the Trib. “You look like a million dollars,” he’d said.
“I feel like a buck and a quarter. Not enough sleep.”
He had held the car door for her and said, “You ever get your hands on a million, buy A.T.&T.” See, he read the business pages too.
Now he turned north on Riverside Drive. “Okay if we take the bridge?” he said. “Small piece a business I gotta do in Jersey.”
Traffic was light. Trees were in full leaf and the sunlight made them bright as new paint. Clouds were up high, quietly going about their business, which didn’t include blocking out the sun. She rested her head and closed her eyes. That felt good. This trip was probably a big mistake, so enjoy what you can.
Sammy stopped at the George Washington. She opened her eyes. He paid the toll and got a receipt. “Tax-deductible,” he told her.
“Huh.” She thought about that as they crossed the bridge, about making a tax return when your business was crime. Too complicated. She gave up. The bridge flexed and trembled. The Hudson was far below. She closed her eyes and imagined they were flying.
*
Hackensack looked like a nice place. Plenty of big old clapboard houses in wide streets. Sammy found the one he wanted. He parked and got out. “Five minutes,” he said. Julie watched him open the trunk. He was dressed f
or Wall Street except that the pants, the lapels and the tie were too narrow. He walked to the house, swinging a baseball bat. Now that was too corny to be true. All the same, it put a chill in the sunshine.
He was back in four minutes, tossed the bat in the trunk, got in the car, drove away, first using his indicators and checking his mirrors, considerate of his valuable passenger.
“You gonna tell me?” she said. “Or should I assume the worst?”
“I did my sister a favor. Her boy Jimmy ain’t gettin’ good enough grades at school. She’s upset. I discussed it with his headmaster.”
“Using a baseball bat?”
“Never touched the guy. He agreed, Jimmy’s been gettin’ a raw deal. It’s the school’s fault.”
“Or maybe the kid should work harder.”
Sammy left Hackensack behind, and put on speed. “Nah,” he said. “My way’s better.”
She wondered how much of it was true. None, maybe. Or maybe the truth was even worse.
She’d met Sammy at a party in the Village. He’d looked and sounded like someone from Guys and Dolls. They’d talked a little, danced a little, he’d been very attentive, and as he drove her home—for which she was grateful, the rain was bouncing knee-high off the pavement—he’d made a remark that he obviously thought was respectful. Complimentary, even. “Any time some guy annoys you and you want him whacked, or maybe semi-whacked,” he’d said, “you call me.” He was serious.
At the time, it had seemed almost touching, in a quaint, New Jersey way. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
2
The San Felipe was a medium-small passenger liner, not nearly big enough to qualify for one of the huge berths on the west side of Manhattan, where fireboats pumped great fountains and whooped triumphantly to welcome the likes of the Queen Mary. Instead the San Felipe docked on the Jersey shore, at Hoboken. No bands played at Hoboken, no flashbulbs popped.
Luis Cabrillo was in the saloon when the ship tied up. He was playing backgammon with a fellow-passenger, Dr. John Barnes. Cabrillo had joined the San Felipe in Caracas, Venezuela. Barnes and his wife came aboard at Havana. They had been in Cuba for the annual convention of the American Psychiatric Association. The San Felipe was not a fast ship, and the two men had played a lot of backgammon. They finished this game; and Cabrillo lost on the last throw. “Another?” he said. They re-set the board.
Barnes was in his sixties, built like a foreman carpenter, wore a corduroy suit. Cabrillo was half his age, and by contrast he looked slim, almost sleek. He wore a double-breasted blazer from a good tailor, charcoal-gray flannel trousers, suede shoes. His face was smooth as an olive. Mostly it was as expressionless as an olive too.
They played fast, slapping the pieces, flicking them into corners. Luis paused, as still as a statue, then doubled the stakes. “Well, sure, I need a new car,” Barnes said, and accepted. Luis threw the dice. “Not a pretty sight,” Barnes said, and promptly redoubled. Luis accepted. Later, he re-redoubled. Barnes accepted again and said, “If this goes wrong I may have to sell the old car.” But nothing went wrong for him.
“Thank you,” Luis said. “Jolly good sport. How much do I owe you?”
Barnes opened a notebook. “Seven hundred and three dollars. Please forget it. I’ve already forgotten it.” Luis was writing. “It’s of no importance,” Barnes said. “I’ve been flat broke, often. It’s a temporary inconvenience, nothing more.”
“You’re very kind. This is a charge on my bank in Caracas.”
Barnes took the check. It was signed Count de Zamora y Ciudad-Rodrigo. “I hope you won’t be offended.” He struck a match and set fire to a corner. “Here in the US it’s a criminal offense to bounce a check.” They watched it burn in an ashtray. “Tell me one thing, and then we’ll go our separate ways and I’ll sleep easy tonight. What plans have you got? In America?”
“I plan to join the Secret Service.”
“Uh-huh.” Barnes stirred the gray flakes with a pencil. “I expect their number’s in the phone book.”
Mrs. Barnes came in. “Our bags are ashore, John.”
“Okay. Mr. Cabrillo tells me he plans to join the US Secret Service. What d’you think of that?”
“Not in those shoes,” she said firmly.
“Why not?” Luis said. “Most comfortable shoes I’ve ever had.”
“Fine in Venezuela. Okay on this ship. But take it from an American, you won’t get anywhere here in suede.”
“What happened to the land of the free?”
“It’s available in every style and color,” Barnes said, “except suede.”
*
The arrival hall on Hoboken dockside was unlovely when it was new, and that was long ago. Black ironwork was gaunt and skylights were grimy. Immigration officials sat at a row of metal desks. One of them studied Luis Cabrillo’s passport. “Is that a British name?” he said.
“From the Norman French. An ancestor was the bastard son of William the Conqueror. The family …” Luis stopped. The man was flicking through the pages of a thick ledger. He failed to find a Cabrillo. The book flopped shut. “What’s the purpose of your visit to the United States?”
“I wish to play backgammon.”
The man waved away a fly that was trying to sneak through immigration. “You mean tourism?”
“Do I? Jolly good. We’ll make it tourism, then.”
The man thought about that. He handed Luis a printed sheet of paper. “Read this. Tell me if you answer yes to any question.” He sat as motionless as a sack of coal.
Luis read, and smiled. “Surely only a lunatic would answer yes.”
“Sign at the bottom.”
“With pleasure.” Luis had a flamboyant signature. “Now, if I try to overthrow the government by force, you can charge me with perjury, and serve me right.”
The immigration official’s expression had never changed. “I don’t like you, Mr. Cabrillo,” he said. “If it was up to me, I’d refuse you entry to this country. You’re a smart-ass. That’s un-American. I hope you get your smart-ass well and truly kicked. Now beat it.” He stamped the passport.
Nearly all the baggage had been claimed. Luis quickly found his suitcases, and a porter. “Got anything to declare?” a customs officer asked. “Nothing,” Luis said. “Thank Christ for that,” the man said. “Now I can go eat.” He chalked the bags, and Luis walked out of the echoing gloom and into the sunlight. He paused to look around, and a bum with a tin cup immediately stepped forward and said, “Spare a dime, buddy?” Luis searched all his pockets, and found a coin. “This is all I have.” He dropped it in the cup.
“Jeez,” the bum said. “I think you need it more than I do.” He fished it out, gave it back, and shuffled away. Luis looked at the porter. “This is America,” the porter said. “Even the bums got standards.”
A blood-red Pontiac pulled up to the curb. “What kept you?” Julie Conroy said. “We’ve been here for hours.”
“I wonder if you could take care of the porter,” Luis said. “My small change seems to be unacceptable.”
“Sammy, pay the porter,” she said.
“Sure, sure.” The bags went into the trunk. The porter was amazed to get five dollars. By now Luis was sitting in the car.
Sammy got in, checked his mirrors and used his indicators, and eased into the traffic. “What d’you think of America, Mr. Cabrillo?” he asked.
“I think somebody could make a fortune filling in the potholes,” Luis said.
“Land of opportunity,” Sammy said. “Everyone says so.”
*
The San Felipe was not an important ship, and Hoboken didn’t rate highly, so the FBI sent a new agent, Fisk, fresh from the Bureau’s Academy, to check the passenger manifest. He found little of interest, just a French film director with a Russian name, and a wheelchair case who had been acquitted on fraud charges involving a Canadian copper mine with no copper in it. That was long ago. But Fisk was young and keen. He chose a good viewpoint and used binoculars
to watch the other arrivals go through customs and immigration. Luis Cabrillo’s body-English interested Fisk. Most arrivals were in a hurry to get their passports stamped and go. Cabrillo talked and talked. Gestured. Wore his blazer like a cape, loose over the shoulders. Fruity shoes, too.
When Cabrillo was at last admitted, Fisk went over to the immigration officer. The man showed him the name. “Smartass,” he said. “Comes into this country like he’s going to the Roxy. Like it’s a costume party. I hate a smart-ass.”
Fisk drove back to the FBI office on East 58th Street and reported to his supervisor, Prendergast.
“French film director,” Prendergast said. “No. It’s always raining in black-and-white on some pathetic chain-smoker. And forget the wheelchair. Two strokes and a kidney stone as big as the Ritz. That leaves this Cabrillo. No doubt about who met him?”
“I was only twenty feet away. Sammy Fantoni, with girl friend. I checked the plates on his Pontiac.”
“No uncle?”
Fisk shrugged. “Wouldn’t know him if I saw him. Isn’t he a recluse?”
“Sort of. Since his wife died, he don’t get around much any more … All right. Open a file on Cabrillo. Anything else?”
Fisk hesitated. “What’s the Bureau’s stance on Cuba? Dr. John Barnes, American citizen, just back from visiting there. He’s a psychiatrist.”
“Mr. Hoover approves of Cuba. It’s stable, pro-American, good cigars. But psychiatrists, Mr. Hoover disapproves of. They’re unstable, secretive, possibly anarchic, probably un-American. Don’t open a file on Barnes. I’m sure we have one.”
*
Sammy took the Holland tunnel into Manhattan, then Third Avenue uptown. Luis was in the back seat. He said little. Too much to see. At one point Sammy broke the silence. “My uncle’s dentist used to live down that street,” he said. They looked. It was just a street. “He moved to Denver,” Sammy said. “Nobody ever figured out why.” He swung into 84th Street.
He carried the bags into the apartment. It seemed crowded when three people were standing in it, trying not to look at each other. “I forgot to introduce you,” she said. “Luis, this is Sammy Fantoni.” They shook hands. “I don’t have a car,” she explained. “Sammy offered.”
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