“I don’t see why. If she has to leave instead of defending her own people, it only adds to weakness of the race. Science backs me up you know.”
“That’s my wife you’re talking about,” interjected the director with heat. “She’s done nothing to deserve this slander!”
“Oh, she hasn’t?” Hess’s eyebrows arched dubiously. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, giving the impression of one who has just heard the latest gossip and is eager to pass it on under the guise of well-meaning concern. He looked from Ocello to Daniels, from Daniels to Beltran before pausing on Eva, gleeful malice in his eyes.
“Hess,” warned Eva. She sidled closer to her husband and slipped her arm into his. Beltran took the hint and interceded.
“Eva is right Hess; this is a party. We are supposed to be celebrating a profitable picture, which, if you remember, Marian had a vital role in. I will not have you upsetting her anymore on this trip.”
Hess leaned back against the cushions with smugness. Striking a match, he lit the slim stick he had pulled from the silver cigarette case that always kept close to his heart, literally, in the breast pocket of his coat. Once aglow, he flicked the match over the side of the yacht and took a deep draught, his eyes glazing over with satisfaction as he rested his arms on the back of the seat.
“He could have a point, Beltran,” spoke Stu in all seriousness. “There is increasing fear and antagonism toward Jews in the general populace. It might not be fiscally sound to keep someone like Marian in the spotlight.”
“I don’t believe this!” shouted Ocello, standing up to face Stu. “You’d like that wouldn’t you. You and your ‘Friends of Germany’ Teutonia Association don’t necessarily have the vote of the general populace either!”
“Not yet. But the mood in America is changing,” responded Stu prophetically, coolly swirling the ice in his glass before taking a swig. “With the depression deepening, more and more people are seeing things for what they are.”
“And what are they?” snarled Toni. The director balled a fist and would have taken a shot at Stu if O’Connell would have let him. Standing abruptly to block Toni, O’Connell held him back with a firm hand and gently directed him to sit back down, averting the inevitable black eye.
Hess, enjoying the pot that he had stirred, laughed like a schoolboy hearing his first dirty joke. He looked at Smith pointedly as if he shared the joke, but getting no response, turned to O’Connell. “What about you O’Connell? What’s your take on all this? What do you have to say?”
“I say you’re a damned idiot.” That’s putting it mildly, thought more than one person on deck, several actually. “And you’re drunk.” O’Connell sat back down in the lounger and lit his own cigarette.
“With you and Daniels to thank for it,” tipping his hat to Daniels, “and that man over there, er . . . Mr. Fiddlesticks. He makes one mean martini if I never had one.”
“Finnegan,” O’Connell corrected.
“That’s right; he’s from your part of the world too. Gotta stick together, ye lads.” Hess waved his empty glass toward Forster, “Oy, Finnegan! What are people drinking these days in the bowels of Chicago?”
“Eh?” looking up from the small bar where he had been intently rubbing glasses to a polished shine. Apparently, he had been oblivious to the dramatized scene that was being played out in front of him.
“I said,” speaking in slow staccato, “what are people drinking in Chicago these days? I understand you have some inside information.”
Forster smiled. “My Bloody Valentine has been the most popular among men, sir. It’s a version of the Bloody Mary with a bit of an added kick. Rumored to be a favorite of Mr. Capone’s, that is before ‘e was pinched of course. Said it was a man’s drink.”
“Hmph. Sounds murder. I’ll have one of those.”
With the introduction of that infamous villain, Beltran saw a chance to break the tension among his ranks and, turning to his paramount posse, said “You know, we have been planning a film based on his reign of terror. Anna, remember to make a note of that drink. It would be a great detail to add to one of the key scenes. Keeps it realistic. Especially if people drink it today. I’ll ask Jameson to write it in the script he’s working on.” In a more secretive tone, “Maybe you can use your wiles to get the ingredients out of Finnegan. Bartenders are always so guarded about their trade, but I think you can charm it out of him.” He gave her a wink. She smiled back. You haven’t seen me try. It’s not as easy as it looks.
Successful in his diversionary tactic, Beltran gained the immediate attention of those around him. While he was giving a crude outline of this next box office hit, over at the bar Forster began to mix a standard Bloody Mary, first pouring the appropriate amounts of tomato juice, lemon juice, and vodka into an ice-filled shaker. He glanced up to see O’Connell watching the process. O’Connell caught his glance and saw the corner of Forster’s mouth curve slightly up in joint-intrigue as he reached for the Tabasco. A shadow of a smile appeared on O’Connell’s own face in response, his eyes silently communicating his approval of the bartender’s cruel intentions. With that, Forster began liberally adding the Tabasco to the mix before doing the same with the Worcestershire.
No one else noticed the exchange between the two men. Those who would be involved in the movie process were listening eagerly to Beltran, interjecting their own ideas as he laid out the basic format of the plot. Daniels, lazily smoking a pipe, was poised as if listening to Beltran, but his eyes were more frequently resting on Beltran’s wife. Anna was too busy jotting notes down as fast as she could on a notepad to bother looking up.
Back at the bar, Forster was finishing off the fiery cocktail with dashes of salt and pepper when O’Connell’s voice temporarily broke the spell of Beltran’s narrative. “Hey Finn, that looks pretty good. Why don’t you make me one of those as well.”
Forster without missing a beat, replied in a deadpan voice, “Yes sir.” He raised the mix and began to shake. Beltran and his following had to wait to continue their collaboration until the rattle of ice had subsided. As soon as Forster lowered the shaker, the discussion returned to its rolling boil. Meanwhile, Forster strained the cocktail into a tall glass filled with ice. He then proceeded to rinse the shaker before building another Bloody Mary, this time using the Tabasco and Worcestershire with a little more restraint. He garnished both cocktails with fresh lemon and celery dusted with cayenne for effect, then brought the glasses to their intended partakers. He handed O’Connell his glass first and, as he placed the cocktail in Hess’s hand, said “Please tell me what you think sir, some say it’s a bit strong.”
Hess eyed the dark burnt red solution while O’Connell took a bold sip of his own Bloody Valentine. “Oh yeah. Definitely more of a kick. Always thought the Bloody Mary needed more of a punch. Excellent Finn! What say you, Hess?”
Hess, though the aroma of the cocktail had already tickled the hairs in his nose, couldn’t bear the thought of appearing less of a man next to O’Connell and, against his better judgment, took a rather large draught.
Now, if one was expecting a violent response to the Molotov cocktail that Hess virtually poured down his throat, he would be sorely disappointed. Despite the chemically altered state of his brain, Hess was still a good actor. The only two that could tell that something was amiss, was O’Connell and Miss Platinum Hair. O’Connell, who was already watching intently for any sign of discomfort, was rewarded when he perceived one tiny bead of sweat forming on Hess’s brow. Platinum, having just previously snuggled up against Hess in order to keep the chill of the night at bay, detected a slight and sudden tensing of his core muscles along with an imperceptible cough that produced a rattle in his chest only discernible to one close enough to the epicenter to feel its tremor. But being the flavor of the month, or in her case, the day, she did not know him well enough to be under any other suspicion but that the burning liquid had entered the wrong pipe. Hess set down his drink and leaned, quite soberly, back aga
inst the pillows. “That’s a mighty fine witch’s brew, Finnesticks.”
“Thank you sir,” replied Forster with pride, as any bartender would when a customer acknowledges his craftsmanship and artistry.
Hess received the grateful expressions with apathy then turned back to the business at hand, his system shocked into amazing clarity. “Beltran, I insist on playing Ness. He’s the one that brought down Capone right? Yes, I’m playing Hess. Who do have in mind for Capone?”
While speculations flew through the air as to who would play the notorious but unfortunate-looking Scarface, O’Connell got up from his seat with drained glass in hand and started walking over to where Forster was stationed. By the motion of the glass in his hand and the jingle of the ice inside, it was obvious he was asking for another Bloody one. Forster responded in kind by starting to pour the parts into the shaker before Shamus even reached the bar.
Anna, able to pause for a brief moment as there was a lull in the frenzied dialogue, lifted her head and spotted O’Connell and Forster in what seemed to be a friendly chat. She had a clear view of Forster’s, or was it Finnegan’s, smiling face and the back of O’Connell’s dark head and broad shoulders. With two handsome specimens before her, it was easy to start comparing the two physically. O’Connell was definitely the taller of the two, by several inches, even though Forster had to be at least six feet. Each had dark features, but where Shamus had the lighter skin with cheeks that looked perpetually wind-blown, Forster had olive undertones. Both had a pleasant laugh, and both seemed to harbor some sort of intelligence, always a lure to Anna. She did have to admit Shamus was the more attractive. She also had to admit that his showing some interest in her helped in that attractiveness. Sometimes love begins with one person being interested while the other’s vanity is flattered. Forster had been all but nasty to her since she first bumped into him on board. Sure, it must have been a shock to his system to see her there after leaving her so meanly on the docks, but guilt was no excuse for being a bully, if it is guilt. The jury was out on what to do about it. Meanwhile, O’Connell was nothing but charming and friendly and easy to get along with, not to mention very easy on the eyes. Her favorite decided, she unconsciously started focusing on the other.
What was Forster’s problem anyway? She thought she had figured him out on the train: good-humored, good sense of right and wrong. Yet he had shown he could lie without a bat of an eyelid, convincingly too. He had lied about the papers needing to be typed. One of his names was a lie. Were either names real? Had he lied to her about other things as well? Most likely. He was a different person altogether on the boat. Even his voice had taken on a slight Irish lilt. But it wasn’t as if he was playing a role. In fact, it was just the opposite. He seemed to be in his element here. She had overheard him joking with the crew, talking easily with members of the party, and now mix drinks with smooth flare, spinning bottles like they were a natural extension of his fingers. She could easily imagine him as a bartender from some dark, smoky speakeasy in Chicago. Yet, he seemed so real on the train too. Questions were working their way quickly through her mind. Some she could answer, others went disturbingly unanswered. She saw Forster look her way once briefly, but without any sign of acknowledgement, almost as if he had looked straight through her to the waters behind. She turned to look behind her to see if anything was there and then, seeing nothing but darkness, looked towards those seated on either side of her, and then back at Forster. Suddenly, a light flashed in her mind, but it did not bring with it the answers to her questions, instead it supplanted them with one ultimate, even more disturbing question: WHY IS HE HERE? The answer to which she didn’t know if she wanted. What was she saying? Of course she wanted the answer! She just didn’t know if she should go about getting it.
The question having formed in her mind, she desperately wanted to hear what was being said between the two at the bar. Unfortunately, the sound of the boat, the crackling radio, and the conversation of the party escalating again drowned out the voices of the two men though she strained her ears to listen. At one point, she thought she saw Forster look her way again, this time acknowledging her. He must have said something to O’Connell because he also turned and looked in her direction with a smile. He turned back to Forster, said a few more sentences, probably thanking him for the drink, then turned again before making his way over to where Anna was sitting. It Don’t Mean a Thing had just come through on the radio and O’Connell was reaching a hand down to her in a silent request for a dance. Anna looked to her employer, who immediately shooed her toward the open area of the deck. “I would dance with you myself, but I am told I have two left feet. Isn’t that right Eva?”
Eva nodded in agreement and looked at her husband with a show of admiration. “Yes, it’s a shame I can’t drag you out onto the floor, but perhaps Daniels will take me for a spin.” She flashed her radiant smile at Daniels who responded immediately by standing and holding out his own hand to receive hers. “That is with your permission sir,” he stated politely to Beltran.
“Oh, yes, yes. Please take her or I will never hear the end of it later.” He watched the two take their place next to O’Connell and Anna, swinging to the sounds of trumpets and drums.
O’Connell tossed Anna around like she was a ragdoll. She had done some swinging in a few underground hotspots, mainly with a former boyfriend who was now serving time in Illinois; a bad choice of her youth who left a bad taste. The one good thing that came from that relationship was the dancing lessons. Without them, she would have never been able to keep up with O’Connell. He whisked her around so quickly she didn’t have time to think, and when she did miss a step, his sheer strength kept her upright.
The song ended, and Ruth Etting changed the pace with Guilty. The transition from fast to slow didn’t faze O’Connell. As far as he was concerned, the dance wasn’t over; it just lent itself to conversation now.
“Do you know much about San Francisco, Miss Kelly?”
“I know that gold was discovered in California in 1848 and that there was a big earthquake here in the city in ’08, but beyond that, not much. Have you spent much time here Mr. O’Connell?”
“’06,” he corrected her. “Not as much as I would like. I spend most of my time on the water with Daniels. I don’t care much for Los Angeles, too many pretensions. I guess that’s Hollywood’s doing.”
“You don’t approve of Hollywood? They seem to keep you in business.”
“True. But I mean, just look around you. These people aren’t real. They play at life. Spend so much time acting in movies they forget what real life is all about. They live in a bubble. Hess thinks he is so worldly just because he is a part of the Teutonia, but I doubt he understands anything beyond the propaganda they pump him with.”
“What’s the Teutonia?”
“They call themselves the ‘The Free Society of Teutonia.’ It’s a group that supports the NAZI movement in Germany. It’s been gaining in popularity in America since the war. In fact, from what I hear, it sounds like the NAZI party, with the help of the Teutonia, will come to power in the near future. Stuart over there is a member. I wouldn’t be surprised if Smith is one too.”
“Smith? I haven’t heard him speak one word since I came on board. What makes you say that he’s a member?”
“As far as I can tell, he’s recently come from Germany himself. No one knows much about him, but Beltran seems determined to make him have a good time, and Hess seems just as determined in getting him to talk.”
“What do you think of the Teutonia?”
“It’s just politics to me. I think the NAZIs are a powerful force in their own country, but I don’t see how Germany can recover from the regulations slapped on them at Versailles. However, they do seem to be getting funds from somewhere.”
“From what I understand, some of the restrictions of the treaty were pretty harsh, maybe even unfair. I’d like to see Germany rebuild itself, half my family is from there, but I get an uncomfortable feeling
when I hear about the NAZIs. Something’s not quite right there.” He felt her body shiver, and it made him pull her closer.
“Just German patriotism, that’s all. We have the same here in America.”
Anna knitted her brows in premonition. “Maybe.” She looked at Smith as new thoughts emerged. She glanced back at Forster. His eyes glanced quickly away. She had caught his eye though. He had been watching them, and it was very apparent that he was not happy. He’s no Irishman. I don’t care how well he can pull off that accent.
Beltran’s eyes had been resting a while on his beautiful wife with a look of satisfaction and pride before he moved his gaze toward Anna and Shamus. There’s a handsome pairing. They both would look well on screen. As thoughts and plans began to form in his mind for yet another film, he mindlessly reached for his glass, accidently picking up Hess’s instead which Hess had left untouched since his first draught. Raising the glass to his lips, he took an absentminded swig, unprepared for the peppery cocktail. In response to his sudden coughing and spluttering, Platinum leaned over and asked if he was alright. Regaining control of his senses, he simply smiled and said, “Wrong pipe."
16
A German among Pigeons
* * *
Anna could not sleep.
There was certainly something beyond the ordinary celebratory cruise here. There was a tenseness. A sense of anticipation. Like everyone and everything on board was waiting for something of particular substance to happen. And something was going to happen, for good or for evil. Her premonitions told her it was the latter. She went through the list of guests and those of the crew she knew. A few seemed ambivalent, or even oblivious to the encroaching event, whatever it was, but most seemed to be here for hidden and even opposing agendas. But what was this mysterious event? And who was on which side? She was beginning to wonder if her powers of perception were waning. And what about Forster? Finnegan? Finn? What was she supposed to call him? To help organize her thoughts, she starting comparing them to characters in the books she had read. She found she could get a better understanding of them that way. O’Connell had immediately reminded her of Samson from the book of Judges. Beltran? A Dick and Jane reader that belonged to her brother. Ms. Eva Lorraine? A Raymond Chandler villainess with a hidden good streak. But Forster? On the train she had thought of her new favorite author, Agatha Christie. Who was that guy in that one novel? Not Hastings. He was an Inspector . . . Japp! He’s Inspector Japp? Well that opinion changed as fast as a hot fox trots. No. Certainly not a Jane Austin. More like Fielding or Bronte. But perhaps not quite so gothic. That was the problem: He didn’t fit any one character or into any one story line. He was a little bit of all of them. But really like none of them. Dickens?
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