The Dead Don't Bleed: A Novel

by David Krugler

  “He’ll see me, honey,” I said breezily, “so stop wasting both a’our’s time and tell Mister Himmel Ted Barston’s here.”

  “Is he expecting you, Mister Barston? Does Mister Himmel even know you?” Her tone had turned playful. Not yet nineteen, I guessed, but she had probably already encountered a hundred men trying to impress her, flaunting their ranks and rates, pouncing with pick-up lines, turning her head with whistles.

  “He ain’t expecting me, he don’t know me, but here I am. So just pick up yer telephone, girlie, and give him a jingle back in his office—”

  “Miriam, everything okay?”

  The question came from a woman who had come over from the cutting area. She looked to be in her late twenties, slim and tall, with sharp features: tapered nose, narrow chin, flat cheeks. Her chestnut-brown hair was cut short and coiffed into tight curls. Her once-over was quick and expert, taking in my faded dungarees, scuffed brogans, wrinkled shirt. Thanks to my cheap razor, my shave was uneven. I gave her a lopsided smile that immediately bounced off her rock-cliff expression.

  “He wants to see Mister Himmel,” Miriam said.

  “What about?”

  “A job.”

  “Are you Miss Silva?” I asked. “I’m Ted Barston.”

  The woman ignored me. “Tell him we’re not hiring.”

  “We’re not hiring, Mister Barston,” Miriam dutifully announced, trying hard not to grin. However this turned out, at least she’d have a story to tell during her lunch break.

  Turning my smile on her, I said, “Could you tell yer boss who I am? I don’t think she caught my name.”

  “Miss Silva, he says his name is Ted—”

  “Don’t be such a stupid cow, Miriam,” Silva snapped with such ferocity that I almost flinched. “I heard him the first time.”

  The receptionist bowed her head. Her hands fluttered over the stack of envelopes she was stamping, then fell to her lap, her shoulders slumping. All work had ceased. The clippers had set down their scissors to watch us, low murmur of gossip replacing the rustle of turned pages.

  Silva turned her icy glare on me. I expected a preamble before she told me to leave, something about how this was a place of business and I was wasting her time, but no:

  “Get out.”

  “Uh-uh. Get Himmel or call da cops.”

  That threw her—threatening to call the cops was her trump card. In the rear, a man behind a metal desk stood and walked to the front. He was short, maybe five feet, six inches tall, his black hair combed forward to conceal, poorly, a bald spot. Tortoiseshell glasses perched low on a puggish nose. A mustache wedged between plump cheeks looked out of place, like a dime-store disguise. At first he looked overweight, but as he came close I could see that his baggy clothes—uncreased khaki slacks, white oxford shirt, and brown jacket—concealed a broad torso and muscular arms. This was Greene, Philip Greene, I guessed, Himmel’s other faithful commie.

  “Trouble, Nadine?” His voice was surprisingly hoarse and indistinct, like a hungover man croaking the first words of the morning.

  “No,” Silva answered tersely.

  “Because I can toss this guy out—”

  “Everything’s fine,” she interjected.

  “Oh yes, of course. Everything’s fine,” he repeated dumbly.

  “Are you Mister Himmel?” I asked him.

  “Me? Why no, of course not, I’m—”

  “Philip.” Silva cracked his name like a whip, and he fell silent. Not once had she looked at him; she kept her eyes on me. “Miriam, ask the operator to get the police on the line. Tell her we have a disturbance.”

  As Miriam picked up the telephone, I pressed my lips into the tightest of smiles and ticked my chin up. I know all about H & H, honey. Sure you want the coppers here? But if my hint worried Silva, she didn’t show it, her Arctic gaze still a thousand yards long. My bluff wasn’t all that strong—if the cops did come, I sure as hell couldn’t tell them H & H was a commie front. The cops would toss me out the door, I’d have to slink back to Paslett and admit I’d flopped. Barston doesn’t slink, he doesn’t flinch, I told myself. So I stared right back at Silva.

  “Operator, Metropolitan Police, please,” Miriam said. She spoke quietly, her voice shaky. “Yes, yes, it’s an emergency—we have a disturbance at thirteen twenty-one K Street.”

  She held the line as the operator connected her to the police dispatcher. Silva and I continued to stare at each other, like Western gunslingers itching to draw.

  “Nadine, perhaps it’s best if I just show him to the door so we can—”

  “Shut up, Philip. Let me handle this.”

  I was sweating it now. I’d gone after the woman, figuring she’d give in easier than a man, but Silva obviously wore the pants at H & H, not Greene. I only had one play left, and that was to blurt out who my pop was and pray that Big Bill’s name rang a bell.

  “Hello, police? Yes, this is H & H clipping service, we’re on K Street, thirteen twenty-one, and we’ve got a man here who won’t leave.” Miriam paused, listening to the dispatcher’s questions. “Well, he’s not being violent or nothing, but he says he’s here for a job and we told him we’re not hiring and to leave but he won’t, so my boss—”

  “Nadine! Send him back.”

  The booming voice carried from the back and whipped all our heads around. An older man, his graying hair worn a bit long, stood in the doorway of an office in the rear. He had a broad, flat nose and a gap between his front teeth. His suit, a gray pinstripe, did not fit him well, and he reached to pull the right coat sleeve down to his shirt cuff. This is Himmel? I wondered. Trying to keep my composure.

  Silva’s fury at being undercut in front of the entire staff was obvious: slit eyes, scowl, knuckles white on the folder she was gripping. The smart thing to do was to ignore her and head straight back to Himmel. But Ted Barston wasn’t smart, he didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. I shot her a smirk, gave Miriam a hearty Thanks, girlie, and walked to the rear office.

  Himmel was already seated behind a desk when I reached the doorway. “Come in. Sit.” He motioned to a wooden chair.

  I sat and said, “Thanks for seeing me, Mister Himmel.”

  “How do you know I am Himmel?”

  “I figger only da boss coulda stopped dat gal up front from siccing da coppers on me.”

  “Siccing?”

  “You know, getting after. Letting da dogs out on.”

  “I see. Siccing.” He savored the word like a hard candy, rolling it on his tongue. His accent was surprisingly faint—I’d expected a Russian inflection as tangy as borscht. I should have known better. Paslett was always going on about the Soviets’ language schools and how good they were.

  “It is a job you want, yes?” Himmel asked.

  “Yessir. Clipping newspapers, deliveries, sweeping up, filing—whatever you need.”

  “Why is it you are here? There are many jobs in this city for a strong young man. Especially in the Army.”

  “Funny you should say dat, cuz I just got outta da Navy. Ahead’a schedule, you might say. So when I found myself here in Washington, I remembered sometin’ my pop told me when I was a kid, about how if you had da right kinda friends, you could always count on ’em ta take care’a you.”

  He nodded slowly, his face blank. I badly wanted to light a cigarette, but I left the Old Golds in my pocket.

  “I see. Is someone here your father’s friend?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Who?”

  “You, Mister Himmel.” Letting my words hang in the air. My heart was pounding, I clenched my thighs to keep my hands from trembling. Everything rode on how he responded to those three words. You, Mister Himmel. Would he take the hook, was he curious enough to ask, or would he tell me to get out? Had I—had Barston—gone too far, been too cocky? Himmel’s expression remained neutral, but his gaze, boring down, was unsettling. Did he expect me to say more? Fighting every instinct, I kept quiet. Work had resumed on the ma
in floor, I could hear metal file drawers clanking shut.

  “Who is your father?” Himmel finally asked.

  “William Barston. Big Bill, dey called him. Chief organizer a’da longshoremen’s union. He led most’a da dock strikes in Joisey in da thirties, til da bosses had him killed. Made it look like an accident, like da cable snapped when he just happened ta be standing under da crate.” Just let Barston talk, I told myself—couldn’t let my exhilaration show. Just because my ploy had worked didn’t mean I was in, not yet.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Doesn’t mean yer not friends, Mister Himmel.”

  “I don’t see how that could be. This is an information service. All our customers are right here, in Washington. We have nothing to do with anything or anyone in New Jersey.”

  “If you checked yer files, Mister Himmel, I think you’d see I’m right. Big Bill, my pop, was a friend in kind.”

  “In kind?”

  “Both a’youse had lotsa common interests.”

  “Such as?”

  “Finding friends and allies. And keeping track’a enemies.”

  “I see. Your father sounds like quite a fellow.”

  As in traveler, fellow traveler; parlor pink.

  “Helluva lot more dan a good fellah, my pop.”

  “Tell me, Ted Barston, did your father ever tell you what he did with strangers who came to the dock claiming to be ‘friends in kind’?”

  “Yep.”

  “And?”

  “Dey worked ’em over but good. Figgered dey were company stooges or G-men.”

  “And even if they were not?”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Yes, excellent advice. Better safe than sorry. Is it not advisable I should follow such advice?”

  I shrugged and said, “That fellah up front—what’s his name, Philip? He already told yer gal he’s ready ta give me da heave-ho.”

  “He is stronger than he looks, Philip.”

  “Sure, everybody is.”

  Himmel picked up a pencil, upended it, tapped the eraser on the desk. “Leave, and give us an hour to check our files on your father. Then come back.”

  I shook my head vigorously.

  “Due respect and all’a dat, Mister Himmel, dat’s just a cheap way ta get rid’a me. So I tell you what: I’ll wait up front, quiet like a church mouse, while you do yer homework, and if after dat, you don’t think dare’s an opening for me, I’ll leave pronto and never darken yer doorstep again. Deal?”

  “This is not a negotiation, Barston,” Himmel said coldly.

  “Den consider it a favor. For my pop. Who gave his life for our common interests.”

  Himmel played with the pencil. Tap, tap. Tap-tap-tap. He pointed the tip at me. “All right, you may wait in the front.”

  So I did, taking a seat on the wooden bench facing the receptionist’s counter. Silva shot daggers at me as she strode to Himmel’s office, Greene on her heels like a puppy. The door clicked shut, but the muted sound of raised voices was still audible.

  I smiled at Miriam. “Got anything ta read ’round here?”

  “Gosh, no, Mister Barston, sorry—oh, you’re making a joke!” She giggled nervously. “You mean all the newspapers, dontcha?”

  Nodding, I lit an Old Gold and inhaled greedily. “Thanks for being nice ta me, Miriam.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, though uncertainly. Was I going to get her in trouble again?

  I stood and came over, propping my elbows on the counter. “Worked here long?”

  “Since last fall. Why d’you wanna know?”

  “Hey, I’m not trying ta be nosy or nuttin’. It’s just, well, never mind.” I made like I was going to sit back down, but Miriam stopped me.

  “No, it’s okay, go ahead.”

  I took a long drag, blew the smoke at the ceiling fan overhead. “Well, just seems ta me, a pretty girl like you could work anywhere.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “For someone who’s nice, know what I mean?” I cast a look toward the back.

  Flustered, Miriam looked down at her typewriter and gave the roller a twist. “Oh, Miss Silva, she’s . . . she’s just particular, s’all, and anyways—”

  Himmel’s door opened and slammed, Silva exiting huffily, Greene behind her. They were making for a row of file cabinets on the far wall, behind the cutting tables, but Silva detoured when she saw me talking to Miriam. I straightened up and plastered on the crooked smile.

  “Don’t you have those invoices to finish, Miriam?” Silva said tersely, ignoring me.

  “Yes, Miss Silva.”

  “So finish them. Without distraction.”

  Silva pivoted on the spike of her high heel and joined Greene at the cabinets. He had a drawer open and was riffling through the folders.

  “Don’t let her get ta you, dat was meant for me,” I whispered.

  “Thanks,” she murmured.

  I sat down, stubbed my smoke in the brass ashtray next to the bench, and waited dutifully, like a schoolboy waiting to see the principal. Hoping fervently that his two minions were about to find everything they needed to.

  Which, to Ted Barston’s delight, they did.

  CHAPTER 12

  WHATEVER SILVA AND GREENE FOUND IN H & H’S FILES ABOUT BIG Bill Barston persuaded Himmel to give me a job. Not that I was in the clear—far from it. A stranger struts in, flaunting his pop’s name like he’s John D. Rockefeller, Jr.; of course he’s going to have a cover story that checks out. So even if Himmel didn’t believe I was Ted Barston, he’d want to know who I was for real and why I’d showed up on his doorstep. Stalin had once said keep your friends close and your enemies closer. That was the Russian way of life, and I was certain that Himmel would keep digging even as he pretended to accept me as Ted Barston. I just had to hope—pray?—that Paslett’s pets in 7R had dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s.

  Himmel said he had all the readers and clippers he needed, even if I did speak German, so he took me on as a part-time delivery boy, responsible for taking boxes packed tight with folders of clippings to various clients. Part-time was good, part-time was perfect; it gave me lots of time to be away from H & H, and I had to stop myself from calculating how I could spend as many of those absent hours as possible with Liv. When I told Himmel I didn’t have a car, he shrugged and said I could use Greene’s. I said okay. He told me to come back at eight the next morning. Okay. I didn’t say thanks as I left. Gotta stay brash, I told myself, so I sauntered out of H & H like I owned it. Too bad I couldn’t send Griffin Crieve a thank-you note—he deserved one.

  If my dime-store watch was keeping the right time, then it was almost five when I left. A long walk around the block to buy cigarettes put me up on the hour. As I pulled on an Old Gold and made like I was trying to figure out a bus schedule, Miriam exited 1321 K Street and headed my way, the heels of her pumps adding to the staccato clicks and taps of the office girls’ quitting-time chorus line. I gave my attention back to the schedule, fished for a nickel in my dungarees. If she saw me, great; if not, I’d wait another day or two, because—

  “Hi there.”

  I looked up and acted surprised. Miriam had wrapped a colorful scarf around her head, tucking the end into her bright yellow spring jacket. To my pleasant surprise, she had slender legs, though her knee-length skirt also showed ample hips and a wide, corset-defying waistline.

  “Hey, Miriam. All done for da day?”

  “Yeah. So you got the job.”

  “Yeah, how ’bout dat?”

  “You musta impressed Mister Himmel or something, ’cause I’ve never seen him hire someone on the spot like that.”

  “My lucky day, hey, Miriam?”

  “I’d say so!” she said pertly. “Is this your stop?” She motioned at the sign, at the growing swarm of office drones waiting for the bus.

  “Naw, I was just thinkin’ a’maybe taking a bus down ta see da sights, some a’them memorials. I only just moved here, see.” I smiled sheepishly while
silently cursing myself. For real, the memorials? Was Barston the kind of fellow who’d spend his free time staring up at old Abe’s face or gaze slack-jawed at the pinnacle of the Washington Monument? I needed to be more careful, to think my stories through first. Silva, not to mention Himmel, would sniff the air like a bloodhound if I blurted out another oddity like that one.

  “Oh! That sounds like fun,” she said unconvincingly.

  I laughed loudly. “I’m just joshing, kiddo! Naw, I was gonna treat myself ta a drink—wanna join me?”

  “Well, I don’t know, I’m s’posed to meet a girlfriend at Woodies, she wants me to help her—”

  “Some’udder time, den,” I interrupted breezily. “See you tomorrow, hey, Miriam?”

  “Um, okay.” Her hands dropped to her clutch and played with the metal clasp. “Is it far, where you’re going?”

  “Naw, just around da corner. Nice place, classy and all a’dat. Sure you can’t join me for one, Miriam?”

  “Well, maybe just one.”

  “Dat’s da spirit, kiddo!”

  I crooked and extended my arm in an exaggerated gesture. Giggling, Miriam hooked her arm around me and we walked west on K Street. There were a lot of law firms around, which meant finding a cocktail lounge wouldn’t be difficult. We turned north on Seventeenth Street. Sure enough, right next to the Blackstone Hotel, was a swank place called the Excelsior. Awning above the door, settees and marble-topped tables dimly visible through the smoked-glass windows.

  “Gee, I don’t know,” she said doubtfully when I steered us toward the door.

  “Are you suggesting my attire may not be suitable for this establishment, madame?” I said in a British accent. A very bad British accent, but Miriam still giggled.

  “Yeah, kinda.”

  “Well, let’s find out, hey?”

  I unhooked our arms before we entered. I nodded curtly at the maître d’, barely looking at him as I scanned the room.

  “Sir.”

  Ignoring him, I pointed to a table in the corner and said to Miriam, in my normal voice, “That’ll do.”

  “Sir!”

  “The table in the corner, please,” I told the maître d’, finally looking at him.