I sat and lit up. Himmel was playing with one of his cigars, studying the clipped end, cradling his lighter.
“Any friends follow you to work this morning?”
“Three in Franklin Square. Probably anudder one in da alley.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that. A long tail, no?”
“Lost ’em twice yesterday.” Hoping he wouldn’t ask for the details.
“Good for you, Ted. Because you must do it one more time.”
He slid a scrap of paper across his desk, I picked it up. 1831 Columbia Road 3B, it read. I handed the scrap back, he set it on fire and dropped it into the ashtray.
“They cannot see you go in or come out, understand?”
“A’course.”
“And obviously they cannot pick you up prior to your return.”
I nodded dutifully.
“Good. Philip has already loaded the car, the manifest’s on the front seat.”
I stubbed my cigarette and stood. “Mister Himmel, can I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
“Seems to me, I’m not gonna be much good as yer delivery man if I got the Bureau on me all’a da time.”
“No, probably not.” Not saying more, waiting to see how I’d respond.
“So maybe I oughta get anudder job after today.”
Now Himmel lit his cigar, taking his sweet time, puffing methodically, rolling the cigar to get an even burn. “I will say this, Ted. If you finish today’s delivery without trouble, we will discuss your future. Not here, of course, you shouldn’t come back here again.”
“Where d’you want me to meet you?”
“Library of Congress reading room. I’ll be there all afternoon, I have some research to do.”
“Okay, Mister Himmel.” I didn’t ask what I should do with Greene’s car.
Exhaling gray smoke, he said, “Good luck.”
I DIDN’T SEE ANY OF THE BUREAU’S BOYS WHEN I CAME OUT INTO THE alley and got into Greene’s car. Probably the spotter was high up in a neighboring building, using binoculars to watch the door. I wondered if Slater or Reid had risked jimmying Greene’s car to take a look at the manifest, decided they hadn’t. They’d trust in their ability to stay on me like white on rice. I’d gotten lucky twice, they were determined not to let it happen again. To shake them a third time, I needed a lot more than luck.
I fired up Greene’s jalopy and nosed out onto Fifteenth Street, turned north. The car was riding low, its backseat piled high with boxes of clippings. I picked up the first tail just shy of Massachusetts Avenue. A peasoup-green Model A Ford, blackout covers still attached to its bug-eye headlamps, a driver and passenger, hats pulled low. They might as well have stenciled “F.B.I.” on the door panels, they were so obvious, but I couldn’t make the second car. Bureau procedure was, the first car shadows, the second stays ahead, typically driving parallel streets a few blocks away, using radio dispatch to stay in contact. That way, the backup car could fall in if the mark managed to shake the tail. I needed both cars behind me, which was going to take a bit of fancy driving.
I swung a left on Massachusetts, which pointed me northwest. I drove just under the speed limit, staying in one lane, nice and easy. The Ford stayed three to four cars behind, its driver confident enough to allow vehicles to block his sight line for two, three blocks running. At Dupont Circle I switched on the left turn signal and slowed up, as if I was waiting to get into the inside lane. A gleaming Studebaker honked, I ignored him. The Ford had tightened up, to keep in view—as I wanted, he’d already moved into the inside lane. I waited until a delivery van was almost flush with me, then I swung a hard right on Nineteenth and hit the gas. The car I’d cut off—an Olds or Buick, I didn’t have time to take a close look—stomped on his brakes, then his horn, rolling down his window to scream obscenities at me. Which I deserved—I’d shaved that move awful close, you probably couldn’t even have slipped a sheet of paper between our bumpers. Now my tail had no choice but to take the circle around and double back. So was the backup car following us from the north, say on P or Q, or was he taking a southerly route, M or N?
Either way, he picked me up at Nineteenth and Florida, just before Nineteenth takes a westerly bend. A mid-thirties Pontiac sedan, gray with black trim, also a driver and passenger. Lot of juice under that hood, which is why it was the preferred getaway car of many a bank robber. Considering how stingy Hoover was, the car probably had been a getaway car. I slowed back down, then swung a last-moment left on Wyoming. Just as I’d hoped, the Ford was back in the hunt, catching up with us when I turned right on Connecticut. They knew I’d made them, they didn’t care, and they were about to find out I didn’t care either.
I floored the accelerator when I reached the Taft Bridge, then tried to shove the brake pedal right down through to the pavement. The tires screeched, the rear end swung out, bringing me to a stop at a right angle to the sides of the bridge. I put the car in neutral and engaged the parking brake. The Chevy’s front end jutted into the first lane of oncoming traffic, southbound drivers honked angrily as they swerved out of the way. The Ford and the Pontiac pulled to the curb about five car lengths back, but none of the G-men got out. Northbound traffic was already backing up.
“You idiot, move your car!” the first passing driver yelled at me.
I got out, leaving the door open, and leapt on top of the trunk. “You wanna see what we’re giving to the Russians?” I shouted at my shadows. “Well, come and get it!”
I jumped down, yanked open the rear passenger door, and pulled out three boxes of clippings. Bentbacked, I ran as fast as I could to the railing. The G-men tumbled out of their cars when they realized what I was doing and raced toward me.
Too late—I heaved the boxes over the railing, a burst of paper whipping past my face as the lids blew off, the folders and envelopes opened, and a week’s worth of newspaper clippings and associated documents scattered down to the Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway.
“Christ almighty!” one G-man shouted.
“Grab him!” his partner yelled.
The fastest of the four was a lithe young guy who didn’t let his wingtips and suit jacket slow him down. I had a head start, but he closed the distance fast—I was sure glad I’d left the driver’s door open and the engine running. I slammed the door, almost trimming off his fingertips. I released the parking brake, shifted into first, and popped the clutch as he fumbled to draw his weapon. The sight of a man with a gun caused a southbound driver to swerve into the guardrail. The car behind plowed right in, the agent had to jump out of the way. A pileup, what a great idea. I clipped a northbound car, forcing him into the other guardrail; the car behind had to come to a complete stop. The remaining G-men raced back to their cars, but I had five, maybe eight minutes before they cleared a path and came after me, another ten before they spotted me—if they were lucky. And that was all the time I needed.
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BRIDGE I TURNED EAST ON CALVERT, WHICH took me to Columbia Road. I pulled into the alley behind the building at 1831. They’d check the streets first, my G-men friends, before they got to the alleys, so that bought me a little more time. I entered through the rear, went up the stairwell. The door to 3B was chipped and peeling, the runner in the corridor dirty and patchy. Grimy walls, dim light. A toilet flushed at the end of the corridor, a fat man came out of the bathroom buckling his belt, his undershirt untucked. He barely glanced at me before ducking into his room, the door snicking shut. A deadbolt shot home.
I knocked, waited. Knocked harder, called out I had a delivery.
“Hold on,” a male voice grumbled loudly.
A long moment, then 3B’s deadbolt clicked and the door opened a crack, the useless safety chain dangling in front of the man’s face.
“What?” he challenged me.
“Delivery. H & H Clipping Service.”
He undid the chain. I came in, shutting the door behind me. He was wearing only gabardine trousers and a white T-shirt. No socks, no belt, no dre
ss shirt. He looked about thirty. Dark eyes, long nose, clipped mustache. His black hair looked like he’d run his fingers through the part just before letting me in. The flat was small, just a parlor and a bedroom, its door closed. In an alcove with a dingy curtain, a sink and towel rack. No kitchenette, no closet. He didn’t sit down, instead picking up his cigarettes from an endtable speckled with glass rings.
“You don’t have anything,” he said, finally noticing my empty hands.
“Musta forget it in da car,” I said evenly.
He shrugged, lit up, took a long drag, said, “Hang on,” in a tired way. He was as uninterested in play-acting as I was. He opened the bedroom door and went over to a dresser in the corner. A peroxide blonde was lounging on the end of the bed, wearing only an ill-fitting peach slip, a cigarette in her hand. He mumbled something to her, she didn’t respond. She turned her head to study me, her expression blank. The eyeover was fleeting. She was wearing an awful lot of makeup for a woman still in bed at ten in the morning. Bright lipstick, curled lashes, rouged cheeks.
He came back with an envelope, pushing the bedroom door shut behind him.
“My gal,” he said as he handed me the envelope. “We’re taking the day off, you know—still feeling last night’s celebration.” He mustered up a weak smile.
“Sure,” I said. She was strictly trade, a pro all the way, but what did I care? He knew he might have to spend the day waiting for the courier, might as well treat himself to some entertainment. I turned to leave, adding over my shoulder, “Oughta tell you, I’m real popular, got lotsa friends dis morning. Dey might come a’knockin’.”
“Okay, thanks,” he said unenthusiastically, checking his watch.
Cheap bastard, I thought, pounding down the rear stairs, the envelope folded and tucked in my rear pocket. But if he ended up being questioned by the Bureau because he stuck around to get his money’s worth out of the prossy, that was Himmel’s problem, not mine.
CHAPTER 32
THE SMART MOVE: DITCH GREENE’S CAR, COPY THE CONTENTS OF the envelope, deliver it to Himmel at the Library of Congress. Then, break cover, come up for air as Lieutenant Ellis Voigt at the Navy Building. Forget the Iceland story, try not to think about how Paslett would blow his stack when I strolled in. Because once I gave him this last delivery and told him that Skerrill hadn’t just been a Red spy—he’d also been a mole for the Bureau—the commander would calm down lickety-split. What I’d given Terrance and the commander so far was enough to roll up the cell, to arrest Silva, Greene, and Himmel on espionage charges. Throw each into solitary, start sweating them, get each to turn on the others. John Edgar would go nuts, he’d storm up and down the Potomac like Napoleon, blustering and yelling about how this was his operation, who the hell did O.N.I. think they were screwing with; but once Paslett let it leak that Hoover had run a turncoat naval intelligence officer as his own mole without telling anyone, the brass would cold-shoulder that toad but good. Sure, we had our tussles, O.N.I., O.S.S., and all the rest, but when it came to stiffing the Bureau, we closed ranks tight.
What I did instead: drove to the Jefferson Club to retrieve the rucksack from my cage. I hoped the lock had held, that none of my lovely neighbors had jimmied the hasp. I’d been absent a long time, other residents would’ve noticed. Keeping Greene’s car on the streets was a pretty big risk—the Bureau would be dragging D.C. with every net they had and putting an A.P.B. out with the local cops. But a half-hour, maybe forty-five minutes, was all the time I needed with the car, then I could abandon it.
I pulled up in front of the Jefferson and, for once, fed the meter—I couldn’t afford a parking ticket right now. Dashed in, took the smelly stairwell two steps at a time. Sigh of relief, my cage still locked. Let myself in, knelt and groped for the rucksack under the foot of the cot. Swept up dustballs and grit. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I muttered, panting from my run. Then I remembered: I’d last left the bag under the head of the cot, to keep it away from the door. I slid forward and pulled the rucksack out on the first grab.
Bounded right back down the stairs, leaving the lock and key in the hasp, a gift to whomever found it first. Any joe who lived at the Jefferson Club couldn’t have too many locks. Tossed the rucksack on the front seat, flipped down the driver’s sun visor. Good citizen Greene had dutifully clipped his vehicle registration to the back side. He’d listed 1224 Euclid Street, 2R, as his residence. Could be fake, or a dead drop, or a pinko pal who collected mail for Greene and passed it on. Only one way to find out. I shot up to Massachusetts, then headed north on Thirteenth, hoping the A.P.B. hadn’t caught the ears of a bored patrolman loafing in his prowl car at Logan Circle. Got to the house without trouble and parked in the alley.
Greene bunked in an ordinary D.C. rowhouse, three stories, narrow, brick, enclosed rear staircase tacked on. I shouldered the rucksack and took Greene’s keys with me—dumb bastard had given me his ring, so I had his house key. If any neighbors asked, I was still Ted Barston, H & H’s delivery man, sent by Greene to fetch an important work file he’d forgotten. But I didn’t see anyone as I hustled up the brick path from the alley. The unfinished wooden steps clattered as I went up to the second floor. Greene kept his landing neat, just a doormat and a stack of old newspapers.
Flash of panic as I unlocked the door: Did Slater and Reid know where Greene lived? What if they had a man in the alley, watching the house? Figure the Bureau wouldn’t think I’d come here, that I had no reason to? The longer I was in the wind, the more places they might look. Slater was crafty, methodical—he might just think Ted Barston would hide out here because he’d assume the Bureau would never think to make a house call. To be safe, I had to be quick.
So, stepping into the tiny kitchen, locking the door behind me, surveying the scene, the counter with bread box, butter dish, bowl of fruit . . . I’m you, Philip Greene, I’m a loyal foot soldier in the Red Crusade, I do what Himmel and Silva tell me. Got a crush on Nadine, hate it that she lets that smug prick Skerrill haul her ashes. A real golden boy, Skerrill, I’ve never liked him, hate how easy everything comes to him. I’ve got talents, I’m a true believer, how come they don’t ask me to do more? Then Silva comes to me, red-eyed, upset, terrible news that shocks and thrills me: Skerrill betrayed us to the Bureau! Tears streaking her face, letting me hold her close, whispering, “Will you help us, Philip? We must protect what we’re doing. . . .” “Yes, anything,” I tell her, right away, no hesitation, exhilarated—finally, my chance!
More thoughts as Greene . . . So how would I have done it, what mistakes did I make? Getting Skerrill to meet, not hard. Location, that alley in Southeast—harder sell. Why there? he’d have asked. Tell him a fellow traveler lives there, a friend of the cause, something like that. Tell him, meet me in the back, we’ll go in together. Have Himmel back me up—yes, yes, important meeting, want you both to go—to clinch it. I’ve cased that alley but otherwise never been there. The gun’s easy—Himmel gets it for me, promises it’s untraceable. I practice using it behind an abandoned farmhouse in upper Montgomery County. Don’t have to be an ace—I’m gonna shoot Skerrill at close range—but that piece has gotta fit like a glove. I get there early, of course I don’t drive, I take the Pennsylvania Avenue streetcar and walk the rest of the way. So far, so good. Skerrill strolls down the alley ten minutes late, but dammit if he doesn’t sense something’s off, honed instincts telling him that meeting in an alley to go into a house isn’t quite right.
Then my second mistake: instead of plugging him right away, without saying a word, I confront him. Just had to tell him we’d found him out, didn’t I, had to let him know why he was being killed, as if he wouldn’t have known as soon as I pulled the thirty-eight. He doesn’t waste a second, jumps me before I finish my condemnation, before I can get the gun out of my waistband. We struggle, we throw punches—thank God I took those boxing lessons as a kid. Damn glad I brought the roll of pennies, too, clenched in my left fist. Those two wallops daze him long enough for me to get the thirty
-eight out. I don’t even remember how many shots, even though I remember how he grunts, how he gasps, the red marks from my knuckles on his cheek and the ragged scratch from my ring as he falls.
How much noise? A street brawl, shots fired, gotta go, can’t stick around to see if he’s dead, gotta trust in the weapon, the shots, the close range. Run west, out of the alley, slow to a brisk walk to get back to Pennsylvania Avenue. No one sees me, I’m sure. If any of the residents peeked out during our argument, what did they see? Two white men fighting, one gets shot, the shooter runs away. A colored block, that stretch of M, poor people, soon to be forced to move because the Navy Yard bought out their landlords. How much are they going to cooperate when they find out the dead man was a naval officer?
And Greene had figured right—Terrance and I had gotten nothing from our canvass of the alley and its residents.
“But were you smart enough to get rid of the gun, Philip?” I murmured as I looked around his living room, lined with bookcases and potted ferns. I checked my watch: 11:18. I was up hard against my self-imposed deadline to search Greene’s flat, five minutes left. I could push it to ten minutes, but no more, not even close to the time needed for a thorough search. Anyway, how likely was it that I would find the gun? But Greene, having killed a man, might have grown anxious. What if Himmel received orders to take care of the trigger man? The Russians were like that, paranoid, ruthless—years of loyal service did you no good if someone in power gave an order. How many officers on the General Staff had Stalin killed just because he got a little suspicious? Greene might—he just might—have kept the gun, believing it offered him protection.
I unshouldered the rucksack, dug out cotton gloves, the kind photograph retouchers use, pulled them on, ran a finger along a shelf. Clean, no dust. Nothing out of order here, even the Collier’s and Harper’s magazines aligned perfectly on the coffee table. Funny, place as neat as Skerrill’s rooming house. Seemed a century ago that Terrance and I had searched that room and interviewed the landlady. What did this tell me, that everything’s just so, exactly where he wanted, where he could find something immediately. . . .
The Dead Don't Bleed: A Novel Page 25