So what were my best options? I could buy some provisions and camp out in the Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway. Another possibility: take a bus or streetcar to Alexandria, Virginia, or Silver Spring, Maryland, suburbs I’d never been to. Finally, I could flit from one gutbucket tavern to another, nursing dime beers.
One by one, I eliminated these ideas. Camping out was loony. Hikers, bird-watchers, and lovers wandered the parkway’s trails at all hours. Sure, I might be able to get through the night undetected, but what about Sunday morning and afternoon, when the recreation area was busiest? As for leaving town, the Russians would tell their stooges to watch the intercity stops. Killing time in taverns was the worst move of the three. It would siphon off my cash, dull my senses, and make me easy to track. So what was I going to do?
Become an invisible man. Be as unnoticeable as wallpaper, a John Doe blending into every scene. Anyone looking for Lt. (j.g.) Ellis Voigt, U.S.N., would eye this fellow head to foot and rule him out because he didn’t look like a naval intelligence officer on the run. Say I was a working stiff, 4-F’d because of a medical problem, humping it as a van driver or a warehouseman, bunking in a by-the-week flat with a Murphy bed. This joe—call him Andy, Andy Weldon—was unmarried, young, looking for a good time on a Saturday night, looking for a gal. Where would he go?
The Starlight Ballroom. A former theater on New York Avenue, the Starlight attracted G-girls fed up with chaperoned U.S.O. affairs, where the teetotaler punch and strict curfew were too much like a school prom. And where G-girls looking for fun went, so did guys like Andy Weldon. The owners of the Starlight had converted the theater as cheaply as possible. They’d ripped out the seating, leveled the floor, raised the stage for the band; but that was about it.
I walked north on Third, turned west on M Street. Detoured briefly into an alley to dump the M.P.D. toolbox stuffed with my wet clothes and the jumper. A pleasant evening, day’s heat fading, the sun’s glare softening, sky azure and traced with wispy clouds. At a newsman’s shack I bought a packet of Luckies. Before I went to the Starlight, I had to do something about my appearance. In my brown trousers and blue button-down shirt, I looked like a billing clerk for a dairy. Mister Dullsville, a dud. Andy Weldon was no dandy, but it was Saturday night, he was looking for action, he needed something to spruce him up, something flashy to divert attention from the ill-fitting clothes. A bow tie would do, I decided, a real corker, all polka dots and bright colors. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a bow tie, but this was Weldon’s night, not mine.
I went into a Garrison’s variety store and beelined to men’s clothing. Picked up a pair of black socks (thirty-five cents), my eyes on a rack of ties nearby. The bow ties were up high. I took two down and feigned interest. One had red and white stripes, the other was maroon with yellow dots. I deliberately fumbled the ties, they fell, I bent to pick them up. Palmed the maroon tie as I stood, pocketed it, returned the striped tie. No one saw me, the clerks were busy preparing to close. I asked the gal at the men’s accessories counter about the difference between Royal Crown Hair Dressing and Brilliantine. She let me have a sample and held a mirror as I combed the Royal Crown into my hair. I flashed her a smile and paid for the socks. Outside the store I put the socks into my back pocket and put on the pilfered tie as I finished the walk to the Starlight.
A tick past nine when I arrived. My wallet was still wet, and the doorman scowled as I handed over a damp dollar bill for the cover. I meandered to the bar. A dime’s worth of Gunther was fifty cents, it was flat and tepid, but I was going to love that beer like a newborn, cradle and nurse it for hours. Good thing Weldon was a cheapskate—I didn’t have to worry about tipping. The band had just set up, the musicians warming up with a listless rendition of “Begin the Beguine.” If that was their idea of originality, Andy and I were in for a long night. I skirted the dance floor, scanned the pairs and trios of girls milling around, trying not to look like a man on the make. Good luck, how can a lone joe clutching a warm beer at a cut-rate dancehall not look like he’s on the make?
To hell with it, I thought. Strolled up to two gals standing halfway between the bar and the stage.
“Hiya, ladies.” Putting my old Chicago—SheKAWgo—accent into it.
“All right,” one answered frostily. A willowy brunette, straight hair coming to curls above her shoulder. Thin lips, delicate nose, hazel eyes. Flared navy blue slacks, ruffled off-white blouse, crimson silk scarf knotted just right. Pretty, but also pretty unhappy, a bad sign for Andy.
Her companion smiled at me hesitantly. She wasn’t a looker. Soft figure, wide waist, round face. Frizzy black hair that refused to submit to pins. Her outfit clashed—floral print dress and black pumps—but when I smiled back, she brightened.
“I’m Andy,” I announced.
“I’m Jean,” she said. When her friend stayed quiet, dog-eyeing me, Jean added, “This is Vera.”
“Hiya Jean, hiya Vera, how ya girls doing tonight?”
“We’re okay,” Jean said. Vera gritted a smile for a half second, then turned her gaze toward the stage.
“Just okay?” I asked with a lopsided smile, looking straight at Jean. “Okay’s for Monday, dis is Saturday night. Lemme hear ya say yer doing great!”
“Oookay, I’m doing great,” Jean giggled.
“Hey, that’s funny!” I said.
Vera couldn’t make up her mind whether to roll her eyes or exhale her annoyance. So she did both. Walk away? Vera wasn’t looking for action, wasn’t happy about being out, a real sourpuss. I decided to see how it went with Jean on the dance floor.
Pretty good, it turned out. She and Vera had arrived an hour before me. Five guys had asked Vera to dance, none had asked Jean. Vera had turned them all down, but that hadn’t made Jean feel any better, I could tell. So I told her she was a good dancer and left it at that—if I went on, she’d know what old Andy Weldon was after. Hell, she probably knew already, but he had to play his cards just right if Ellis was going to have a safe place to sleep that night.
“Hey, let’s go see how Vera’s doing,” I said after two numbers on the dance floor. We’d left her at a small table. If she didn’t change her mind and accept an offer to dance, she’d get fed up and want to leave, dragging Jean with her. Andy had to find a way to keep Vera around, at least for a bit.
“How come yer friend’s so blue?” I asked Jean as we strolled back.
“She hasn’t gotten a letter from her fiancé in an awful long time. She’s worried ’bout him.”
I nodded. Vera was cold-shouldering a punk in a zoot suit. Rejection didn’t faze him, he glided off toward a gaggle of girls. I pulled out the empty chair for Jean and grabbed a third from a nearby table, squeezed in.
“Where’s he serving?” I asked Vera.
“What?” Surprised.
“Your hubby-to-be, he’s in uniform, right?”
“How do you know that?” Vera glared at Jean.
“All’s she said was, yer waiting on a letter from yer fiancé, I figgered dat must mean he’s in the service. Gotta be rough, being apart like dat.”
Good move, Andy. She stayed wary, Vera, but at least I got her talking. Typical war bride story. High school sweethearts, draft order arrived the summer after graduation, he proposed right after Basic, was assigned to the Ninth Army, had been wounded at the Battle of the Bulge, full recovery, now somewhere in the Ruhr. Jean had obviously heard all this many times, so she went to the bar for drinks. God bless her, she shook her head when I made like I was going to pull a roll from my pocket to pay for the round.
“ … just not like him to not write,” Vera was saying when Jean returned, awkwardly holding a glass of Gunther and two gin rickeys.
“Probably, da end a’da war’s got the army’s mail service all messed up, dat’s all,” I said.
“You think so?” Vera asked hopefully.
“Oh, you bet.”
Andy’s dogged geniality did the trick. Vera loosened up, accepted a couple of offers to dance, lo
oked like she was actually enjoying herself. Andy stayed the course with Jean, didn’t get fresh, didn’t push it, kept his right hand just above her hip during the slow numbers. When Vera said she was tired and wanted to leave, he played the gallant. Lemme walk you gals home … Jean, God bless her again, took Vera aside and whispered in her ear. Vera eyed me over before she whispered back; I just kept smiling like a happy idiot. Whatever Jean said, Vera agreed to.
Jean hustled over. “I’m just gonna see Vera out, then maybe we can have another dance?”
“Dat’d be great,” I said. “Jes great.”
CHAPTER 9
SO FAR, SO GOOD, I THOUGHT, HOLDING JEAN CLOSE DURING AN AWFUL cover of “Solitude,” the horns bleating like ailing sheep. Only problem: how to keep the night going on the four bucks and change I had left. Thankfully, Jean wasn’t much of a drinker—she still hadn’t finished her rickey—but she probably expected Andy to take her out for a bite after they left the Starlight. My cash would just cover a midnight snack, but I sure didn’t want to start Sunday morning broke. Maybe I could rifle through Jean’s purse when I ducked out at dawn? A bum move, for sure, but I couldn’t see another angle. Couldn’t cadge on the street, that’d hoist a red flag for the N.K.V.D. Couldn’t hit up a buddy for a loan, couldn’t risk dragging anybody I knew into this mess. Maybe I could get Jean to spring, feed her a line about not getting paid that day, promise to make it up when we went out next. I liked that play, felt like Andy’s way of telling a girl he wanted to see her again.
The number was finally coming to an end, and I was about to suggest we skedaddle when a vision of Kenny Newhurst lashed to the wooden chair in the factory overtook me. Just like lightning on a pitch-black summer night, everything lit up brilliantly. His lolling head, his whimpering, Shovel-face yelling. I must have clenched Jean awful hard because she pulled away and gave me a queer look.
“You okay?” she asked.
I mustered up a smile. “Oh yeah, jes had one’a dem shivers down my back, gave me a start is all.”
“Somebody walked over your grave.” Smiling back.
Jean had no idea how right she was. Another flash: Georgette’s instant alarm when I told her Kenny hadn’t shown up for work at the Automat. There’s no need to panic, Missus Newhurst. Had I really uttered those words? Why had I gone to the Newhurst’s home, why hadn’t I gone straight to the factory? Why had I waited so long to check in on Kenny in the first place? I could tell myself all the live-long day that I’d followed procedure, that I’d done what any trained investigator would have done, but I’d lied to the boy’s mother while he was being beaten. Told myself everything was going to be fine—hadn’t the doctor said they’d stabilized him?—but that didn’t console me, not a bit. Flash—Donniker’s surprise that I’d gone to the factory alone. Flash—wasting time on the rooftop when I should have gone straight in. I was a coward, a simpering punk, the lowest, sorriest, worthless—
“Hey, cat got your tongue, Andy?”
“Huh?”
“I asked if you were having a good time.”
“Oh, you bet. Hey, Jean, are ya hungry, wanna grab sometin’ to eat?”
“That sounds nice, sure.”
We collected her shawl from the coat check girl on the way out. Cool night, clear skies, light breeze. I took a deep breath. Patrons coming and going from the Starlight crowded the sidewalk, hacks rolled down New York Avenue looking for fares.
“Got a favorite place around here?” I asked Jean.
“Uh-uh. Wherever you wanna go’s fine by me, Andy.”
I steered us northeast on New York, an angled thoroughfare. Instinct: get off the street, pronto. We walked two blocks, passing closed shops and businesses. I took out my cigarettes, extended the packet to Jean, she shook her head. I lit up, inhaled, smiled through the release of gray smoke.
“So, ya been in Washington long, Jean?”
Short answer: no. Jean’s answer, not-so-short. She was off to the races, telling me about how after a year and a half, she still got lost, still couldn’t get used to the “hustle and bustle,” the buses that ran all night, the laundrymen who kept waiting lists, having a roommate. I smoked, nodded, said “uh-huh” a lot, and tried to keep the scenes from the factory at bay. Maybe if I kept her talking and got some food, I’d feel better. Hungry, frazzled, exhausted, beat-down—maybe that’s why I couldn’t think straight.
A chop suey joint was open. I steered Jean toward its blinking neon sign. Inside, high-backed booths, a clot of rickety-looking tables, and a counter with red-topped stools. By the door, two large fish tanks and potted ferns and plants with wide, drooping fronds. Jean bent to peer into one of the aquariums, watching a gold-scaled carp glide through the murky water. A young Chinese man approached. “Yes, yes, you like,” he said, gesturing at a booth. Except for a lone man hunkered over a bowl of soup at the counter, Jean and I were the only patrons. I nodded, we sat. I decided against sliding in next to Jean, didn’t want to spook her. The Chinese handed us menus, left, returned almost immediately with two glasses of water. Set them down, smiled, looked expectantly at us.
“I’ve never had Chinese food!” Jean announced.
“Me neither,” I lied. “How’s about I jes order us a few things, we’ll see how we like ’em?”
“Sure, Andy.”
I ordered the sweet and sour soup, egg rolls, and Kung Pao chicken to split. If we didn’t get drinks, the bill would come to about $2.50, so I’d still have a couple of bucks.
After the waiter left, Jean said, “Hey Andy, can I ask you a question?”
My stomach tightened. Was something off, did my behavior not jibe? “You bet, shoot,” I answered, forcing a smile.
“How come you’re not in the service?”
I checked a sigh of relief—I’d been ready for this question all night. “I got hit by a trolley when I was a kid, damn near killed me. I was in a coma for a week, see, and when I came to, I found out I got a steel plate in my head.”
“Oh, Andy, that’s terrible!”
“Hey, I didn’t die, didn’t keep me from learning to dance, did it?”
Jean giggled. “No, it sure didn’t.” Then the dopey smile disappeared. “Gosh, I’m sorry for asking—I mean, it’s not like I was thinking you were a slacker, you know, I was just—”
“Hey, kiddo, don’t sweat it, I’m used to it. People see an able-bodied joe, dare gonna wonder, right? Not like ya can see the steel plate.”
“Does it hurt, having that in your head?”
I barely heard her question. Flash—the crack of the pistol, the shot that wounded Kenny. My mouth went dry. “It causes headaches sometimes, real bad ones.”
“Migraines?”
“Yeah, dem. Doctors say dare’s nuttin’ dey can do about it. Jes gotta pop aspirin and wait for it to go away.” I took out my cigarettes, lit up, inhaled greedily. Flash—Kenny’s shirt spotted with blood.
“Are you getting one now, Andy? You don’t look so good.”
“Naw, naw, I’m fine.” I came up with a smile.
Thankfully, the soup arrived, we dipped in. Jean started talking about how much she missed her sister, who still lived with their folks in Schenectady. She asked about my family, but I deflected the question, acted like it was a sore subject. Back at the Starlight, I’d planned to give her a line about a rough childhood to ensnare her sympathy. Tell her I’d been passed from relative to relative as a boy, but that kind of story requires concentration; I was too distracted.
I kept Jean talking through the meal. I paid the bill and asked, “Can I walk ya home, Jean, do ya live around here?”
She nodded, smiling shyly. “Just a few blocks away. Me and Vera, we walked to the Starlight.”
Outside, I took her hand after lighting a cigarette and taking a long, deep drag—felt like my hands were about to start trembling. Jean’s chubby palm, hot and slick with sweat, gave me the heebie-jeebies, but I held on. She let it drop that her roommate was out of town, she had their flat to her
self. Should have put a spring in my step, but all I could think about was Georgette Newhurst at the hospital, sobbing at the sight of her hurt son. My stomach convulsed, bile surged up my throat—I almost vomited on the sidewalk.
“How come ya don’t have a boyfriend, Jean?” Saying something, anything, no matter how awkward, to keep myself cemented in the here and now, turning onto M Street, heading toward the flat of this sweet, dull, polite girl from Schenectady, playing the part of the dull, dim-witted Andy Weldon, flat-broke deliveryman with a steel plate in his head and a god-awful bow tie around his neck. Refuge for a night, and sleep—blissful, thoughtless, timeless sleep, hours and hours of it—that’s what Voigt needed, so he could start another day on the lam with the strength and awareness he must have to stay alive until Monday.
“Maybe I oughta ask you that question myself,” Jean said coyly.
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