Still cradling the shotgun, Fred made his way downstairs. Nobody was there, nothing was out of place. From a window, he saw the shadowy silhouettes of four men stuffing two slack human forms into the trunk of the idling car. The trunk lid was slammed shut. The shadowy figures retrieved what appeared to be baseball bats from the ground and tossed them into the car. One figure turned toward the house and saw Fred in the window. The figure made a slight, downward-pushing motion with his open hands that meant Take it easy, followed by a “thumbs-up” signal: Everything’s under control.
Then they were gone.
An hour later, after Fred’s shotgun had long been returned to its hiding place, a police car arrived. The lone officer took Fred’s report with eyes that were heavy from sleep and disinterest. The steel mills owned the cops, too. From the chief of police down to the lowest flatfoot, the unspoken rule of thumb was let the union scum and the niggers kill each other all they like.
“No blood, nothing taken,” the officer noted as he stifled a yawn.
Then he was gone, too.
Later that day, it all made more sense to Fred O’Hara. The afternoon newspaper reported that the bodies of two local thugs had been found by the banks of the Ohio River. An obvious example of union violence, a police official stated. Their skulls had been shattered by blows from a blunt object, plus three bullets were added to each skull for insurance.
Fred recognized the victim’s names. Tom Houlihan had used them many times before for the union’s dirty work.
A telegram sat on Fred’s desk at the union hall. Its message was brief: I’ve got your back. Its signature: Your Brother. Fred smiled as he folded the telegram and stuffed it into the pocket of his suit jacket.
Chapter Forty-Four
It became clear to Allegra Wise very quickly that this was not going to be an easy interview. The modest Chicago home of Isaac and Sarah Linker, David Linker’s parents, had an air of melancholy and pain about it. Like a shrine to a lost son, pictures of David—a few in uniform, most not—were everywhere. It was obvious that Allegra’s visit was tearing at the 16-year-old wound of their son’s strange death once again. A wound that would not heal.
Sarah Linker, a plump woman in her mid-50s, sat on the living room sofa, dabbing at her moist, reddened eyes with a handkerchief. Isaac Linker, still lean and spry despite his advancing years, sat next to his wife and held her hand tenderly in his, the weathered hands of a working man. What Allegra had just told the Linkers had stunned them to silence for a moment.
Allegra was riveted by Isaac’s piercing eyes. She was a bit intimidated by them, too.
“David was wise beyond his years,” Isaac said in a low and gravelly voice, as he clutched his wife’s hand tighter. “He wanted to be a lawyer, you know.”
“He was accepted at the University of Chicago,” Sarah Linker added, her soft voice beginning to tremble, “but he enlisted…” Her voice trailed off. She buried her face in her hands. “My only child! Buried across the ocean! We can’t even afford to visit his grave.” No more words would come, only the mournful sounds of a mother still grieving for her son.
Now Isaac was fighting back the tears. “A moment, please, Miss?” he asked of Allegra. It was a respectful demand, not a question. He took his wife in his arms.
Allegra took a sip of the tea she had been offered and tried to shake the feeling that she, too, was on the verge of tears. She had interviewed many people touched by tragedy, but the Linkers were different. With quiet dignity, they left no doubt that they had suffered not only a loss but an injustice that would never be explained or corrected.
And I’m going to bust my ass to get that explanation, Allegra vowed silently.
Her eyes scanned the living room, stopping on each picture of David. No matter the age of the boy in the photo—from toddler to 18-year-old airman—the look on his face was the same. It was one that you’d see in the portrait of a monarch, a great statesman, or a judge: confident, commanding, unafraid. The look of someone who had it all figured out, not someone who could be so beaten by life that he would choose to end it.
But pictures can fool you, Allegra thought. I’ve got to stay objective here. But these poor people…I feel so bad for them.
Isaac Linker turned back to Allegra. “Somebody is telling a terrible lie, Miss Wise. The army…the Swedes…who knows?” He paused, shaking his head. “But know this…we will never believe our David committed suicide. Never.”
Sarah softly reinforced her husband’s words. “A lie. A terrible lie.”
Isaac Linker was not finished. “Now you tell us some meshugenah, some crazyman, says that this politician killed our David? Do you have proof?”
“Not yet, Mr. Linker. I only have Mr. Moscone’s account.”
Isaac threw up his hands in frustration. “What good will that do? The army closed the book on our David a long time ago. No meshugenah is going to make them reopen it.”
“Mr. Linker, I came all this way to Chicago to just speak with you. And I’m going to keep traveling until I’ve tracked down the whole crew of that airplane. Somebody else has got to know something.”
The hardened despair written on the Linkers’ faces cracked just a bit. They had lived so long without hope—perhaps the tiniest ray was now shining through. Were they no longer alone in the fight to rescue their son’s integrity? If this shiksa who towered over them was their only hope, so be it.
“Then Godspeed, Miss Wise,” Isaac said.
Chapter Forty-Five
Tom Houlihan drummed his fingers with nervous impatience as the bank teller counted out the cash. Four hundred and fifty-six dollars—all that was left in his account. He did not even bother to count it himself. He hurried from the bank, hopped in his station wagon, and started driving.
As he drove south along Highway 41, the swamps of South Florida had never seemed so empty, so worthless, so endless. A road passing through nowhere, going nowhere. A barren reminder of the collapse of his grand scheme.
That fucking O’Hara’s protected! Go figure! He’s got some big friends…God knows who they are…and now I’ve got maybe two mobs trying to kill me.
The only thing on Tom Houlihan’s mind now was survival. He would get no money from the Pilchers to pay off his debt to the Caputo family. He had to run for his life.
He would try to lay low for a while at a little bar on Marathon Key that an old friend owned. Ditch the car. Stay out of sight. Get off a letter to the wife telling her to extend her visit with the relatives in Ireland indefinitely. Sorry, babe, the letter would say, but there ain’t nothing to come back to, anyway.
Maybe the Caputos will forget about the money…or maybe I can catch a boat to Mexico.
Maybe Hell could freeze over, too. How could I have played this thing so damned wrong?
Chapter Forty-Six
The beginning of Joe Gelardi’s leave of absence from MIT was only a few days away; the tying up of administrative loose ends that would make the leave possible was almost complete. The exhilaration he had felt after escaping the meeting with the chairman last week had faded quickly, though. The real weight of the issues he faced quickly began to crush back down on him.
It was not just the money. He would make a better salary as a staff mathematician at IBM, one that he could only dream of at MIT. He felt fairly sure he had made peace with IBM’s proprietary claims on his work, yet the job offer remained unsigned. Two other obstacles continued to block the path to decision and wrench his very soul.
First, he loved to teach. There was nothing quite like seeing the already brilliant students grow under his tutelage, as the bright academic light that shone within each of them burned with ever-increasing intensity. As intellectually rewarding as pure mathematical research would be to him, he doubted it would ever fill the void that ceasing to teach these bright young minds would create.
But if I ever expect to teach at this place again, I’ve got to conquer these panic attacks. I can’t undo David Linker’s death. Let
it go. It’s over. Done.
But that was the same lie he had told himself countless times before.
Second, Diane did not want to leave Boston. She was quite emphatic when she cried, “Armonk? Where on earth is that? And what’s going to happen to me there? I belong here, Daddy!”
Joe tried to make her see that moving would hardly be an end to anything. There would be new schools, new friends—not a cessation but an enhancement of an already rich and exciting existence. But their visit to IBM’s headquarters at Armonk, New York, complete with a tour of the community, had driven Diane into a silent funk that lasted the long drive back to Brookline.
At the breakfast table the following morning, Diane made her proclamation. “I won’t live there, Daddy. I have to stay here. I can’t leave my school and my friends. You have to stay here, too.”
Mrs. Riley, their housekeeper, decided this might be a very good time to go to the basement and start some laundry. She did not want to be seen as hovering over this discussion, despite having a vested interest. She had been with the Gelardis for almost seven years, ever since Mary had walked out. If Joe and Diane moved away, she would need another job. Well into her 50s, she was not eager to be back on the job market. The years with the Gelardis had been good, for the most part. She had hoped to drag this job out until she hit Social Security.
Joe did his best to keep this discussion with Diane open, civil, and logical. “And why would I have to stay here, sweetheart?” he asked.
“Because you’re loyal to MIT and you love your job.”
“Of course I’m loyal to MIT. I’ve spent my whole academic and professional life there. But maybe it’s time for me…for us…to move on.”
The look of pain on Diane’s face was proof that she did not agree. “I have to stay here, Daddy,” she repeated.
“Okay, fine. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that you stayed. Where would you live, sweetheart? You’re thirteen.”
With the myopic optimism that young people often mistake for wisdom, she replied, “I’ll live with Meredith! And I’m nearly fourteen!”
Joe wished he had not let out that little laugh, for that was all it took to drive his daughter to indignation and tears. She stormed from the table.
“Diane…honey, wait.”
She stopped in her tracks, but she would not turn to face him.
“Sweetheart, you’ve got to be realistic about this. Sure, you and Meredith have hit it off…you do homework together…”
Diane interrupted. “We do lots of other good stuff, too.”
“I’m sure you do, honey…I’m sure you do. But she’s almost nineteen. She’s got her hands full with her own life. I’ve told you a hundred times how hard it is to be a young woman at MIT.”
“So? She can handle it. So can I.”
“I know you can, honey…and your time will come. Sooner than you think.”
“It’s still five years away. That’s forever, Daddy.”
“No, it’s not, Diane. Don’t rush yourself. Just take things as they come. Now come back and finish your breakfast.”
Diane trudged back to the table and toyed with her food. Twice she started to say something but then changed her mind.
“What? What do you want to say?” Joe asked.
Without looking up from her plate, Diane asked, “What about Mrs. Riley?”
“Oh, honey…don’t worry. I’ll help her find another position. Somebody at the Institute is always looking for good help.”
But Mrs. Riley was not the only thing still on Diane’s mind. Hesitantly, she said, “It’s just that… I’m afraid…”
“Afraid of what, honey?”
She sighed. She might as well just spit it out. “I’m afraid that if you’re not on the faculty, Daddy, I’ll have much less of a chance of getting into MIT.”
Joe sat motionless at the table, dumbfounded. As Diane gathered her schoolbooks, Mrs. Riley reappeared in the kitchen.
“Hurry, child, or you’ll miss your bus,” the housekeeper said.
“I’m going…I’m going,” Diane replied. She gave Mrs. Riley a peck on the cheek and headed out the door. She was careful not to slam it. She did not want her father to think she was still mad. Once she had gotten that off her chest, her anger had quickly drained.
There. I said it. All I can do now is wait and see, Diane thought as she hurried to the bus stop.
Mrs. Riley stared silently at Joe for a moment, arms crossed. Joe knew that look on her weathered face very well. When it was flashed his way, it could mean only one thing: For a big genius, you can be a real dumbshit sometimes.
Finally, Mrs. Riley broke the uncomfortable silence. “She’s right, isn’t she, Professor?”
Joe nodded, but he knew what she asked was not really a question. It was just a statement of the obvious from a woman who had spent her life observing the mechanism of society from beneath. It was no secret that his daughter was academically brilliant. But he had never realized just how astute she had become in the ways of the world until that moment.
As Joe scanned his small, cluttered MIT office, pondering what to take home and what to leave during the leave of absence, the math department secretary appeared in his doorway. She nodded toward the reception area—there was a tall, well-dressed woman standing there. The secretary said, “Doctor Gelardi, you have a visitor…that reporter who phoned yesterday.”
The tall woman rose to meet Joe as he entered the reception area. “Allegra Wise, CBS News,” she announced, flashing press credentials. “Can I steal a few minutes of your time, Doctor Gelardi?”
They settled into Joe’s office. Allegra marveled that it was crammed full of books on mathematics; I didn’t think there were this many math books in the whole world. One wall was covered by a blackboard, full of equations. There were many photos scattered about the office of a cute, auburn-haired girl, spanning the ages from toddler to teenager.
“Your daughter?” Allegra asked.
“Yes, my daughter Diane.”
Allegra also noticed there were no photos of a wife; the man she faced across the desk did not wear a wedding ring. I’ve heard these academic types can be tough to live with. He does seem to be in another world at the moment…really ill at ease...in some kind of rush. His eyes are darting around like he’s taking inventory. This might be a little tougher than I thought.
“So what can I do you out of, Miss Wise? It is Miss Wise?”
Ahh, that’s interesting…an attempt at humor yet without the flirtatious tone. He’s nervous. Great! Nervous guys can be very talkative.
“Yeah, it’s miss. But please call me Ally.”
“All right, Ally…Now what would CBS News want with me? I’m very pressed for time.”
“I’ll be brief. You were an airman during the war, correct?”
“Yes. I was a navigator in the Eighth Air Force.”
“I’ve done some checking. You served with Congressman Leonard Pilcher.”
Allegra was stunned by the sudden change in Joe’s demeanor. Whoa! He didn’t like the sound of that one bit. He turned away like I slapped him or something. I’m hitting a nerve somewhere...Tread carefully now, Ally.
Joe turned to the window; his eyes became fixed on something far in the distance. He paused a few moments before answering. “Yes, I was in Pilcher’s crew.”
“On The Lady M?” she asked.
Joe nodded.
“You’re aware he’s seeking the Republican nomination for president?”
“Of course. I read the papers.”
“Would you vote for him?”
“This is Massachusetts. We tend to vote for Democrats.”
Allegra laughed. Should have seen that one coming.
“Were you and the congressman interned together in Sweden?”
Joe’s face flushed. He seemed irritated now.
Oh boy, Allegra thought, talk about hitting a nerve!
“Unfortunately, yes…we were,” he replied.
“And Ant
hony Moscone was there, too?”
“Well, he was there in body, anyway…if you know what I mean.”
Allegra nodded as she checked her notebook.
“Doctor Gelardi, perhaps you’d care to comment on the Congressman’s remark that he was ‘one of those crazy heroes who bombed Germany?’”
Joe became incredulous, asking, “He said that? He actually had the nerve to say that?”
Allegra patted her notebook like it was the source of all wisdom. “Yep. Heard it with my own two ears.”
There was a long pause before Joe began to speak again. “Well, Miss Wise…Ally…that’s simply not true. We bombed France on two milk runs. Then we dropped our last load on some fish in the Baltic on our way to Sweden. Nothing heroic about any of that…not in the least.”
Allegra was writing furiously in her notebook. Without looking up, she asked, “That’s very interesting. Fred O’Hara told me pretty much the same thing…minus the fish part. May I quote you on that?”
His answer was abrupt. “I prefer you do not, Miss Wise.”
Allegra took his refusal with a poker face. No matter…anonymous sources work fine if they’re all saying the same thing.
Joe now seemed a bit startled. “You’ve spoken to Fred? I haven’t seen or spoken to him since…that day.”
She paused to recalibrate her questioning.
“So, Pilcher, his crew, and that plane flew a total of three missions?”
“That’s correct.”
This is so fine, she thought as she tried not to smile. He flies only three missions and high-tails it to Sweden…and it’s confirmed! War hero, my ass!
Allegra turned a page in her notebook with what seemed to be a grand flourish. She did not mean it to be a dramatic prelude to her next question. She was simply on a roll at the moment and needed a blank page in a hurry.
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