Louise pressed a couple of hot chestnuts into her palm. “I wouldn’t trust that Agent Bagwell as far as I could throw him.”
“Me, either.”
“So what can we do?”
“Number one, I’m going to have to bend over backwards to keep the homicide case separate from the enemy alien case. Two, we need to do whatever we can to assist McKenna in finding Shelton’s killer. Unfortunately, Mrs. Oakley’s presence at the art gallery the evening of the murder…” He paused, and then went on, “complicates that…considerably…”
Louise was watching him intently, listening hard to every word. When he trailed off, she stared up at him and smiled. “Fourteenth Amendment aside, you don’t think she’s guilty, either.”
“Don’t look at me like that.” He frowned. “I’m having a hard time keeping my hands off you.”
“Oh,” she said, and dropped the chestnuts.
When he kissed her, it was all she could do to keep from melting into his arms. Instead, she pulled away, breathless, uncertain, emotions roiling. His hands on her shoulders, he gazed questioningly at her for a long moment. Then his expression altered as he seemed to answer his own question. He dropped his hands. She saw his Adam’s apple bob up, then down.
“Sorry,” he said, swallowing again. “I was out of order there. You’re just not that…” He fumbled with the chestnut bag, shoved it into his overcoat pocket and retrieved a pair of ratty leather gloves, pulling them on with great attention to each long finger. He took a deep breath. “You don’t have to worry, Louise. I won’t do that again.”
Unaccountably, she felt bereft.
Chapter Forty-nine
Researching America First back at the Times morgue, Cabby had found a series of articles covering Charles Lindbergh’s massive rally in Madison Square Garden last April. Nigel Fairchild himself had introduced “Lucky Lindy,” who’d proceeded to caution a flag-waving, cheering crowd against supporting Roosevelt.
The European war, the famous pilot insisted, was not America’s war. It lay squarely in the laps of Franklin and Eleanor—warmongers the pair of them. Ten thousand people in the Garden, and an additional fifteen thousand listening to amplifiers in the rain-soaked streets, roared approval. Britain was doomed, Lindy opined. If we joined her in the fight against Hitler, she would drag us down with her, heralding the demise of global democracy. Thus it was America’s moral obligation to isolate our great nation from Europe’s problems and preserve the last staunch bastion of freedom and equalitarianism on earth.
A mere eight months ago, Cabby thought, the masses had lapped up Lindy’s stew of isolationist rhetoric with a spoon. Thousands of America First membership applications had been filed during the days following that speech. But who’d shown for tonight’s meeting? Only a handful of misfits. How quickly things change.
Now Nigel Fairchild’s baritone resonated through the tinny microphone of the America First meeting room. “My friends, the news is not good.…”
Cabby’s neighbor, the peppermint lady, retrieved a small paper flag from somewhere in her bags and waved it half-heartedly as the speaker continued. “While our cause of nonintervention in this unfortunate global strife is wise and just, and we have backed it with a full measure of devotion…” He paused again for an owlish stare, then breathed out heavily. “We must face facts. We. Are. At. War.”
A man of middle height, deep into his fifties, Fairchild wore a well-tailored Norfolk jacket in brown tweed. His broad shoulders were set in a posture of resolution, and his silver hair was folded into a natty pompadour. A burly man in grey broadcloth had followed him to the dais and now sat to one side, observing the rapt audience with eagle eyes. Cabby didn’t get it, but Fairchild obviously possessed some forceful personal magnetism.
Who were these people?
A large-bosomed woman in the row across the aisle, sporting a button that read, Bundle From Britain: Your Son?
A number of Germanic-looking working men, middle-aged and older—likely fellow-travelers with the Bund.
A few plainly dressed young men who might be pacifists by religious conviction—Quakers and such.
But who was that woman with the expensive plumed hat sitting alone down front? Twisting to get a glimpse of her face, Cabby noted curtains of elegant blond waves framing a portrait of adoration: a true believer whose gaze never left the speaker.
Cabby nudged her neighbor. “Do you know that lady?” she whispered with finger discretely extended.
“What?” Miss Peppermint scowled. “Oh, that’s Tiffy De Forest. One of Nigel’s staunchest supporters. Rather empty-headed, I suspect, but she’s generous with donations for the cause.” As she followed this with a growled order to hush, Cabby directed her attention back to Nigel Fairchild.
“No one could have done more for American peace and self-sufficiency than our organization.” Fairchild made a fist and pounded his chest. “But I am devastated to inform you, my dear friends, that, in the interests of national unity, the America First Committee has voted to immediately cease all activities and disband.”
“Huh?” Bewildered looks flew around the audience. “What?”
Cabby could feel her neighbor’s cold, stunned horror, and, after a moment, the heat of her outrage. Miss Peppermint hissed. A handful of the others followed suit. She jumped up from her seat. “Traitor!” she yelled. “Turncoat!” Then, rising in pitch, “Warmonger!”
The man in gray stood, tense and ready at the edge of the dais. A bodyguard, Cabby thought, here to protect Fairchild from hecklers.
From the front row, Tiffy De Forest sent back a piercing look.
“Miss Garrison, please.” The woman with the Bundles from Britain button had also jumped up. She came over to pat Miss Garrison’s back as if she were calming a colicky baby.
“Esther, my dear,” Fairchild pleaded into the microphone.
But Miss Esther Garrison wasn’t mollified. Her chunky club heels beat out a protesting rat-a-tat-tat as she stormed out of the room. A seedy man with overlong hair followed her. The rest sank to their seats again, trading uneasy looks. The man in gray sat down, too.
Wow! Cabby retrieved her notebook from her bag and began to write, recording Fairchild’s announcement word for word. She looked up when a shadow blocked her light. The large-bosomed woman hovered. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you here before.”
“Oh,” Cabby said, flipping the notebook shut to reveal her Times press pass clipped to its cover, “I’m here to cover the meeting.”
The woman instantly adopted a mask of caution. “The Times is no friend to our cause.” She appropriated Miss Garrison’s seat, crowding close to peer over Cabby’s shoulder. “I’d better make certain you get it right.”
Not missing a beat, Cabby scooted over one seat and rendered her shorthand even more illegible than usual.
“I apologize for the unfortunate interruption.” Nigel Fairchild returned to his prepared agenda. “When I say that the time has come to disband, I speak for the national Committee. It is now, of course, the duty of our members to remain loyal to the government of the United States, to support our military and our president.”
Fairchild took a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He lowered his voice and his tone altered. “Now I go beyond the decision of the national Committee and speak for myself—and perhaps for many of you.” He mopped his face. “My friends, it is a great pity that our president has not seen fit to come to a negotiated peace with Mr. Hitler. The Germans are a Christian people and a white race. If they declare war on us, we can trust the struggle will be civilized.”
Cabby narrowed her eyes. Civilized? What was civilized about the Nazi invasion of Poland? Or of Holland?
“On the other hand,” Fairchild continued. “Japan is a vile yellow snake that has revealed its capacity to strike at our very shores. Our energies must now be directed toward
defeating Japan.” He paused, this time to mop his brow. “We fight to preserve our race.”
A deep murmur of agreement ran through the sparse audience, like the sound of some ancient beast arising from the mud. It sounded to Cabby like the primal hatred she might expect to hear at a Klan meeting somewhere in the depths of a Mississippi swamp. Her veins chilled. This pompous man was appealing to the very worst in the American character.
Fairchild was thundering now, following each sentence with the whip-like snap of an arm. “We must take our unsullied American ideals to the streets of our cities. Every man must do his utmost to rid us of the Japanese still in our nation. And every woman, too.”
Fairchild paused for a smile at Tiffy De Forest. Cabby heard a jealous hiss from her large-bosomed neighbor.
His voice resumed, silky with assurance. “My friends, we must all take responsibility—personal responsibility—to remove the Japanese race from our shops, our eating places, our universities.” He leaned over the lectern. “Every influence of the rapacious yellow horde must be wiped out. Even our cultural ideals have been tainted. Why, I myself witnessed a display of Japanese art only a week or so ago right on Fifty-seventh Street—in one of our most prestigious galleries. Shameful!”
Cabby sat up very straight. He must be talking about Masako Fumi Oakley’s show.
“Now, my friends…” Fairchild touched the handkerchief to his upper lip. “I stand ready to address the questions I know you must have.” As clothing rustled and chairs scraped throughout the meeting room, Cabby made a lightning connection. She pulled Miss Garrison’s announcement of Fairchild’s long-scheduled lecture out of her pocket. Friday night—December the fifth, the very night Arthur Shelton had been killed—Fairchild had missed his dinner speech. One hundred acolytes waiting, and he had stood them up. Why? Had he been taking “personal responsibility”—to shut down an art dealer who’d championed a Japanese artist?
Ignoring a tiny internal voice that advised caution, Cabby jumped to her feet. “I have a question, Mr. Fairchild.”
“Yes, my dear.” The silver-haired speaker favored her with an avuncular smile.
“Given your zeal for the cause, how come you skipped last Friday night’s speaking engagement at the Metropolis Club?”
Every head in the place swiveled in Cabby’s direction. Fairchild’s smile dwindled, became an angry frown. He signaled his burly henchman with pointed look. The man in gray broadcloth stepped off the dais.
Oh no, Cabby thought, bad move. Alley Oop’s gonna toss me out on my can. I’ll be lucky to get home with my skin intact.
Chapter Fifty
Howie stretched the plaid blanket over the rolled pillows and sheets, then backed to the doorway to admire his work. Yeah, this was the way they always did it in books. If Ma peeked in his bedroom door, she’d think he was fast asleep. If she came in to lay a hand on his shoulder and listen for his breathing like she sometimes did, then the jig was up. She’d scream and yell—and bawl—but too bad.
He’d be long gone, and it was all her fault—for lying to him in the first place. All that shit about California, making him think Papa would send for them any day.
After Patrolman Drury had dragged him back from the recruiting center, Howie had finally gotten Ma to spill the beans. It was like Cheapy said. Papa was on Hitler’s side. Ma didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, but he’d gone over to the enemy.
“Ma…” he’d asked, “if Papa is a Nazi, does that make us Nazis, too?”
For an instant, there’d been fear in her eyes. Then, “Nein. Never. Don’t ever say that. Don’t even think it.”
His throat was raw and he knew he should shut up, but he went on, anyway, “If Hitler is so bad, why does Papa like him?”
Ma had pressed her lips together then, so hard her mouth creases looked an inch deep. She said, “You’re too young to understand. When the time is right, explanations will come.”
“When will that be, Ma?”
“When I say.” Hands on hips. Glare. Conversation closed.
That had been two days ago. It had taken him that long to decide what he had to do.
***
Hopping a train wasn’t the piece of cake he’d imagined. While exploring the huge yard, he stumbled across a pair of bulls, railroad detectives. One carried a club that made Patrolman Drury’s nightstick look like a Tinker Toy. The other toted a rifle. They chased him forever, until he fell through a gap in the fence and slid down an embankment, landing him in this hobo camp. Now Howie was warming his hands at a fire in a rusty oil drum, beneath a cold, black sky, now streaked with ragged clouds. After the tangled maze of criss-cross tracks and hulking boxcars, the hobo camp outside the Jersey City rail yard seemed like a refuge. He had a hundred questions for these tramps. How did you know where the trains were going? Did anyone ever get locked in one of those boxcars and starve to death?
Above the dancing flames, a grizzled man’s face looked like Ming the Merciless in the Flash Gordon serials. But his voice was kind. “You oughta go home, kid. Ridin’ the rails ain’t what it used to be. Now it’s just a bunch of bums up to no good. Back when I started, decent people caught the train to find work. Had to—we had no money and no food.”
Howie couldn’t stay home. He knew what he had to do—his papa was a Nazi, and his duty was clear. “I gotta catch a train, Mister. I just need you to tell me how to do it.”
The other men around the fire shook their heads. A colored man with a ragged eye patch told a story about a kid who’d had his legs cut off by the train wheels. “His momma had to bury him in three pieces,” he finished in a hushed whisper.
Howie tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. “You don’t understand—I can’t go home. I’m gonna hop a train, with you or without you. The sooner, the better.”
A rough-looking kid with a cap pulled low spoke up. “Ya wait outside the fence or the bulls’ll get ya. When the train’s barely moving, ya pick out an open car and run alongside…”
“Yeah?” Howie’s breath stuck in his throat. This kid was only a couple of years older than him, and he had the deadest eyes the Brooklyn boy had ever seen. “And then?”
“Then throw your bag up, grab onta the edge and swing yourself through the door. But ya can’t let your legs go under the car, see?”
Howie nodded slowly. He felt like he had to crap, but he said, “Okay. I can do that.”
“Then now’s the time, kid. Hear that?” The grizzled man held up gloved fingers like a priest giving a blessing. A locomotive whistle tooted on the wind. “The one-twenty. Pennsylvania Railroad, southbound.”
Howie gave the hobos several backward glances as he left the warmth of the fire and scrambled up the bank. In the dim glow from the rail yard’s pole lights, he found the tracks and stationed himself behind a bush. Soon he saw the glare of a locomotive headlight, heard the massive engine chuffing toward him. Howie hunched over like the hurdlers on his high school track team before the starting pistol popped. Every muscle tensed; his knees shook.
The engine rumbled past. Pretty slow, just like the kid with the dead eyes had told him. You can do this, Howie told himself. After six or seven cars went by, he burst from his hiding place and ran alongside the train. Soot and cinders stung his cheeks, forced his eyes to narrow slits. Legs pumping, he picked out an empty boxcar and focused on its open door.
Faster—the train was picking up speed—he had to run faster. The clatter from the wheels filled his ears. Nothing else existed except the deafening noise and the empty black rectangle of the boxcar door. His chest hurt. Was he losing ground? It was now or never. Howie heaved his pillowcase bag through the opening.
With a mammoth effort, he made a grab for the edge, missed. Tried again and made contact. The train’s momentum jerked his feet out from under him. Oh, fuck! He was holding on for dear life, legs
dangling free. He could feel the wind from the big wheels.
“We got cha, kid. Hang on.” Voices from above. Strong hands gripped his jacket collar and the seat of his pants. For a few seconds, he hung in space like he was flying.
It would’ve been glorious, if he hadn’t been so goddamn scared.
Then two men pulled him into the boxcar. He rolled a couple of times, and, when he pushed up on weak knees, he saw five or six others crouching in the corner of the car. Uh oh. Were these ragged people bums or decent folk? He didn’t have a clue.
Chapter Fifty-one
Thursday, December 11, after midnight
Helda didn’t wait for the one a.m. knock on the door. The red Bakelite clock over the stove said 12:50. Ernst, according to his note, would be here any minute. Donning her winter coat and pulling on wool gloves, she stepped off the kitchen porch into the backyard. The cold embraced her in its deadly clasp. Frozen grass crunched beneath her feet.
That rattling? What…? Oh, next door. Mr. Bidwell’s whirligigs. He made the little wind machines in his basement woodshop and attached them to the fence—a man sawing wood, a kicking mule, a woman hoeing. Silly to be so jumpy over toys.
She had not turned any lights on, but still she moved deeper into the shadow of the porch, to the ell corner where the wood frame joined the brownstone exterior of the main house. She would hide herself there so she could see him coming. So she could see Ernst before he saw her. It was the darkest kind of night. Clouds scudded across the sky. Smelled like rain. But she wouldn’t let that stop her from waiting outside. She would not invite Ernst in. Nein—no more Liebchen, smiling, baking sweet things, apologizing. Groveling.
Mein Gott! That gespentisch wail? Something slithered around her ankles. She shrieked. It meowed. That pest of a tom cat! No matter what she told Howie, he kept feeding that beat-up, mangy, stinking beast. She gave the cat a little kick, and he yowled off down the street.
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