The Art of the Devil

by John Altman

  Elisabeth refrained from commenting. The girl had taken a roll in the hay – quite literally, from the sound of it – with a self-admitted cad. If she had truly known how it sounded, she would not be congratulating herself.

  ‘His kisses tasted like buttermilk. But then I found myself in a quandary, Libby; you can imagine. You don’t want to make things too easy for a man, because nothing turns off an experienced fellow like a girl who goes all the way too fast.’ Bending over, showing Elisabeth unsightly rolls of fat bunching up beneath the strap of her brassiere, she reached beneath the bed, pawing around – the guitar down there shifted in its case – and coming up with a bottle of schnapps. ‘But you also don’t want to play too hard to get and make him think you’re not interested. So it was a matter of finding the right balance: encouraging him just enough, but not too much …’

  Listening, Elisabeth maintained an attentive expression, even as it started to feel fixed and plastic. Let Josette make whatever mistakes in love she wanted; it was none of Elisabeth’s concern. The important thing was that the girl keep trusting her. For the plan to work, everyone on the farm had to accept that they were friends.

  The charade need continue for only a few more days. Then the gun would be delivered, the target eliminated, the mission complete.

  The funny thing about kisses, Josette was saying, was that you never knew beforehand how they would be. The homeliest man on the planet might turn out to be the best kisser, or vice versa. Or you might hit the jackpot, as she had with James, and get the best of both worlds …

  CHARLOTTESVILLE

  Before climbing the stairs of the unassuming brick building – BPOE read a banner weakly illumined by a stuttering streetlamp – Francis Isherwood paused to check his reflection in a storefront.

  The long day following a sleepless night showed in his face. Beneath the streetlamp’s harsh light, every wrinkle and pouch was thrown into sharp relief. And he had thought he looked like hell before all this …

  After a moment, he moved up the stairs. The block was crowded with similar unassuming brick facades, each flying an American flag and announcing its purview via marquee or neon sign: ‘CAFÉ (Drink Coca-Cola In Bottles!)’, ‘ECONOMY CLEANERS (We Clean Rugs)’, ‘FURNITURE NEW AND USED’, ‘SEAFOOD RESTAURANT’, ‘MONITCELLO DRUGS’, ‘PIEDMONT REALTY’.

  When he opened the door, the building breathed: shoe polish, disinfectant, Vitalis, coffee, body odor, tobacco. A swatch of nubby carpet covered only a thin wedge of the vestibule’s wooden flooring. A circle of watery light ceded the corners to darkness. Slightly off to one side, a mop and bucket had been abandoned mid-washing.

  An old man wearing an institutional janitor’s uniform leaned against an arched doorway, facing away, listening to a speaker in the next room. Quietly, Isherwood joined him. From behind a squat lectern a man in his fifties, wearing a bespoke dark-blue suit, addressed a ragtag audience of about two dozen. Beneath faded lithographs of Washington and Lincoln, a folding bridge table supported paper cups, plates of muffins and cookies, and a percolating urn of coffee.

  ‘There are still good fellows out on the front lines, of course.’ The speaker chose one member of the audience after another with whom to make pointed, meaningful eye contact. ‘Nationalists and patriots, fighting the good fight, beating back the tide. These are the men who battle every day to reverse the damage done by Ike’s bipartisan appeasement, to correct the mistake of accepting compromise in Korea, to repudiate the sell-out at Yalta, to liberate the satellites in Eastern Europe, to purge the government of fellow travelers, to beat back the threat of Brown V. Board of Education before all our grandchildren become mud babies …’

  The janitor snorted skeptically.

  ‘But unfortunately,’ the speaker continued, ‘our President is not among these heroes. His form of Democracy, my friends, is nothing but Communism under another name. Expanding Social Security, resisting military interests, kowtowing to our enemies in Europe, standing aside as schools become integrated … the man might most generously be considered a dupe. The truth is likely somewhat worse. He’s as bad as Adlai Stevenson, with his holes in his shoes.’

  The janitor used one arthritis-swollen finger to pick inside his ear, as if something there might be interfering with his hearing.

  ‘The compromises of recent administrations have changed the course of the nation in ways for which our children and grandchildren will pay a price for generations to come. Who can forget the spectacle of a Negro soprano performing at Truman’s inauguration? And as for the so-called Republican, General Eisenhower; well, it’s no wonder that, up until the last second, everyone thought he might run as a Democrat. Take my word: scratch Ike and you’ll find that he’s pink as a flamingo, just below the surface. He’s done everything in his power to expand Frank D. Rosenfeld’s Jew Deal. Now, I would never make the mistake of denigrating Ike’s military record –’ here the speaker paused solemnly, placing hand over heart – ‘but the fact remains: the rising Soviet tide proves that Eisenhower led us to victory in the wrong war, fought against the wrong enemy at the wrong time.’

  The janitor muttered something derisive. But many of the men in the room were listening intently, and Isherwood, watching them, felt a twinge of profound disquiet.

  ‘Integration, my friends, is an insidious movement fostered by the Reds, designed to sabotage America from within. Greedy bankers and corrupt politicians have sold the country out from beneath the very veterans who risked everything to defend it overseas. Jews grow ever richer, while the rest of us can’t put food on our tables. And is it a coincidence that all Commies are kikes, and all labor unions are in their pockets?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘And why is every man in America pressed to stand either for England or for Russia? Whatever happened to Americans standing simply for America?’

  An unruly murmur roiled the crowd. Isherwood blinked, lit a cigarette.

  After finishing, the speaker circled the room, shaking hands. ‘Hope I can count on your vote,’ he said sincerely, and then to the next man: ‘Hope can I count on your vote.’ The assembly floated apart, reforming around the refreshments. Many displayed the appetite of men who had not recently eaten.

  The janitor slipped back into the vestibule, where he picked up the mop and commenced slopping sudsy water across the wooden floor. Isherwood approached him, leaving his ID untouched. The man was pushing seventy, with a jaundiced complexion and angry set to his features. ‘Evening,’ Isherwood said easily.

  The janitor showed yellowing teeth in a deeply lined face – an approximation of a smile – and kept mopping.

  ‘I’m looking for someone, old-timer. Maybe you can help me out.’

  A surly grunt.

  ‘Tall fellow,’ Isherwood said. ‘Over six feet. Somewhere in his middle–late thirties. They say he can find his way around a Springfield rifle. He’s been known to frequent VAs, Rotary Clubs, Elks and Kiwanis and such – anyplace he can get in out of the weather – although not for a few years now.’

  The janitor stopped mopping. Unobtrusively, with his puffy fingers, he stuck a chaw of tobacco between cheek and gum. ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘Well, sir, that’s a long story.’

  ‘Go on. Bore me.’

  So Isherwood laid out the tale he’d told four other times, during the past fourteen hours, at waterfront bars and veterans’ hospitals and Elks clubs and American Legion headquarters. His brother had served during the war – as had he himself – and had made a buddy overseas. Isherwood had never met this buddy, but he’d heard his brother talk about the man, and once he’d seen a photograph. Seemed the fellow had given his brother a gold money-clip when the latter had shipped back stateside, with a request to deliver said money-clip home to his family. But for some reason, Ish’s brother had held onto the clip – and now that he had passed in a car accident, it didn’t do to speculate too much about the reasons why, not speaking ill of the dead and all. Well, in searching through his brother’s belongings, I
sherwood had stumbled onto this gold clip. Remembering its history, he’d decided it was only right to do what his brother had never done and return the thing to its rightful owner. Hell, maybe it was his own strange way of grieving. But all he had to go on was a long-ago glimpse of a snapshot and a few old war stories. Nevertheless, he’d done his best, asking around VAs and clubhouses, hoping to get lucky. And he’d rung a lot of bells as he went, gathering more information on the man from people who remembered someone fitting the description. But nobody had been able to give him a name. And now the trail was growing cold, for during the past three years, nobody had seen this mystery man at all.

  Pensively, the janitor leaned an elbow on his broom. ‘Sounds to me like you’re talking about Dick Hart. Rifleman during the war. Tall drink o’ water. Middle thirties, now.’

  ‘Dick Hart,’ repeated Isherwood carefully. ‘Seen him lately?’

  ‘No, sir, not for, oh, must be a few years now, just like you say. But once upon a time, he came through pretty often. Just as you describe – drifting around. Mebbe he found someplace to settle down and that’s why we ain’t seen him lately. I hope so. Nice fella.’ The janitor unfolded a paper cup from a back pocket, hissed into it a stream of brown saliva. ‘Not like some of these assholes,’ he added, lowering his voice. ‘They talk their poison right in front of me, the bastards, with no shame ’t’all.’

  ‘Takes all kinds,’ Isherwood allowed.

  ‘Hell. These America Firsters and Christian Fronters and KKKers – Coughlinites, all of them, just under a different name. Colonel McCormick would be proud, the old fuck.’ He was gazing off now over the heads of the men, at the faded lithographs of Washington and Lincoln hanging near the lectern below red, white, and blue bunting. ‘I fought myself – in the first war. And I seen some things in those trenches, boy howdy. But a man needs to let go of hate and move on.’

  Isherwood nodded.

  ‘But they’re proud of their hate. That’s the worst of it. Why, they turn what this country is all about right onto its head.’ Another angry hiss of saliva into cup. ‘When other nations fight, they fight for themselves – for their borders, for their men and women and children. And I don’t begrudge them that right. But when Americans fight, we fight for all men. For everyone – for equality – for freedom.’

  He stopped, gummily blinked. ‘Why, I just made a goddamned speech, didn’t I?’

  ‘And a good one, sir.’ Isherwood nodded toward the lectern. ‘Damn sight better than that one.’

  Embarrassed, the man looked away. ‘Well, hell. If you find Dick, tell him Leo says hi. He might not remember me. But tell it anyways.’

  As Isherwood left the clubhouse the old man was still leaning against his broom handle, looking distractedly up at the lithographs of Washington and Lincoln, and the red, white, and blue bunting above them.

  GETTYSBURG

  Bob Skinnerton manned the gate alone.

  The private line running into the booth gave a piercing ring. Lifting the receiver he said, ‘Skinnerton.’

  ‘We’re about to have some visitors.’ Bill Brennan sounded annoyed. ‘Agent Zane, replacing Isherwood, and two others. We’re to make them feel welcome. That means they retain their sidearms.’

  ‘But that’s—’

  ‘Direct order from the Chief,’ said Brennan. ‘Got it?’

  Skinnerton sighed. ‘Got it,’ he said. But after hanging up, he groaned aloud.

  Five minutes later, glowing headlights broke the darkness. A full-throated engine gave a diminishing roar. Skinnerton reached for a foot switch, which triggered a high-intensity arc lamp, picking out the men inside the vehicle as it pulled to a stop.

  The agent behind the wheel was young – mid-twenties – with sharp cheekbones, dark hair pomaded back straight from a high forehead, and a slight, short build. He handed over a leather shield. ‘Agent Philip Zane.’

  Skinnerton glanced at the ID, handed it back. As the agent started unlimbering his holster, Skinnerton shook his head. ‘Chief called ahead. You’ve got a special dispensation.’

  In the shotgun seat sprawled a desk jockey Skinnerton vaguely recognized, an older man wearing a charcoal suit. Handing forward his own shield, the man said: ‘Agent Marato.’

  In back was a third: burly, with a greasy forelock hanging over one eye. ‘Agent Wayne,’ he said, passing up his badge.

  Skinnerton glanced at the IDs, handed them back, and opened the gate. Closing the barrier behind the Packard, he let out another long, slow breath. The barbarians, he thought, were taking over Rome.

  Philip Zane set the holstered Colt onto the dresser.

  He moved to the window and parted the muslin curtain, found a light glowing from the second story of the Eisenhower home. After watching for a moment, he dragged a chair over to the window. He would personally keep a vigil throughout the night. In the morning, a schedule would be arranged. He or one of his men would watch the President around the clock. While another rested, the third would keep watch exclusively on the towering grain silo, rising into the gloom farther out on Farm Two.

  Three years spent behind a desk, thought Zane as he made himself comfortable, had left him tragically well-prepared for the job of sitting in a chair. But at least he was finally back in the field, and not just chasing funny money this time. And when he went home to Trudy and put his hand on her swollen belly, after this was all over, he would know that he had done something good out in the world at last, making a better place for little Michael or Mary, whichever it turned out to be.

  He adjusted his short legs, smoothed down his pomaded coif. What would his bubbie say if she could see him now? Probably something like: ‘Mit geduld boiert men durch afileh a kizelshtain.’ Translation from the Yiddish: ‘With patience you can bore even through granite.’ Waiting behind his desk for the chance to prove himself, Zane had indeed shown the patience of the ancients. And not once had he complained. The first member of his family born in America, he had sworn to do whatever might be required to become worthy of this noble country, even if for an insufferably long while that had been nothing much at all.

  But look at him now: working directly for the Chief on a secret mission, defending the President against a squad of assassins of which the regular Service patrols knew nothing. This was how he had always imagined life as an agent: danger, intrigue, critical assignments coming straight from the top. To a humble Jew born of Russian peasant stock, it was heady stuff indeed.

  He studied the guard detail circling the farmhouse, the light burning in the window, the silo rearing up into the night. He could see why Isherwood, whose recommendation had gotten Zane out from behind the desk, had worried enough about that silo to make a point of mentioning it. Ish’s instincts had always been good. During their brief stint working together, the man had already been on a downward spiral, nipping regularly from his flask and vocally resenting the bust back to counterfeit duty. But he had remained an effective agent, and his eyes had blazed with irrepressible dark humor. Zane had not been there to witness first-hand the day Ish, drunk on the job, had sealed his own fate by insulting the First Lady – mocking Bess Truman’s aloofness, doing an impression of her awkward flat-footed stance, and mentioning her father’s suicide, all while she stood just behind him – but the story had since entered into legend. Afterward, Ish had been placed on indefinite leave.

  Zane covered a yawn. Even in the heart of the action, the job of a Secret Service agent was essentially voyeuristic: watch and wait, remaining awake and alert. But this was the price one paid for the honor of protecting America’s chief executive. And he would not have traded it for the world.

  As minutes crept past, he found his mind going to places he had previously deemed off-limits. If in fact a cabal was determined to remove Eisenhower, he wondered, what men might constitute its ranks? He could think of several – any one of whom, distressingly, wielded more than enough power to wipe young Philip Zane off the map like an inconvenient spill. Colonel Robert McCormick, the pass
ionate and radically-isolationist publisher of the Chicago Tribune, came promptly to mind. Influential and ruthless, McCormick had resented FDR and his ilk (which Eisenhower, in refusing to dismantle the New Deal, had proven himself to be despite his Republican affiliation) for dragging the country into a world war he’d still considered unnecessary years after the fact. Although McCormick had died on the April Fools’ Day just past, he’d left behind a legacy of slavering followers who remained willing and able to implement his ideals, and perhaps also his unfulfilled plans.

  And that was only the start. Eisenhower had not become the leader of the free world without making some powerful enemies. There were bankers and business magnates like Kohlberg and Dwyer and Mordaci and the Wulff brothers, and Texas oilmen like Murchison and Cullen, and various and sundry munitions dealers and industrialists, all of whom saw little difference between the New Dealers and the Bolsheviks, and who could justify taking out the knives because America’s nuclear monopoly had ended. And of course there were the politicians these men kept in their pockets: Jenner and Welker, who had lobbied hard to reverse Joe McCarthy’s official censure, and Bridges and Dirksen and Mundt and Bolin and Potter, and key White House adviser C.D. Jackson, and publisher Mrs Garvin Tankersley …