Firebird_A Spy Story of the 1960's

by Noel Hynd

  “You'd have to give me a good reason.”

  Molloy promised him one. Molloy said he would open some CIA files to Cooper. On the Q.T., of course. Nothing was for attribution in the press. This could steer Cooper further in the direction of Sam's shooter, Molloy said.

  “It's your story,” Molloy said. “Take it or leave it. But I'm not giving it to anyone else. It's either yours or it doesn't exist.”

  “And I'm supposed to suddenly trust you?” Cooper said.

  “You can hang up if you want.”

  “What’s the subject of the files?”

  “Russians.”

  “What's in it for you?”

  “Enough to make your intolerable presence worthwhile,” Molloy said. “You'd clear up a mystery for us as well. That's the only way I could authorize letting you in here.”

  “So I’m working for you?” Cooper asked.

  “No. We’re cooperating with you.”

  Silence on the line. Cooper blew out a long breath.

  “I’ll be there Friday morning,” Cooper finally said. “How about noon?”

  “Good,” Molloy said, “I'll leave written authorization at the main gate in Langley for you to enter. Otherwise, your car will be riddled with bullets.”

  Cooper was silent. “Just kidding,” said Molloy. “See you then.”

  At that hour, no fewer than sixteen men and women in the Brooklyn and Manhattan detective bureaus were assigned to the Sam Rothman case. There also were dozens of stories in the New York media on the case, put together by scores of news writers. Yet there were no leads. Toward five in the afternoon, Cooper’s phone rang again.

  “Cooper.”

  It was the nursing station at Bellevue where Sam remained hooked up to tubes and machines and had been dancing quietly at death’s doorstep. Cooper braced himself and eyed a rough draft of Sam’s obituary on his desk. It was all set to run as it was.

  But the nurse put a doctor on the line. “Mr. Cooper? This is Dr. David Boorstein at Bellevue-NYU. How are you?”

  “Who cares about me, doc? What’s up with Sam?”

  “Your friend is a bear,” Dr. Boorstein said. “He’s still in critical condition but he’s breathing on his own. The infections are under control. His heart’s good. It looks like he’s out of danger.”

  Cooper closed his eyes. He fought back tears. Sam, the stubborn son of a bitch!

  “He’ll pull through?” Cooper asked.

  “God willing.”

  “Jesus,” Cooper muttered slowly.

  “There are still some challenges, but everything that’s happened today is good,” the doctor said. “Barring complications, I’m optimistic. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I did. I do.”

  Cooper thanked the doctor. He steadied himself. His eyes closed for a long moment, and when he opened them, Lauren stood at the door, looking tense and expectant.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “I just talked to the hospital,” he said. “Sam.” Her hands went to her mouth. “Sam’s out of danger. I need a God damned drink.”

  She heaved a long sigh of relief. “I could use a few, myself.”

  He stepped forward and, for Sam’s sake, they embraced each other in relief.

  “Kitty Hawk’s at six?” he asked.

  “Why wait?” she answered.

  Chapter 31

  Cooper and Lauren arrived at Kitty Hawk and made their way through the airline uniforms, the stews and crews and others hoping to get laid. They ordered food and beer. Halfway into the meal, Cooper edged away from talk about Sam.

  “How much do you know about the CIA?” he asked.

  “I know I don’t like them,” she said.

  “I don’t either,” he said, “but that’s no way to go into an investigative report. People in this world flee from East to West, not the other way. Keep the big target in perspective.”

  “What’s the ‘big target’?”

  “We don’t know yet. But it’s out there.” He paused. Then, “Listen, when I did investigative reporting for the Mirror I had several assignments that led me in their direction. They’re not as evil as they seem, except at other times when they’re even more venal than imagine. It almost goes case by case and depends who you’re dealing with. Right now, I’m dealing with a guy named Brett Molloy. I’ve only met him once.”

  “And?” she asked. Cooper gave a wavering motion with his hand, suggesting that things could go either way. “Okay.”

  “Keep in mind,” Cooper said, “it’s a wilderness of mirrors out there. There are no rules, no morality. Sometimes the Agency succeeds when it fails and fails when it succeeds. In any case, I’m meeting Molloy again Friday. We’ll see what goes down.”

  Cooper pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He lit one and tossed the pack on the table. Lauren snitched another one without asking and lit it.

  “Do you ever carry your own pack of butts?” Cooper asked.

  “No. I just mooch,” she said.

  “I hope we finish this story before we get on each other’s nerves,” he said.

  Lauren laughed. She blew a smoke ring with a suggestively pointed use of her tongue. When Cooper laughed and looked away, he noticed that three uniformed sailors at the bar were watching Lauren. Lauren followed his gaze.

  “Let me ask you about something,” she said. Lauren gave the navy guys a smile, then spoke. “Sam told me you were in the military. True?” she asked.

  “I was a dumb young officer in the U.S. Army during the Korea, yes,” he said.

  She turned toward him. “Were you in combat?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  There was a long pause. When she spoke again, she said, “My brother is in the Marine Corps in Vietnam,” she said. “There is not a single time my phone rings when I don’t cringe.”

  “I get it,” he said. “I wish him well. Him, you, your parents.”

  “My father abandoned the family when I was eight,” she said. “Joey, that’s my brother, was three. So it’s me and my mother.” She went thoughtful. “I don’t believe in this war,” she said. “I know Joey does. I wish he’d just finish his tour and come home. I can’t root against the soldiers, but I don’t believe in this war.”

  “It’s not Korea. It’s not the Second World War.”

  “It’s insane,” she said. “That’s what it is.”

  The waiter cleared the table and left a bill. Cooper grabbed it.

  “Before we leave here, there are a couple of things I want to mention,” he said.

  “Like?”

  “‘Firebird,’” he said. “That’s what we call the Rudawski case. You only use that name to me. Tomorrow and the next day, I’ll bring you up to date on the case. Later in the week, I go down to Virginia and talk to the CIA guy. You’ll need to cover for me in New York. Okay?”

  “Yup. Okay.”

  “Now, final thing,” he said. “Keep tomorrow evening free. There’s someone I want you to meet. At Toots Shor’s. An old pal. I’ve already set it up.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll know when you meet him.”

  “Got it,” she said. “Do you have your car here today?” she asked.

  “It’s in the lot on Second Avenue.”

  “Drive me home. I’ll show you my neighborhood,” she said. “Ninth Precinct.”

  “Deal,” he said.

  They walked to his car. It was well after dark. Cooper paid the daily fee of eight dollars. They drove downtown on Second Avenue and hit the East Twenties. Then 14th Street.

  “Your block is coming up, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Ninth Street. It’s a bad block. Real bad. We have a saying: ‘Just turn left when you see the burning automobile.’”

  “You’re a subversive,” he said. “I like that.”

  She laughed. They hit Ninth Street. He turned the car. There were no available parking spots. He slid in next to a hydrant. He cut the lights and engine. A Rheingold Beer sign flashed
in a bodega window. There was a noisy Lithuanian bar with a green awning down the street. In the distance, Tomkins Square Park began at the end of the block.

  Cooper’s eyes scanned down the row of tenements. They were red brick but there wasn’t much color, particularly at night. Layers of soot had seen to that. At sidewalk level, every streetlight had a glare, every stoop had a shadow, and every other doorway seemed to have some movement.

  “Slum sweet slum,” Lauren said.

  Cooper had learned to move cautiously at night in dicey neighborhoods. He kept the engine running; easier to pull out in a hurry. A mental check: yes, he was carrying his gun.

  “I lived in Hell’s Kitchen when I first came to New York,” he said. “I get it.”

  “Unlike the West Village with all the shops,” she said, “it’s residential here. You’ve got hippies moving in but there’s still a mishmash: Polish, Lithuanian and Ukrainian meat shops, kosher butchers, bodegas, and botanicas. You can buy magic potions; did you know that?”

  “I could use one sometimes.”

  “During the day Tompkins Square benches are packed with Ukrainian grandmas. Half of them, their husbands are dead. They came to America alone post-war. If you want to get killed, wave a Soviet flag. See these buildings? Majestic facades, right—built in the 1890s when immigrant labor was cheap. Inside, identical apartments, one-bedroom, limited plumbing, bathtub in kitchen. See that building there,” she said, indicating. “That’s where I live. I pay $58.88 a month rent.”

  “Is it safe for a single female?”

  “Of course not. When I come home late, I move fast and walk with my keys in my hand. I stay on the outside of the sidewalk. When it’s really bad, I walk down the middle of the street. See that bodega, that grocery? Raoul’s? You can get amphetamines over the counter.”

  “They never get busted?”

  “The Garcia brothers are the owners. Raoul works the place with his brother, Mario, and their wives. One of the men is always there. The cops are on the pad. He stays open till ten p.m. to sell dope.”

  “Does he ever get robbed?”

  “He’s ex-army. Carries a pistol. So does Mario. It looks all Age-of-Aquarius, peace decals and incense sticks, but Raoul will blow your head off if you try any shit in his place. Everyone knows it.” She paused. “He protects me. He’s Dominican. I’m like his little sister. If I have a hassle, I go to Raoul. When you and I work together, after he’s seen you a few times, I’ll introduce you. If I tell him you’re a straight-shooter, a stand up working guy, he’ll be your friend. Friend of a friend, you know? Hey, want to do that right now?”

  She put her hand on the door handle.

  “The store’s closed,” Cooper noted.

  “He sleeps in the back. In addition to the Glock, he’s got a dog the size of a Volkswagen.”

  “Later,” Cooper said. “What about that place?” He gestured at a bar farther down the block. He couldn’t see it that well, but what he could see revealed opaque windows. No see-in, no see-out.

  “Vicente’s?” she said. “Mafia joint. Not for you, not for me. Pseudo-artists, but mostly gay cruising. Fairies and pansies. Rough trade and butch lesbos.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “For you, anytime,” she said. Lauren’s eyes rose and swept the streets. They latched onto a slim male figure who had moved to the edge of the sidewalk several feet away.

  “Okay, here,” she said softly. The object of her attention was a young male standing on the corner. He waited for the light to change while everyone else jay-walked with impunity. The boy’s hair was shaggy but not long, his coat was neat. He wore a cap that was pulled down against a light rain. He carried a shopping bag under his right arm and kept glancing around. He looked to Cooper like an NYU kid. He was too far south for a Columbia kid, and Fordham and St. Johns and Brooklyn College kids weren’t in the East Village at that hour on a Tuesday.

  “Anything about him stand out to you?” Richie asked.

  “He looks a little jittery, but so does everyone else,” Cooper said. “You know him?”

  “His name is Michael. He used to live in my building. He moved to the West Village but still comes back here Tuesdays and Fridays. He’s probably got a kilo of grass in that bag,” she said. “Maybe two keys. That’s why he’s waiting at the light. No one jaywalks when they’re carrying stuff.” She paused. “He might be dealing psychedelics now, too. I don’t know. LSD. Bennies. Yellow Submarines. Quaaludes. It’s an easy way to make a living. The dealer is the link from the underground to the underworld. Somewhere he has a connection.”

  “Mafia, also?”

  “Probably. Look, you can buy a pound of marijuana, sell it by bags or ounces, and make six times your original investment in a weekend. No hours, no office, no neckties. It’s an easy way to make a living if you don’t get busted or shot. See how he’s wearing sneakers? ‘Felony shoes.’ He’s ready to run if he has to.”

  Michael crossed the street. Cooper’s eyes went to what looked to be a small theater. Lauren followed Cooper’s gaze.

  “That ragged canopy, the one you’re looking at,” she said. “That’s the Avenue B Playhouse. Part of what’s now the Off-Off Broadway movement. They have some interesting experimental stuff. They get pretty good audiences under the circumstances. Everyone's afraid to come down here alone at night.”

  “Is your apartment on the front of the building?” he asked.

  She pointed. “Third floor. Second window.”

  “I’ll watch till your light goes on,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she answered. “I’m going to run upstairs, drop all four bolts and chains on my door, take a bath and go to sleep. Want to watch from here or watch me take a bath?”

  “I’ll watch from here. For tonight.”

  “Ha, ha!” she said. “It wasn’t a serious offer, anyway. When I was in college I posed nude for art students. I love to flirt. And you’re slick,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For letting me work with you.”

  Before he could say anything, she put a hand on his arm, leaned to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Bye!” she said.

  She jumped out of the car, keys already in her hand. She hit the outer door of her tenement with her shoulder, pushed it open, then stood and worked the temperamental interior lock. Cooper watched. As the door opened, she gave a quick wave, then hurried into the lobby.

  He calculated quickly. She was young and quick. It should take her twenty seconds per floor, no longer. Who knew who or what lurked in the hallways late evening in buildings like this? He gave her a mental minute as he watched for her apartment light to go on.

  His gaze flicked around the street where he waited. There were two men on a stoop across the street, sharing a quart bottle of beer and a bag of chips. Probably travelers on some sort of psychedelic trip, he figured. There were sitting side-to-side touching each other. Straight men didn’t sit that close. Or maybe here on East 9th Street they did.

  In his rear-view mirror, there was movement. A bum staggered at the rear of his car, then weaved out into the street gripping a bottle of Night Train.

  His mental count continued. Fifty-nine. Sixty. Sixty-one seconds. Sixty-two.

  A light illuminated Lauren’s apartment. Cooper breathed easier. Lauren came to her window, unbuttoning her blouse as she moved. She waved and yanked down the shade. He felt great relief. He shifted his car into reverse and pulled onto 9th Street to drive home. There was a brick in the middle of the street. Cooper avoided it.

  Chapter 32

  The next evening, Cooper and Lauren walked to Toots Shor’s at 33 West 52nd Street. They found seats at crowded bar. As was his usual practice, Toots Shor himself was at a central spot, surveying everything, eyeing his customers, a boisterous fat man in a suit.

  They ordered drinks. Shor walked behind Cooper and gave him a slap on the shoulder in recognition. “Hey! Long time. How you doing, Crumbum?” he said. But he ignored Lau
ren.

  “This place is run like a men’s club,” Lauren said. “The old farts who keep this place in business are always trying to look through my dress.”

  “Those are the hazards,” Cooper said. “Some of them, anyway.”

  “I hate this diamond pinkie ring mob joint. Why are we here, Frank?”

  “We’re meeting someone.”

  She gave him an exasperated eyeroll.

  They ordered drinks.

  Lauren’s gaze drifted to a forlorn man who was isolated from the rest of the bar activity and drinking alone. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, and a tie. A pushed back fedora sat on his head, an outfit from a different time. He looked like an angry jittery elf.

  Their drinks arrived, and Cooper followed Lauren’s gaze. The man lifted a glass to Cooper as if in salute. He gave Cooper a grin.

  “Hey!” Cooper called back in return, breaking into a smile.

  “How you doing, kid?” the man barked across the bar.

  “This is why we’re here,” Cooper said quietly to Lauren. “That’s Walter Winchell.”

  “The old columnist? The guy who narrated The Untouchables?”

  “That’s him. We know each other from when I was at the Mirror. Come on.”

  Cooper took Lauren by the hand and led her.

  Winchell still wrote a column, but it appeared in only thirty newspapers. Once he had been in two thousand. Cooper recalled seeing a recent photograph of Winchell caught in the riots at the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago. He was being knocked over by police, hippies and young reporters. He was still wearing his fedora hat with the press card in it. The caption referred to him as “an unidentified reporter.”

  “How you are doing, kid?” Winchell asked, offering what was now an old man’s tired hand. His breath smelled of Scotch. Or maybe his clothes did.

  “I’m fine, sir. You?”

  They moved from the bar to a side table, away from the more crowded areas.

  “Who’s this beautiful lady?” Winchell asked, ignoring Cooper’s question, as they sat. “What does she do aside from make you look good?”