Suspect Red

by L. M. Elliott

  Shivering, crying in relief, Richard and Ginny sat on the sand, gasping for air. Richard wouldn’t let go of Ginny’s hand. Her legs were all scraped up from being dragged by the undertow along crushed shells and pebbles, her lips were blue from the cold waters, and her hair was matted with sand. But she was alive.

  Vladimir quickly wrapped her in their beach towels, as Ginny leaned her head against Richard’s shoulder. She smiled weakly. “Well, that will make a great first story for an inquiring camera girl.” She looked up into his face. “Don’t you think?”

  The boys gaped at her.

  Finally, Richard choked out, “You kill me, Ginny.”

  “Almost literally,” Vladimir added.

  The three half laughed, half sobbed, baking back to life in the sunshine.

  On the drive home from the beach, Ginny stayed tucked up against Richard’s side. She dozed most of the three hours and was peacefully sound asleep when they pulled into Vladimir’s driveway.

  Don whispered to Abigail, “I’m going to walk Vladimir in. I want to tell his parents how grateful we are for his part in saving Ginny.”

  She nodded.

  Vladimir and Richard grinned and waved a silent good-bye to each other.

  Don stayed at their front door for a long time, talking to Vladimir’s father. When he came back to the car, his jovial weekend attitude, the gratitude for his daughter’s life that had lit up his face all day, was gone. He looked ashen.

  “What’s wrong?” Abigail whispered.

  “The State Department has suspended Vladimir’s father, pending a Loyalty Review Board hearing. He’s been identified as a possible security risk.” Don rubbed his hand along his forehead. “It’s because of Teresa. She’s friends with people on FBI watch lists, with radical writers and artists. She communicates with Communists in Prague and socializes with Communists here at the Czech Embassy.

  “It’s possible he could be called in by McCarthy to testify, as well. He’ll lose his job for sure if that happens.”

  In the backseat, Richard felt like he was drowning all over again. He couldn’t breathe. This was his fault.

  “Dad,” he gasped. “They’ve got it all wrong.”

  “I don’t think so, son. They…We’ve got a lot…” He paused and looked at Richard in the rearview mirror. “A lot of…evidence.”

  “We?” Abigail asked.

  “The FBI. We’ve had surveillance on her for a while.” He and Richard locked eyes in the mirror. “We received a solid tip-off that she might be Red.”

  “Oh dear,” Abigail murmured.

  “But, Dad, it’s…it’s all a mistake.” As quickly as he could, Richard spilled out what Vladimir had told him.

  Don winced, looked down, and shook his head slowly, over and over. When he finally lifted his face again and looked up at Richard in the mirror, his eyes were full of rage. Like he’d just figured out that he’d been duped or something. And his hands were shaking so badly, Abigail had to turn the key in the ignition for him.

  DON stood, arms crossed, feet spread and planted in a boxing-ready pose, scowling, clenching his unlit pipe in his mouth. He was watching the evening news. Richard crept up behind him. He hadn’t been able to really talk with his dad since they’d returned from the beach the week before. Don had been out of the house, working all the time, it seemed. Or maybe he was avoiding Richard?

  But Richard was desperate to talk with him. To know what to do, what to say to Vladimir. And what were they going to do to make things right now that they knew what Teresa had really been doing? Vladimir’s dad was being investigated on stuff that looked suspect, but in the end, wasn’t. Maybe a little left-wing radical, maybe a little pinko-sympathetic, but not a Red.

  And it was Richard’s fault, for misinterpreting things, for making assumptions based on the bombast of powerful guys like McCarthy, for spreading gossip. For—how had Natalia put it?—for not thinking for himself.

  “Dad?”

  Don held his hand up, signaling he wanted silence. The ABC broadcast was reporting on the day’s Army-McCarthy hearings. It was replaying a heated exchange between the senator and the Army’s lawyer, Joseph Welch, about a young lawyer in his firm. McCarthy was trying to undermine Welch and weaken his credibility by painting his young associate as a pinko.

  Stunned, Welch replied, “Let us not assassinate this lad any further, Senator.”

  McCarthy fiddled with his glasses, focusing on his notes. The senator would not look the attorney in the eye as he vehemently defended his young employee. Finally, Welch exploded, “Have you no sense of decency, sir?”

  The broadcast then played comments Welch made about McCarthy during a recess:

  “Here’s a young kid with one mistake—just one mistake—and he tries to crucify him. I don’t see how in the name of God you can fight anybody like that. I never saw such cruelty…such arrogance.”

  “Humph.” Don snapped the TV off, dropping his pipe on top of it. “It’s about time,” he growled. “Someone, besides Murrow, needed to expose McCarthy for the blowhard he is. Most of us veterans knew it all along. McCarthy likes to call himself ‘Tail Gunner Joe.’ The jerk was an intelligence officer in the Pacific. That’s an important job, don’t get me wrong. But he debriefed combat pilots. He just badgered crews to take him up on calm days so he could shoot at coconut trees.”

  Don was getting more and more agitated as he spoke. “Old Tail Gunner Liar used to walk with a limp, claiming he crash-landed and carried ten pounds of shrapnel in his leg. You know how McCarthy really got hurt? During an initiation ritual. He had an iron bucket strapped to one foot and had to run the gauntlet of sailors armed with paddles.”

  “What?” Richard finally spoke. “Are you kidding?”

  “Yeah, I know, son. That stuff’s total idiocy. Anyway, McCarthy fell and broke his foot. Did he get hurt on duty? Yeah. Technically. But it wasn’t combat. That’s the way he manipulates half-truths to his purposes.

  “He’s been making the FBI and Mr. Hoover look ridiculous, with his bully tactics, his hate rhetoric, his unsubstantiated accusations. Always waving papers he claims came from the FBI and are irrefutable evidence. Maybe now that the nation’s witnessed firsthand what a mean SOB and master manipulator he’s been, we can get back to real investigations.”

  Richard saw his in. He swallowed and said, “Dad, about that. About real investigations.”

  Don glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were sharp with aggravation and disgust.

  Richard flinched at the squall of his expression. But he realized the emotions were for McCarthy, not him, as Don’s face calmed.

  “Yeah, I know, son,” he began quietly. “I’ve been trying to figure what to do about Vladimir’s dad, without…” Don stopped. “Without…”

  “Without getting me in trouble, Dad?”

  “You?” Don drew in a sharp breath. “Not you, son. Me. And rightly so. I landed on those scraps of information like a starved duck on a june bug. I was just so hungry for…for…”

  “A good case?”

  Don smiled. “Well, you sure are grown-up all of a sudden.”

  Richard smiled. The year had done that for him. Plus his friendship with a kid like Vladimir—a kid whose ideas and background were so different from his. “What are you going to do, Dad?”

  Don gestured toward the TV. “The decent thing. Just like Welch did. I’m just not sure exactly how yet. Even with Teresa trying to get her cousin out of Czechoslovakia, she still has friends and opinions McCarthy damns.” He rubbed his hand over his jawline, making the scratchy-beard sound that always meant he was thinking hard.

  “I’ll explain what she’s really doing to put the evidence against her in context. But to completely clear Vladimir’s dad with the Loyalty Review Board, I will also need some counterweight, something to balance out her leftist politics and friends.”

  “What do you mean, Dad?”

  “I need to find something she’s done that’s weighty enough to make the
board ignore her pretty darn unconventional attitudes and radical friends. To tip the scale in the Whites’ favor with the Red-hunters. The bigger problem is the State Department can dismiss him purely for being vulnerable to ‘coercion, influence, or pressure’ according to Eisenhower’s executive order. The review board could definitely claim that her cousin being in Red hands could make her State Department husband susceptible to blackmail from the wrong type of folks. That, and they have leftist artist friends on our watch list.”

  Don paused. “Got any ideas from those books of yours? Something from The Count of Monte Cristo, maybe?”

  Richard shook his head sadly.

  “Just kidding, son.” Don clapped him on the back. “I’ve got this. First order—to admit my overeagerness in suggesting the investigation. Sometimes a man just has to fly straight to the bomb target, full throttle, no matter what flak he might hit. After that, I’ll explain her actions. And maybe, just maybe,” he said, gesturing at the TV, “the worm has turned.”

  Don left the room, and then the house. Richard hadn’t seen his dad’s hands shaking at all as they talked.

  Richard didn’t see Don that night or the next morning before he headed to the bus stop in the soft morning light of a June dawn. Mockingbirds were out, warbling symphonies. Late-blooming peonies and roses painted the street. He was feeling a lot less tortured about everything now that he and Don had talked. He knew Don would fix things. After a week of being racked with guilt, Richard felt the gentle air’s promise and walked with a much lighter, hopeful step.

  Plus, in just three days, the school year would be over! That was the best. He had already collected a stack of books to read over the summer. He was starting with Raymond Chandler’s latest LA hard-boiled detective novel, The Long Goodbye. Then he was going to try a book Vladimir had given him, Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin. He’d had to keep that one in his room. It was a coming-of-age story about the fourteen-year-old stepson of a Harlem preacher. Vladimir had loved it, but Richard knew the novel might fall into the category of dangerous reading material for some people, since the author was Black, his subject matter rooted in the Black American experience. Well, given Don’s comments the day before about the Senate hearings, maybe things would loosen up now, book-wise, anyway. Thank goodness!

  Richard saw Vladimir turn the corner and walk along the sidewalk toward him. “Hey, Vlad,” he called, and greeted him with a countdown song the kids had been singing at school for a week: “Hark, the herald angels shout, THREE more days until we’re out. Three more days of miseryyyy, in that penitentiary.”

  “Ha-ha-ha, aren’t you the clever one?” Vladimir sniped.

  Richard froze. He’d never heard Vladimir be sarcastic like that before.

  Vladimir took the last strides to Richard’s side quickly, repeating, “Oh…so…clever.”

  “What gives, V—?”

  But before Richard could get his friend’s name out, Vladimir shoved him.

  Richard staggered backward.

  “So clever!” Vladimir shoved him again.

  Richard stumbled, tripping on tree roots.

  “What are you talking about?” But he knew.

  “This, you SOB!” Vladimir held up a long wire with a tiny black microphone on the end.

  “Wh-wh-what’s that?”

  “Are you joking me? Don’t insult me more by lying about it. This is because of you, isn’t it? Or your precious G-man Dad.”

  Richard could feel his freckles flame and burn and then turn pale.

  Be honest. Fly straight to the bomb target. Just like Don had said. Richard took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry, Vlad. Honest. So very sorry.”

  “Honest? I don’t think you can use that word again, ever. And you’re sorry? Oh, wait, very sorry. So everything’s okay then. Doesn’t matter that my dad might get fired. That my mom may never be able to get a visa to visit her homeland again.”

  “Listen, I told Dad what you told me at the beach and…”

  “What? You swore you wouldn’t.”

  “I know. But I had to. To help you. It’s all a big mistake.”

  “Mistake? The mistake is my trusting you!” Vladimir balled up his hand, pulled back his arm, and slammed Richard’s face with his fist, throwing his whole body into the punch.

  Richard fell back, hitting the ground, blood spurting from his nose.

  Vladimir threw the wiretap at him. “Go hang yourself with that. Liar! Fascist!”

  At that very moment, the FBI director’s car pulled up beside the bus stop and paused, the motor still running. Hoover’s driver stepped out.

  “Everything all right, boys?” he asked as he helped Richard to his feet. “Pretty bad bloody nose, son.” The driver looked toward the car as its back tinted window rolled down a few inches—enough for Hoover to hear what was said, but not enough that they could see him. “Want me to drive you home? That needs ice.”

  “No…thank you,” Richard muttered. “I live just up the street.”

  “The director knows that. You’re Don Bradley’s boy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Richard answered.

  Vladimir stood silently, his stance defiant, but his face afraid.

  “Does the director need to speak to this boy?” The driver gestured toward Vladimir.

  Vladimir bit his lip.

  Richard knew it could only make things worse for Vladimir and his family if Hoover thought he was some kind of thug. “No. No, sir.”

  The driver eyed them both, looked back to the car, and then to the boys. “Didn’t this boy strike you, son?”

  Richard hesitated. This was one of those moments, like in a book, where everything could turn on a dime, for good or for bad. Hoover was sure to tattle to Don about his son fighting. But more importantly, this might make things even worse for his dad when he tried to explain Teresa to the FBI. Richard knew that Hoover demanded starched shirts and formality, respectful and proper manners from all his agents. A hooligan son, brawling on street corners, made Don look pretty darn bad.

  But if Richard told the truth—that Vladimir started the fight—it’d just harden Hoover’s suspicions of Vladimir’s family. He looked at his friend. He thought of his own dad. What to do? Suddenly, he remembered how Vladimir had protected the disabled kid in the gym, by claiming responsibility for others’ actions.

  Richard wiggled his foot a bit to cover up the bug that lay on the ground beside him. Then he said, “I started it, sir. I threw the first punch. My buddy was only defending himself.”

  The driver checked the window once more. After a moment, he asked, “What was the fight over?”

  “A girl.” Richard answered so quickly and easily, he startled himself. “And she’s not even worth it.”

  The driver grinned at him, then forced it away. “Well, go home and put some ice on that. If you get in trouble for being late to school, Mr. Hoover will send a note explaining.”

  The driver got in the car and drove off.

  Once the car turned the corner and was out of sight, Vladimir turned on his heel and walked away, without a word.

  Richard was lucky when he got home—Abigail wasn’t there. She would have cried and worried and asked a billion questions. She was out, driving Ginny to school because his sister was taking in a big display she’d built to show water currents and riptides at the beach. She was giving a report about ocean safety to her classmates. She had even convinced the fire department to come in and teach CPR.

  “It’s important information,” Ginny had told Richard proudly, “especially right before everyone goes on beach vacations. This is the kind of reporting a good news girl does!”

  When he’d laughed, she’d added, “And the lede of the story—that’s the hook, the first and most important part of a story, in reporter talk—is that my big brother saved my life. Not everyone will be lucky enough to have a big brother to help. So they need to know how to save themselves.”

  Things were really swell these days with Gi
nny. He probably owed that to Vladimir’s influence, too.

  Richard sighed heavily. How did he let everything get so screwed up? He reached into the freezer and pulled out a steak, putting the block of meat-ice on his nose like guys did in the movies.

  No way he was going to school. He didn’t want to explain his nose, and he didn’t know what to say to Vladimir if he saw him in the halls. Who’d care this late in the school year anyway? All their exams were already done. Richard would hide out in his room and wait until his dad came home. He needed Don’s advice, bad. If he was real quiet and didn’t flush the toilet or anything, Abigail wouldn’t know he was there. He’d eat the lunch she’d already packed him and read a book until it was time for dinner.

  His plan actually worked. But Don wasn’t home in time for supper. At that point, Richard had to come downstairs and face his mom. She gasped when she saw his swollen red nose. He explained it away by saying he’d been hit in the face in dodgeball.

  “Oh, my goodness! Honestly, why do they play that game? It’s so violent. I have a good mind to call the gym teacher and…”

  “For Pete’s sake, Mom, don’t! You wouldn’t believe the garbage I’d get from the other guys if you did that.”

  She bought his story.

  Ginny didn’t. He could tell by the way she looked at him. But he prevented her from asking questions by asking one of his own. “So, how did the presentation go, Gin?”

  As she burbled on about how nice the firemen had been, and how mouth-to-mouth resuscitation worked, Richard’s mind wandered onto worrying about how quickly he could come up with such convincing fibs. A great skill for a spy or a G-man, but not appropriate to use on his family…or his friends. He’d have to work on knowing the difference.

  Don still wasn’t home at 10:00 P.M. Richard dawd led brushing his teeth, waiting up. But by eleven, Abigail ordered him to get into bed. He opened his window so he would hear his dad’s car when he drove up. Even so, Richard tried to keep himself awake, reading by flashlight. He checked his alarm clock at midnight. Don still wasn’t home. Somewhere around one o’clock, he drifted off.