“What’s so funny, boys?” the waitress shouted.
“This young fellow here.” Shubin slapped Jake’s shoulder. “He’s a riot. He ought to be on the radio.”
“Oh, yeah? What did he say?”
“You tell the lady, Jake. Come on. Tell her.”
Jake thought again of how well Shubin could pretend to be a regular American. His mother said that he had studied English a little harder than Jake did at school, but the truth was, the Commies knew how to train their spies.
The waitress came over, dropped a little yellow pad on the counter, and took a pencil from behind her ear. “Soup is beans today,” she said. “So what’s the gag? I can use a laugh.”
“The young joker here says I spy for the Russians.”
“I thought spies were handsome.” She smiled, watching Shubin laugh. “I swear I’ve seen you here before.”
Shubin wagged his head side to side, chuckling.
“But the parade today?” she went on. “A fella said they caught a foreigner. A Communist. Trying to blow up a float or something. You believe that? Them Communists are everywhere.”
“To blow up a float?” Shubin said. “Nah. I don’t believe it.”
“Don’t look at me. The fella said. Why would he lie?”
“I wouldn’t know, sweetheart. Seems like lying is the thing to do these days. You read and hear them lies everywhere. Certain individuals are paid good money for it. For lying, I mean.”
Jake glared at him. That’s right. You’re getting paid for it in Russian money.
“They spread such lies about the foreigners and the Communists, sweetheart, it’ll scare the pants off you,” Shubin said, and added quickly, “I don’t mean your pants, ma’am—I mean Americans in general.”
“You kidding, right?”
“No, darling. Dead serious.”
The waitress looked around uneasily. “So what are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is,” Shubin went on, “if you are going to forfeit your Constitution so that the government can beat up on folks who think differently than you do, how are you better than the Russians?”
Jake saw that the waitress was gaping at Shubin as if she had been hit on the head with a board and that a little old man in a straw hat seated next to him had carefully lifted his plate, moved three stools away, set his plate back down on the counter, and only then flung a nasty look at Shubin.
“Nah, never met you before,” the waitress said decisively. “Ready to order or what?”
Shubin began ordering dishes, plenty of them, enough for five grown men. The waitress wrote it all down without once again looking at him. When she left to talk to someone through the little window behind the counter, Jake said, “I don’t get it.”
“Which part?”
“You’re a Russian spy, and you’re going around telling everyone that Communism is good.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re defending Communists.”
“No, young McCauley, I’m defending the Constitution, and I should hope you’d do the same when you’re a grown man. Besides—” He grinned ear to ear. “It looked to me that you could’ve used some defending yourself when those marching jerks knocked you about with their bugles.”
Jake winced. He wanted to say that it was Shubin’s fault that everyone turned on him, but it was also his mom’s fault for taking Shubin in, and also Duane’s fault for telling everyone about it, and so he said nothing.
“Listen, pal.” Shubin leaned in close. “I’m sorry that you got yourself into this mess, but you have only yourself to blame. I tried everything I could to keep you out of it, but you got a bee under your butt. If you don’t quit sneaking around and sticking your nose into things you can’t even begin to understand, you’ll be in much bigger trouble than you already are, get it?”
Jake felt Shubin’s tobacco breath warm on his cheek and he leaned away from him a little.
“You know how dangerous this is? Do you have any idea?” Shubin glanced over his shoulder and leaned in closer. “You want to know about your dad? Okay, I’ll tell you. You’re putting his life on the line, pal. He could’ve been killed today because of you.”
“What?” Jake cried. “My dad is alive?”
“Keep your voice down,” Shubin snapped. “He’s alive, but not for long, if you don’t stop snooping around. And not just him, kid. Other people, too.”
He pulled away from Jake and, pretending to read the back of the menu, scanned the people in the diner, checking every face for an instant, then moving on to the next one.
“Hand the B-47 manual over.” He dropped his left hand below the counter. “Pass the folder under here, so no one sees it.”
Jake looked down at his narrow, ropy hand with tobacco-stained fingers, then back up at his face. “What do you mean, my dad is alive but not for long? And who are the others? What people?”
“Hand me the manual.”
“What people?” Jake repeated, straining to see Shubin’s eyes behind the reflections in his spectacles.
“You, Jake. You can be killed. It’s no joke.”
“Who else? My mother?”
Shubin yanked his hand away, snatched off his spectacles, and tossed them onto the marble top. A wad of dirty tape around the bridge of the frame had begun to unravel, and studying Shubin’s jagged profile, Jake thought that he, too, looked unraveled somehow. Shubin’s face seemed grayer and thinner than it did before, and the lines around his mouth and eyes seemed deeper, carved out like scars from knife fights, or torture, or crawling through barbwire, or just from what was on his mind at that moment.
“My mother could be killed?” Jake said again.
Shubin lifted his spectacles off the counter, set them back over his nose, and said without looking at him, “Yeah. Her too.”
“And my dad?” Jake said. “My dad came back, but you want to kill him, right?”
“Careful, the plates are hot,” the waitress said, putting the dishes down and trying not to look in Shubin’s direction. “Virginia baked ham. Ham and cheese. Homemade chili. Potato salad. Bean soup. What did I forget? Coffee and pie à la mode on its way.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Shubin said, and began moving the plates around the counter. The little old man in a straw hat who had moved three seats away from them after Shubin said something to the waitress about the Constitution slid off his stool and, passing Shubin on his way out, elbowed, as if by accident, the bowl of bean soup into his lap. Shubin cussed and backed off his stool, brushing the steaming beans off the front of his trousers. While everyone in the diner turned to look at him, and while the waitress rushed around the counter with the towels, Jake snatched the Coke bottle and slipped out of the diner.
41
Jake caught up with the American Legion parade in front of City Hall. A voice directing traffic crackled through the PA system, but a long chain of floats jamming the length of Pennington between Church and Congress was not moving, caught in gridlock. The school band in their blue-and-gold jackets, now unbuttoned, sprawled over the City Hall steps amid their brass and their drums, fanning themselves with sheet music. The veterans in the uniforms glinting with medals stood in the sun, crowded by the eager Boy Scouts. The cowboys let their ponies graze on a lawn before City Hall, and here and there, the blue coats of the mounted policemen loomed still as statues over the wandering throng. The air was heavy and dead, and below the two-faced clock jutting out of the corner of the building, the thermometer showed a hundred and twelve.
Having finished the Coke in one long, thirsty gulp, Jake tossed the empty bottle into the trash bin overflowing with paper plates and cups, and hobbled past the floats and the flags until he saw the person he was looking for.
In spite of the heat, Duane Armbruster still had on his goggles and his pilot’s helmet, snapped tightly under his pudgy chin. He sat on the edge of the Superfortress float, swinging his legs and chatting with Jake’s classmates gathered below him in a ha
lf circle. Even from afar Jake could tell that Duane was still puffed up with pride from riding with his dad in the parade, and when Jake pushed his way through the ring of his classmates, snatched Duane’s swinging leg, and yanked him off the float, Duane was terribly offended.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Duane began to protest, but Jake was already dragging him away from the curious eyes to the other side of the float, where he held him against the huge army truck tire and said, “Listen, bud, you’ve got to help me.”
“To heck with you! Let me go!”
“Shut up and listen! You were right, okay? That Russian guy my mom took in is a spy. I can prove it.”
Duane struggled to break free, hollering, “Gonzales! Wheeler! Help!” but Jake kept him pinned against the tire. “Quiet, you fool. Don’t you get it? The whole thing is for real. He’s threatening to kill us!”
“Who?”
“His name is Shubin. Victor Shubin. He said my mom, my dad, and I would all be killed if we get in his way.”
“You don’t even have a dad,” Duane said, and began hollering again, “Gonzales! Eddie! Vernon! Help!”
Jake slapped his hand over Duane’s mouth, and with his other hand swiped the FBI agents’ cards out of his pocket. “Take a look at these.”
Duane stopped thrashing, screwed up his eyes at the cards, and mumbled something through Jake’s hand. Jake moved his hand away. “What?”
“These real?” Duane said.
“That’s what I’m asking you. The G-men gave them to me, but I don’t know if they were real G-men or if they only pretended to be. This spy business is really confusing,” he admitted. “I need your help.”
Duane squinted at the cards, then cautiously lifted one from Jake’s fingers. “Special Agent B. B. Bader.” He flipped the card over, looked at its blank side, and flipped it to the front again. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. Looks real.”
“I know it does, but the phone number isn’t. I called, and it wasn’t the FBI. The fellow knew it was me calling before I even said a word. Maybe the Commies are watching me with those hidden TV cameras, you know, like in the comics?”
Duane’s eyes opened wide. “What comics? Don’t you know what that means?”
“What?”
“This phone number is just for you. They always set up a separate number for an important agent. Someone sits by the phone around the clock in case you call. In case of an emergency. Of course the G-man knew it would be you calling. Who else would it be?”
“Oh yeah?” Jake said, uncertain. “So what does that mean?”
“It means that you’re an agent now, bud. Undercover, like Spy Runner.”
Jake peered into Duane’s eyes, huge and brilliant and greener than ever, and knew at once that Duane was envious of him.
“No, no,” he said nervously. “I don’t want to. I don’t want any of this spy stuff anymore. But you can help me, right?” He stuck his finger onto the card in Duane’s hands. “See the address at the bottom? You got to get there fast. When you see them, one fellow’s name is Bader and the other fellow is Bambach, like on the cards, okay? No matter which one you talk to—they look alike anyhow—this is what you’re going to say—”
“Me?” The brilliant light in Duane’s eyes began to dim. “Why can’t you go?”
“I can’t be in two places at once, Duane! No, three places at once! I can’t go to the FBI, find my dad, and warn my mom at the same time; don’t you get it?”
And all at once in the terrible heat of that afternoon, Jake felt his belly turn ice-cold with terror. “What if Shubin gets to my mom before me? He probably knows where she works.” He looked around wildly. “He might kill her, Duane! We have no time to lose!”
“What’s going on here, Duane?” someone said in a crisp and powerful voice. “McCauley? What are you two doing?”
42
Major Armbruster emerged from the shadow of the Superfortress’s wing, and watching him approach—tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome—Jake felt guilty, as if it was his fault that the major had managed to get himself in such a mess with the Russians.
“Let us have it, Junior,” the major said, halting in front of the boys.
Duane hid his hands behind his back and let the card Jake gave him flutter to the ground. “Have what, Dad?”
“Pick it up and hand it over.”
“It’s mine, sir,” Jake said, picking up the card. “I can explain it later, sir. We’re kind of in a hurry.”
“Is that so?” said Major Armbruster. “The two of you are in a hurry?”
The boys answered at the same time: “Yes, sir,” Jake said. “No, Dad,” said Duane.
Major Armbruster held his hand out, waiting for Jake to give him the card. Jake stepped up and carefully laid the card in the palm of his clean and perfectly shaped hand. The major studied the card for a while, then flipped it to the blank side the same way Duane had. “Where did you find this, son?”
“Well, sir. Just don’t get upset, sir. It’s not my fault, I swear.”
The major smiled his beautiful smile. “I know, I know, McCauley. Don’t worry. Did you find this on the street somewhere?”
“No, sir. They gave it to me.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“The name’s on it, sir. There were two of them. Bader and Bambach. Special agents.” He glanced at Duane for support. “It looks like I’m an agent now, too, sir, undercover, following the Russian spy. The phone number on the card, sir? It’s just for me to call.”
“You are following the Russian spy, McCauley?” The major smiled again.
“Don’t smile, sir. It’s not just my family in trouble. You’re in trouble, too, sir. Big, big trouble.”
Major Armbruster’s smile vanished. “Don’t you forget yourself, McCauley,” he said sternly. “You’re addressing a United States Air Force major.”
“Please, Dad,” Duane said. “It’s okay.”
“Quiet!” the major barked. “Attention!”
Startled, Jake saw Duane snapped to attention, and then looked back at the major, frightened by the sudden change in his face.
“Now, McCauley. State your concern clearly and simply. What trouble are you talking about?”
“I really don’t have time, sir, but—” Jake halted.
“Go on, go on,” the major encouraged him. “Nothing to be afraid of.”
“Well, sir … You had that top secret folder in your Cadillac? Remember? In the briefcase?”
Major Armbruster gazed at Jake in astonishment. “What are you talking about, McCauley?”
“It’s kind of complicated, sir. See, this morning while you were having your fried eggs and tacos? At El Matador? You know what he did? That Russian, I mean? The spy? He snuck into your Cadillac, sir. You should have locked the doors, sir.”
The major was silent for a moment, peering at Jake intently out of his green eyes, and then he said again, “Go on, McCauley.”
“What’s that bomber called, sir? Wings swept back? Six engines? You know what I’m talking about? He took pictures of every page. The spy did. His name is Shubin, sir. Victor Shubin.”
Major Armbruster blinked, squinted at the sun, slid a pair of mirrored Ray-Bans out of his shirt pocket, and set them over his nose. “How do you happen to know that, McCauley?”
“I was there, sir. I was in the car behind the seat. He couldn’t see me, but I saw everything. Well, I didn’t really see it. I heard it. He was whistling and then … Click, click, you know? He has a Minox camera. Like in that movie—remember, we watched it at your house? He’s got loads of them in his bag. He pretends to fix cameras, but he doesn’t.”
Major Armbruster glanced at Duane. “At ease, Junior.”
Duane did not move, frozen at attention with bulging, unseeing eyes.
“Junior!” the major repeated, louder. “At ease.”
Duane exhaled and folded like a deflated balloon, standing there, awkward, slouched, and a little chubby, exactly the
way he stood when the major had visited Mr. Vargas’s class. Now Jake understood that Duane was afraid of his dad and he understood why that was so.
“Run along, son,” the major said. “Your friends have been waiting for you.”
“Don’t go far, Duane—I need you,” Jake called after him, but Duane, with his eyes lowered to the ground, slipped around the float and vanished.
Jake sighed. There would be no help from him.
“So, McCauley—” the major began, but suddenly Duane was back again.
“Don’t listen to him, Dad. He’s crazy.”
“I’m not crazy, Duane, okay?” Jake cried, relieved to see Duane return. “That Russian spy, sir? Shubin? He’s not the only one.” He was speaking fast now, afraid to be interrupted. “There’s another Russian. Goes by the name of Bull. You should’ve seen him. A big ugly fellow. When he figured out that I had your top secret folder, sir? I took it by accident, sir, I swear. He went after me. But the G-men, sir? The ones who gave me their cards? Bader and Bambach? We don’t even know yet if they’re real G-men, sir, that’s something we still need to find out. Anyhow, they almost ran me over! But I got away with your folder, sir. They couldn’t catch me.” Jake smiled proudly. “So that’s it, sir. That’s the whole story. But now Duane and I kind of have to go. We really are in a hurry.”
Jake grabbed Duane by the arm, but Duane yanked his arm away and stepped closer to his father. “He’s made it all up, Dad,” he said nervously. “It’s all from the comics he always borrows from me. Spy Runner.”
“No need to tell me, Junior. I should know the difference.” The major turned his mirrored Ray-Bans at Jake. “That’s quite a story, McCauley. Mind if I take a look at this alleged top secret folder?”
“Well, sir. I didn’t want to get you in trouble, sir. I mean no more than you already are, so I … Well, you see, sir … I burned it.”
“You burned it?”
“Yes, sir. By accident.”
Major Armbruster began to smile again and, lifting his chin, looked over at something behind Jake’s back. Following his gaze, Jake glanced over his shoulder.
Spy Runner Page 14