by Stan Hayes
“I kept up with Linda, though. I even talked with a couple of her teachers about her potential, even though they were hesitant about talkin’ about a student with a non-family member. I was persistent, though, and pointed out th’ fact that th’ Greens had come to Baltimore from Cedar Rapids, Iowa (Sarah always called it ‘Cedar-fucking-Rapids’), there was no immediate family nearby to help out at critical times. What I wanted to do, I told them, was to make sure that Linda had th’ opportunity to go to college without anything, financial or otherwise, gettin’ in th’ way. One of th’ teachers, Mrs. Roberts, understood Linda’s situation well enough to get into an informal partnership with me to keep me informed about Linda’s progress and what she needed to carry on.
“I set up a trust fund for her that would be large enough to send her to any college that she might want to attend. Mrs. Roberts agreed to be th’ trustee. As it turned out, Linda was accepted by a bunch of colleges, includin’ some in th’ Ivy League, but she decided to go to Johns Hopkins, right there in town. That didn’t seem like such a great idea to me; I thought, no, I damned well knew that she’d let her concern for her mother’s condition keep her in town. But I’d put no strings on th’ terms of th’ trust, and Mrs. Roberts assured me that for her major field, art history, Johns Hopkins was an excellent choice. So by June of 1945, my only remainin’ tie to Baltimore was Linda. That would naturally diminish pretty quickly as she settled in to th’ routine of bein’ a college student. So, since I could do pretty much anything I pleased now that there was no Third Reich to worry about, I started thinkin’ about what I wanted to do with th’ rest of my life. And although she hadn’t answered any of th’ letters that I’d sent her over th’ years, I couldn’t get Lídia off my mind. We’d been pulled apart so fast by Tanner’s suicide and my court martial, and I felt that somehow she must be blamin’ me, or herself, or both of us for his death. A lot had happened to me in th’ years since I left Cuba in ’31. And I had no way of knowin’ how much had happened in her life. But th’ more I thought about it, th’ more I realized that I needed to see her again, if only to straighten things out between us. So I started makin’ plans to go back to Cuba and find her.
“I thought I’d better hang around for a few months longer to make sure that everything was OK with Linda and her school situation. I used th’ time to catch up on what was goin’ on in Cuba, applyin’ for a passport and a visa and mailin’ off a subscription to both th’ English-language paper and El Día, th’ big daily paper in Havana. And I started shoppin’ for a car; figured I’d drive to Miami and ship it over, because I planned to stay there awhile. However my search for Lídia turned out, I was tired of cold winters, and I figured I’d just take a long holiday, do some fishin’ and then see what I felt like doin’. I found th’ white Buick in th’ Sun’s want ads, and bought it from th’ estate of a Mr. Browning, who, accordin’ to th’ lawyer with whom I made th’ deal, had gotten rich in th’ printin’ ink business. It looked like just th’ car for a minor-league war profiteer to drive around Cuba. And my Dad always wanted a Buick. Anyway, by th’ time I was ready to leave Baltimore it was late in th’ summer of 1946.”
“Sounds like a great life to me,” said Jack. “Sun, fun, señoritas...”
“Yeah, but you’ll notice that I didn’t get there. As much as I was smitten by your mom, things didn’t really have to go they way that they did. When I got th’ money, it changed some things in my life, just th’ way th’ chance discovery of gravity and radioactivity changed some things in humanity. But it didn’t change me at th’ core; otherwise I’d never have bought th’ Winston or gotten involved in th’ beer business. I could just as easily have hung around on one pretext or another. But that little striver down at th’ bottom of my soul wouldn’t let me do it. Like most everybody else you know, I feel th’ need to hustle for recognition through observable deeds.” Jack saw the little vein above his left eyebrow thrusting out and subsiding, as it would when he got pissed, in time to his beating heart. “Neither England’r th’ USA, goddammit, will ever decorate me for my one great chance deed, and unfortunately I needed to build a monument of little deeds to that petty bourgeois part of myself, stackin’ turds of commerce one on top of th’ other.”
“Well, bourgeois or otherwise, you ole buzzard,” said Jack, “I’m damn glad you stayed.”
Moses exhaled heavily as he looked at his watch. It was almost eleven. “So am I, kid. Anyway, that’s th’ guy who came to Bisque. And, soup to nuts, you’re th’ only other person who knows th’ story. Sorry to spring it on you like this, but sump’m’s come up that made it necessary.”
“Holy shit, Mose. I’m not sure I got it all, but it’s th’ damnedest story I ever heard. But it seems like it’s all way back in th’ past. Why would you tell me, or anybody else, about all of this now?”
“Well, a couple of reasons. One is that I was comin’ close to th’ point where I’da sat on all of this for as long as I could’ve anyway. I’ve always been careful about what I’ve said to you about how much watchin’ you grow up’s meant to me, because you have a mom and dad who love you, and I wasn’t about to try to assume some kinda “uncle” role in your life. What you are, buddy, is my best friend, and when th’ time comes to spill your guts, that’s what best friends are for. I woulda waited awhile, ’til you were done with school, but like I said, sump’m’s come up.”
Jack’s face turned solemn. “What is it?”
“Paul Pulaski.”
“Paul Pulaski?”
“Yep.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“He’s th’ guy that saved my life in Spain. He’s Dieter Brück.”
Jack’s face kept its composure, th’ eyes tightening slightly. After a minute or so, he said: “Why’s he here?”
“It’s a long story, but he came here as an agent of Soviet intelligence; th’ KGB. He came to recruit agents inside th’ Savannah River plant. After thinkin’ about it for weeks, and doin’ as much checkin’ as I’ve been able to, I’m convinced that our meetin’ was a case of pure coincidence, incredible as it seems. He walked up to th’ Winston box office one Saturday night back in March, right before th’ revival. I was sittin’ there, while Jeanette was in th’ can. We recognized each other immediately. He came up to th’ office, and we talked for hours. After he heard my story, he told me that he dreamed of leavin’ th’ KGB, but that he hadn’t come up with a way to do it that had even a fifty-fifty chance of gettin’ out alive.”
“Do you think he’s tellin’ you th’ truth?”
“Yes, I do. He’s had more than enough time, since Abercrombie took him on as sexton, to tip his hand to me if he felt otherwise. Obviously, I’d be a prime agent recruit for him, and th’ knowledge that he has about my past is a good basis for blackmail. No, I think th’ guy’s just tryin’ to put twenty years of th’ spy business behind him, and get out for good with a whole skin.”
“And he wants your help.”
“Sure. Understand, he’s given me no reason to believe that he knows about my takin’ our old employer for three million. I think they kept th’ lid down tight enough on that so that rank and file agents in Europe never got th’ word. And I see no reason to tell him now. Since I helped to get him hired at First Baptist, he’s satisfied that I’ve got what it takes, in terms of influence here in Bisque, to help him disappear successfully.”
“Do you?”
“Not if I try to stay here any longer. I believe him when he says he means me no harm, but he’s a professional intelligence agent. His instinct to survive will always override everything else. If he got caught, either by his own people or US security, there’s no doubt I’d be an immediate bargainin’ chip. So my solution’s to have us both disappear. I’ve been a merchant long enough, anyway.”
“What?” Jack’s eyes widened as he spoke.
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you about this. If I was gone from Bisque tomorrow, I’d imagine that everybody here would get over it
pretty soon. No disrespect, but that includes your mom. It’s just human nature to move on in life, and that’s what people naturally do. But I didn’t think I could leave you to do that on your own. For one thing, I’m not proposin’ to disappear forever. Moses Kubielski’ll be gone, but th’ guy you know’ll still be around, just usin’ a different name. For another, I couldn’t stand th’ thought of you thinkin’ I was dead. And that’s what it’s gonna come down to. Everyone else in Bisque’s gonna to have to be convinced that Paul Pulaski and I’ve been killed.”
Jack’s green eyes focused rock-steady on him. “What do you want me to do?”
Moses grinned. “Jesus, kid. I hoped you’d say that, but I really wasn’t ready for it. Lemme tell you a little more about what I think I’m gonna do before you get on board…”
“Goddamiteydayum!,” Flx squawked, “what a fuckin’ story. Ol’ Mose- er- Peter’s really been over th’ jumps.”
“No shit,” Jack said as they drove back to town. Now I understand how he was able to take things around here in stride. To anybody that’s seen what he has, goin’s-on around this little burg gotta seem right puny.”
“And yet, dull as this fuckin’ place can be, he’s stuck around,” Flx noted, his hooded eyes searching the overhanging tree limbs as they neared the hotel. “And you know why.”
“I guess I do.”
“I guess I do,” Flx mocked, his wings quivering. “You know damn well the only thing that’s kept him around here, at least since 1948 or so, has been his wantin’ to watch you grow up and get the fuck outa here. Sure, he and Mom are great friends, but that’s all it’s been since he got her figured out.”
“You’re right. It’s not her fault that her art drives her the way it does, and he knows that. But it scares me to think about his life before he came to Bisque. There was- is- this sinister side of him, and I never saw it.”
“Me either,” Flx admitted. “That’s how good he is.”
“He’ll hafta be good to do what he says he’s gonna do. Even after he figures out exactly how he’s gonna do it.”
“I’ll keep an eye on ’im- find out what I can. He probably won’t pass everything along to you, at least while he’s doin’ it, and it oughta be damn interesting to watch this happen.”
“That’s for sure,” Jack said. That is for damn sure.”
Chapter XXVII. Money, Honey
“Lan’lord rang my front do’ bell,
I let it ring for a long, long spell,
Went to the window, peeped through th’ blind,
Axed him to tell me what was on his mind-
He said ‘Money, honey,’ mmmmhm-hm…”
As Clyde McPhatter & the Drifters struggled to get out of the Checker Cab’s speaker, the stifling air that coursed through its open windows ran a bit cooler as the car ducked into the Midtown Tunnel. He’d forgotten how miserable early June in the city could be. To get his mind off the cab ride from LaGuardia into Manhattan, he retraced his schedule; tomorrow, meet Johnny Boots at the location that he had given him in their brief phone call last Friday. The Hotel Sutcliffe had seen better days, but its eastside location on 14th Street was where Moses wanted to be. His genuine but outdated documents that identified him as Peter Wessel had first priority. He’d get on the phone and start the process of renewing his New York state driver’s license and his U.S. passport as soon as he checked in. Then get he’d get hold of Linda. It had been almost a year since they’d talked, and he needed an update on her circumstances before he could discuss his plans, and her possible role in them, with her.
The cab stopped with a jerk in front of a faded green canopy on East 9th Street, a weathered yellow 247 on its end panel. Amalfi, in gilt script, appeared at eye level at the right of the door, embedded in a thin coat of grime that fogged the restaurant’s plate glass window. Above the fat brass tube and rings suspending a sun-faded, once-burgundy curtain that dropped to the window sill, Moses could see vignetted images of a couple of men at the front of the restaurant, one behind the bar and one perched sideways on a barstool. The door hissed closed behind him; garlic, basil, tomato and cigar smoke rode on top of a hint of mildew. Except for the bartender’s white apron, the men were identically dressed in white shirts, black ties and black trousers.
The man on the barstool slid off it as Moses approached. The glacial slide of his shiny cap of graying black hair toward the back of his head was some two-thirds complete. The corners of his mouth turned up a millimeter, and parted slightly in an amiable grunt. “Eeey. Ya havin’ dinneh?”
“Lookin’ for Mr. Bisceglia,” said Moses, returning the vestigial grin.
The man’s eyes clicked an aperture wider. “Oh. He know ya?”
“Yeah. He’s expectin’ me.”
“Wait.” He turned, walking toward the shadowy back of the dining room. Daylight streamed through the door that he opened, then closed behind him. He was back in a couple of minutes, trailed by the familiar figure of “Johnny Boots” Bisceglia. The tall, spare figure of the middleweight fighter he used to be was gone; thick, graying, well-barbered hair countered bright teeth gleaming in a face the color of Pecan wood. “Petey!” he roared in a voice that, like the facial fissures, had deepened, testimony to increased responsibilities as authoritative as hashmarks on a top sergeant’s tunic. He pushed past the waiter to embrace Moses. “Howsa boy?”
“Not bad, Johnny,” said Moses, returning his broad grin. You’re lookin’ good.”
“Yeah, I try to stay in shape. Looks like you do, too. Come on back inna courtyard. We gotta catch up onna few years.”
They sat at a table midway in a single rank of six in the narrow canyon created by the buildings that surrounded them. Two large electric fans stood on floor stands at either side of the door, sending a brisk breeze over the table. A bottle of Valpolicella and a plate of cold antipasto sat between them. Johnny sat far enough back from the table to cross his legs, showing one of a pair of the namesake custom-made ankle-length boots. That’s gotta be ostrich, Moses thought.
“So, how’d th’ war go for you, Petey?”
“Pretty well, I guess, John. I picked th’ right side, anyway.”
“Yeah, you coulda been in a real jam otherwise. Ya dropped outta sight before Pearl Harbor; not that long after we fixed ya up with the new papers. Where ya been?”
“I got outta here on the fourth of July, ’41. Settled down in Balamer.”
“Where?”
“Balamer. Maryland.”
“Oh. Baltimore. That’s what I’m hearin’. At first I thought you was doin’ Rhett Butler. What took ya down there?”
“The need to disappear. Didn’t want to hafta argue with my German friends about my decision to leave their employment.”
“Yeah,” Johnny said, nodding gravely as he speared a piece of roasted yellow pepper, added an olive, and ate it. He chewed briefly, then said, “I guess they woulda tried to convince ya that ya’d made the wrong decision.”
“Well, you know, there are some outfits you just can’t quit.”
Johnny wiped his mouth with a large white napkin and grinned, his brown eyes narrowing. “That’s what I hear. Well, I was happy to getcha call. With the war and everythin’, you don’t know who from the old days made it and who didn’t. Glad you did. Don’t get to sit down across from an old sparrin’ partner every day.”
“Yeah. Makes you wonder where we’d be if we’d made it across the river to the big time.”
“Inna ring? That’s a dream we never shared, Petey. Fightin’s a sucker’s game. No worse odds anywhere. I was there because it gimme a place I could beat the shit outta somebody and not go to the lockup. That, and learnin’ I could take a punch, was all Ridgewood Grove ever did for me. Just parta growin’ up. I din’t have the natural talent a fighter needs to make it to the big time. Ya came a lot closer than me as far as talent- ’til you picked up the gimp.”
“Yeah, there was a time when that’s all I could think about. Cost me a college educati
on, among other things.”
“Well, it’s way behind us now. What you up to, anyway? You said you needed some advice.”
“Yeah. I made a little money during the war, and I’m thinkin’ of goin’ back to Cuba. Did I tellya I was stationed there in the Navy before the war? I liked it. Thought I’d see whatcha thought of th’ idea of an American livin’ there, now that Batista’s running things. Or is he?”
Johnny laughed, brushing some crumbs off the underside of his sleeve. “El Presidente’s our guy; you read the papers, or we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation. Since gambling was legalized, Meyer moved down there a couple years back. The Cuban government and the Teamsters are bankrollin’ us, fifty-fifty. We’ve built the Riviera- for $17 million - and the Tropicana’ll be done soon. The Cleveland people built the Nacional, and there’s plenty more to come. Meyer says we’re bigger’n U.S. Steel. You wanta go down there? Go ahead. I can get you a 2-year visa now, as a casino employee. You don’t have to be one, of course, we’ll just say you are. Ya can renew it if ya wanna stay, or who knows what’ll be goin’ on by then? When ya wanna go?”
“Well, I’m in no hurry, but there’s nothin’ holdin’ me, either. One other question, though.”
“What?”
“That visa. Can you get three?”
“Hell, I can get a hundred. You takin’ a lady witya?”
“Yeah, and a guy that I owe big-time. Saved my life once.”
“Guess your pals’ll need new papers. How ’bout you?”
“No, thanks, John. I think it’s time for me to get back to being Petey.”
