‘We heard it mostly over the shortwave. The BBC and Voice of America. It seemed very far away, all distant, like it wasn’t quite real…’
‘Hah,’ George said, taking another swallow. ‘It was pretty real from where I was sitting.’ He waved a hand out to the newsroom. ‘I was one of the wire editors, checking the AP and UPI copy as it came across. First the word of missiles, the speech by Kennedy, all of those meetings at the UN. The U-2 photos. The blockade around Cuba. Troops being sent south to Florida. Reserve units activated. A very scary time. It seemed like the bells on the teletype would just keep going, hour after hour, telling you when the news was coming in.’
Carl remembered a humid bar in the Thong Qui section of Saigon, a few blocks away from the MACV headquarters, staying up late at night, listening to the news with the other advisers. Remembered a Florida soldier, an overweight, sweaty sergeant, who sat closest to the radio, chewing on a cigar, drinking that awful ‘66’ beer. What was his name? Began with K. Was it Kyle? Yeah, that was it. Kyle. He had sneered a lot about Kennedy, wondering if JFK had the guts to take care of Castro once and for all. Well, ole Kyle had eventually found out, hadn’t he.
‘We didn’t get much sleep back then,’ Carl said. ‘Our time zone meant that most of the news we got was in the middle of the night.’
‘We didn’t get much sleep either,’ George said, his voice soft. ‘Then came that weekend when the U-2 was shot down, and everything went to hell. The bells on the teletype rang so much that they broke. Our bombing raids on the SAM sites and the start of the invasion. Then the word that tactical nukes were being used on our landing forces. Ding, ding, ding. Every time that bell rang, it meant something more awful. Some of the missiles there in Cuba being launched. Soviet bombers coming over the North Pole and down through Canada. Parts of Florida, then Washington and New York City being hit. Our retaliation. All those Russian cities... Moscow, Minsk, Vladivostok ... Obliterated.’
He looked at Carl, eyes blinking again. ‘People lined up outside of the Globe building that night, and every hour we ran a new front page. It got so that the trucks couldn’t even leave the loading docks ‘cause people wanted to get the latest news, right there. The television networks were off the air and the radio reception was all screwy, so we were the best source of news, whatever we could get from the teletype. A day or two later we get word that General Curtis was in charge of what was left and that there was an armistice, and when the Army came by and told us what we could or couldn’t print, well, it made sense. We didn’t want to spread panic, we didn’t want to print rumors, and we had to get out a lot of information about emergency shelters and food distribution and lots of other stuff.’
Carl drank some more of the tea. It tasted awful, like it had been in the bottle for a year, but it was a gift from George. He was now seeing a part of George he never knew existed.
‘And how long before it stopped making sense?’
The older man shook his head. ‘Who knows. All I know is, it’s been ten years. A decade. You’d think we could get back to being a real newspaper again, one of these days. But you know what? I don’t think it’s going to happen, not in my lifetime.’ His hand chafed the glass. ‘In a few weeks this country is going to elect a New York governor who’s going to promise more of the same, more of the same for the next eight years, and when his term is up, the powers that be will select another presidential candidate who’ll promise even more of the same, and we’ll keep on merrily electing dictators until the next century. You’d think we’d learn.’
Carl finished his glass and put it down on the desk. ‘Sure enough. One of these days, but on this particular day, I guess I should go home.’
George nodded. ‘Go home, Carl, and for God’s sake, do me a favor, will you?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Drop this whole mess, will you? Take a trip or something.’
Carl smiled. He felt good. ‘Sorry. I’m not in the mood for favors.’
~ * ~
Outside, the sun was bright and besides the smell of exhaust and soot, there was the sharp tang of dead leaves, something that always reminded him of his home and growing up. He closed the door of his car and the memories came to him, of the small Cape house he and Mom and Dad and Sarah had lived in, in Newburyport. Winter, making snow forts in the backyard, burying Sarah’s dolls. Spring, with the melt-off turning part of the street into a pond, making boats out of glued-together Popsicle sticks. Summer, hot and long days and cool nights, and an occasional fishing trip out from the harbor, helping bait the hook for Sarah. Fall, dead leaves and wood smoke and dressing up in a Davy Crockett costume to go trick-or-treating, Sarah beside him, a fairy princess ...
And back in California after the war, the phone wires down, the mail system overwhelmed and clogged, not hearing anything about Mom and Dad and Sarah, not a damn thing, until that Red Cross telegram in ‘63 that gave him the news about his parents. That telegram. Two sentences that just bore into him, two sentences that he had to read and reread, because he could not believe what he saw on the Western Union form.
‘Damn this day,’ he finally said, walking away from the car, turning up the alleyway past the trash cans and dumpsters. He was cold now and felt an odd weight on his shoulders, knowing that he had no work to do tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that. He could look at it as an unpaid vacation, but it was all too quick and strange. What would he do with all that time? Shouldn’t he keep on after the Merl Sawson matter? Find out who Stewart Thompson was at the British consulate? Work on the book? Hah, now that was a thought—
‘Hey, Carl!’ a voice whispered to him. ‘Hold up for a sec, will you?’
From a set of cellar stairs that descended into the building next door, a man came up, dressed in old clothes and knee-length rubber boots. It was Two-Tone, a very nervous Two-Tone, who kept looking up and down the alleyway as he came over to Carl. He didn’t have his shopping cart with him, which was odd, very odd. His good eye seemed nervous, wandering, and Two-Tone sidled up to him and said in a low voice, ‘I have to say I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry for what?’
He bobbed a bit, like he was anxious, being out in the open. ‘Sorry that I couldn’t stop the guys from getting in.’
Those little cold traces of feeling that worked up and down his neck back in Devane’s office were now back. ‘What guys are you talking about? The ones that were snooping around earlier?’
Another bob of the head. ‘The same. Dressed nice and polite and in suits. Came through here like they owned the place, started looking through the trash. Can you believe that, them checking out the belongings and leftovers? That’s my job! That’s what I do!’
‘Of course, of course,’ Carl said, joining Two-Tone in looking up and down the alleyway. Traffic hurled by on Comm Avenue and there was the sound of sirens and horns, but he kept his focus on the scarred old man in front of him. ‘What did they do after they checked the trash?’
‘Them good-lookin’ bastards, they went into your place, that’s what, near as I can figure it. They went through the main door—they must’ve had a key or something ‘cause I could tell nobody buzzed them in. And then I saw some movement, up in your windows. I stayed out here for a long time, keeping an eye on them.’
He looked up the brick wall of his apartment building, try-ing to see anything in those dark and quiet windows. ‘Are they still up there?’
‘Nope, not at all,’ Two-Tone said, now stepping from foot to foot, like a first grader seeking permission to go to the bathroom. ‘I counted ‘em, Carl. Three went in and three went out. They ain’t there no more. But they got through and I’m sorry about that, truly I am.’
Two-Tone looked so serious and crestfallen that Carl wasn’t sure what to do. He nodded and said, ‘Don’t trouble yourself, William. It’s not that big a deal.’
Two-Tone looked like he was about ready to cry. ‘The hell it ain’t. You good folks around here have hired me to do a job, and that’s w
hat I do, day in and day out. I keep an eye on things and chase away the bad people, but I didn’t do it, not this time. Here.’ Two-Tone held out a soiled white handkerchief, tied together at its four corners.
‘What’s that?’ Carl asked.
‘Your pay these past months,’ Two-Tone said, gesturing with the loaded handkerchief. ‘All those quarters you paid to me, week after week. All saved and I’m givin’ ‘em back to you, Carl. I don’t deserve them.’
Carl took the bundled quarters and then took Two-Tone’s free hand and gently placed the tied-up handkerchief back into the man’s scar-tissued palm. ‘You deserve them more than anybody I know, Captain. You take them and don’t you worry, all right? You’re doing a fine job.’
‘Carl, you know it’s not right, I should be—’
He raised his voice. ‘Not true, Captain, and you know it. You remember your basic infantry training, don’t you? When meeting a superior force, fall back and observe. That’s exactly what you did, and that’s exactly right. You earned your pay today, sir, and don’t you forget it.’
Two-Tone pondered that for a moment and his eyes filled up. ‘You’re right, I was trained that. I knew that, I knew that all along.’ He managed a smile, showing his yellowed and stained teeth. ‘I guess the old training comes back, even when you don’t expect it.’
‘I guess it always does.’
The bundle of quarters went back into his coat and Two-Tone started to walk away. ‘I’ll keep on the job, Carl, but you be careful. Some boys are interested in you, are quite interested in you, and I’d hate for anything to happen. Remember, you hear the sirens wail, you be on your doorstep and I’ll come get you. We’ll ride out the next war together. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Carl said.
~ * ~
He took his time going up the stairs and then entering the apartment. His heart was swollen and thumping and he wondered if it was possible that Two-Tone had miscounted or miscalculated. Maybe the all-powerful ‘they’ were waiting in the apartment, waiting with handcuffs or with the paperwork that got him reactivated in the Army. Could be. He unlocked the door and went in, and in a moment or two he felt a bit better. No one was there. Maybe Two-Tone had been hallucinating some about the visitors.
He poked around, and after a few minutes he knew everything Two-Tone had said had been right. People had been in here and had tossed the place. They had done it well enough so that it wasn’t obvious, but he could tell. From drawers partially open to papers on his desk that had been rearranged, he knew he had been visited. But if they were looking for anything incriminating, well, he hung up his coat in the closet and briefly reached into the inner pocket. Still safe. Merl Sawson’s ID, the JFK invitation, and the card belonging to the mysterious Stewart Thompson. And the list of names and the attached articles, outlining their fates.
The room felt dusty and soiled so he opened two of the windows and sat down on the couch. What is to be done? He folded his arms across his knees and stared across to the blank wall on the other side of his apartment. Well, he thought, we’ve definitely caught the interest of some very big people, some very big people with heavy hands and lots of muscle. Enough muscle to do a daylight break-in. Enough muscle to get him suspended from work. And maybe enough muscle to set an orfie gang after him, back at the British consulate when he had first met Sandy. Sounds like the Zed Force, riding out in the shadows.
What is to be done? Stay here in Boston for the next week and keep on working the story? That thought didn’t appeal to him, not at all, despite what he knew must have happened to Merl Sawson. Now there were watchers and burglars out there, following him and poking around and doing who knows what. He knew from whispered conversations that the Zed Force, sometimes they visited a home or apartment first, to get the lay of the land before coming back a day or two later for the inevitable arrest and detention.
What to do? He thought back to his meeting with George. What had George said?
Take a trip. Get out of town and just forget everything.
‘Why the hell not?’ he said aloud. He reached into his wallet and took out a business card and dialed a local number. It rang just once and he asked to be connected to a certain room, and when she answered after just three rings, he was direct and to the point:
‘Sandy, it’s Carl,’ he said. ‘Still looking for a photographer?’
~ * ~
TWELVE
Well, Carl thought, standing on the sidewalk in front of his apartment on Comm Ave., it wasn’t supposed to be like this. But she had been insistent.
‘I’m so thrilled that you’re coming with me, Carl,’ she had said. ‘Let’s celebrate. I know, I’ll be at your place in an hour, with dinner in hand. How does that sound?’
It sounded horrible, but he couldn’t say that. ‘Sounds great,’ he had said. For the past hour, he had been going through the apartment, performing a blitz clean. Papers and magazines were bundled in a pile and shoved behind the couch. Clothes were picked up and dumped in closets. The sink was emptied of dishes and silverware. He looked at his book-lined office, the papers and pencils on the floor, books half open and piles of notebooks teetering, shook his head, and closed the door. That place would take a week, and he didn’t have a week.
As he waited for her to arrive, watching the traffic go by, he tried to remember the last time he had been graced with a woman visitor. It had been a while, a little over a year, right? Monica, the woman from advertising. The one who liked to go to those semi-secret movie houses in Cambridge, see foreign films with subtitles, and who had that awful habit of smoking those dark little cigarettes after making love. He would ask her to open a window, whether at her place on Beacon Hill or here, and that had been a nice five or six months, until she took a job with an advertising firm in San Francisco. Two letters and a postcard later, that had been it. And nobody since then? And why’s that?
Because, he thought. Because we’re a quota baby and a vet, and people usually either hate quota babies or fear vets. Monica had been the rare exception. A taxi cab pulled up and Sandy stepped out, two grocery bags in her arms. She was laughing, her face flushed and her hair tussled from the wind. ‘Oh, this is going to be fun,’ she said, handing a bag over to him. ‘I hate cooking but the hotel managed to put something together for the two of us.’
Back, upstairs the bags were put on the freshly cleaned counter and Sandy looked around and said, ‘Well, how about a quick tour of the manor before we eat? The food just needs reheating.’ She shrugged off a tan overcoat, which he took and hung in the foyer closet. She had on black flat-heeled shoes, a snug pair of jeans, and a long-sleeved white blouse that had little flowers embroidered along the collars. She was smiling at him and for a moment he tried to remember what Monica had looked like.
‘Not much of a tour,’ he said. ‘You’re seeing most of the place right now. As you can see, there’s the living room, the idiot box, and the lovely view.’ She walked with him into the living room and stood by the tall windows.
‘Nice view of the park,’ she said. ‘My flat in London has a view of a mews.’
‘A what?’
‘Mews. A courtyard where old stables used to be. At least here, you have trees and greenery.’ She leaned against the window glass with her hands. ‘Does it get noisy at night, being on the main street?’
‘Well, you get used to the traffic and the street sounds after a while. Being three floors up, that helps. Plus I’m gifted.’
‘Oh?’ she said, turning and arching an eyebrow. ‘In what way?’
‘I can sleep pretty much through everything. Which takes us to the next part of the tour.’
After showing her the small bedroom, with made bed and bureau drawers and another closet, she pointed to the two closed doors, down a short hallway. ‘And what’s down there?’
‘Bathroom and office.’
‘Can I see your office?’
Wonderful. ‘It’s a rat’s nest.’
She folded her arms. ‘Carl Landry, I
’m a grown woman and a writer, just like yourself. I shan’t be shocked, no matter what you show me.’ And then she smiled. ‘Unless you’re a typical male and have a pinup stuck on your wall, like Raquel Welch or Marilyn Monroe or somebody.’
‘Hardly,’ he said, opening the door and letting her in. It still looked messy. A single window looked out over the alley where he and Two-Tone had stood, a couple of hours earlier. The desk was a battered wooden castoff that he had purchased from a Boston University student a couple of years ago. The chair was surplus from the Globe, as was the Olympic typewriter. The bookshelves he had made himself from scrap lumber and Sandy went over to the shelves.
‘I love looking at other people’s books,’ she said, tracing her fingers across the spines of the volumes. ‘You find out what a person is really like. That’s what my mama always told me. She says someone can always rabbit on about what they’ve done or where they’ve been, but it’s only when you see their books that you can tell what sort of a person they are. Buying a book for yourself is a very personal business.’
Resurrection Day Page 18
