“I’m singing ‘Birth of the Blues’ tonight,” he said.
“Are those palm trees for you? Because ‘Birth of the Blues’ and California palm trees seem like an odd—” The perplexed look on his face sliced off the rest of her sentence. “What?”
“Birth. Of. The. Blues.” He articulated each word with excessive emphasis.
“From your new album, right?”
“Aren’t you supposed to ask me where?”
“Where’s what?”
He unbuttoned the front of his black velvet jacket and started flapping it to cool himself. “Man, I’m just not cut out for this. A message was sent to your hotel this afternoon. Didn’t you get it?”
“I was shopping at Bergdorf Goodman for this.” She pawed at the voluminous black-and-white cocktail dress with the huge flower print. “It took much longer than I counted on so I came directly here.”
“Great!” He slapped his sides. “My one chance to play Sammy the Spy and I blew it.”
“What’s the message?”
“I was supposed to say ‘Birth of the Blues,’ and you were supposed to say ‘Greenwich Village,’ and then I was supposed to say ‘Eleven o’clock and don’t be late.’”
Thank Christ for that! “And the location?”
Sammy shrugged.
A cold sweat tingled across her back.
“Miss Massey?” The stage manager was a nebbish called Irving. “This is your half-hour call. The green room is—”
“Thank you.”
Sammy snapped his fingers again. “There’s a jazz bar in the Village called Birth of the Blues, and it’s a favorite of Frankie’s.”
Kathryn felt her body go damp beneath her Yves St. Laurent original. “And what does Frank Sinatra have to do with all this?”
“I’m not even sure what ‘all this’ is, but he did say to me that he’s the one who made tonight happen and that he hoped it was enough for you to forgive him.”
“I did that when Marcus got his passport back.”
“Who’s Marcus?”
Kathryn told him never mind and assured him that he’d done his super spy job perfectly. An assistant appeared, telling him that he was required on stage for camera blocking.
She blew him a kiss for good luck and billowed the petticoats under her skirt. National live television allowed no do-overs for a girl sweating like a hooker in a confessional.
* * *
Kathryn rushed into Birth of the Blues, handbag in one hand, hat in the other. The message had warned against tardiness and it was ten after eleven.
Following her appearance on Ed Sullivan, she’d left the building with plenty of time to get downtown. She had expected to encounter fans at the stage door, but assumed they’d be for Sammy. And some of them were, but the majority wanted to speak with her, tell her how much they admired her, and get her autograph. It was like the height of her radio days all over again.
Her first impulse was to push past them, smiling with a firm eye on the line of taxis at the curb. But she was now representing three national brands—Sunbeam Mixmaster, Betty Crocker cake mixes, and Westinghouse appliances—as well as the Hollywood Reporter, and couldn’t ignore these people. She might still have been there had it not been for Sammy bursting through the stage door behind her.
Birth of the Blues was in the basement of a West Village brownstone. With walls painted velvety chocolate brown and matching table lamps, it felt like an old speakeasy, and reminded Kathryn of the Tiffany Club where she had seen Ella perform.
Sinatra was at the Tiffany Club that night, too. Do all roads lead to him?
She’d assumed she was meeting Hoover, but now wondered if it would be Winchell. New York was his turf. Had he and Hoover patched over their disagreement? Kathryn couldn’t imagine Winchell consenting to be anyone’s lackey—not even Hoover’s—but she wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
A cocktail waitress with Joan Crawford eyes approached her. “You looking for someone?”
“We were due to meet here at eleven.” Don’t tell me he left because I was ten lousy minutes late.
“What does he look like?”
She peered around the joint as best she could in the low lighting. “I’m not sure.”
“Blind date, huh?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
The waitress snapped her gum. “You ain’t Miss Massey, are you?”
“I am, yes.”
The girl looked at Kathryn like she was dumber than a lobotomized coconut. “Hardly a blind date then, is it?” She led Kathryn up a short flight of stairs to a small mezzanine level that overlooked the stage. Three tables were empty; at the fourth sat a solitary figure in a porkpie hat with his back to her.
“He’s drinking whiskey and soda. Same?”
Kathryn nodded and approached the table. She didn’t see who it was until she reached the other side.
Frank Sinatra scrambled to his feet and pulled out the chair next to him. “Hoover’s been detained so he sent me to meet you.” He tendered one of his unfiltered Camels. Ordinarily, unfiltered cigarettes were stronger than Kathryn preferred, but this scenario had taken on a surreal quality and she longed to feel the ground beneath her feet again.
She took a long drag and waited for the hit of nicotine to wallop her system. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to get back into your good graces.” He started flipping the gold lighter through his fingers. “Being in love with Ava Gardner, it’s agony. She drives me to do stuff that I’d condemn in a second if some other dope did it.”
“Are we talking about Marcus’s photos?”
“Yep.”
“And how you used your mafia connections to get his passport confiscated?”
“Yeah, yeah, all that.”
“It makes you a prick, not a dope.”
“And that whole debacle with DiMaggio and breaking into the wrong apartment.”
“Okay, now that made you a dope.”
“You’ll get no argument here. So when the Bogarts took me aside and explained Marcus was still stuck over there, I thought to myself, Well Frankie ol’ boy, you’re going to have to go straight to the top.”
“You called Hoover? Just like that?”
The waitress appeared with a couple of whiskeys and a bowl of peanuts, and told them the show would be starting soon.
“Not just like that,” Frank said, “but I know people who know people. Please tell me Marcus got his passport back.”
“He did, so thank you. I mean that.”
“I bet he’s glad to be stateside again.”
Marcus had cabled confirming he had his passport, but hadn’t mentioned booking a flight. She’d been expecting word every day since, but nothing had appeared.
“What did you have to do in return?” she asked.
He stiffened his spine and snatched the porkpie from his head. “Good evening.”
J. Edgar Hoover had grown thicker around the waist since the last time she’d seen him. A little thinner and grayer up on top, too. But that menacing air still clung to him like leeches.
“Miss Massey,” he said, nodding as he sat down and deposited a briefcase on the spare seat. “Sorry I’m late, but running the Bureau is a very full-time job.”
“I can only imagine.” Frank’s Camel had stirred up a heady mixture of confidence and bluster. “Can we get down to business? March thirty-first is in four days.”
The waitress appeared with another round of drinks. She started to ask if they needed anything else, but lost her nerve and fled back down the stairs.
Hoover reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder. He let it fall from his hands, allowing it to thump the table. “I want to know how this information came into your hands.”
“It proves my father’s innocence, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but that’s not what I asked.”
Underneath the table, Kathryn gripped the bow-shaped metal clasp of her handbag. It started to hurt but she didn’t
care. She’d been working on the assumption that the contents of her father’s FBI file were enough to exonerate him, but she had never been really sure until she heard Hoover’s breezy “yes.”
“There’s a real case to be made for exoneration?”
“I asked you where you got this information.”
Frank mouthed the words “Tell him.” His eyes said Don’t leave anything out.
“Winchell,” she said, finally.
Hoover slammed his fist on top of the folder. “That slimy little fucker.”
“I’m not his greatest fan, either,” she added, “but he was my best chance of seeing Danford’s name cleared.”
“What gave you the idea that he was innocent?”
“Sheldon Voss.”
“The evangelist?” Frank interrupted.
“Why would Voss frame him?” Hoover asked. “And why would he tell you?”
Kathryn wished they could get to the part where Hoover would agree to order the Massachusetts governor to issue a pardon. She should have guessed there’d be hoops to jump through first.
“Thomas Danford is my father.” J. Edgar Hoover had the best poker face in America and was hardly likely to break it over news like this. Somehow, it gave Kathryn the nerve to keep going. “The night of Voss’s MacArthur Park revival, we had a huge blow-up, during which he admitted that he’d framed Danford. I figured if that were really the case, you guys would have a file on him. I didn’t know if it contained anything useful, but it was all I had. Winchell and I struck a deal. If he could wrangle access to information the Bureau had collected, then he was free to take the glory of getting Thomas Danford exonerated.”
“I see.” Hoover picked out a peanut from the bowl and started tearing away at the shell. “So Winchell gave you this information.”
“No,” Kathryn replied. “I didn’t set eyes on it until—” Crap, oh crap, oh crap. I’m going to have to admit everything. In an hour’s time there would only be three days left. “Until I was in Voss’s room at the Ambassador.”
“The night he died?”
Kathryn nodded. “Robert Harrison approached me—”
“That slob from Confidential?” Frank cut in.
Kathryn told him yes. “And by the way, he knows about the Wrong Door Raid.”
“What’s the Wrong Door Raid?” Hoover asked.
“Another discussion for another time.” She tapped the folder in front of Hoover. “This was in Voss’s room at the Ambassador.”
“And tell me, Miss Massey, how is it that the file was in your possession when you left the Ambassador that night?”
“Harrison wanted to give it to me but Voss didn’t. The two of them fought over it.”
“Who won?”
“Voss was drunk. It was like fighting a sleepy toddler.”
“And then?”
“I had what I came for, so I left.”
“With Harrison?”
“No, he was long gone.”
“Was Voss still alive when you left the room?”
“Yes.” This time Kathryn paused, but wished she hadn’t—it made her sound unsure of the facts. “There’s no mystery and no skullduggery. It’s just like the papers said: he was drunk and fell out the window. The end.”
“The end indeed.”
Kathryn wasn’t confident that her version of the truth would hold up under scrutiny, but maybe if she moved things along fast enough, nobody would notice. “So,” she said, tapping the file once more, “are you convinced Danford is innocent?”
Hoover nodded.
Kathryn drew in a deep breath. “Enough to present a case to the governor?”
Another nod.
“Even though he’s the one who benefited from my father’s conviction?”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“That’s up to you, Miss Massey.”
“In that case, I say let’s go!” Kathryn could barely keep herself seated. “You have a car and driver. If we set out right now, we could be at the governor’s mansion by dawn.”
Hoover didn’t stir.
Don’t be a fool, Kathryn told herself. There’s always a catch. “What exactly do you want, Mr. Hoover?”
A one-shoulder shrug. “What’ve you got?”
Kathryn turned away from the table, partly in disgust, partly in desperation. Once—just once—it would be nice if someone did someone else a favor without expecting payment in return.
Downstairs, the quartet of musicians climbed onto the stage. The drummer sat in the corner, and the bass player, guitarist, and pianist spread out along the front. The pianist was a Negro woman who held herself upright like a dancer; she launched into “Lullaby of Birdland.”
Kathryn turned back to Hoover. “Isn’t it enough I tipped you off about the LA bureau?”
“What tip-off?”
“About how they were laundering Voss’s donations.”
“I got that tip from Winchell.”
“Oh yes, that’d be right. Mister Take All the Credit. Well, it didn’t come from Winch—”
“Can you prove it?” Hoover asked quietly.
She jutted out her chin. “The National Council of Negro Women.”
“What about it?”
“Their offices are on the next floor down. Mrs. Cornelia Wyatt heads up the California chapter. She’s an honest, forthright woman who’ll tell you what’s been going on.” She pulled out her address book. “If you have pen and paper, I can give you her phone number right now.”
Hoover pulled a pad and pen and jotted down the number Kathryn gave him.
“So what happens now?” Frank asked, although nobody was looking at him.
Hoover asked, “You’re staying at the Pierre?” Kathryn nodded. “A car will collect you at six o’clock tomorrow morning.”
* * *
A gleaming black town car was parked at the 61st Street curb when Kathryn stepped outside. The chauffeur tipped his cap and opened the passenger door.
“How long will it take us to get to the Massachusetts governor’s mansion?”
“My instructions were to take you to our destination without comment. Please step inside the vehicle.”
Kathryn bent down, expecting to see someone—Hoover? Sinatra? Given the wildly improbable events of the past twenty-four hours, maybe even Marcus?
The cabin was empty.
She slid across the black leather.
If we drive up Manhattan and end up on the I-95, that’ll take us to Boston and the governor’s office. If we head downtown on Park Avenue, that means the FBI’s New York headquarters. But if we take the Queensboro Bridge, we’re going back to Idlewild and I’m being run out of town.
She watched the New York blocks slip by her window as they drove through the sixties, the eighties, and soon passed 110th Street. After they crossed the Harlem River she lost her bearings. She saw the turnoff for Yankee Stadium, but after that, the names meant nothing to her. Knightsbridge? Riverdale? Where the hell were they going?
Then she saw the sign for Yonkers.
Upstate New York? What is there to do in the Catskills in March?
It wasn’t until she saw the sign for Tarrytown that her heart began to beat faster and she felt the color drain from her face.
“Are we going to Ossining?” she half-shouted. “I need to prepare myself. I’m not normally the hysterical type but there’s a first time for everything and this might be it. Driver? DRIVER?”
“Sorry ma’am, but my instructions were strict—”
“Screw your instructions and screw you!” She ripped open her purse and groped around for a handkerchief. The heat of tears rose at the back of her eyes. They would soon be spilling out. Hot. Thick. Wet.
There’ll be splotches of mascara staining my face like soggy goddamn spider webs. And spit. And snot. Everything’ll be leaking from everywhere. I’ll look like an escapee from a nuthouse. I won’t be able to string two words together. Where the hell is a ha
ndkerchief???
“Driver? I’m sorry about that ‘screw you’ business. But I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare—”
He was already handing over a freshly laundered men’s handkerchief.
She mopped herself up and looked out the window again: SLEEPY HOLLOW
“The Headless Horseman,” she muttered. “He’s all I need.”
She fanned herself with her purse and took slow breaths. For the next five miles she managed to hold herself together until she saw a sign welcoming her to Ossining.
Pressing the chauffeur’s handkerchief to her mouth got her through the next mile, but the final sign nearly undid her completely.
SING SING
CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
She bent over and jammed her face to her knees. She’d read it was good for blood flow. “Don’t lose it now, Massey,” she whispered. “Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it.”
The sound of tires crunching on gravel rose from below her. The brakes let out a thin shriek as the car came to a stop. The driver got out, rounded the front, and opened her door. Kathryn did her best to straighten up with a scrap of dignity. “Thank you.” She smoothed her hair and took the driver’s hand.
A raw breeze blew off the Hudson, but the sky stretched overhead in a clear blue arc. In front of the main gate a solitary figure in an ill-fitting dark suit stood with a brown paper package tucked under one arm.
Kathryn bit down on her lip to still her trembling chin. She placed one foot in front of the other. The gravel felt slick underfoot and her heels provided little comfort.
The man didn’t move.
As she drew closer, single step by single step, she could make out his features. Round gold-rimmed glasses framed his eyes, but she caught a glimpse of the same shade of hazel she saw when she looked into the mirror. His hair was thin and graying, but retained enough of its original dark brown for her to know what it once looked like. And no amount of sagging, weathered skin could hide the determination of that familiar chin.
She was close enough now to see him swallow hard. He clasped his hands together to still the shaking.
She took another step.
He did, too. “Are you my Kathryn?”
His voice wasn’t familiar like a father’s should be. But it was warm, and it trembled with hope.
City of Myths Page 37
