The Never War

by D. J. MacHale

  “What’s that got to do with us?” I asked.

  “There was a gang,” Gunny continued. “Operated on the Upper East Side here. They had it all covered—bootlegging, shipping, even ran a couple of speakeasies. Made a lot of money for the two bosses. One of ’em was a gentleman named Maximilian Rose.”

  “The big guy with the fancy suit we met outside?” I asked.

  “One and the same,” answered Gunny.

  “Who was the other boss?” asked Spader.

  “Fellow named Winn Farrow.”

  Spader and I shot each other a look. “That’s who those gangsters were working for!” I shouted. “Farrow and Rose are partners?”

  “They were partners,” Gunny answered. “Long time ago. As I heard it, Rose was the smart one. He knew Prohibition wouldn’t last forever, so he started investing his money into other businesses. Some legal, some not. He got his fingers into all kinds of criminal activities like gambling and smuggling and even art theft. When Prohibition ended, he didn’t miss a beat. Just kept going on making money.”

  “What about Farrow?” asked Spader.

  “He was just as crooked, but not as smart. He didn’t have the same style as Rose. Let’s say he was rough around the edges.”

  “So he was a dumb thug,” I said.

  “Pretty much,” agreed Gunny. “He spent his money fast as he made it. When Prohibition went away, he had nothing to show for it. Rose didn’t have any use for him, so they split up. Way I heard it, Farrow didn’t like that much. Now the two are what you might call enemies.”

  “What’s Farrow doing now?” I asked.

  “He’s got his own gang that operates out of an old meat-packing plant downtown. They’re a bad bunch. They’ll slit your throat just to get your wallet. It’s pretty much all they’re good at.”

  “So while Max Rose is hanging out in a fancy penthouse uptown,” I said, “his old partner, Winn Farrow, is struggling to get by downtown.”

  “That about sums it up,” Gunny said. “And that’s why I’m getting nervous. If Winn Farrow is sending his goons up here to make trouble, and they start falling out of windows, we might find ourselves in the middle of a gang war. People die in gang wars. We may have just seen the first.”

  “It’s worse than that,” I added. “Saint Dane has gotta be in this equation somewhere.”

  “Take it another step, mates,” Spader jumped in. “What do these two gangs have to do with setting off this tum-tigger you call World War Two?”

  “There’s one thing we can say for certain,” I added. “Whatever Saint Dane’s got in mind for First Earth, I think we’re sitting right in the middle of it.”

  “So what do we do?” asked Spader. “Just sit around waiting for more wogglies to show up with guns, looking for us?”

  “I have an idea,” said Gunny. “You two have jobs now. Once people get to know you, you can come and go as you please. You might even get closer to Max Rose and his boys. He’s got a whole penthouse up there, with people coming and going all the time. There’s a lot you can learn just by doing your job in a place like this.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said. “Tomorrow we go to work.”

  And that’s how we began our careers as bellhops at the Manhattan Tower Hotel. Our goal was to learn as much about Max Rose and his gangster buddies as we could. We were going undercover. No problem, right?

  Yeah, right.

  Early the next morning Spader and I put on our spiffy uniforms and reported to Gunny in the lobby of the hotel. Our first duty was to get haircuts. Gunny brought us to the hotel barbershop where Spader and I sat side by side in big, padded leather chairs that spun around. I knew we were in trouble when the barbers didn’t start with scissors. They went right for the electric sheers. Gulp. With Gunny behind us smiling, Spader and I got buzzed. We didn’t end up with Marine cuts or anything drastic like that, but our hair ended up so short, it wasn’t even worth brushing.

  The barbers put some kind of goop in our hair that smelled like lemons. It gave us both a slicked-back kind of look that may have been perfect for 1937, but felt greasy and awful. Mental note to self: Wash hair often.

  Now that we were all cleaned up and presentable, we went to work. Gunny was right. The job wasn’t all that hard. We had to meet guests when they arrived at the hotel and bring their luggage up to their rooms. When they checked out, we’d pick up their luggage and bring it down to the lobby. It was pretty much a no-brainer. The main thing was to be polite and not break anything.

  We ate our meals in the big, noisy kitchen with the other bellhops and soon became accepted as regular staff people. That was key because it meant we could pretty much go wherever we wanted in the hotel. Nobody questioned us. The only tricky thing was going back to our room. We didn’t want Dewey to start wondering why we always got off on the sixth floor. So at the end of our shift we always climbed the stairs instead of taking the elevator. What a pain.

  I could tell you guys more about what it was like to be a bellhop, but that’s not the important part of the story. What mattered was figuring out the connection between the gangsters and Saint Dane. That meant we had to watch Maximilian Rose. Easier said than done. He always had these gorilla-look-alike bodyguards surrounding him and we couldn’t let them catch us spying on their boss. They might take us out into the alley and rub us out, or whatever it was the old-time gangsters did to people they didn’t like. So we had to be careful. Luckily there were three of us, so we could take turns and hopefully not be too obvious.

  Rose lived in the penthouse on the thirtieth floor of the hotel. He didn’t leave very often. That’s because he had a lot of enemies and liked to stay where it was safe. He had tons of visitors though. I guess that’s how he did his business. People would come to him. Dewey told me stories about the odd assortment of goons he brought up to the thirtieth floor. What a strange and scary way to live.

  Since Rose didn’t go out much, we didn’t see him much. Mostly all we could do was check out his visitors to try and figure out what he might be up to. But I’m no detective, and it’s not like these guys were walking around with big signs saying “Friend of Saint Dane” or anything. They all looked like average guys. Okay, they looked like average gangster guys, but you get the idea.

  That is, except for one man. His name was Mr. Zell. I knew this because whenever he showed up, he had to pick up the lobby phone and call the penthouse to announce that he was there. Mr. Zell had a style that stood out from Rose’s other visitors. His hair was blond and shiny and greased straight back. He always wore these perfect, gray suits that looked real expensive, like they were made for him. His eyes were sharp and always darting around, checking out the room. But he wasn’t nervous. Just the opposite. He was real confident. I think he looked around because he always wanted to know exactly what was going on and who was watching him. The word would be “observant.” I had to be extra careful not to be observed by Mr. Zell.

  But there was one other big thing that made Mr. Zell stand out.

  He had an accent. A German accent.

  Ordinarily I wouldn’t think twice about something like that, but I was in the middle of something that was definitely not ordinary. In a few years the United States would be at war with a whole bunch of guys with the same kind of accent. They weren’t our enemies yet, but they would be. And since we figured that World War II was probably the turning point for the territory of First Earth, having a German guy hanging out with Mr. Rose definitely caught my attention.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if hiding beneath that slick, buttoned-up, German-accented appearance…was Saint Dane. Of course, I looked at everyone as a potential Saint Dane, but this guy jumped to the top of my list. It was making me nuts trying to figure out how to find out what he was doing with Max Rose.

  Then one day I got my shot. It was a quiet afternoon and I was hanging in the lobby trying to look busy, when Mr. Zell strode in. I pretended to be polishing a table near the telephone he always used to call th
e penthouse. I was getting to be a pretty good detective.

  Bobby Pendragon, Undercover Traveler.

  “Penthouse, please,” Zell said into the phone. He listened, then said, “Good morning, this is Ludwig Zell. Yes, I will be staying for lunch today. Thank you.” He hung up and walked to the elevators.

  Score! He was staying for lunch. That meant they would order room service. One of the other jobs the bellhops had was to deliver room service. This was my chance. I hurried through the lobby, trying not to look like I was hurrying through the lobby, and found Gunny at the bell captain station, reading a newspaper.

  “Zell is here,” I said quietly. “They’re ordering room service.”

  Without a word, Gunny dropped the paper and headed for the kitchen. He knew what I was thinking. Normally, one of the more experienced bellhops would take the order up to Mr. Rose. It was a sweet gig because the gangster boss always gave good tips. I didn’t care about the tip. I wanted to be in the same room with Max Rose and Ludwig Zell. When we got into the kitchen, the head waiter was already on the phone, taking the order. When he hung up, Gunny told him to give the order to me. The head waiter gave me a dirty look that said: “Why should he get special treatment?” But he couldn’t argue. Gunny was the boss.

  I was on.

  While we waited for the food to be prepared, Gunny took me aside. “Be careful,” he said. “Listen, but don’t be obvious about it. If they think you’re spying, you’ll end up taking a walk off the balcony like that gangster from the subway.”

  “Don’t worry,” I answered. I’m not sure why I said that. I sure as heck was worrying; why shouldn’t Gunny?

  “These are bad people, Pendragon,” Gunny warned.

  “I know. I got it,” I assured him. He was making me more nervous than I was already.

  Ten minutes later the order was ready. It was spread out on a big cart that was covered with a sharp white tablecloth. There must have been two dozen plates covered with shiny steel lids. I wondered how many people were having lunch because there was enough food here to feed the Pittsburgh Steelers. Gunny gave me a wink of encouragement and I pushed the cart for the elevators.

  “Going up!” Dewey announced as he slid open the elevator door.

  I pushed the cart in and said: “Thirty, please.”

  Dewey’s eyes grew wide as he closed the door. “You’re taking that to Mr. Rose?” he asked with awe. “Whatever you do, don’t look anybody in the eye.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “I once made the mistake of looking at one of those thugs,” Dewey said. “The goon picked me up and shoved me in the laundry chute. Headfirst! It was horrible.”

  I almost laughed, but that would have been rude. The idea of somebody jamming this geeky little guy into the chute was pretty funny. “How far did you fall?” I asked.

  “I didn’t,” Dewey said. “I stuck my arms and legs out and held on to the sides until he was gone. Then I climbed out. But I could have been killed.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I said. “I’ll be careful.” As funny as the image was, Dewey’s warning was valid. Max Rose and his pals were not nice guys. If they would jam somebody down a laundry chute for just looking at them, I didn’t want to think what they might do if they caught me spying on them. I had to push that thought out of my head or I would have chickened out. Not that I had a choice, because a few seconds later we arrived at the thirtieth floor. The curtain was about to go up.

  Dewey pulled the door open and said, “Good luck.”

  I gave him a weak smile and wheeled the cart outside. I had barely gotten out of the elevator when Dewey slammed the door shut behind me. I guess he didn’t want to be sent on another laundry run.

  I was met by two thick-looking dudes who stared at me like I was toe jam. One guy made a motion for me to step away from the cart. I took a few steps back, not sure of what was about to happen. As it turned out, this was a security check. While one guy examined the cart, the other guy examined me. I guess he was making sure I didn’t have a gun or anything. The guy pawed me over pretty good. I felt like a melon being checked for ripeness. But I didn’t complain. I didn’t want to end up in the laundry chute. After this totally rude once-over, both guys stepped back and motioned for me to pass.

  I wanted to complain about the rough treatment, but remembered Dewey’s warning and put my head down and shut up. After all, I was on a mission.

  Bobby Pendragon, Undercover Traveler.

  The door to the penthouse was at the end of the corridor. I wheeled the cart up and was about to knock when I saw that there was a button for a doorbell. Pretty fancy. I pressed it and heard soft chimes ringing inside. A second later the door opened, and I came face-to-face with another tough-looking dude.

  “Room service,” I announced cheerily. I probably didn’t have to say that, since I was wheeling a cart loaded with food, but this guy didn’t look like a brain surgeon. I didn’t want to take any chances. He motioned for me to come in. I wheeled the cart in and kept my eyes down.

  “Wait here,” the guy grunted, and walked off. That’s when I looked up and got my first glimpse of the penthouse suite. Man, this place was fancy! It looked like I had stepped into some kind of European drawing room. Not that I had ever been in a European drawing room, but I had been in those fancy period rooms in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’m not exactly sure why they were called drawing rooms either. It’s not like they were doing any drawing.

  The furniture was way fancy and kind of fragile looking. On the ceiling was an elaborate painting of some chubby babies with wings, flying around in the clouds, blowing trumpets. Not exactly my taste in art, but I guessed some people thought it was elegant. The room I stood in was a central entrance hall. Corridors spread in three different directions to the rest of the penthouse. As I stood there gazing at the fancy surroundings, one thought came to mind: There must be a lot of money in being a gangster.

  Then I heard a gruff voice bellow from somewhere else, “This is what’s gonna happen….”

  It was Maximilian Rose. He sounded angry. That was bad.

  “If he says he needs two weeks, give him one,” Rose said angrily. “If he asks for one week, give him three days. If he doesn’t like it, I’ll have somebody pay him a visit and convince him to like it, understand?” This was followed by the slam of a telephone.

  A second later a door opened, and Max Rose stepped out. I tried not to look right at the guy, but it was hard not to. He was like a giant storm cloud—big and loud and angry. Though it was afternoon, he was wearing pajamas, a bathrobe, and slippers. It was a fancy robe, all red and shiny, like silk. I caught a quick glimpse into the room behind him. It was an office with a desk loaded with papers. This guy did business in his pajamas. Nice life.

  When he stepped through the door, the first thing he saw was me. Before I knew it, we had made eye contact. Gulp. Hello, laundry.

  “Hey, Buck Rogers!” he shouted with a smile. He wasn’t angry anymore. Phew. “Didn’t think I’d remember, did ya?”

  I didn’t. He had only seen me for a few seconds a couple of weeks ago. Note to self: This guy was observant and had a good memory. Be careful.

  “Hello, Mr. Rose,” I said politely. “Ready for lunch?”

  “I’m starving,” he said. “Follow me.”

  I wheeled the cart across to the far side of the foyer and into a room that was even fancier than the entryway. It was a huge, totally swanky living room. The couches were big and cushy, the tables were intricately carved, and there were tons of giant oil paintings with thick gold frames. But the big deal in this room was the view. One whole wall had nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Manhattan. It was pretty cool.

  Again, all I could think was that gangsters sure made a lot of money.

  “Set it out there, Buck,” he ordered, pointing to a large, dark table.

  Buck. Right. That was me. “How many should I set up for, Mr. Rose?”

  “How many?”
He looked at me like I had just asked him how many arms he had. “There’s two of us. How many did you think?”

  I then noticed that Ludwig Zell was sitting in an easy chair near the door. The guy looked at me with cold eyes that made me shiver. Was it Saint Dane? If so, he wasn’t tipping his hand.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Rose,” I said. I didn’t want to point out that he had more food here than they served to the whole school for lunch at Stony Brook Junior High. Then again, at Stony Brook they didn’t serve steaks and lobsters and salads made with vegetables carved into flower shapes. I kept my mouth shut and set the table.

  “So, Ludwig,” Rose said to the German. “I wanted to make this meal special, like a celebration, you know?”

  The German stood up and walked to Rose. “You are too thoughtful, Mr. Rose. This is the beginning of a relationship that will be long and fruitful for both of us. And our people.”

  This was better than I could have hoped for. I was listening in on these two guys doing business. I didn’t want to finish setting out lunch too quickly so I could hear as much as possible, but I didn’t want to make it look like I was, well, doing exactly that. This was tricky.

  “You know, Ludwig, I’ve gone out on a limb for you,” Rose said. “I’ve already started to deliver and haven’t seen a dime from those people of yours.”

  “I understand, my friend,” answered Zell. “And we appreciate your trust. Now that we have determined the most efficient means of payment, you won’t have to work on faith much longer.”

  “Yeah, but how much longer?” asked Rose.

  “Your first payment will be arriving May sixth, as promised,” answered Zell. “You have my word, and the word of my party.”

  This was incredible. I was getting all sorts of stuff. Max Rose was doing some kind of work for this Zell guy. But what party was he talking about?