Operation Underworld

by Paddy Kelly

  “I will, Doc.”

  “I’m serious!”

  “I will!”

  Doc had no way to know if he had really got through. If he hadn’t, he would try again.

  “Good. Now, where were we?”

  “You were just about to tell me why you’re so chicken to call that girl, what’d you say her name was?”

  “I didn’t. Her name is Nikki. Nikki Cole.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “You gonna call her? Or you gonna wear your heart on your sleeve the rest of your life?”

  “I don’t know. I gotta think about it.”

  “Think about it? What the hell is there to think about? Ya pick up the phone, ya dial the number, she answers, ya pop the question!”

  Doc winced.

  “Sorry, bad choice of words!”

  “I don’t wanna seem too anxious. Besides I don’t even have her number.” Louie reached into his pocket and removed a small piece of paper from his wallet. He got up and laid it neatly on the corner of Doc’s desk, smoothing it out a little for effect.

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “Delancy 5 9000. Number to the switchboard at the Federal Building. You know, down on Church Street.”

  “What? You think I wasn’t gonna look it up?”

  “Yeah, Doc McKeowen. The original Romeo. Like the last day before Prom Night when you were tryin’ ta get up the guts ta ask Charlene Meeny ta go with ya.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Jesus, Doc! The day before?”

  “I like suspense. Besides, I already knew she didn’t have a date.” Doc tried to remain casual.

  “Then, during third period break, you came around the corner like a bat outta hell ’cause you were late for gym and slam! There goes Charlene Meany bouncing down the hall on her bony ass like a little blonde basketball.”

  “Hey, I got the date, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but you were shittin’ like a dog in a Chinese restaurant when you asked her!”

  “So, I asked her!”

  “Then the poor little thing had to limp into the dance from the size of the bruise she had.”

  “I suppose you saw pictures?”

  “Jesus, ya asked her while she was still sittin’ on the floor! What were you doin’? Waitin’ ta see if she refused before you’d help her up?”

  “Prom night? Isn’t that the same night Doris slapped the hell outta you for gettin’ so – ”

  “Don’t change the subject, councillor! From what you told me and what I saw through that door, Nikki looked pretty good to me. And you know me, I’m no judge of women.” Louie walked over to the hot plate and poured two cups of coffee. “Besides, Doris thinks it would be…”

  “Doris? Christ, Mancino! Now I’m in the gossip columns?”

  “Then give them somethin’ ta gossip about, damn it! Call her!” Louie coaxed.

  Doc picked up the piece of paper and put it in his wallet. “I’ll call her!” Louie continued to stare. “I said I’ll call! Later! I gotta be uptown at eleven. I have to go convince Mrs Birnbaum her husband is a patriot, not a playboy.”

  Doc went over to the rack and put on his coat. “Meanwhile, you stay here till I get back. With your nose in that Reg. Book.”

  As he was halfway out of the door, Doc turned back to Louie.

  “Yeah, Doc?”

  “She didn’t tell me anything about her personal life. She was defensive, but pretended she didn’t know how to fix the jack plugs on her switchboard. She had pat answers to my questions, and was middle to late twenties.” As he spoke, Doc counted out the points he was making by extending the fingers of his right hand. “And she wore a charm bracelet with the name ‘Katie’ on it and a wedding ring on a chain around her neck. How did I know she had a rough break? Figure it out. See ya in a couple of hours.” Doc left.

  Louie hung his head as the door slammed shut and muttered, “I hate it when he does that shit!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The gargantuan sundial of the milky white Washington Monument towered over the tree-lined Reflecting Pool, casting its long, late afternoon shadow across Jefferson Drive. The Potomac appeared bluer than he remembered it, roughly flowing in stark contrast to the well groomed, motionless, green landscape of Arlington and its endless speckle of white headstones. Hoover felt a comfortable wave of familiarity wash over him. He was home; Washington, where he had the connections, knew the system and had the operatives positioned to find out whatever it was he wanted to know.

  And the thing that he wanted to know right now was who had the audacity to order the arrest of three of his agents? It couldn’t have been locals, the disguises his agents described were too professional and, after their arrests, they were taken to a military installation. It could only be interpreted one way. Somebody was flexing their muscle.

  Never having been a field man, Hoover was always uncomfortable away from his desk. His state of mind was greatly exacerbated by having been in New York a little too long for his liking. It wasn’t his territory, people didn’t intimidate easily enough. To add to his sense of aggravation about New York, his mind once again turned to the fact that he had not been consulted on the investigation of the Normandie. Even though they said it was a clear-cut accident, the FBI should’ve been called in. We should be called in on all large-scale accidents, he reasoned. Why the hell didn’t the White House understand that? And what the hell was that Alien Registration Bill Roosevelt vetoed, on the same exact day of the fire? What the hell was wrong with him? How could he not see that America was being attacked from all sides and that the FBI were Her only hope? Twisting around in his seat, peering out the airplane window, his thoughts continued to flow.

  Maybe we should try and appropriate funding for our own air force? He thought of the stiff opposition he was likely to get, based on the grounds that the war effort took priority for men and materials. However, he reasoned, if the American people were told it was needed to enhance the war effort, they would get behind it. He made a mental note to bring it up at a later date.

  His most haunting thought, though, was that in any other circumstance, Hoover had his entire bureau at his disposal. Through a combination of field work and the process of elimination, he could find out who the culprits were. However, now he wasn’t dealing with criminals. He was dealing with someone who knew the game at least as well as he did. His bureau was of little use to him now because the authority obviously came from someone higher up, but who? There weren’t that many higher up. At least not in his mind.

  He did not like being on the outside looking in.

  A 1942 black Plymouth sedan was waiting on the tarmac and Hoover went straight for it, walking as fast as he could. His two bodyguards and official aide walked at a moderate pace so as not to pass him.

  Even the most ruthless crime bosses had an occasional drink or meal with their men. Hoover, on the other hand, never made the mistake of appearing approachable.

  Once inside the car, no one spoke until Hoover started the conversation, and then they addressed only the subject he choose.

  “Rollins, what time is it?”

  “Half past four, Mr Hoover.”

  “Driver, head straight for the Bureau building!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir, you have a meeting with some of the Chicago agents this evening at – ”

  “Reschedule it for tomorrow.”

  Hoover was in a position that was unfamiliar to him, and he had been taken completely off guard by the chain of events in New York. As a consequence, he was still unsure of what to do next.

  “Rollins!” Rollins removed a pad of paper from his satchel and prepared to write.

  “Sir?” Hoover had already begun speaking.

  “Call the New York DA’s office and ask them for their status on the Normandie investigation.”

  “The luxury liner?”

  “Yeah. Tell them you’re from the Department of Transportation.”
The other three men in the car gave a quick glance in Hoover’s direction and then at each other.

  If he were going to do something classified, especially some type of investigation, it was uncharacteristic of him to talk about it in front of anyone not involved.

  “No, on second thought don’t tell them you’re DOT. Find somebody. Who do we have over there?”

  “We have someone in records and also – ”

  “Records, good. Go to them, get them to make the call. You be there, on another line when he makes the call.”

  “Sir, I’ll need a memo or – ”

  “No, no paper trail. Just do it.” Rollins was suddenly very uncomfortable. Tracking down known or even suspected subversives or enemy aliens was one thing, but investigating another legal branch? In The President’s own home turf? That was frightening.

  “Next, I want a meeting with the Attorney General, tonight!”

  “Sir, the Attorney General is in Baltimore until day after tomorrow.”

  “What the hell is he doin’ in Baltimore?”

  “Some kind of personal business I believe, sir.” Rollins shrugged in the direction of the other agents as Hoover looked around the car for an answer.

  “Well, get a hold of his office as soon as we get in and tell me when and how he’s coming back.” Hoover looked out the window and saw they were approaching the Channel Lagoon.

  “Take Memorial Bridge,” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Find out who the Representative is for the Frisco area and call his office. Ask him if he’s received a formal complaint yet from that Commie bastard Harry Bridges and ask him for a copy. Tell him we’d like to help. No, wait. Say, ‘offer our services to assist in the investigation’. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Speak only with the Rep, not the aides or secretaries.”

  “Sir, we’re here,” the driver informed Hoover as they turned left and came off Constitution Avenue onto 9th Street. The car pulled up outside FBI Headquarters. Rollins fumbled to pack up his note taking material and get out of the car. He was the last one through the front door, having to struggle to get his foot in first and kick the heavy door open, as his hands were full of satchel, pad and overcoat.

  Although Hoover had a secret entrance installed in back of the building, he seldom used it. It was much more appropriate for a man of his importance to make a grand entrance. And he did, whenever possible.

  He ignored all the staff’s greetings which followed him and his entourage as they made their way to the elevator. On the fifth floor he dismissed the two agents who were with him and nodded for the aide to come into his office. J. Edgar continued dictating as they entered the inner sanctum . Rollins had to drop everything and fumble his pad open to catch up with his boss’s orders.

  “Call the New York office in the morning and see what the subject is doing. Just ask them about the guy I told them to… No, wait. Get them on the line, then let me talk to them. Do that exactly at nine o’clock, got it?”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, those reports come back yet from the lab on the new wire tap devices?”

  “No sir, not yet. But we have an indication there may be some problems from the phone company.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Some of the higher up executives “Some of the higher up executives aren’t too happy with us developing bugging equipment to place directly into their phones. They say it creates a bad image for their product.”

  “Get a hold of the lab. Tell that god-damned overpaid Professor I want a definite date for that bug by tomorrow! Tell him it better be no later than next week! Then call those pricks at the phone company and tell them we’ve decided to delay research until next year. No, till after the war.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rollins held his breath, hoping that was finally it.

  “Okay. That’s it. Get outta here.”

  “I’ll call the Attorney General’s office and find out when he’s due back. Will you be here, sir?”

  “Yeah, call me here.”

  For the remainder of the evening, Hoover laid out a flimsy strategy based on what he thought he knew about the New York scenario. He did this in between phone calls to lobbyists, reporters who had in the past shown to be reliable informants and the few acquaintances he had who travelled in union circles.

  The thinnest connections had always been in the union areas. His hatred towards labour organisation was well known.

  Half an hour after he had left the office, Rollins rang Hoover and informed him that Attorney General Jackson was due in on the 10:45 train from Baltimore, Tuesday morning.

  This planning went on late into the evening, when Hoover finally gave up and went to a place few civilian employees and none of the agents believed existed. His home.

  Nikki said goodnight to Shirley and thanked her for wrapping things up at the reception station as she climbed into her heavy overcoat. Although Nikki was tall, 5’10”, she was slender and didn’t function well in the cold.

  However, when she passed through the brass framed glass door into the dark winter evening and turned right to walk up Church Street, she was pleasantly surprised. It was very mild, not cold, and there was not a hint of a breeze. So, she decided to walk the twelve blocks to her apartment on Mercer.

  Nikki, along with everyone else in New York, was disappointed at not having a white Christmas. ‘The White Stuff’ invoked an air of magic and beauty when it blanketed the trees in the parks and the turn-of-the-century Brownstones.

  That disappointment was replaced with gratitude on January 3rd, however, when everyone went back to work and New York City still hadn’t seen its first snowfall. Sloshing through the freezing, black-and-cinnamon-coloured slush was no way to start the work week, let alone with some jerk turning a corner and spraying a rooster tail of partially melted snow, ice and muck all over your new outfit.

  Of course Katie and her little friends prayed every day for snow. Not only to play in, but if it snowed enough, most of the teachers had trouble getting in from Queens where they lived, and so school would be cancelled.

  Nikki’s meandering thoughts were interrupted when she had a strange sensation she was being followed as she crossed Franklin. Stepping up onto the curb, she turned to look behind her. Just the usual six o’clock crowd. She turned around and crossed back over Franklin to the produce market on the corner. Paying the clerk for the small bag of tomatoes, she resumed her journey back towards her apartment in SoHo.

  Canal Street was still bustling with vendors, hawking away with every attempt to lure buyers into their stalls and through the arcades. The crowds jay-walking and playing cat and mouse with the cars in the streets were considerable, but after only one more block of wading through them, Nikki was at the corner of Mercer.

  As a child, the Brownstone walk-ups with their imposing granite and red brick porches cascading down onto the side walk, reminded Nikki of gangplanks on gigantic luxury liners which would carry you away to exotic places like Coney Island, the Catskills or even the Jersey shore.

  Walking up the steps, she could see through the frosted glass that there was a man in the vestibule searching the mail boxes. He held the front door open for her as she approached.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a friendly tone.

  “Perhaps. I’m looking for Mr Murray’s mail box. I have to leave him something.”

  “I’m sorry, there’s no Murray in this building.”

  “This is 317, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s 86. 317 is two blocks north.”

  “Oh, thank you very much.”

  He tipped his hat made his way down the stairs and turned south.

  Must be takin’ the long way around, Nikki thought to herself, as she unlocked the inside door, went upstairs and knocked on 2C.

  “Hello, Nikki!” Mrs Poluso always spoke to anyone at the door as if they had just come back from Poland specifically to visit her.

&nb
sp; If refusing to come into Mrs Poluso’s after knocking on the front door was a venial sin, then refusing to eat something after you had entered was a mortal sin. The fact that it was less than a half an hour to supper was no excuse.

  Anyone who knew anything about eating knew it was important to eat something before every meal to stretch the stomach. Mrs Poluso, of course, was expert in this domain and as a consequence was compelled to happily walk around all day with her apron strings dangling unfastened at her flanks and the worn apron draped over her bulging stomach.

  Nikki knew the routine, entered and accepted a small plate of sausage and boiled potatoes, while Kate and Mrs Poluso’s two kids kissed goodbye. Watching them, she thought of the day she would tell the blonde-haired five-year-old about her Polish heritage.

  The janitorial staff were allowed into the building at half past seven, and about an hour into the daily tasks of mopping and sweeping, one of the older men let himself into the office of the Director to execute his chores. The career janitor was puzzled at the door not being locked; however, when he entered the office he was startled to find Mr Hoover sitting at his desk working away.

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ah… it’s eight thirty-five, sir. You want me to clean up?”

  “No, leave it until tomorrow.” The old man left, and Hoover buzzed Rollins’ office but there was no answer. Calling for a long distance operator, he was put through to the New York field office.

  “FBI headquarters, New York field office.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “This is J. Edgar Hoover! Who the hell is this?”

  “Uh… Meyer, sir. Special Agent Meyer.”

  “Well, Special Agent Meyer, unless you want to be records clerk Meyer, I suggest you move your ass and get me the latest update on the Lanza file. Specifically, the latest surveillance reports. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Questions? Comments? Snide remarks?”

  “No, sir! I‘ve got them right here sir. Ah… ah… Lanza, Joseph, alias Socks, alias…”