Jake was surprised. He wondered when his friend last slept through the night, ate a square meal, or bathed: his aftershave was faintly, nauseatingly sweet. “Hey, wait a minute! What do you think will happen, someone will go ‘Psst, hey bud, want some government secrets?’ You’re gonna have to give me a few more—”
“Look, it’s all in the file!” Harry said. “Wise up! I called you in because I need help. I can’t sit around babysitting you; I got a job to do, an important job. There’s a war on.”
He mopped his face again. “Sorry, Jake. The pressure’s killing me. I’ll stop by your room in a couple of days. We can talk then. Okay?”
Harry stood and held out his hand. Jake stared at his friend, nodded slowly, and shook. He was genuinely worried now. His friend wasn’t telling him the entire truth.
“Yeah, sure. Don’t take any wooden nickels, Harry.”
Later that night, Jake sat on the quilt-covered bed in his rented room, reading the file. Harry was right. He’d covered all the bases—waste disposal, deliveries, repairs—and checked some less obvious ways. Harry was a good agent for the same reason he’d been a good deputy: he had a mind like a criminal, and though he went to extremes, he was thorough. Harry had already followed several of the potential suspects: the secretary who’d been complaining about the rationing complained about everything else. The technician who seemed to have an unlimited supply of gasoline for a car with an A sticker was found to be siphoning fuel from his brother’s trucking business. No one was obtaining the information any way he could see.
It was time to call in reinforcements, Jake decided. He went down to the drugstore and called his cousin Vic, arranging to meet him at the boardinghouse in two hours.
When Vic arrived, the cousins set out for a walk along the Charles River. Jake explained everything, not sparing the details. “I want you to follow up on what Harry started. You and Rosalie tail the employees, sniff around, see what you turn up. It can’t be magic that’s getting those secrets out.”
“Hey, there could be vampires,” Vic said. He waggled his fingers, widened his eyes. “Turning into mist and going under the doors.”
Jake shot his cousin a dirty look. “Stop clowning.” Then he began to worry that Vic might not be too far off the mark.
Vic nodded. “Okay, you want Rosie’s sister—you remember Olivia?—to cuddle up to anyone? She’s got a real knack for making men want to please her.”
Jake thought about it. Olivia might get Harry to reveal what he hadn’t told Jake. As badly as he wanted to know, he shook his head. “No, thanks. Best not to raise our profile, now of all times, if we can avoid it.”
After confirming their plans, Vic left for downtown, and Jake went about assuming his new identity.
Every day for two weeks, Jake—wearing Coke-bottle-bottom glasses and coveralls—swept, emptied the trash, and did odd jobs at the research facility. Even though he had access to almost everyone and everything, he still couldn’t figure out how the information was leaving the lab. Rosalie and Vic had no better luck.
After two weeks working the day shift, Jake switched to the swing shift. The second night, he was mopping up in the office area when he heard a hiss from the doorway to Section Sixteen.
“Psst! Hey, buddy!”
Half convinced Harry was playing a joke on him, he looked up from the bucket to see a stacked redhead in a white lab coat beckoning to him. He recognized her as one of the computers, the women who operated the large, impossibly complicated analytical machines that were behind the locked door.
He made a point of looking over his shoulder, turned back, and raised his eyebrows—surely she couldn’t mean him? She nodded vigorously, waved at him to hurry. He could barely believe his luck at this break. Supposedly, all the computers, mostly women, had the highest clearance, but maybe—
“Hey, I’m not trying to borrow money,” she whispered. “I just need someone with good, strong hands.”
Jake knew what she meant, but stayed in character. He backed away a step or two, holding his hands up. “Sister, I may be on the dumb end of the mop, but you move too fast for me.”
The redhead blushed six different shades of mortified. “I . . . I didn’t . . . I never . . . oh, golly, I just need you to help me fix something, and quick!”
“I’m not supposed to go in there,” Jake said. No sense appearing too eager. “I don’t have clearance.”
“I’ve hidden all the sensitive material,” she said, bouncing a little with impatience. “Unless you think a bearing that’s come out of a rotor is top secret. And you’re cleared to be here, right? I need to finish this set of calculations tonight, mister! Please?”
Jake shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
When he entered the long, wide room, the racket almost floored him. One side of the room were rows of shelves of electronics, bulbs and dials like ten thousand radios. The other side, a spaghetti mess of wires, all the way down the wall. The heat from the analytical machines was oppressive; a few curls stuck limply to the redhead’s cheek.
“It’s over here,” she said and handed him a screwdriver. “If you could get that bearing back on track, I’d owe you.”
Jake saw the problem right away. He grimaced; his hand was too big to fit comfortably, but she was right. All it took was brute strength to get the bearing reset. When it snapped into place, the woman’s face lit up.
“Oh, thanks a million! I’d just gotten the—well, I can’t really say. But if you hadn’t been there, a lot of hard preparation would have gone down the drain, and some of our boys would have been in a real jam.” Satisfied the machine was in order, she ushered Jake back to the administrative area.
The door safely shut behind her, she exhaled. “Phew! Thank goodness you were there. Those machines are so twitchy! Anyway, thanks.”
“My pleasure.” An idea blossomed. “Say, how do you manage when I’m not here?”
“Oh, I’m usually on the day shift. There’s a supervisor to help out then. And funny, they don’t think they need one after five o’clock. Sometimes the fireman on duty—you saw how hot it gets? Sometimes he helps me.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Ginny.”
Jake shook her hand, being careful not to crush her delicate fingers. “Stuart.” He grinned. “Call me Stu.”
“Well, Stu, I’d be happy to buy you a cup of coffee. I’ve got a ten-minute break coming up.”
Good thing he’d hidden his wedding band under the lining of his bag at the boardinghouse. “Why, thanks, Ginny. That sounds fine.”
They drank the coffee, didn’t even miss the sugar. Ginny unwrapped a piece of newspaper, offered Jake a molasses cookie.
Sighing deeply, Jake said, “I sure am glad we met! What a treat.”
Suddenly shy, Ginny said, “I’m covering for my friend Ida. Her boyfriend got the night off. They went to see Duke Ellington at the Roseland. And tomorrow, they’ll see Sabby Lewis at Le Club Martinique.”
Jake perked up; he was a fan of jazz and the local bands. “The boyfriend’s either missing a leg, an eye, or is about a hundred and forty-seven.”
Ginny laughed. “It’s not that bad. He tried to sign up—three different recruitment stations—but they all caught on to his gimpy leg and marked him 4-F. But we can use every pair of hands we get. This place is always humming, always something new. Eddie—that’s the boyfriend—he’s the head of grounds services, here.” She smiled, compressing her lips hard together. “So many boys gone . . . if a gal gets the chance to go on a date, you help her out.”
There was such a wistfulness in her voice, Jake asked, “And your young man?”
“It shows, huh?” She nodded. “Italy. Or last I heard, two months ago.”
“That’s tough. War won’t last forever, though.” Jake thought a minute. “Ida and Eddie must get to take lunches, breaks, together, though. He helps her out with the, er, machinery in there?”
“Oh.” Ginny looked around, nervously. “That’s how they met, actually. And that’
s why they keep it quiet. We’re supposed to be really strict about access.”
“Mum’s the word,” Jake said. He mimed turning a key in front of his lips, then throwing it away.
“But you and he couldn’t even be in this building if you didn’t check out, right?” she said, now obviously wondering whether she’d made a mistake. “And I’m usually pretty good at telling the good eggs from the bad.”
Jake believed her; he was good at reading people, too. He laughed. “I got more papers than a show dog, and to do what? Push a broom, wash windows. Even with these cheaters, I can barely see three feet in front of me. Nah, just be careful with everyone else.” He stood up. “Thanks for the coffee, Ginny.”
“Thanks for the company,” she replied. Then she winked. “And the help.”
Jake finished his shift, then went back to the boardinghouse. He had warmed-over dinner—meatloaf and green beans—for breakfast, went up to his room, took off his shoes, and stared at the peeling paint on the tin ceiling. After about an hour, he thought he had it pretty well figured out.
It was all just a little too easy, like it had all been laid out for him. And that made him nervous. He decided he needed to go to Le Club Martinique that evening.
Jake crossed the bridge over the Charles River to Boston, and walked down Massachusetts Avenue. The neighborhood was still bustling six hours after the close of regular business. The clubs and bars on this end of town drew whites and Negroes, all dressed in their finest. Music seemed to create places where Jim Crow occasionally blinked. Jake appreciated that; he knew something about not fitting in.
Down toward Columbus Avenue, past the Savoy and the Hi-Hat, was the place Jake was looking for. Le Club Martinique might not have had the size or the garish splendor of the Roseland Ballroom, but it was hopping. Every time the door opened, a blast of swinging trumpet music threatened to knock passing pedestrians off their feet. Jake put it on his list to visit, after this job—maybe he’d even be able to talk the tin-eared Harry into coming with him. It was the kind of place where famous musicians would come after their sets to jam until morning.
A uniformed doorman tipped his braided hat as Jake entered. A big band was playing on the stage; they were good, not cluttering up the music with an unnecessary vocalist. The dancing couples got more and more daring with flips and twirls, putting aside care for a few hours, banishing worry with the joy and audacity of the music. They’d pay for it in the morning, but for now, it was worth every sore foot and hangover-to-be.
Inside the club, Jake saw a number of extravagantly long and baggy zoot suits. He wondered whether the uniformed soldiers there would call out the wearers as unpatriotic and wasteful as the beer flowed and the evening grew more raucous—
Jake’s attention was drawn suddenly to a couple sitting alone. They matched Ginny’s description of Ida and her boyfriend, Eddie.
The band tore into a version of “Cotton Tail” that would have done Ellington proud. Drinks were set aside, and the dance floor was mobbed.
The couple sat still, though Ida looked like she wanted to dance, too. Eddie, a weasely looking fellow, said something to her. She pouted; he refilled her coupe with champagne—Jake could see the French label—and patted her hand. Ida smiled, and Eddie limped over to another table.
Jake thought about Eddie the groundskeeper pouring French champagne.
Unless the dolly sitting at the table was Eddie’s sister, Jake thought, Ida was right to pout. The other girl was all done up in blue satin and had on more rouge than was smart. Jake couldn’t really tell—the smell of beer and chicken mingled with cigarettes and liquor sweat—but he would have bet she was wearing too much perfume, too. Eddie was leaning in a little too close; she let him. When their hands disappeared under the table simultaneously and stayed there for too long, Jake began to understand.
The drum solo ended, the horns jumped in, and a burst of energy surged through the club. Eddie stuck something into his pocket. The girl put an envelope into a satin clutch with rhinestones bigger than a Packard’s headlights. Everyone’s eyes were on the dancers or the band; Jake was the only one who’d seen the transaction.
The couple, Eddie and Ida, left then; she was protesting, but he was having none of it. Jake thought about following them, but realized there were bigger fish to fry. He had to keep his eyes on the glamour puss in blue satin. He waited about twenty minutes.
When Harry came into the club, Jake cussed and ducked behind a pillar.
If things had been so plain to him—how Eddie was working and why—why hadn’t they been plain to Harry? And what was he doing here now? He hated jazz.
Afraid he’d queer his friend’s plans, Jake stayed hidden, watched his friend go through a similar routine with Glamour Puss, hands under the table, swapping envelopes. Only this time, the girl wasn’t so pleased. She and Harry exchanged heated words, to judge by their expressions. They were lucky the band had started in on a rowdy version of “Bugle Blues,” drowning them out. Finally, Harry left, the girl looking more irked than ever.
Jake knew he could come back any night and find the girl sitting in her evening gown at that same table; he’d only have this one chance to find out what was up with Harry. He decided to follow Harry, intending to straighten this out, once and for all.
Two toughs grabbed Harry as soon as he reached the front door. As they dragged him outside, the song ended, and the dancers mobbed the bar. Jake struggled to get through the packed ballroom.
When he reached the street, Jake paused. It had rained briefly while he was indoors, but that wasn’t what stopped him. What was a guy supposed to do? Let his best friend get roughed up—maybe even killed—or blow his cover? Jake knew a thing or two about discretion, and knew it was just as important to Harry the G-man.
If it took blowing his cover to save a friend, Jake would do it. The risk came with the job.
But he was going to pick his moment, if he could. No sense in undue haste.
Jake spat out his gum and followed the two goons who had Harry—they were professionals, no doubt about it, keeping things quiet while they were among the crowds on the street. Had Harry done something so stupid he’d gotten on the wrong side of a mobster? Jake recalled the glamour puss in the club. Harry should have known better, doing the work he did. Dames like that didn’t sit alone for no reason.
If you get into trouble and can’t get out, it’ll be because of a girl.
Jake picked up speed; the trio was heading into a shady-looking neighborhood, even darker than normal because of the enforced blackouts. Things would happen quickly.
They were in an alleyway, now, and it wasn’t to talk. At first, Harry played it smart and got in a few good punches; Jake hoped he could keep himself out of it. But two against one was too much, and Harry faltered, went down. The darkness made it the perfect place for trouble; there’d be no rescue from anyone on the street.
Jake couldn’t wait any longer. He had to get in there.
Jake took a deep breath and concentrated, Changing only halfway. Tissue rippled, and bone stretched; the slack of his suit was filled with new muscles and thick, rough fur. The wolf-self, contained too long by the city, by the cheap shoes, by Jake’s cover, was let loose. The joy of the Change ran through his body, from lengthening teeth and pointing ears to sharpened nails. Jake couldn’t resist chuckling, a guttural, inhuman noise. The stink of evil was strong on the two goons.
He felt traces of power crawling through his system as he sized up the men. One, a guy the size of a moose, had a shiv that looked a mile long, sharp as sharp could be. The shorter one—Jake thought of him as “Cagney”—had just laid a cosh upside Harry’s head. Harry looked like he was down for the count.
Good, Jake thought. That will make this easier.
Jake growled. The goons ignored him. Guys like that don’t scare easy, and they were busy.
He hurled himself on them. They couldn’t ignore that.
Jake landed on the back of Moose; best to lose the
knife first, especially if the thug was any good with it. Moose kept his head, even as he found himself slammed into the brick wall, slimy with rain and God knows what else. He twisted fast, ignoring the blood pouring from the side of his forehead. He held onto the knife, tore it along Jake’s arm. Jake pressed his face close, so the other man could see the teeth that didn’t belong in a human mouth, feel the heat of a lupine mouth as it tore his ear.
Moose yowled and clutched his head, as Jake took the steel blade and snapped it like a cheap toy. It fell to the ground with a tinny clink. Moose turned and ran, screaming bloody murder and bleeding like a stuck pig.
No time to waste; even in this crummy a neighborhood their racket would bring unwanted attention. His hat went flying as Jake bounded to the end of the alley and tackled Moose. Jake tore out his vocal cords with another slash. There was only a wet gargling noise, now.
Jake turned to Cagney, who was going through Harry’s pockets. The guy must have feared whoever he was working for more than he feared what was happening to Moose, because he had worked all through the fight—
Cagney suddenly looked up. His eyes were wide and unfocused, and his face slack. At first Jake thought he might be drunk, or a little soft in the head, but then the sweetish smell worked its way past the filth of the alley. Jake knew Cagney was high on opium.
Jake recognized another smell now. This was a stronger version of Harry’s sickly aftershave.
Jake knocked the cosh out of Cagney’s hand with one paw while raking claws down his cheek with the other. Cagney screamed, his hands flying up to his face as much to block as to hide from the Anubis-like monster before him. Jake’s face had lost nearly all trace of humanity: elongated snout, fangs and a row of jagged teeth, ears sharply extended above his head. The fur wasn’t the worst, or the whiskers, Jake had been told. It was his eyes. Somehow it was wrong that such human eyes should be set into the face of a slavering animal.
But Moose’s screams had brought interest; Jake heard automobile engines and police sirens moving closer. He couldn’t just leave Harry in the alley; one way or another, he was responsible for getting him out of the trouble he was now in.
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