Manhattan 62

by Nadelson, Reggie

  CHAPTER ONE

  October 22, ’62

  “GOOD EVENING, MY FELLOW citizens.

  “This Government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet military buildup on the island of Cuba. Within the past week, unmistakable evidence has established the fact that a series of offensive missile sites is now in preparation on that imprisoned island. The purpose of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere.

  “The characteristics of these new missile sites indicate two distinct types of installations. Several of them include medium-range ballistic missiles, capable of carrying a nuclear warhead for a distance of more than 1,000 nautical miles. Each of these missiles, in short, is capable of striking Washington DC, the Panama Canal, Cape Canaveral, Mexico City, or any other city in the southeastern part of the United States, in Central America, or in the Caribbean area.”

  On my black and white television set, the President looked handsome but tired, deep gray shadows of fatigue seemingly carved out under his eyes.

  Next to me on the couch sat Tommy Perino. His father was at work on the night shift, as usual. I had made Tommy a grilled cheese sandwich, but it lay, untouched and cold now, on the plate. When he asked for a smoke, I let him have it. I gave him some of my beer. If we were gonna die, the kid might as well smoke if he wanted. I had smoked at his age. Me and my pals. Some of them, those friends, had been drafted into the goddamn military like me, some died fighting the Commie bastards in Korea, or lost their toes to frostbite in that miserable country.

  “Nuclear weapons are so destructive and ballistic missiles are so swift, that any substantially increased possibility of their use or any sudden change in their deployment may well be regarded as a definite threat to peace.” JFK’s voice was cool and sober. I turned the TV set up louder and told Tommy to eat his food.

  “It shall be the policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any nation in the Western Hemisphere as an attack by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response upon the Soviet Union.”

  Was it a provocation, these missile sites? The Russkis didn’t need Cuba. They had rockets powerful enough to nuke us from Moscow. They wanted to make us sweat. They wanted a base ninety miles from our shores. If they got it, they would own a piece of us.

  “To halt this offensive buildup, a strict quarantine on all offensive military equipment under shipment to Cuba is being initiated. All ships of any kind bound for Cuba from whatever nation or port will, if found to contain cargoes of offensive weapons, be turned back.”

  JFK knew what he was doing. He outlined his plans. He said he was calling for a blockade, an embargo, a quarantine. Whatever you called it, it meant trouble. Starting Wednesday, the day after tomorrow, Soviet ships on their way to Cuba would be boarded.

  “What’s that, Pat?”

  “What?”

  “You was talking about Cuba.”

  “Never mind,” I said to Tommy, realizing I had been speaking out loud without meaning to. “I always thought they’d come for us over Berlin,” I said, and we went back to watching the TV in silence.

  This was worse than Berlin. This was our territory. Cuba had always been ours, more or less, at least until Castro and the Commies got hold of it.

  Khrushchev I didn’t trust. He was an animal, a short fat piggy-looking man who had treated our President with contempt in Vienna when they met.

  The President said that the Russians had been planning the shipment of arms for months. The Soviets had promised him if there were weapons, they would be only for defensive purposes.

  The Soviets had lied, and Americans would not stand for it, or at least our leaders would not. They were shipping their shit to Cuba, and Cuba wanted it, and we were all going to nuke each other. I didn’t want to die yet. My stomach was in knots.

  Kennedy announced that he had been shown photographs of the missile sites last Tuesday morning, October 16. Almost a week ago; the night Tommy had found the body on Pier 46.

  “Pat?” Tommy said. “We gonna die, Pat?”

  We stared at the photographs taken by U2 planes flying over Cuba. The planes go up. The camera cover, like an eyelid slides back. Like a naked eyeball, the camera peers down. It snaps the missile sites. Launch pads. Padlocked sheds.

  I peeled the cellophane from a fresh pack of Chesterfields, removed it, put one in my mouth. The city outside was very quiet, a thick dense sort of silence, as if everyone had died, and only the television sets and radios left playing. It was Kennedy’s determination to stop the Russians, his assertion that he would resist intimidation, that made me proud and also scared me good.

  The President told the “captive” Cubans he was their friend against foreign domination. He would not allow them to be puppets and agents of an international conspiracy. Told them the new weapons were a lousy bet for them. That America was set on a dangerous effort to resist.

  Looking into the camera with that steady gaze, JFK said, “The cost of freedom is always high, but Americans have always paid it. And one path we shall never choose, and that is the path of surrender or submission. Our goal is not the victory of might, but the vindication of right; not peace at the expense of freedom, but both peace and freedom, here in this hemisphere, and, we hope, around the world. God willing, that goal will be achieved.

  “Thank you and good night.”

  After the speech, some of the commentators noted they had seen it coming, too; that last week, people had seen lights on all night at the White House, had seen wives of government officials solo at cocktail parties, and they knew something was up.

  I put in a call to the Millers. Muriel answered. I could hear the TV in the background.

  “Oh hello, Pat, dear. How are you? It’s a very difficult time. I assume you’re phoning to speak with Max, but he’s not here. Are you watching the television? Terrible news. Terrible.”

  I said I was fine.

  “Max left a note saying he was going to some friend on Long Island. Are you all right? This is quite a nerve-wracking time, and if you would like to drop by for some coffee, dear? Are you on your own? Or come for a glass of whisky, given the situation? You musn’t be alone. Stan says it may be very bad, that we need to leave certain things to the generals who will know what’s best for the country. I trust the President, of course. Stan says the military has it in hand. Says the generals will take care of things.

  “But I’d actually like to talk with you, Pat. Let me be frank, do you imagine that Max would be capable of something improper?”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Somebody took money from my Minnie Mouse cookie jar. And he left without leaving his phone number. Why would he do a thing like that?”

  I told her I had no idea, and got off the phone, with a promise to drop by some time or other.

  No surrender, no submission.

  I was behind the President one thousand percent. I’d put on a uniform again if I had too. We could never let the bastards put nukes ninety miles off our shores. I felt for JFK. He was alone, it seemed, except for his brother. Thank God for Bobby. But if the President stayed tough, we were all dead. If he backed down, we would live under the heel of the Red Menace. The thing we had been waiting for, all the Cold War fear, it was happening now. Tonight.

  “You OK, Tommy?” The kid was on the edge of the couch.

  “You know what, Pat? We should nuke ‘em now,” he said.

  “Goddamn right, we should do it to them before they do it to us,” said Tommy, who had seen too many movies. “Listen a me, Pat, I gotta go.”

  “Where? You’re not wandering around the piers anymore? Tell me the truth.”

  “I’m not. No way. I just want to wait for my pop when he gets home. I gotta be there for him, so are you gonna be OK by your own, Pat?” He touched my arm as if to somehow reassure me, and left quietly, his shoulders squared in some imaginary military style
, his stride sharper than usual, as if he was already practicing for his part in the coming conflict. Tommy was twelve. In five or six years, some lousy war would probably claim him.

  I called my ma to make sure she was doing OK. She said she was praying. Said she was also eating most of the Whitman’s Sampler, the chocolate I gave her for her birthday. Might as well, Paddy, cause you never know if there will be a tomorrow, and then I left all my gorgeous chocolates behind, which would be a crying shame.

  My ma, in spite of being a crazy lady with her Sacred Heart pictures on the wall, always had a sense of the ridiculous. I called over to my sister Colleen, and woke her up. After that, my instinct was to phone Nancy; I dialed her number; I listened to the phone ring, and pictured her little pink Princess phone that lit up when you used it. Nobody answered. I lay down on the couch, and when I opened my eyes, it was midnight. I fried some eggs, and made coffee. I ate. Then I went out to get some papers and a fresh pack of smokes. The streets were empty and I had to walk all the way to Sixth Avenue to get the early editions.

  U.S. IMPOSES ARMS BLOCKADE ON CUBA ON FINDING OFFENSIVE-MISSILE SITES; KENNEDY READY FOR SHOWDOWN.

  The New York Times. All the News That’s Fit to Print. I didn’t usually read the Times, but when you looked at it, you knew it was for real.

  After I got home, I scanned the other papers for any news of the homicide on the pier. It had been front page last week, especially in the Daily News and the Journal. Now it had been shoved inside all the newspapers. What was reported was that it was a Mob case. That it was a Mafia hit had been confirmed by sources inside the police department, one of the articles noted. Indictment pending. Same killers as the homicide on the High Line during the summer. Proof the cops were on the job, cleaning up the city. A ray of hope in a gloomy time.

  Again and again I had wondered why the brass was determined to hang it on the Mob. This was why. This was the deal. This would make them look sweet to the politicians.

  I read the lead piece in the Times, reporter name of Anthony Lewis. My stomach turned over. “Mr Kennedy treated Cuba and the Government of Premier Fidel Castro as a mere pawn in Moscow’s hands and drew the issue as one with the Soviet Government.” The Russians; it was always those bastards; of course it was.

  Was Ostalsky reading the papers somewhere? Watching TV? Had he been in on this too, sent over here to wait for this event that must have been planned a long time ago? You didn’t put together all those ships and men and hardware overnight. This would be a war between us and the Soviets. The Cubans were small potatoes. The Russians held the reins; even I had that figured out. I kept reading.

  “The other aspect of the speech particularly noted by observers here was its flat commitment by the United States to act alone against the missile threat in Cuba.”

  There was such a heavy feeling in my gut, I couldn’t sit still, and I went up on the roof for air. I could see all of Greenwich Village spread out, houses, little gardens, narrow streets; and I could see the skyline, still alight, and looking, for once, heartbreakingly fragile.

  I had to find Ostalsky.

  For a second, I felt almost sorry for him. Except for the business about Nancy, I had liked him. Now, he was running, on his own in a hostile country, thousands of miles away from his family, knowing if war came, he would never get home. If in some strange way I was a little sorry, I was also ready to hunt him down.

  CHAPTER TWO

  October 23, ’62

  SHIPS MUST STOP. BIG FORCE MASSES TO BLOCKADE CUBA.

  WHEN I PICKED UP a paper Tuesday morning the headlines were bad, and men I saw on the street were reading as they walked.

  That morning, the city was too quiet. Everything was normal, except for this heavy silence. On their way to school at St Luke’s, children who would otherwise be running and yelling clutched their parents tight; a pair of young women, one blonde, one with short black hair, both in slacks and car-coats, wheeled their babies to the playground, no chatter, no small talk; an old woman, a green shawl around her, sat on a stoop, intent on her rosaries, and you could hear the beads, click click click.

  Like film at the wrong speed, the city moved by me, second by second, as if suspended in glue. What always seemed a vast unknowable city, made of steel and stone, huge and solid, seemed tiny now, and vulnerable. If they hit America, they would hit New York; no one would survive.

  I didn’t know what waited for me at the station house—I had told the boss I was going out of town—but I needed information about the Pier 46 case, on Ostalsky and on the dead Cubans. The President’s speech had changed everything, and I had to figure even Murphy would see that.

  It was brisk that morning. I buttoned my tweed jacket. Murphy liked his detectives well dressed. I was wearing a good blue and gray silk rep tie.

  On my way to the precinct, I got coffee, same place I always went.

  “Pat, mornin’,” called out one of the elderly men who sat on stools at the counter. I had known most of them for years.

  “How ya doin’, Whitey?”

  “It’s quiet like Pearl Harbor time, I ain’t heard nothing so quiet since then,” said Whitey Clark, and bit into a jelly donut; purple jelly stuck to his gray mustache.

  “It is that,” I said, took my carton of coffee from Selma, who had been behind the counter forever, and went to work. It was 8.30 in the morning.

  Tomorrow, Wednesday, the embargo would go into effect. I knew how the military thought. I had been in the army. They reacted. They would react now. Action, they understood. Waiting was not their game. I was scared of the crazier generals who were always pushing Kennedy to invade, to nuke Cuba, nuke Moscow, go for a pre-emptive strike on the Soviet Union. They leaned on JFK hard; there were congressional elections in two weeks and Republicans were saying the President was soft on Communism.

  Tomorrow Americans were set to board Soviet vessels. The Soviets would resist. They only wanted an excuse to blast us to extinction. Already, they were slowing down traffic at the goddamn Berlin Wall. I remembered the airlift the year I finished high school. Last year they put up the wall, and for what? To fuck with people and keep them penned up like animals.

  I tossed away the paper I had been reading. It was like the order of service for a funeral; and we were the dead.

  “I was expecting you, Wynne,” said Murphy when I reached his office. I knew he had put somebody on my tail, and whoever it was had told Murphy I was coming.

  “Listen to me, Wynne. I got enough trouble.” He gestured to the newspapers on his desk. “Nobody can get a call through any place, I got guys in the Reserves being called up. We’re worried about riots. We don’t have enough shelters, we got them in crazy places like the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. We’re worried about a run on goods at the stores. In DC, they’re buying up bottled water, even Seltzer and Coke. People are fucking buying appliances, like if they’re going to die, they want a new washing machine, you believe that?

  “Not to mention we got those Fair Play For Cuba idiots are out in front of the United Nations screaming and yelling. Not to mention if this thing heats up, how the hell do you think we can evacuate eight million people? We tell people it will be fine, orderly, it’s horseshit, and you know, and I know. You can’t move millions of people is the answer. We pretend we can take care of our own so people don’t go nuts and panic and start exiting the city, jamming the bridges, the tunnels. You ever consider that? We would have to go into lockdown.

  “Anyways, if we take a direct hit, you have any idea what the survival rate in downtown Manhattan? We’re toast. So I’ll be glad to put you back to work. I can put you on a Civil Defense detail right now. You can spend your days watching supermarkets in case of looting.”

  “And you’re in charge of all this personally?”

  “Sarcasm won’t do you any good, kid.” From his pocket he pulled a wallet, removed a snapshot of a young pilot in uniform. “My boy is in Key West. They’re moving troops in fast. He says the whole town is military now
. He’s on the front line, man, he’s a navy flier.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Don’t come here again, OK, Wynne. Don’t keep calling up cops you got connections with, I know that’s what you done last week after I told you to take some time. Get out of here. This is a crisis. People are busy, man, really busy. Nobody’s going to take your damn calls.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  October 23, ’62

  IT WAS A MISTAKE sitting down with Max Ostalsky’s friend, Bounine, and I knew it the minute I saw him. It had taken me an hour to drive up to Columbia. Traffic was bad, radios blasting from every car. It looked like people were fleeing the city, up the west side, over the George Washington, or maybe they were just going home early, sit in front of the TV with their families, hold hands, pray, listen for death coming in overhead.

  All the way uptown, I watched the city on my right, the river on my left, New Jersey across the water. When I was in sight of the George Washington Bridge, I could imagine how it would blow apart like matchsticks.

  The bombs would turn the subways into a fiery hell, incinerating men, women and children trapped underground. More nukes would hit us, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler, all the skyscrapers that pierced the New York sky, all that gleaming steel, concrete, marble, wiped off the face of the earth as if the buildings were sandcastles caught in a stiff breeze. People, too, the flesh turned to poisonous dust and blown away.

  It was coming.

  You could see it in the faces on the street, in the cars; you could hear it in the voice of the newscasters.

  The Cold War, the threat of nukes, had been the air we breathed for so long that we didn’t consciously think about it all that much. Not after Korea. What could be worse, I used to think when the nightmares got me out of bed shaking and sweating? What could be worse than that hellhole on the other side of the world?

  Some stuff had really got, though. There was that picture, On the Beach. Started with, what the hell was it? Soviet nukes dragged in? I couldn’t remember the details, but I remembered the last people on earth huddled in Australia waiting for the radiation cloud to drift down, with their suicide pills.