House of Ghosts (24 page)

Clark manhandled the suitcase onto the seat and slammed the door closed. The cabby turned to look at his passengers. “You guys going to the Garden?”

“I’m trying to get home,” Preston said, bracing for a repeat of the afternoon’s near altercation.

“Good,” the grizzled cabby said as he gave them a suspicious look. A baseball bat was propped against the front seat. “Every friggin’ Nazi lover and no backbone pussies are heading there. I’ve taken a dozen up there since five o’clock.” He shifted the battered ’32 Checker into gear and eased into the flow heading uptown.

The hack license pinned to the front passenger sun visor read Milton Goldstein. Clark turned to Preston and mouthed “Jew.” He cleared his throat and said to the cabby, “Amazing they have the balls to hold an America First meeting in New York.”

Goldstein cut in front of a bus and accelerated through a traffic light that had turned red. “What do you mean?” he asked with an edge to his voice.

“The largest Jewish population in the United States is here in New York. This organization America First and its poster boy Lindbergh are hell bent on keeping the country out of a war that threatens the entire Jewish European community,” Clark said.

The traffic slowed as they approached Fortieth Street. “You my friend, speak the truth. No way should the Garden be allowed to be used for shit like America First,” Goldstein fumed. “Some nonsense about their rights under the Constitution. I’d give them their rights with a stick of dynamite.”

“Lindbergh has to be collecting a paycheck from Berlin,” Clark said, giving
Preston an elbow to the ribs. “I’d give him something to remember about his trip to the city.”

At Forty-sixth Street, police cars blocked the right two lanes of Eighth Avenue forcing traffic into one lane. “Security for these mutts is sure tight,” Clark remarked.

The traffic came to a complete stop. “A half-hour ago I got to Forty-eighth before I had to turn,” Goldstein said. “What do you want me to do?”

“We’ll get out here,” Preston said, handing Goldstein the fare plus a generous tip.

Clark took hold of the suitcase. “Good talking to you,” he said to the cabby. “It’s a crying shame what they’re doing.” He slammed the door closed.

Preston could only shake his head. “Having fun?”

“It was worth the trip,” Clark said with a laugh.

“We’ll have to hoof it.” Preston cut through the traffic to the east side of the street. At Forty-eighth, horse mounted police were keeping a clutch of protestors armed with placards denouncing America First and Charles Lindbergh away from wooden sawhorses parked end to end across the breadth of Eighth Avenue. A three foot gap between sawhorses allowed one person to pass at a time. A police sergeant said wearily to Clark, “Tickets to the show or a reason for going to Forty-ninth or Fiftieth.”

Clark produced his backstage passes, drawing a look from the cop. “Hope you have a good time,” the sergeant sarcastically said as he stepped aside.

The crowd grew exponentially as they neared the Garden. The controlled atmosphere deteriorated. Leon Birkhead and his Friends of Democracy had circumvented the security measures and infiltrated through the barricades. A breeze blowing from the Hudson River didn’t cool the hotheads chanting for Lindbergh’s neck. America First supporters tried to drown them out by singing America the Beautiful. Preston pulled Clark by the sleeve of his jacket into the recess of the entrance to an F.W. Woolworth store. “How are we going to get through the sea of bodies?” Preston asked. “There must be ten-thousand people in these streets.”

“Let’s backtrack,” Clark said. “There’s a rear entrance to the Garden on Fifty-first Street. I saw it the last time I went to see Stuart at his office. Come on. We are running short on time.”

Members of the Faction drifted into the area having ridden different subway lines into Manhattan from Brooklyn. Tickets to the event weren’t difficult to obtain with America First papering the city. Jake Rothstein surveyed the scene from
a position fifty yards behind a cordon of uniformed police whose mission was to keep clear an area designated for charter buses. The rally organizers were supplying free transportation from New Jersey and Connecticut. Bernie Hershkowitz and Sheldon Abramowitz buried themselves in the crowd on either side of the main entrance.

As chartered busses attempted to pass through a final set of sawhorses, the crowd began throwing rocks, bottles, rotten fruit, and eggs. The police charged and began dragging protestors toward a paddy wagon.

“Birkhead has done a great job of bringing out this crowd,” Jake said to his brother. “The problem is rotten eggs aren’t stopping the faithful from going into the Garden.” He checked his watch. “It’s seven o’clock. “You sure you can leg it from Fifty-first?”

“Piece of cake,” Paul said as he hobbled off on an ankle sprained on a recent weekend at the Faction’s Catskill Mountain training facility.

Lou Ginsberg got off the subway at Broadway, walked west toward Seventh Avenue, and stood on the southeast corner of Fiftieth. Seventh Avenue wasn’t in the box closed for Garden rally, and the police presence was limited to two middle-aged cops whose exercise regimens consisted of twirling their nightsticks. It was a typical Manhattan Thursday night with couples and groups of four and five heading for the multitude of jazz clubs in the area. He waited for two cycles of the traffic light then crossed the street and followed a young couple arm in arm strolling toward Eighth Avenue.

Mid-block, Ginsberg looked over his shoulder— he didn’t see the two cops. Slowing his pace, Ginsberg crossed the street and disappeared into an alley. Ten feet wide, the trash filled passage wound behind buildings on Fifty-first that faced the rear of Madison Square Garden. Ginsberg waited for his eyes to adjust to the fading light. Something rustled to his right. He dropped to a knee, flashing a midget flashlight at the sound, catching the rear end of a rat scurrying under a pile of newspapers.

Rats. They revolted him in the daylight when he worked in the tenements of Red Hook. The fifty-six-year old electrician wanted to bolt back into the neon lights of Seventh Avenue. He counted three doors on the right. Using a key purloined from the building manager, Ginsberg unlocked the burglar proof steel door and took the four steps down to the basement. He crouched behind an insulated pipe stenciled “MAIN STEAM.” The utility room was quiet except for the hum of an electric motor.

Overhead light bulbs cast assorted shadows on the floor. Easing into an aisle traversing a maze of pipes, Ginsberg knocked away cobwebs with his hand. Placing one foot ahead of the other, he crossed the hundred feet distance and came to a halt. On one of the practice runs, Ginsberg had seen the three-hundred pound night maintenance man sleeping on a beach lounge in a small office near the stairs to the lobby. The office was vacant.

Ginsberg took the stairs to the unoccupied lobby. With the expected trouble at the Garden, offices in mid-town closed early. He moved to the wall of mailboxes. Using a key for box number 555 assigned to an unrented office, he removed a package wrapped in brown paper addressed to Mrs. Dinah Myte. He re-checked the lobby and took the steps to the second floor.

Standing on the landing waiting for the pounding in his chest to stop, Ginsburg listened for “anything that sounded human” following Jake’s directive that the aim of the operation was to hinder the flow of people into the Garden not murder. If office 220 was occupied, the mission was to be aborted.

Ginsberg checked the sign posted opposite the landing— offices 210-220 were to the right. He proceeded to the end of the hall. The glass paneled door was dark. Ginsberg tapped twice and placed his ear to the glass. Using a set of lock picks, he slipped the tumblers and stepped into the office.

Ginsberg switched on his flashlight. The layout of the office was as described by the member of the Faction who delivered mail to America First and had deposited the package in the mailbox during the daily afternoon pickup. He placed the package on a cocktail table situated in front of the windows overlooking the street.

Ginsberg removed the paper wrapper from a cardboard box and lifted the lid: four sticks of dynamite, a dry-cell battery, one detonator cap, pre-cut strands of bell wire, and a Westclock alarm clock.

The veteran of the battle of Belleu Wood in 1917 volunteered to wire the components together and set the timer, boasting that he could do the job with his eyes closed. Now he questioned his sanity as his hands shook and the pounding in his chest wouldn’t stop. Ginsberg took a deep breath, wiping his hands on his pants. Within a minute, he assembled the components.

Ginsberg looked through the blinds. Police cars blocked both ends of the block with uniform cops standing at the ready behind sawhorses cordoning off the rear entrance of the Garden. While it was still possible to injure innocents, the odds were high. He set the timer for 7:15.

Preston led the way, dissecting a path back across the street. “If we can’t get in, through the rear, we’ll be in a worse position than if we just waited.”

Paul leaned against a light pole on Fifty-first two hundred feet from the rear service entrance to the Garden. He kept an eye on the police manning the barricades and the office building diagonally across the street housing the offices of America First. The police seemed relaxed—that side of the Garden was comparatively quiet but for a handful of protestors.

With the rear entrance in sight, Clark gave Preston a punch on the arm. “I’m right as usual,” he said, running into Paul with his suitcase.

Paul spun around and grabbed Clark by the shirt. “Watch where you’re going shithead.” The pudgy face looked familiar. He checked the tall friend who took a step toward him—the Princeton schmucks as Jake called them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the cops come from behind the barricade. Getting run-in for something stupid wasn’t going to happen. He let go of Clark’s shirt. “Forget it.”

Preston said, “It’s almost seven-fifteen, let’s go.”

Clark gave Paul one last look and moved on saying just loud enough for Paul to hear, “A typical New York asshole.”

Paul checked his watch—7:14:30. The two Princeton schmucks were a half-minute from the America First building. He turned and began walking away, then stopped to look back.

Clark gave Preston one of the backstage passes as he pointed to the silver lettered window at 1455 Fifty-first. Preston could easily read “America First Committee” from across the street. He looked at the pass and said, “I hope this is worth the trouble.”