House of Ghosts (35 page)

“Precisely,” Joe said. “Once Pearl Harbor occurred, the United States was in the war and the former isolationists were in the army doing their duty.”

“And dying,” Gloria interjected.

“My book looks at the lives of the men and women who fought to keep the country out of the war then became heroes.” Joe watched Gloria soften. “I spent many hours with Preston talking history. He was a brilliant. I learned much from the man who was
there
.”

Gloria broke a cookie in half, taking a nibble. “For so many years, people like Charles Lindbergh were dragged through the mud for his stance prior to Pearl Harbor. What Roosevelt did to him was despicable. Not making him a general was
so
wrong.”

Joe’s cell phone chimed the Three Stooges theme song. “Excuse me,” he said, reading Dan Fredericks’ number on the caller I.D. “Danny, how are you?”

“Are you getting laid?” Fredericks cracked.

“Something like that. What do you have for me?”

“Alice combed the files, not finding any vehicular fatalities concerning a child during the year 1951 or 1952. Likewise, there’s no death certificate for a Rebecca Swedge.” Fredericks paused, “Don’t bother me again with shit about Preston Swedge.”

“Thanks. The book is coming along fine. I’ll talk to you soon,” Joe said, ending the call. “Sorry. My agent likes to make nice. Where were we?”

Gloria exhaled a curl of smoke from the corner of her mouth. “I was talking about how Charles Lindbergh was mistreated by Franklin Roosevelt.”

Joe removed a three by five reporter’s spiral notebook from his jacket and began flipping through the pages. The scrawl was notes taken in his Rutgers’s class. “Preston told me your husband was one heck of a fighter pilot.”

“Clark was one plane short of being an Ace,” she took a final drag on the cigarette, stabbing it out in the ashtray. “Would you like to see his war memorabilia?”

Joe picked a cookie off the tray. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Come.” She took her coffee mug.

Joe tagged behind, crossing into the formal dining room. A hand carved walnut table for twelve, polished to a mirror finish, reflected his face. Gloria stood with one hand on a closed pocket door. “I left the den the way it was when Clark passed.” She slid the door open.

The den was a museum. Framed photographs lined the walls chronicling Clark’s air force career from flight school to bases in the Mediterranean and his career at Ford Motor. Joe had to be careful not to hit his head on model airplanes suspended by piano wire from the ceiling. He spun the propeller on a P-51 Mustang fighter.

“I lowered the planes so I could dust them. You don’t find many wooden models anymore,” she said proudly, sitting at a roll-top desk.

Joe scrutinized the picture gallery: Clark standing beside his P-51; Clark holding a bandolier of machine gun bullets; Clark standing bare-chested with a .45 automatic stuck in the waistband of his pants. “Clark looks like he was in fighting shape,” Joe said, pointing to the toned Princeton grad that had to have lost forty pounds. The face in the 1942 Princeton University yearbook belonged to a softie, a momma’s boy. Clark looked like he could have given a good fight.

Gloria laughed. “Believe me, Mr. America didn’t last long after he came home.”

Joe moved down the line. Clark was standing next to a staff car bearing the insignia of a two star general. In the background, a Quonset hut with “325th Fighter Group” painted above the door. “The 325th flew escort on some tough missions,” Joe said, writing the group number in his notebook. “How long was he stationed in Italy?”

Gloria looked at the model planes. “From the middle of 1943 to the end of the war. He came back to the States in October 1945.”

“You wouldn’t by chance have his flight log book?” Joe asked. “Most pilots brought their’s home.”

Reaching into the bottom drawer of the desk, Gloria retrieved a rectangular brown cloth covered book. She handed the artifact to Joe. “Take your time. I’ve got all afternoon.” Joe watched Gloria recede down the hall, not certain where to rank the widow on his “callous scale.” He sat at the desk. Lt. Clark Johnson 325th Fighter Group was printed on the cover in tight grammar school cursive. Joe skimmed through the beige pages glimpsing into the daily life of a twenty-four year old kid playing in a game of machine gun dodge ball at fifteen thousand feet. 11-3-43 A Messerschmitt Bf 109 shot down while escorting a B-17 mission to Berlin. 3-23-44 Focke Wulf 190 downed over Dubrovnik, Yugoslavia supporting partisan operation. 5-08-44 Messerschmitt confirmed twenty miles west of
Budapest, Hungary. Joe turned to 8-20-44. The notation— routine escort mission to Manowitz, Poland.

Gloria returned. “Do you have a sense of the man?” she asked in a detached way.

“Brave guy.” Joe handed her the logbook. “Did Clark ever talk about his missions? My father had nightmares till the day he died.” Joe’s father never made it out of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. His destroyer failed its seaworthy tests.

“Never,” Gloria said, putting the book back into the desk drawer. “Clark said he did what he had to do and would have done it again no questions asked.”

“My Vietnam experience wasn’t so patriotic,” Joe said, fishing in his shirt pocket for the Rothstein photo. “Did Clark ever talk about this pilot?” He held the photo at arms length.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“Turn it over.”

Gloria flipped the photo over, reading the transcription without a flinch. “Clark never mentioned him. Was Paul Rothstein a fighter pilot?”

Joe shook his head. “He was a bomber pilot stationed in Italy.”

“Different bases. Fighters and bombers never mixed.” Gloria handed the photo back. She checked her watch. “I stupidly forgot that I have a dentist appointment. I’ve got to get going.”

“So do I,” Joe said, recognizing a get the hell out of my house, you lying bastard. “Maybe you can help me out with this.” He handed her Rebecca’s picture.

“Who is…she?” Gloria stammered.

“The Swedge’s adopted daughter. Do you know where she lives?”

“You lied to me! You’re not a writer, Detective Henderson,” Gloria spat. “I should have done a web search when you called.”

“Retired detective.” Joe bowed. “I just might write a book when I figure out what happened to Paul Rothstein.”

Gloria pointed to the door, “You have thirty seconds to get out of my house before I call the police.”

Joe picked up the five-iron. “One last question, was the Jewish Center built before or after Clark’s death?”

“It was completed a year after,” she said.

“Beautiful,” Joe said. “I’ll find my way out.

SITTING IN THE VOLVO, Joe was glad that Gloria Johnson didn’t have a gun. He’d seen that look on women who had shot their husbands. Preston’s diary entries cast little light on Clark Johnson’s widow other than she had been a cutie. There was zero doubt in his mind that Gloria knew what happened to Paul Rothstein and Preston’s adopted daughter.

Keeping with his theme of repairing fences, Joe found his way back to Nassau Street, joining the crush of traffic to Princeton’s central district— his destination,
The Princeton Gazette
where his friend Manny Eisen was publisher and editor. Eisen suffered severe neck injuries the day Joe nearly lost his leg. The two hadn’t talked but once after being released from their hospital room. Dr. Headcase’s explanation of Joe’s avoidance of anyone connected to the incident was consistent with post-traumatic stress disorder. Joe held another opinion— he was just being an ass.

Finding a parking spot could be a challenge in the vibrant commercial center where meters had appetites larger than sharks for raw meat. He squeezed the Volvo between a BMW 7 Series and a Mercedes 500 in front of the Fitz Randolph Gateway. Joe removed a manila envelope from under the passenger seat, grabbed the five-iron, and checked the traffic in the side mirror. With his leg barking, he stepped on the sidewalk. Standing under the famed arch of the university, Joe waited for the traffic light to change. He closed his eyes, visualizing Preston meeting Clark Johnson at the Balt across the street. The rustle of feet brought him back. A sub shop occupied the former landmark’s space.

Joe crossed to the south side of the street, turned west and headed toward Palmer Square following the steps Preston and Clark took to Breslow’s cleaners. The news kiosk on the corner was doing a brisk business.
The New York Times
’ lead story—“Bush Readies Transition Team As Democrats Ready Appeal to Supreme Court.”

“Good luck,” Joe mumbled, “about the same chance as the Jews on the
St. Louis
had appealing for a country to take them.”

“Excuse me?” said the Indian proprietor.

“Talking to myself,” Joe said, popping fifty cents on the counter.

Joe trudged past The Princeton Inn. To his surprise, Breslow’s was still in business. He crossed the street to peek through the window. Than, the Vietnamese proprietor, was behind the computerized register taking payment from a black customer. Many things had changed over the sixty-two years since Preston brought his mustard stained pants into the shop, one thing hadn’t—the orange tape measure hanging around Than’s neck. Joe was tempted to ask if the tape measure came with the business.

Joe paused at the wrought iron gate bordering the alley Preston ventured into looking for Clark. A Fed Ex truck was making a delivery. He tossed the newspaper into a curbside trash receptacle then pushed the gate opened with his foot. Gone were the overflowing garbage cans. Asphalt replaced the decaying cobblestones. Joe, limping and dragging the five-iron, searched above the security doors. There it was—The Tiger’s Claw mosaic. The receiving department of Anne’s European Boutique occupied the space. A woman cutting up cardboard boxes on the cement step eyed Joe suspiciously. “Do you need help?” she asked.

“I was looking for the Tiger’s Claw,” Joe replied, repositioning the envelope under his arm. “A friend of mine spoke of it in glowing terms.”

“Never heard of it.” She placed the cardboard into a garbage dumpster, slamming the door behind her.

Joe massaged his calf. The fifty yards to the gate looked farther than when he entered. Sweating and with his heart pounding, Joe rested against a converted gaslight lamp post.

He crossed the street. The doorman at the inn welcomed him. “Happy hour in the lower bar. Best drinks in town.”

“It’s three o’clock,” Joe laughed.

“But it’s later somewhere else. Pass the front desk, short hallway to the right of the elevator bank,” he said with a tip of his cap.

The lobby bustled with a bevy of Red Hat geriatric women leaving the hotel’s restaurant. Joe sidestepped a baby stroller, turned right at the elevators, and proceeded toward the Wilson Room, named for Woodrow Wilson, past president of both the university and the country.

Despite the high marks from the doorman, the first floor saloon held but a handful of patrons. Three Red Hat ladies sat at a table tucked into a corner. Two middle aged suits were at the burled bar in animated conversation. The blonde
thirtyish female bartender refilled a bowl with salted peanuts that the two were eating with both hands. Two glasses stood before them.

Joe stepped into the room where George Washington had hoisted a stein of lager. The original pine paneling had long ago taken on a caramel patina. “Connie, two more,” one of the suits said to the barkeep, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Connie moved to the taps, sudsing two new glasses. She smiled at Joe, pointing to an empty seat at the far end of the bar. Joe winked back. The smell of beer and cigarettes attracted him like a magnet. Connie was an inducement he didn’t need.

Joe took a deep breath. “Looking for a friend,” he said, turning on his heels. The hall running parallel to the lobby led to the Bank Street side of the building. Joe pressed the “Emergency Only” lever on the door, stepping into the fading sun. Across the street, the renowned Gallup Organization occupied half the block from the not so famous
Princeton Gazette
.

The offices of the paper were ripped from a Dickens novel with the receptionist seated behind a desk located on a platform. The nameplate read Ms. Chandler. “As I live and breathe, how in the hell are you?” Francine said. Her porcine features and red-orange hair were startling. “You’re not walking too bad for an invalid.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Joe whispered. The Man, if he finds out, could revoke my disability pay.”

“My lips are sealed,” Francine whispered back.

“Where’s the boss?”

“Manny’s in the morgue. I’ll buzz him.”

“Don’t. I want to surprise him,” Joe said. The repository for past issues was located in the rear of the building. A hallway to the right of the reception area was lined with framed front pages of papers published from the 1860s.
The Gazette
had been a daily up to 1950 when competition from
The Trenton Chronicle
caused a change to a weekly edition. Offices for Manny, reporters, advertisement and layout broke off like spokes of a wheel.

A cacophony of hisses and thumps rattled behind a metal accordion gate where out of date presses struggled to print the week’s issue. Joe circumvented rolls of paper stock. The morgue had been the supply room when lead type was set by hand.

Joe rapped twice on the door frame with the five-iron. “Doughnuts!” he growled to the gray haired pudgy figure looking at a microfilm viewer situated on a battled scared gray metal desk.

Manny’s beige neck support limited his mobility. He swiveled to face Joe. “If I knew you were coming, I would’ve…”

“Laced a cake with arsenic,” Joe said, stepping into the blue tinged light of the overhead fluorescent bulbs. A mish-mash of file cabinets labeled by year lined the windowless walls. Newspapers not converted to microfilm were stacked on top.

“I would’ve been out,” Manny snarled.

Joe knew what was coming. How he didn’t return calls or e-mails. “I was in a bad place.” He tucked the envelope under his arm. “I was in town and thought it was time to say that I no longer hold you responsible for ruining my life.”