Red Rag Blues (11 page)

She wandered across the park and found a boatyard quietly baking, littered with hulls that would never float again and broken motors rusted solid. She walked down the slipway and checked the bay for Russian submarines. Nothing. Wrong time of day. They were all on the seabed, lunching on black bread and borscht. Everyone knew that. She went back up and got a whiff of fried onions.

Floyd's Bar was held together with old Schaefer beer signs. The floor was last washed by the great tidal wave of nineteen ought five. Floyd was frying onions in Castrol Extra Plus. Nothing was too good for his clientèle.

They were two white-haired men in painter's dungarees that should have been framed and hung in the Museum of Modern Art. Floyd was thirty-plus, built like a welterweight. The right half of his face had three days' growth. The left half would never need shaving again. A sweeping burn had turned the skin to something like pale pink plastic. The left eye was sealed shut.

Julie asked for a beer and listened to them arguing amiably about last year's Miss America competition, and whether the results were fixed by the Mafia or the Catholic church. Floyd gave the men hot dogs slathered with onion. They paid and went out.

“We should of asked you,” Floyd said. “You bein' a gorgeous dame of the opposite sex. You got an opinion?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “You ever hear of a priest say anything nasty about Frank Costello, or Carlo Gambino, or Lucky Luciano, or Carlos Marcello, or anyone with an O at the end of his name and blood on his hands?”

“Jeez,” he said. “I never thought of it that way.”

“I'm not saying all priests are bad. But you've got to be a very, very stupid Mafiosi to get excommunicated. Fix me a burger, would you? Well-done. No onions.”

While he busied himself, they talked about relative levels of corruption in the city. “The health inspectors could close me
down in ten minutes,” Floyd said. “I make sure the right guy gets a dimple Haig once in a while. Must be dimple. The man has his standards.”

“Scotch? That's un-American,” she said. “What's the guy got against bourbon?”

Floyd grunted, and turned the burger.

“Ask me, he's a Commie,” she said. “He's out to cripple Jim Beam and Jack Daniels and those other good ol' boys.” Still no response. “Looks like a case for Senator McCarthy. Send for Tail-Gunner Joe.”

Floyd hit the burger so hard with his clenched fist it turned star-shaped and bits spattered all over the grill. “That sonabitch comes through my door I'll blow his head off!” He reached down and slammed a shotgun on the bar. His one surviving eye glared.

“Ah …” Julie was startled. She'd strayed into a minefield. She moved cautiously. “I guess you had a raw deal, too,” she said.

“Okinawa. Last island hop before Japan. I was a Marine. Just a grunt, just a number on a pair of dog tags. Weather stunk, jungle stunk, and the Japs … would … not… die.”

She almost said I
read about it
and then had the smarts to shut up.

“Squadron of Marine bombers was based on that island. Some those pilots had to be blind or dumb or drunk. Marines bombed Marines. Fly-boys don't care who they dump on. Japs, grunts, all the same to them. Marine bomb hit a flamethrower and I caught a splash in the face. What the army calls friendly fire.” He patted the shotgun. “This punk McCarthy tells everyone he was a Marine flier. He's full of shit. I'm ready to blow him apart, him and every other lying, cheating, treacherous Communist faggot stinking up this country.”

Julie blinked. What had he said? He'd said what he said. “You sure you got that right?” she asked.

Now he was very angry. “You ever seen Okinawa?” he demanded. She shook her head. “You got no right to put me straight,” he said.

Julie gave up the discussion. “My burger's burning,” she said.

Floyd swept the charred meat onto the floor with the back of his hand. “Bar's shut,” he growled.

*

Luis took them all out to dinner. Enrico's restaurant was padlocked; the old man had gone to stay with his daughter in Schenectady. Bonnie recommended a steak house on Houston Street. They went late, so as to let Herb Kizsco finish his shift. It was midnight before they ate. The steaks arrived still sizzling. The sound was music before they invented music.

Nobody said much until the waiter cleared the plates and the frivolity of ordering dessert was done.

“Well,” Max said, “it's tomorrow now, so I can tell you. I got subpoenaed. This afternoon I take the stand before the House Un-American Activities Committee, in Washington.”

“Oh,
shit,”
Julie said.

“Slice it where you like, that's what it'll be,” Max agreed.

“Why didn't you tell us?” Bonnie said. “When did it happen?”

“Couple of weeks ago. Didn't want to tell anyone. Fact is, I'm sorry I've told you now. Spoils a good steak.”

“I thought everyone here had been subpoenaed already,” Luis said.

“Hell, no. Only me,” Bonnie said. “Max and Herb got named, and Julie got screwed in some private witchhunt. Nobody gets subpoenaed unless HUAC reckons there's pay dirt to be found.”

“So if you haven't been subpoenaed,” Luis told her, “there's no official reason why you should be on the blacklist.”

“The blacklist isn't official, you klutz. You can't go and look it up in the public library, for God's sake. The blacklist is unofficial.” She was angry because of Max having to go to Washington.

“It's unofficial but everyone knows,” Julie said.

“That's not quite true,” Herb said. “There's also the Attorney General's List of subversive organizations. If you can't prove you haven't been linked with any of them, you can't have a job where federal funds are involved. That's how I got kicked out of the university. I signed too many petitions when I was young and idealistic. Or, as the FBI would say, subversive. So
that
List is published. Anyone can use it to accuse somebody else of negative loyalty.”

Luis was amused.
“Negative
loyalty? How do you prove
positive
loyalty?”

“Get yourself killed fighting the Reds in Korea,” Max said. “That's a good start.”

“What are you going to say to them?” Herb asked. “You got a strategy ready?” This led to a rambling discussion of the Committee's techniques. Ideally HUAC wanted a witness to admit he'd been a member of the Communist Party. But it also welcomed confessions like attending a Party meeting. Subscribing to a left-wing magazine was good. Writing for it was excellent. Stated admiration for the Soviet people was really juicy, never mind that the battle of Stalingrad was raging at the time. It could make you a security risk. Security against what? That wasn't HUAC's territory. HUAC's task was to identify the guilty before they could do any damage. Not easy. The guilty were a slippery bunch. “Actor called Lionel Stander,” Max told Luis. “Hell of a talent. Got subpoenaed. Committee asked him if he'd name un-American subversive types, and he said he certainly would. But the way he said it, everyone there knew he meant the members of HUAC. Now that took guts.”

“More guts than Cary Cooper had,” Herb said. “He crumpled like a wet paper bag when they questioned him.” Sterling Hayden couldn't wait to sell out his pals. Ronald Reagan gave HUAC all the help they asked, and more. Walt Disney too. Scared stiff the Reds might sneak their propaganda into Tom and Jerry. The bigger the name, the louder they sang. They had too much to lose.

“I've got nothing to lose,” Max said. “If Paul Robeson can live on the blacklist, I'm in damn good company. Right?”

They had been over this ground a dozen times before. Now it was being covered for Luis's benefit. He listened closely.

“You might end up in even better company,” Julie said. “Ring Lardner Jr. went to jail. Dashiell Hammett's still inside.”

“Writers,” Herb said. “They're vulnerable, they
write
things. The Committee doesn't jail actors.”

“They might start with Max,” Bonnie said. “HUAC's kind of desperate for publicity.”

“I'll give the goddam Committee some headlines,” Max said. “I'm going to tell 'em they're worse than the KGB and the Gestapo rolled together.”

“You're not going to plead the Fifth?” Herb asked, sharply.

“Why should I? I got nothing to hide.”

“Max, pleading the Fifth is your only constitutional defense. Fifth Amendment,” Herb told Luis. “Right to silence so you don't incriminate yourself. Without it, they can demand answers. You refuse to answer, that's contempt of Congress.”

“Fuck 'em,” Max said. “If everyone they subpoenaed said
go fuck yourself
, this shitty Committee would've folded years ago. There's been too much talking and not enough fighting. I'm for freedom and justice, and I'll do what it takes to get it. Tomorrow, you check the headlines. A new war of independence is about to break out.”

“Well,” Julie said, “it'll make one hell of a biopic some day.”

“Billy Jago could direct,” Bonnie suggested. “Maybe they'll give him an Oscar for irony.”

“Billy Jago won't work again,” Luis said confidently. “He'll be dead in two years.”

“What?”
Max said. Everyone stopped eating except Luis. He was enjoying his apple pie à
la mode.
“What did you just say?”

Luis waved his spoon while he chewed his pie. He kept them waiting. “I've met Billy's sort before,” he said. “One good kick in the crotch, and he never gets up.”

“Horseshit! The witchhunt gutted him,” Max said. “The guy got screwed.”

“Don't we all? I got screwed several times. I didn't quit.”

“He's a damn good film maker. He'll be back.”

Luis's spoon swung, negatively. “I have read his so-called novel,
Sweet Cheat.
It's a concealed confession. From the start, Jago makes his hero intolerable. Decent, unselfish, brave. Kind in thought, word and deed. Jago is itching to kill him.”

“And he dies in the end,” Bonnie said. “I've read it too.”

“Of course he dies!” Luis was enjoying this even more than his apple pie. “The hero is the author! But Jago's problem is he's not strong enough to dream of surviving! His awful hero is condemned on
Page 1
, but he takes an inexcusably long time to depart. As we saw, poor Billy is living up to his script.”

“That's a cruel thing to say,” Julie told him.

“Well, we all saw him. We all smelled him. The man is in a deliberate state of advanced decay.” Luis was looking at her, so he failed to see Max throw a punch that thumped him just in front of the ear. Luis and his chair crashed backward and went through a decorative screen and down two steps and into another table where four Texas oilmen were eating seafood salad and drinking imported lager. They were hungry and thirsty and they seized Luis and flung him back. Max tried to punch him again but Herb overturned the table and Max lost his balance and went down with the debris. Then waiters arrived in a rush and the fight was over.
“Put it on my bill,” Luis said. “Just put it all on my bill.” He kept saying it until the manager heard him.

“So we've got nothing,” Prendergast said.

“We've got his name and description, sir,” Fisk said.

“Cabrillo? Probably an alias. Description? We've got too many descriptions, from too many idiots.”

“I saw him in Hoboken.”

“Did you?” Prendergast got out of his chair, dropped to the floor, did ten rapid press-ups, and stood again. “Make the heart pump,” he said. “Get extra oxygen in your brain.
Think,
Fisk. You didn't see someone robbing banks. You saw a man in Hoboken with the name Cabrillo in his passport, which may or may not have been counterfeit. There are twenty-seven Cabrillos in the Manhattan phone book, never mind Brooklyn or the Bronx. Have you checked them?” Fisk was silent. “Don't bother,” Prendergast said. “They're all in Spanish Harlem, they won't tell you anything. So we have nothing.”

“We have Mrs. Conroy, sir. We know she's his partner.”

“And we have her file. Which you've checked?”

“Yes.”

“And questioned her Known Associates?”

“None of them are at the addresses in the file.”

“Well, that's New York for you. Peripatetic.” He cocked an eye at Fisk.

“I know what that means, sir. There is one other link. The British Consulate.”

“Yes. We already have a transcript of the alleged Cabrillo's conversation with Mr. Harding, of MI6.”

“A transcript,” Fisk said. “That means—”

“Yes, we do. Routine. But all the transcript told us was that Cabrillo's a former intelligence agent. Proves nothing. Toss five bricks in the Harvard Club and you'll hit three ex-agents, and they're all writing their memoirs.”

“Slim pickings, then.” Fisk didn't mention the fruit boots. He had lost faith in the fruit boots.

“We've got something. We've got patience. This type is a show-off. He's having fun and making money. He'll do it again. Can't stop himself.”

“Maybe he left. Maybe he's living in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.”

“Not a chance. He
likes
New York. It's got what he wants.”

“Banks?” Fisk said.

“No, not banks,” Prendergast said wearily. “Excitement. Nobody likes banks, you cretin. The banking system is like the sewage system, only less exciting.”

“Nobody steals turds,” Fisk said, daringly.

“Is that what your investigation has turned up? Three days' work, and you've discovered that nobody steals turds?” Prendergast pointed at the door. It was a cheap shot, but then one of the perks of power in the Bureau was making cheap shots.