The Redhunter (39 page)

Harry didn’t reply. Neither of the two spoke. Then Alex said, “That was almost forty years ago that I quit the party, but
the hangover is still there.”

Harry could tell that that was so. Just by looking at the old man. He knew they had that much in common, the difference being
critical. He remembered Willmoore’s formulation when a fellow faculty member had insisted that both sides in the East-West
struggle were moved by ideals. “That’s like saying that the man who pushes the old lady out of the way of the bus has a lot
in common with the man who pushes the old lady into the way of the bus. They both push old ladies around.” Harry thought to
pass that one along to Alex, but decided against it. He found himself saying: “Alex, what do you say to some kind of a break
tonight? You got any good movie tapes? Maybe
From Russia with Love?
“

Harry threw himself on the floor and played vigorously with Bloor, the big red Labrador.

JULY 1953

“I got to say it, Harry, your romance is taking time away from the struggle for the free world!” McCarthy had suggested Harry
join him for a quick supper before returning to work, but Harry said no,
he
had a date.

“You must be dating that lady five times a week.”

“Sorry about that, Joe. I hope you won’t denounce me in your speech.”

“Oh, the hell with it. Go off to your lady friend. She works for McMahon, I hear.”

‘Yes, she does. But we don’t talk about it.”

“Maybe I’ll have her bugged.” McCarthy laughed.

Harry, momentarily stunned, opened his mouth to return the wisecrack, but quickly changed his mind. He wouldn’t involve Joe
in his own little problem. He knew somebody in the FBI who would give him advice on how to handle it.

Harry had, in two days, three odd phone calls, the caller hanging up immediately after Harry picked up the phone. It could
have been accidental. Or somebody who had read about Harry in the papers, decided to call him, then decided to back out. His
name was often printed, as accompanying Senator McCarthy here and there, sitting at his side during hearings, whatever. Harry
did think to examine the telephone itself, but found no traces of a bug. But he knew that technology
in the bugging business had advanced. He had a friend in the FBI who was taking advanced training as a sweeper.

But then why, other than maybe to listen in on his conversations with Joe, would anyone
want
to bug him? His mind turned, momentarily, to the most conventional uses of wiretaps. They were common in domestic disagreements,
or suspicions. What else? He couldn’t imagine anyone going to extravagant lengths, in his case, to document his romantic …
distractions. Though they were getting intense.

The mere thought quickened his pulse, and his ardor was high when he arrived back at his apartment with the chicken, coleslaw,
the quart of ice cream, chocolate, and nuts at the ready. And the two wines he would pluck from his ten-bottle cellar.

He had uncorked the white wine when the bell rang.

He had asked her a few weeks before what perfume she wore. She hadn’t replied. Now he returned to the subject, asking her
the same question.

“It’s a secret,” she answered.

“Why? Is it a Communist scent?”

“A Communist sent by who?”

“By whom.”

“By God, you are inquisitive.” She leaned over in the bed and kissed the tip of his nose.

“Kiss me other places.”

“You are a dirty old man.”

“I am a dirty
young
man. I want to kiss you everywhere.”

And he forgot about the name of the perfume. But he was overwhelmed by it. With one hand he held her filled glass. With the
other he brought her head to his.

It was Saturday, Wheeling plus. Harry, driving his own car proudly, the second-hand Chevy he had contrived an excuse for pulling
out of the garage every day in the week since he bought it, picked up Jean Kerr. Robin would be waiting for them as arranged.
They drove to Adler Street and stopped outside Joe McCarthy’s apartment building. “Be here sharp at eleven,” Joe had instructed
him. “That way we can have lunch and catch the first race. We’ll take your car, Harry. Okay? Mine ain’t fitting for the premier
anti-Communist in the Western world.” Harry could practically hear him wink over the telephone.

Harry left Jean in the car. Joe—of course—had not been waiting at the door, as he had promised. After a few minutes, Jean
stepped outside to avoid the car’s heat.

She looked smart and tidy in her coffee-colored silk skirt, her white blouse slightly open, the small ruby and gold earrings
visible when she brushed her hair back. At twenty-eight, the five-foot-ten sometime Cherry Blossom Queen of George Washington
University was a striking figure. Her blue eyes were wide, her lips ample and determined. She was a two-year veteran of Joe
McCarthy’s staff, utterly devoted to his cause, affectionately curious about his endless foibles, and engaged by his manners,
courage, and determination. When in the company of any staff member she was formal with him. But she was not, on this shining
summer day, in an office mood. She
had quickly okayed Joe’s idea late in the evening in the office after hours and hours of work. His idea was: Let’s forget
the whole world,
as he put it. That meant go to the races. Harry was working with them, and Joe said: You come too.

“Did I tell you, Harry, that I usually pick a winner?”

“No,” he said. “But if you can guarantee me a winner, I’ll bet on the same horse. You know, Jean, you remind me of a horse.”

“I what?”

“I mean, the way you like horseplay.” This was an office barb. Jean was fastidious and ruled the office as she might a war
center. Everything had to be done, no—horseplay. His taunt got from her what he knew it would, that broad smile with the lit
eyes, and the slight, shy giggle.

Jean Kerr had worked in advertising before matriculating at George Washington. After three years there, she entered the journalism
school at Northwestern, where she studied political science. Back in Washington again, she continued to live with her mother.
Mrs. Kerr was a widow and lived in the same house Jean’s father had helped to construct as a carpenter and later superintendent
in the construction business. Jimmy Kerr (dead in 1946) had railed against the Communists ever since August 23, 1939, when
Joseph Stalin signed the non-aggression pact with Adolf Hitler. Jimmy Kerr had for many years, beginning in the Depression,
hailed the socialist experiment in the Soviet Union—”They’ve got to be able to find something better than what we have, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth agreed; but then she always agreed with Jimmy, and did so when he denounced the Communists at the Labor Day party.
His scorn for Stalin was uninterrupted by Hitler’s subsequent attack on Russia in June of the following year, and Jimmy was
soon active against the Teamster faction led by Erik Hattersley, an apologist for the Communists. Hattersley, vice president
of public affairs in the Teamsters Union, had defended Stalin when he signed up with Hitler and defended Stalin when he fought
Hitler. In the forties, after his first heart attack, Jimmy Kerr was reconciled with the Catholic Church. He wrote to Jean
at Northwestern that she should be in touch with the Catholic chaplain there to take belated instructions. Jean had been a
formal churchgoer to placate her mother. But in Chicago she began to take her faith seriously, and was powerfully influenced
by the Catholic chaplain, a follower of Monsignor Fulton Sheen, who, like his mentor,
spent much time in the pulpit invoking sympathy for the victims of Communism and moral indignation for the perpetrators of
life under the Communists. When Henry Wallace made his move on the presidential scene, she did volunteer work for the Republican
Party.

Pretty soon Joe came out and, while talking to Harry, who followed him, or tried to, approached at his customary pace, a near
jog. He kissed Jeanie on the cheek, ushered her into the rear passenger seat, and inserted himself alongside.

“You may proceed, James.” Joe was acting the squire, giving directions to his chauffeur. Harry moved the car forward, first
picking up Robin, then heading down to Route One toward Laurel Park, ten miles away in Maryland.

“Kick her up, Harry,” instructed Joe. “I’ve got to bet on the first race. There’s a winner there. Name? Tidings!”

“Tidings!” Jeanie burst in. “You must be crazy, Joe. I mean, crazier than we know you are.
I
am going to bet
against
Tidings.”

Joe was delighted by the opportunity to tease her.

“How do you go about betting
against
a horse?”

Jeanie was cornered. She turned to Harry, at the wheel, who was enjoying it all, for help. Robin was smilingly silent.

“Well,” he ventured, smoothly wending the car past a huge REO truck, “I suppose if you bet on the other eleven horses—how
many starters, Joe?”

“Nine—”

“—Bet on the other eight horses, you could say you were betting
against
Tidings. Give up, Joe?”

McCarthy laughed and put his arm around Jeanie.

“Nice try. Now let me tell you about Tidings.”

He had been studying the morning sheet and began a practiced recitation of the record and the pedigree of his horse of the
day. “Number seven started racing in 1949, two wins. Placed second in Brendon Cup, twenty-five-thousand-dollar stake. Sire,
Out of Town—ever see him run, Jeanie? I caught him in California when I was stationed at El Toro in the Marines. Dam, Silky
Stuff. Silky stuff like you, Jeanie,” he ran his hand over the back of her blouse and love-tapped her behind the neck.

“So what do
I
make out of the name Tidings running in a horse race on the third anniversary of the Tydings Senate hearings? Not that the
poor horse should remind us of that little creep—correction, big creep—we spent our working hours with. No, it’s a name fortune
has stuck in our face so we can avenge ourselves! Make money off Tidings! You like that, Jean?”

When he called her Jean he was in his command mode. (“Jean, get the file on Hanson.”)

“All right, all right, Joe. I’ll put two dollars on him.”

“Which reminds me, Jeanie. You got some cash?”

“Don’t
tell
me you are out of cash
again”
Jeanie groaned, opening her pocketbook. “I’ve got forty-two dollars.”

“How much you got, kid?” Joe said. “Mr. Phi Beta Kappa. And don’t skimp on me. Give me everything you’ve got. You can always
borrow on that huge salary I am paying you.”

“Fifteen or twenty dollars,” Harry said at the wheel. “But I happen to know that Robin has a twenty also.”

“Of course, it doesn’t much matter how much we have now. We’ll be rich after the first race. The odds are six to one. That
makes—my ten, Jean’s forty, Harry’s twenty, and Robin’s twenty—ninety dollars. Times six, five hundred and forty dollars.
We’re rich!”

They arrived in time for a hurried lunch. Joe gobbled down his steak, Jean, Harry, and Robin their tunafish sandwiches. Joe
asked for a beer but was told no liquor was served at the track. “That’s terrible news,” he said. “That will throw me off
stride.” He looked out at the tote board. The odds on Tidings had reduced to five to one. He turned, saying with mock sternness,
“Harry, have you been giving out the word that Tidings is going to win?”

He looked out again anxiously at the board. Steady at five to one.

But Tidings had a bad day, and the track ended up with ninety McCarthy, Inc., dollars. Joe was unbothered. This kind of thing
had happened to him since he began playing poker with Billy back in Appleton. He looked around for a familiar face. It didn’t
take long. He knew it wouldn’t. Over there, form sheet in hand and walking in his direction, was Henry Inker, paper tycoon
from Neenah, Wisconsin. Joe thrust out his hand. One minute later he had borrowed $150—”Jeanie, remind me to send Henry a
check on Monday—Henry Inker. Oh. Sorry, Henry. This is Jean Kerr and Harry Bontecou
from my staff. And Harry’s friend Robin. That Bontecou, Henry, is spelled c-o-u but pronounced k-e-w.”