House Of Ghosts Part 23

"Why wouldn't they be?"

"For starters, I've never heard of any underground Jewish defense organization operating in the United States before World War Two," Manny said, flipping through one of Preston's diaries.

"Doesn't mean it didn't exist," Joe chafed. "I'm not surprised that someone drilled Clark. Enlighten me."

"I came to work here in 1959. Single, with not many choices to go after work in those days, I hung out at Jensen's Roadhouse, a joint on the outskirt of town. Clark was a regular. I came to know the guy who, if it was possible, was viler than in these pages." Manny held up one of Preston's diaries. "When he had a snoot on, the most hateful things flowed out of his mouth."

Manny rolled the chair to a file cabinet, returning the box to its proper place. He scooted four files to his right. "Here's the microfilm for the week Clark died." Threading the film in the viewer, he said, "Read."

Joe moved his chair to face the screen.

Manny continued, "July 9, 1960. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a Tuesday night, hot as h.e.l.l. Clark was on his his stool. If the bar was a football field, his spot was on the fifty yard line. He had a repertoire of obscene jokes and was in the middle of his routine when Ellis Price walked in." stool. If the bar was a football field, his spot was on the fifty yard line. He had a repertoire of obscene jokes and was in the middle of his routine when Ellis Price walked in."

"Ellis Price from Preston and Clark's dormitory?" Joe asked, lighting a cigarette.

Manny slid a metal garbage wastebasket toward Joe. Pointing to the "No Smoking" sign would've been futile. "The one and the same." He took a bite of a jelly doughnut wrapped in a napkin that looked as if it was used to clean the concrete floor. "Price sits to Clark's right in a spot near the end of the bar and Clark comments about his suit."

"I got the idea that Price was on the prissy side," Joe said, scrolling the pages.

Manny wiped his mouth with the napkin. "Price was on the effeminate side. He orders a drink and things settled down until Ellis yells at Clark, 'You had to come back.' He got off his stool, slapped two dollars on the bar, and walks up to Clark. In one motion, he pulls a pistol out of his jacket pocket and fires one shot into Clark's chest. Gla.s.ses, peanuts and ashtrays went flying as Clark fell off his stool. Like nothing happened, Price walked away."

"n.o.body tried to grab him?" Joe asked.

"It was such a shock. Besides, Price had a gun. After five or ten seconds, all h.e.l.l broke loose. Price raced to the parking lot and hightailed it away."

"This article doesn't mention half of what you're telling me," Joe said, shaking his head.

"Not exactly Pulitzer Prize material is it?" Manny chortled. "It was and still is a family paper."

Joe continued to scroll down. "Jesus Christ. He committed suicide in a park three blocks away?"

"In the section that was known to be a gay pickup spot." Manny said. "There's something else."

Joe tapped his cigarette against the wastebasket. "Pray tell."

"A guy at the end of the bar where Price sat called himself Ted Steele."

"How big?"

Manny took a slurp of his coffee. "The guy was a monster. Six-five, Six-six and a good two sixty. He started coming in a few of months before Clark's murder. I spoke to him a couple of times, said he did business in Philly on Tuesdays and stopped on his way home."

"Clark was a Tuesday regular?"

Manny thought for a moment. "Yeah. A lotta nights he was at his old eating club on campus. The guy wanted to relive his college years."

"Sounds like Jake Rothstein made it a point to be there when Clark was sure to be in attendance."

"His name really could've been Ted Steele. It's possible." Manny clasped his hands behind his head. "After Clark's death, Ted Steele no longer came into Jensen's."

"And maybe the guy lost his job or was too frightened by Clark's murder to go back to Jensen's." Joe said with a chuckle. "What about Gloria?"

"You paid her a visit before coming here, right? I'm surprised she agreed to talk about Clark."

"I can't tell a lie," Joe said with a grin. "I told her I was an author writing a book about the members of the isolationist movement who became good soldiers. She went on a rant how the n.a.z.i loving b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were treated badly. She's still burning a candle for Charles Lindbergh. After agreeing with her, she let me into Clark's den that she's maintained exactly as it was the day he died. I got a good look at his flight logbook."

"I've came to know her well over the many years. She's a tireless worker for countless organizations, including the Jewish Center. One cla.s.sy lady."

"She had something in common with Preston Swedge. He became a big-time donator to the Westfield temple." Joe took a sip of Manny's coffee.

"Help yourself," Manny said.

"Mrs. Johnson kicked me out after doing a web search on me." Joe showed Manny the photo of Paul Rothstein. "I showed her Rothstein's picture and drew a blank response. She claimed she never heard of him, but Reverend Miller, Preston Swedge's minister, the gent who gave me her address, was in her company when Clark toasted the dead airman." Joe wagged his finger. "She knows what happened to Rothstein. I'd bet your p.e.c.k.e.r on it."

"And Jake Rothstein was stalking Clark because he had something to do with his brother's death."

"Something like that," Joe said with a wave of his hand. "Clark came from Michigan. Why did he return to Princeton?"

Manny shut off the viewer. "Clark followed his father's footsteps and worked for Ford. After stints in Michigan, Kansas City and Atlanta, he was transferred to run the Edison plant. If you had a choice, would you live in Edison when you could easily afford Princeton?"

"You have a point. Clark's been dead for forty years and his widow is still living large," Joe said. "How does she do it?"

"Gloria has been living off of Clark's trust fund, life insurance and inheritance. She's protective of the Johnson family name." Manny stood. "I wouldn't want to see her or her son Brad hurt if Clark's dirty linen is thrown onto the street."

Joe returned the diaries to the envelope. "Being married to Clark Johnson, she earned every dime, and it should be punishment for a lifetime. But..."

"But what?" Manny asked tensely.

"I found a map among Swedge's papers that detailed the route bombers took from their base in Italy. The mission took them over Auschwitz to a target four miles away. If I'm right, Clark Johnson was part of a plot to prevent Paul Rothstein from knocking out the gas chambers. Three hundred thousand Hungarian Jews died after August 20, 1944. What about their laundry they left behind as they walked naked to their deaths?"

Manny looked at the ceiling. "My grandparents were among the last Hungarian Jews deported from Budapest."

Chapter 28.

WESTFIELD, NJ NOVEMBER 2000 2000.

PAUL ROTHSTEIN REMAINED AS ELUSIVE as a wisp of smoke. Joe reasoned if Preston graduated Princeton in 1942, Rothstein graduated from New York University in the same year.

Kopel Weinstein, uncle to Mel Katz and one of Joe's golfing buddies, went to the N.Y.U. School of Commerce, graduating in 1942. With a campus population of ten thousand, Joe knew it was a long shot that Kopel or his wife Naomi, also a '42 graduate, but of the School of Education, had any dealings with Paul Rothstein or Dave Cohen.

The Weinsteins loved dogs and had made a fuss over Roxy since she was a pup. Joe snapped a leash on the Labrador. "Between your lovely face and this coffee cake, we'll soften them up. The old folks will be talking up a storm."

He let Roxy out. She ran down the front steps with her nose to the ground, pa.s.sed the Volvo, and then raced around the side of the house to the backyard gate. Joe checked the street in both directions. Looking for the white compact had become another addiction. Agitated, Roxy galloped back to the driveway. "The 'bad' man again? Come on Roxy, tell me where can I find him." He put the bakery box onto the pa.s.senger seat.

Joe followed Roxy to the gate where the dog danced in antic.i.p.ation. Joe reached for the latch. "Get him!" he said, putting a shoulder to the cedar slats. Bursting into the yard, the ninety pound cookie killer stopped in her tracks, growled at a squirrel foraging in the decaying tree stump in the far corner, and then looked at Joe. "The 'bad' man isn't here. Let's go."

Disappointed, Roxy slinked back to the Volvo. "You'll get another go at him." Joe said, opening the rear hatch.

Cruising through the center of town, Joe detoured to Elm Street, double parking outside Basics and Bras. Kim scrambled out of the small shop at the sight of the white Volvo. Joe rolled down the pa.s.senger window. "I have a craving for Italian. How about I pick you up at six?"

"Make it five-thirty. It'll give us more time to watch PBS after dinner," she said with a wink. Joe hated PBS and NPR radio-his tax dollars weren't meant to support socialist propaganda. He held his hands over his heart. "I'll be in pain until then." He watched the complete package return to the sales desk.

The Westfield Senior Citizen Complex, located a good tee-shot and three-wood from the OptimaCare Center, was a pair of ten story buildings, ill designed and looking more decrepit than their thirty years. Joe parked in the designated fire lane of building One, putting his W.P.D. credentials on the dashboard. He searched the mess in the console between the front seats, coming up with a pair of wrap-around sungla.s.ses. A sign next to the main entrance warned that only service dogs were permitted. Taking the coffee cake and five-iron, he maneuvered to the rear of the station wagon and opened the hatch. Despite not having visited the Weinsteins for close to a year, Roxy bolted for the door. Naomi's unlimited supply of dog treats was ingrained on her brain. Inside the vestibule, Joe pressed the intercom key for 8D.

"Who is it?" Naomi crackled.

"Judge Crater."

"Joe Henderson, I could give you the beating of your life." The electronic lock buzzed.

Joe crossed the lobby with Roxy in tow. One elevator was out of service, the other stuck on floor eight. Roxy sat at the elevator, her tail swishing against the aquamarine tile floor. Taking the stairs was out of the question. A bench and four chairs had been stolen and hadn't been replaced. Joe rested against an eight foot turkey erected for Thanksgiving. The red lights began to move on the overhead indicator. Joe counted down the floors, "Three, two, one-the eagle has landed." The elevator door slid open. An EMS crew hovered over a woman hooked to an oxygen tank, her complexion the color of day-old oatmeal. "Lieutenant, have you gotten the flies out of your hair?" asked one of the paramedics who had been at Preston's house the day his body was found.

Joe pulled Roxy out of the way. "I got that fly, but I think one crawled up you know where."

The old lady moaned, trying to remove the mask over her nose. "Maybe you should seek professional help," the uniformed medical wise guy offered.

"I have, but the girl got busted," Joe laughed. The trio moved away.

Joe and Roxy got on the elevator. In a series of fits and starts, the Otis model 1970 made it to the eighth floor. Once lily-white, the senior towers were a cross section of the United Nations. When applications from town residents fell precipitously in the 1990s, the rolls were opened to non-residents. An ambient temperature mimicking the Amazon acted as a catalyst to turn essences of curry and kimchi to lethal weapons. Joe tried to hold his breath as he limped toward the end of the hall.

Roxy's tongue a.s.sumed its August position, drooping to the floor. Panting, she pawed the metal door, flaking chips of yellow paint onto the soiled blue carpet. Joe pressed the chime. Naomi Weinstein, wheelchair bound, answered the door. "Let me guess. You're Ray Charles," Naomi said. She didn't wait for Joe's answer, turning to Roxy. "My special friend, I've missed you."

Roxy licked Naomi on her cheek. The three-room, postage stamp size apartment was adorned with prints of horseracing greats. Naomi could cite chapter and verse from The Daily Racing Form The Daily Racing Form. A series of portraits memorializing the Weinstein's departed Corgis were prominently on display.

"I've missed you," Joe said, bending to give Naomi a kiss. He deposited the cake in her lap.

"You're a s.h.i.t, but I missed you, too." She grabbed him around the neck.

"Where's the big guy?" Joe asked.

"On his throne in the living room. Kope, we have a visitor!" she yelled from the hall.

"Is that Joe?" Kopel asked from his recliner, unable to see more than a few inches past his nose. A combination of macula degeneration and glaucoma robbed him of the ability to read. Television was reduced to figures in a gray haze.

"Yeah, Kope. It's me."

Roxy raced down the short hall that opened to a living room/dining area crammed with possessions moved from a home they occupied for four decades. She cut around a wingback chair, hurtling into Kopel, knocking an extinguished half-smoked cigar from his mouth. The old man rubbed her head. "Mel told us you broke out of your coc.o.o.n. If I knew you were coming, I would've dressed for the occasion." Kopel was still in a pajama bottom and T-shirt. Electronic digital vision enhancing goggles were balanced on his nose.

"You look very debonair," Joe said, picking the stogie off the floor. "Do the new cheaters help?" An arc welder could have used the contraption.

"Barely, but any change is better than none," Kopel said. "Amy, how about some coffee."

"I've got it covered. Come to the table," she yelled from the kitchen.

Joe led Kopel to his chair at the mission style dinette. "Amy, I'll give you a hand,"

"To h.e.l.l you will, sit down," Naomi ordered.

Joe did as told, hanging his Yankee baseball jacket on the back of the chair. He was amazed that Naomi was able to take care of the both of them. Roxy trailed Naomi as she maneuvered her wheelchair around the galley kitchen while balancing a tray laden with a coffee carafe, three mugs, plates and utensils. She positioned the wheelchair at the end of the table. A ledge four inches lower than the table top allowed her to sit in her wheelchair and eat without reaching for her plate.

"Did you go to the Series?" Kopel asked. Kopel shared two of Joe's pa.s.sions- the New York Yankees and golf. "I watched the games on the radio."

"Beating the Mets was never in doubt," Joe said. "As Casey used to say, the boys done good."

"Mel said you were asking about our graduating from N.Y.U. in 1942," Naomi said, pouring the coffee. She handed Joe two mugs. Black coffee was the rule of the house. Naomi considered putting anything into the beans sent by G.o.d, sacrilegious. "You working on a case?" Homebound, she devoured mystery novels to kill the time. d.i.c.k Francis and his racetrack novels were on top of her list.

Joe put one of the mugs in front of Kopel, bringing his hand to the mug's handle. "A diary has come into my possession. I'm fairly certain that the writer graduated from N.Y.U. in 1942. Maybe you knew him."

"Years ago when I could get around, I found a signed 1942 yearbook at a garage sale," Naomi said, placing slice of cake on gla.s.s plates. She handed the desserts to Joe. "I didn't know the guy."

As he did with the coffee, Joe placed the cake before Kopel then handed him a fork. "Cake is in front of you." He fished Rothstein's photo from his shirt pocket, handing it to Naomi.

Naomi sat looking at the face. Without turning the photo over she said, "Paul Rothstein. He was one of Kope's friends. It's been so many years since I thought about him."

Kopel struggled with his cake, scattering the powdered topping on the tablecloth. "I sat next to him in most of my accounting cla.s.ses," he said, managing to snare a piece. "Thirty-two of my cla.s.smates died in the war. Paul was one of them."

"Old diaries are a dime a dozen. Every estate sale has one," Naomi said. "This is part of a case. I knew it."

"I'm retired. This is a personal project," Joe said, sipping his coffee. "From his diaries, Paul sounds like a great guy who came from a tight knit family. Can you tell me about him?"

"I came to know Paul pretty well from being in many of the same courses," Kopel said without hesitation. "His family was dirt poor, and if it weren't for his older brother, he couldn't have paid the tuition. He was sharp, with a knack for math, far better than I. He married a gal right after graduation, before he went into the service. Naomi and I did the same. Now I am stumped. Amy, do you remember her name?"

"Sure, her name was Sarah Greenbaum. In fact, she was in a few of my cla.s.ses, a real sweet kid. They were really in love, an item almost from the beginning of our freshman year." She rolled away from the table. "I'll be right back."

"His Brooklyn accent still rings in my ears," Kopel said, closing his eyes. "Paul was concerned about what was going on in Europe, far more than I was. I'm talking about 1938. I only knew of the n.a.z.is from what I read in the papers."

"I thought that the n.a.z.is were everybody's concern," Joe said.

Naomi returned with their N.Y.U. yearbook opened to Paul Rothstein's picture. "That's not the way it was," Naomi said. "I'm not just talking about the non-Jews. On the whole, the Jewish students weren't concerned about what was happening in Europe. When the Germans took over the Czechs, there wasn't much of a reaction. I remember how Paul was upset. He couldn't understand why Jewish students weren't worried about Hitler. Am I correct about that Kope?"

"To us, Hitler was a distant problem," Kopel said. "I remember when Kristalnacht Kristalnacht, the night of broken gla.s.s, happened. There wasn't much reaction even in New York to the n.a.z.is breaking the windows of every Jewish business and burning down synagogues. Paul came to school more agitated than ever."

"I find it hard to believe that American Jews sat on their collective a.s.ses as the n.a.z.is were killing their European brothers. Weren't there any Jewish student organizations on campus that organized a response to at least throw rocks at the German emba.s.sy?" Joe asked.

Kopel continued to fish among the crumbs on his plate. "There weren't any organized Jewish groups per say. It was 1938, not 1968. You You people of the sixties have a different set of values, taking on the government over Vietnam. We didn't think about doing anything like that in 1938. Besides, the Jewish population wasn't so much concerned with the n.a.z.is, as being labeled communists." people of the sixties have a different set of values, taking on the government over Vietnam. We didn't think about doing anything like that in 1938. Besides, the Jewish population wasn't so much concerned with the n.a.z.is, as being labeled communists."